A fixed and hopeless melancholy characterises her poetry, but it is a melancholy divested of bitterness; nor does her gloom, though deep, savour at all of misanthropy. Her writings remind us strongly of some of the late Mrs. [Anne] Hunter's pensive productions; and, indeed, four lines from one of that lady's poems will exactly illustrate the feeling which, with a few trifling exceptions, pervades the whole body of Mrs. Wilson's effusions:—
I heard a voice at dead of night
Rise gently on the blast;
It fill'd my soul with sad delight,—
The echo of the past.