Part 2 — MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. (continued 3)
Reading edition
O YE HOURS!
O ye hours! ye sunny hours! Floating lightly by, Are ye come with birds and flowers, Odours and blue sky? “Yes! we come, again we come, Through the wood-paths free: Bringing many a wanderer home, With the bird and bee.” O ye hours! ye sunny hours! Are ye wafting song? Doth wild music stream in showers All the groves among? “Yes! the nightingale is there While the starlight reigns, Making young leaves and sweet air Tremble with her strains.” O ye hours! ye sunny hours! In your silent flow, Ye are mighty, mighty powers! Bring ye bliss or woe? “Ask not this—oh! seek not this! Yield your hearts awhile To the soft wind’s balmy kiss, And the heavens’ bright smile. “Throw not shades of anxious thought O’er the glowing flowers! We are come with sunshine fraught, Question not the hours!”
THE FREED BIRD.
Return, return, my bird! I have dress’d thy cage with flowers; ’Tis lovely as a violet bank In the heart of forest bowers. “I am free, I am free—I return no more! The weary time of the cage is o’er; Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high, The sky is around me—the blue, bright sky! The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear, With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding deer; I see the waves flash on the sunny shore— I am free, I am free—I return no more!” Alas, alas! my bird! Why seek’st thou to be free? Wert thou not bless’d in thy little bower, When thy song breathed naught but glee? “Did my song of the summer breathe naught but glee? Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee? —Oh! hadst thou known its deep meaning well, It had tales of a burning heart to tell! From a dream of the forest that music sprang, Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang; And its dying fall, when it sooth’d thee best, Sigh’d for wild-flowers and a leafy nest.” Was it with thee thus, my bird? Yet thine eye flash’d clear and bright; I have seen the glance of sudden joy In its quick and dewy light. “It flash’d with the fire of a tameless race, With the soul of the wild-wood, my native place! With the spirit that panted through heaven to soar: Woo me not back—I return no more! My home is high, amidst rocking trees, My kindred things are the star and the breeze, And the fount uncheck’d in its lonely play, And the odours that wander afar away!” Farewell—farewell, then, bird! I have call’d on spirits gone, And it may be they joy’d, like thee, to part— Like thee, that wert all my own! “If they were captives, and pined like me, Though love may guard them, they joy’d to be free; They sprang from the earth with a burst of power, To the strength of their wings, to their triumph’s hour! Call them not back when the chain is riven, When the way of the pinion is all through heaven! Farewell!—with my song through the clouds I soar, I pierce the blue skies—I am earth’s no more!”
MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.[401]
“Thou falcon-hearted dove!”—Coleridge.
The Moslem spears were gleaming Round Damietta’s towers, Though a Christian banner from her wall Waved free its lily-flowers. Ay, proudly did the banner wave, As queen of earth and air; But faint hearts throb’d beneath its folds In anguish and despair. Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon Their kingly chieftain lay, And low on many an Eastern field Their knighthood’s best array. ’Twas mournful, when at feasts they met, The wine-cup round to send; For each that touch’d it silently Then miss’d a gallant friend! And mournful was their vigil On the beleaguer’d wall, And dark their slumber, dark with dreams Of slow defeat and fall. Yet a few hearts of chivalry Rose high to breast the storm, And one—of all the loftiest there— Thrill’d in a woman’s form. A woman, meekly bending O’er the slumber of her child, With her soft, sad eyes of weeping love, As the Virgin Mother’s mild. Oh! roughly cradled was thy babe, Midst the clash of spear and lance, And a strange, wild bower was thine, young queen! Fair Marguerite of France! A dark and vaulted chamber, Like a scene for wizard-spell, Deep in the Saracenic gloom Of the warrior citadel; And there midst arms the couch was spread, And with banners curtain’d o’er, For the daughter of the minstrel-land, The gay Provençal shore! For the bright queen of St Louis, The star of court and hall! But the deep strength of the gentle heart Wakes to the tempest’s call! Her lord was in the Paynim’s hold, His soul with grief oppress’d, Yet calmly lay the desolate, With her young babe on her breast! There were voices in the city, Voices of wrath and fear— “The walls grow weak, the strife is vain— We will not perish here! Yield! yield! and let the Crescent gleam O’er tower and bastion high! Our distant homes are beautiful— We stay not here to die!” They bore those fearful tidings To the sad queen where she lay— They told a tale of wavering hearts, Of treason and dismay: The blood rush’d through her pearly cheek, The sparkle to her eye— “Now call me hither those recreant knights From the bands of Italy!”[402] Then through the vaulted chambers Stern iron footsteps rang; And heavily the sounding floor Gave back the sabre’s clang. They stood around her—steel-clad men, Moulded for storm and fight, But they quail’d before the loftier soul In that pale aspect bright. Yes! as before the falcon shrinks The bird of meaner wing, So shrank they from th’ imperial glance Of her—that fragile thing! And her flute-like voice rose clear and high Through the din of arms around— Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul, As a silver clarion’s sound. “The honour of the Lily Is in your hands to keep, And the banner of the Cross, for Him Who died on Calvary’s steep; And the city which for Christian prayer Hath heard the holy bell— And is it these your hearts would yield To the godless infidel? “Then bring me here a breastplate And a helm, before ye fly, And I will gird my woman’s form, And on the ramparts die! And the boy whom I have borne for woe, But never for disgrace, Shall go within mine arms to death Meet for his royal race. “Look on him as he slumbers In the shadow of the lance! Then go, and with the Cross forsake The princely babe of France! But tell your homes ye left one heart To perish undefiled; A woman, and a queen, to guard Her honour and her child!” Before her words they thrill’d, like leaves When winds are in the wood; And a deepening murmur told of men Roused to a loftier mood. And her babe awoke to flashing swords, Unsheath’d in many a hand, As they gather’d round the helpless One, Again a noble band! “We are thy warriors, lady! True to the Cross and thee; The spirit of thy kindling words On every sword shall be! Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast! Rest—we will guard thee well! St Denis for the Lily-flower And the Christian citadel!”
THE WANDERER.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHMIDT VON LUBECK.
I come down from the hills alone; Mist wraps the vale, the billows moan! I wander on in thoughtful care, For ever asking, sighing—where? The sunshine round seems dim and cold, And flowers are pale, and life is old, And words fall soulless on my ear— Oh, I am still a stranger here! Where art thou, land, sweet land, mine own! Still sought for, long’d for, never known? The land, the land of hope, of light, Where glow my roses freshly bright, And where my friends the green paths tread, And where in beauty rise my dead; The land that speaks my native speech, The blessed land I may not reach! I wander on in thoughtful care, For ever asking, sighing—where? And spirit-sounds come answering this— “There, where thou art not, there is bliss!”
THE LAST WORDS OF THE LAST WASP OF SCOTLAND,
—A jeu-d’esprit produced at this time, which owed its origin to a simple remark on the unseasonableness of the weather, made by Mrs Hemans to Mr Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, whom she was in the habit of seeing at Sir David Wedderburn’s. “It is so little like summer,” she said, “that I have not even seen a butterfly.” “A butterfly!” retorted Mr Sharpe, “I have not even seen a wasp!” The next morning, as if in confutation of this calumny, a wasp made its appearance at Lady Wedderburn’s breakfast table. Mrs Hemans immediately proposed that it should be made a prisoner, inclosed in a bottle, and sent to Mr Sharpe: this was accordingly done, and the piquant missive was acknowledged by him as follows:—
“SONNET TO A WASP, IN THE MANNER OF MILTON, &c., BUT MUCH SUPERIOR.
Poor insect! rash as rare!—Thy sovereign,[403] sure, Hath driven thee to Siberia in disgrace— Else what delusion could thy sense allure To buzz and sting in this unwholesome place, Where e’en the hornet’s hoarser, and the race Of filmy wing are feeble? Honey here (Scarce as its rhyme) thou find’st not. Ah, beware Thy golden mail, to starved Arachne dear![404] Though fingers famed, that thrill the immortal lyre, Have pent thee up, a second Asmodeus, I wail thy doom—I warm thee by the fire, And blab our secrets—do not thou betray us! I give thee liberty, I give thee breath, To fly from Athens, Eurus, Doctors, Death!!”
To this Mrs Hemans returned the following rejoinder:—
Sooth’d by the strain, the Wasp thus made reply— (The first, last time he spoke not waspishly)— “Too late, kind Poet! comes thine aid, thy song, To aught first starved, then bottled up so long. Yet, for the warmth of this thy genial fire, Take a Wasp’s blessing ere his race expire:— Never may provost’s foot find entrance here! Never may bailie’s voice invade thine ear! Never may housemaid wipe the verd antique From coin of thine—Assyrian, Celt, or Greek! Never may Eurus cross thy path!—to thee May winds and wynds[405] alike propitious be! And when thou diest—(live a thousand years!)— May friends fill classic bottles[406] with their tears! I can no more—receive my parting gasp!— Bid Scotland mourn the last, last lingering Wasp!”
TO CAROLINE.
When thy bounding step I hear, And thy soft voice, low and clear; When thy glancing eyes I meet, In their sudden laughter sweet— Thou, I dream, wert surely born For a path by care unworn! Thou must be a shelter’d flower, With but sunshine for thy dower. Ah, fair child! not e’en for thee May this lot of brightness be; Yet, if grief must add a tone To thine accents now unknown; If within that cloudless eye Sadder thought must one day lie, Still I trust the signs which tell On thy life a light shall dwell, Light—thy gentle spirit’s own, From within around thee thrown.
THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT.
“Who does not recollect the exultation of Valiant over a flower in the torrid wastes of Africa? The affecting mention of the influence of a flower upon the mind, by Mungo Park, in a time of suffering and despondency, in the heart of the same savage country, is familiar to every one.”—Howitt’s “Book of the Seasons.”
Why art thou thus in thy beauty cast, O lonely, loneliest flower! Where the sound of song hath never pass’d From human hearth or bower? I pity thee, for thy heart of love, For that glowing heart, that fain Would breathe out joy with each wind to rove— In vain, lost thing! in vain! I pity thee, for thy wasted bloom, For thy glory’s fleeting hour, For the desert place, thy living tomb— O lonely, loneliest flower! I said—but a low voice made reply, “Lament not for the flower! Though its blossoms all unmark’d must die, They have had a glorious dower. “Though it bloom afar from the minstrel’s way, And the paths where lovers tread; Yet strength and hope, like an inborn day, By its odours have been shed. “Yes! dews more sweet than ever fell O’er island of the blest, Were shaken forth, from its purple bell, On a suffering human breast. “A wanderer came, as a stricken deer, O’er the waste of burning sand, He bore the wound of an Arab spear, He fled from a ruthless band. “And dreams of home in a troubled tide Swept o’er his darkening eye, As he lay down by the fountain-side, In his mute despair to die. “But his glance was caught by the desert’s flower, The precious boon of heaven; And sudden hope, like a vernal shower, To his fainting heart was given. “For the bright flower spoke of One above— Of the presence felt to brood, With a spirit of pervading love, O’er the wildest solitude. “Oh! the seed was thrown those wastes among In a bless’d and gracious hour, For the lorn one rose in heart made strong By the lonely, loneliest flower!”
CRITIQUE BY PROFESSOR NORTON.
“The [American] collection of Mrs Hemans’ Miscellaneous Poems opens with verses in honour of the Pilgrim Fathers. She has celebrated with solemnity and truth the circumstances which gave sublimity to the glorious scene of their landing; and their descendants cannot be but pleased to see the devotedness displayed by them introduced into poetry, and incorporated among the bright examples held up by the inventive as well as the historic muse for the admiration of mankind.
“Freedom, not licentiousness—religious freedom, not the absence of religious rites—was the object for which the fathers came. An air of earnestness was thus originally imparted to the character of the country, and succeeding ages have not worn it away. Though it may suit the humour of moralisers to declaim against the degeneracy of the times, we believe that the country has of late years made advances in moral worth. We infer this from the more general diffusion of intelligence, and the higher standard of learning; from the spirit of healthy action pervading all classes; from the diminished number of crimes; from the general security of property; from the rapid multiplication of Sabbath schools, than which no discovery of our age has been more important for the moral education of the people; from the philanthropy which seeks for the sources of vice, and restrains it by removing its causes; from the active and compassionate benevolence, which does not allow itself to consider any class so vicious or so degraded as to have forfeited its claim to humane attention—which seeks and relieves misery wherever it is concealed, and, embracing every continent in its regard, has its messengers in the remotest regions of the world. Religious freedom is the last right which, even in our days, the inhabitants of this country would surrender. It would be easier to drive them from their houses and their lands, than to take from them the liberty of worshipping God according to the dictates of conscience. There is no general assertion of this right, and no energetic display of zeal in maintaining it, solely because it is menaced by no alarming danger.
“In a state of society like ours, there may be little room for the exercise of those arts of which it is the chief aim to amuse and delight; and yet attention is by no means confined to those objects which are directly connected with the advancement of personal or public wealth. For the costly luxuries of life, and even for its elegant pleasures, there may as yet be little room; and still the morality of the nation be far from forming itself on the new system of morals devised by our political economists. There has been no age—we assert it with confidence—there has been no people, where the efforts of mind, directly connected with the preservation of elevated feeling and religious earnestness, are more valued than they are by the better part of our own community. We can no support, or we hold it not best to support, an expensive religious establishment; but every where the voice of religious homage and instruction is heard: we cannot set apart large estates to give splendour to literary distinction; but you will hardly find a retired nook, where only a few families seek their shelter near each other, so destitute, that the elements of knowledge are not freely taught: we cannot establish galleries for the various works of the arts of design; but the eye that can see the beauties of nature is common with us, and the recital of deeds of high worth meets with ready listeners. The luxuries, which are for display, are exceedingly little known; but the highest value is set on every effort of mind connected with the investigation of truth, or the nurture of generous and elevated sentiments.
“Where the public mind had been thus formed, the poetry of Mrs Hemans was sure to find admirers. The exercise of genius, if connected with no respect for virtue, might have remained unnoticed; the theory, which treats of beauty as of something independent of moral effect, is still without advocates among us. It has thus far been an undisputed axiom that, if a production is indecent or immoral, it for that very reason cannot claim to be considered beautiful.
“We do not go so far as to assert, that there can be no merit in works of which the general tendency is immoral; but the merit, if there is any, does not lie in the immoral part, in the charm that is thrown round vice, but rather in an occasional gleam of better principles, in nature occasionally making her voice heard above the din of the dissolute, in the pictures of loveliness and moral truth that shine out through the darkness. Amidst all the horrors and depravity of superstition, the strange and the abominable vagaries of the human imagination, exercised on religion in heathenish ignorance, the observing mind may yet recognise the spirit that connects man with a better world. And so it is with poetry: amidst all the confusion which is manifest where the heavenly gift is under the control of a corrupted judgment, something of its native lustre will still appear. When we see the poet of transcendent genius delineating any thing but the higher part of our nature; when we observe how, after borrowing fiendish colours, he describes states of mind with which devils only should have sympathy, rails at human nature in a style which spiteful misanthropy alone can approve, or gives descriptions of sensuality fit only for the revels of Comus; when we see him ‘hurried down the adulterate age, adding pollutions of his own,’ we can have little to say to excuse or to justify an admiration of poetic talent, till we are reconciled to human nature and the muse by the pure lustre of better-guided minds.
“In what view of the subject can it be held a proper design of poetry to render man hateful to himself? How can it delight or instruct us to see our fellow-men ranged under the two classes of designing villains and weak dupes? Or what sources of poetic inspiration are left, if all the relations of social life are held up to derision, and every generous impulse scorned as the result of deluded confidence?
“To demand that what is called poetical justice should be found in every performance may be unreasonable, since the events of life do not warrant us in expecting it; but we may demand what is of much more importance, moral justice—a consistency of character, a conformity of the mind to its career of action. It may not be inconsistent with reality, though it is with probability, that an unprincipled miscreant, governing himself in his gratifications by the narrowest selfishness, should be successful in his pursuits; but it is unnatural and false to give to such a nature any of the attributes of goodness. Vice is essentially mean and low; it has no dignity, no courage, no beauty; and while the poet can never impart to a production, tending to promote vice, the power and interest which belong to the worthy delineation of honourable actions, he can never invest a false heart with the noble qualities of a generous one. Observe in this respect the manner of the dramatic poet, who is acknowledged to have delineated the passions with the greatest fidelity. Shakspeare describes the mind as gradually sinking under the influence of the master-passion. It stamps itself on the whole soul, and obliterates all the finer traces in which humanity had written a witness of gentler qualities. Macbeth is a moral picture of terrific sublimity, and an illustration of that moral justice which we contend should never be wanting. The one strong passion moulds the character, and blasts every tender sentiment. When once Othello is jealous, his judgment is gone; the selfishness of Richard leads to wanton cruelty. In one of Shakspeare’s tragedies, not a crime, but a fault is the foundation of the moral interest. Here, too, he is consistent; and the irresolution of Hamlet leaves his mind without energy, and his contending passions without terror. We might explain our views by examples from the comedies of the great dramatist, but Macbeth and Richard furnish the clearest illustration of them. And it is in such exhibitions of the power of vice to degrade, that ‘gorgeous tragedy’ performs her severest office; lifting up the pall which hides the ghastliness of unprincipled depravity, and showing us, where vice gains control, the features, that before may have been resplendent with loveliness, marred and despoiled of all their sweet expression.
“There can, then, be no more hideous fault in a literary work than profligacy. Levity is next in order. The disposition to trifle with topics of the highest moment—to apply the levelling principle to the emotions of the human mind, to hold up to ridicule the exalted thoughts and kindling aspirations of which human nature is capable—can at best charm those only who have failed to enter the true avenues to happiness. Such works may be popular, because the character of the public mind may for a season be corrupt. A literature, consisting of such works, is the greatest evil with which a nation can be cursed. National poverty is nothing in comparison, for poverty is remedied by prudent enterprise; but such works poison the life-blood of the people, the moral vigour, which alone can strive for liberty and honour. The apologists for this class of compositions, in which Voltaire and La Fontaine are the greatest masters, defend it on the ground that it is well adapted to give pleasure to minds which have been accustomed to it, and that foreigners need only a different moral education to be able to enjoy it. Now, without wasting a word on the enormity of defending what is intrinsically sensual, we reply merely on the score of effect. He who adapts his inventions to a particular state of society, can please no further; he depends on circumstances for his popularity; he does not appeal to man, but to accidental habits, a fleeting state of the public mind; he is the poet, not of nature, but of a transient fashion. The attraction which comes from the strangeness or novelty of the manner is of very little value. On the most brilliant night a meteor would be followed by all eyes for a while; and why? Because it is as evanescent as bright; we must gaze at once, or it will be too late. Yet the mind soon returns to the contemplation of the eternal stars which light up the heavens with enduring lustre. Any popularity, obtained by gratifying a perverse taste, is essentially transitory; while all that is benevolent and social, all that favours truth and goodness, is of universal and perpetual interest.
“These are but plain inferences from facts in the history of literature. The plays of Dryden were written to please an audience of a vicious taste; they may have been received with boisterous applause, but nobody likes them now, though in their form not unsuited to the stage; and as for the grossest scenes, any merit in the invention is never spoken of as compensating for their abominable coarseness. On the other hand, Milton’s Comus, though in its form entirely antiquated, has the beautiful freshness of everlasting youth, delights the ardent admirer of good poetry, and is always showing new attractions to the careful critic. And where lies this immense difference in the lasting effect of these two writers? Dryden, it is true, fell far short of Milton in poetic genius; but the true cause lies in this,—virtue, which is the soul of song, is wanting in the plays of Dryden, while the poetry of Milton bears the impress of his own magnanimity.
“We are contending for no sickly morality: we would shut out the poet from the haunts of libertinism, not from the haunts of men; we would have him associate with his fellows, hold intercourse with the great minds that light up the gloom of ages, and share in the best impulses of human nature, and not, under the influence of a too delicate sensibility, treat only of the harmless flowers, and the innocent birds, and the exhilarating charm of agreeable scenery; and still less, in the spirit of a sullen misanthropy, delight in obscure abstractions, find comfort only in solitude, and rejoice, or pretend to rejoice, chiefly in the mountains, and the ocean, and the low places of the earth. Their pursuit of moral beauty does not lead to an affected admiration, or an improper idolatry of the visible creation. The genius of the poet can impart a portion of its eloquence to the external world, and elevate creation by connecting it with moral associations. But descriptions, except of scenes where moral beings are to move, possess little interest. If landscape-painting is an inferior branch of that art, though the splendid works of Claude demand praise without measure, landscape poetry is a kind of affectation, an unnatural result of excessive refinement. Description is important, but subordinate. The external world, with all its gorgeousness and varied forms of beauty; the cataract, ‘with its glory of reflected light;’ the forests, as they wave in the brilliancy of early summer; the flowers, that are crowded in gardens, or waste their sweetness on the desert air; ‘the noise of the hidden brook, that all night long in the leafy months sings its quiet tune to the sleeping woods;’ the ocean, whether reposing in tranquil majesty or tossed by the tempest; night, when the heavens are glittering with the splendour of the constellations; morning, when one perfect splendour beams in the sky, and is reflected in a thousand colours from the guttering earth—these are not the sublimest themes that awaken the energies of the muse. It is mind, and mind only, which can exhibit the highest beauty. The hymn of martyrdom, the strength by which the patriot girds himself to die, ‘God’s breath in the soul of man,’ the unconquerable power of generous passion, the hopes and sorrows of humanity—love, devotion, and all the deep and bright springs of affection—these are higher themes of permanent interest and exalted character.
“Here, too, we find an analogy between poetic and religious feeling. The image of God is to be sought for, not so much in the outward world as in the mind. No combination of inanimate matter can equal the sublimity and wonderful power of life. To impart organic life, with the power of reproduction, is a brighter display of Omnipotence than any arrangement of the inanimate, material world. A swarm of flies, as through their short existence they buzz and wheel in the summer’s sun, offer as clear, and, to some minds, a clearer demonstration of Omnipotence, than the everlasting, but silent, courses of the planets. But moral life is the highest creation of divine power. We, at least, know and can conceive of none higher. We are, therefore, not to look for God among the rivers and the forests, nor yet among the planets and the stars, but in the hearts of men; he is not the God of the dead, but of the living.
“Those who accord with the general views which we have here maintained, will be prepared to express unqualified approbation of the literary career of Mrs Hemans. Had her writings been merely harmless, we should not have entered into an analysis of them; but the moral charm which is spread over them is so peculiar, so full of nature, and truth, and deep feeling, that her productions claim at once the praise of exquisite purity and poetic excellence. She adds the dignity of her sex to a high sense of the duties of a poet; she writes with buoyancy, yet with earnestness; her poems bear the impress of a character worthy of admiration. In the pursuit of literary renown, she never forgets what is due to feminine reserve. We perceive a mind endowed with powers to aspire, and are still further pleased to find no unsatisfied cravings, no passionate pursuit of remote objects, but high endowments, graced by contentment. There is plainly the consciousness of the various sorrow to which life is exposed, and with it the spirit of resignation. She sets before herself a clear and exalted idea of what a female writer should be, and is on the way to realise her own idea of excellence. Living in domestic retirement, in a beautiful part of Wales, it is her own feelings and her own experience which she communicates to us. We cannot illustrate our meaning better, than by introducing our readers at once to Mrs Hemans herself, as she describes to us the occupations of a day.
AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.
‘There were thick leaves above me and around, And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood’s sleep, Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound As of soft showers on water,’ etc. etc.
“The poetry is here as beautiful as the scene described is quiet and pleasing. It forms an amiable picture of the occupations of a contemplative mind. The language, versification, and imagery, are of great merit, the beauties of nature described by a careful observer; the English scene is placed in happy contrast with the Eastern, and the dream of romance pleasantly disturbed by the cheerfulness of life. But we make but sorry work at commenting on what the reader must feel.
“It has been said that religion can never be made a subject of interest in poetry. The position is a false one, refuted by the close alliance between poetic inspiration and sacred enthusiasm. Irreligion has certainly no place in poetry. There may have been Atheist philosophers; an Atheist poet is an impossibility. The poet may doubt and reason like Hamlet, but the moment he acquiesces in unbelief, there is an end to the magic of poetry. Imagination can no longer throw lively hues over the creation: the forests cease to be haunted; the sea, and the air, and the heavens, to teem with life. The highest interest, we think, attaches to Mrs Hemans’s writings, from the spirit of Christianity which pervades them.
“The poetry of our author is tranquillising in its character, calm and serene. We beg pardon of the lovers of excitement, but we are seriously led to take notice of this quality as of a high merit. A great deal has been said of the sublimity of directing the passions; we hold it a much more difficult and a much more elevated task, to restrain them. It may be sublime to ride on the whirlwind, and direct the storm; but it seems to us still more sublime to appease the storm, and still the whirlwind. Virgil, no mean authority, was of this opinion. The French are reported to be particularly fond of effect and display; but we remember to have read that, even in the splendid days of Napoleon, the simplicity of vocal music surpassed in effect the magnificence of a numerous band. It was when Napoleon was crowned Emperor in the Cathedral of Notre Dame. The Parisians, wishing to distinguish the occasion by some novel exhibition, and to produce a great effect, filled the orchestra with eighty harps, which were all struck together with unequalled skill. The fashionable world was in raptures. Presently the Pope entered, and some thirty of his singers, who came with him from Rome, received him with the powerful Tu es Petrus of the old-fashioned Scarlatti; and the simple majesty of the air, assisted by no instruments, annihilated in a moment the whole effect of the preceding fanfaronade. And in literature the public taste seems to us already weary of those productions which aim at astonishing and producing a great effect, and there is now an opportunity of pleasing by the serenity of contemplative excellence.
“It is the high praise of Mrs Hemans’s poetry that it is feminine. The sex may well be pleased with her productions, for they could hardly have a better representative in the career of letters. All her works seem to come from the heart, to be natural and true. The poet can give us nothing but the form under which the objects he describes present themselves to his own mind. That form must be noble, or it is not worthy of our consideration; it must be consistent, or it will fail to be true. Now, in the writings of Mrs Hemans, we are shown how life and its concerns appear to woman, and hear a mother intrusting to verse her experience and observation. So, in ‘The Hebrew Mother,’ ‘the spring-tide of nature’ swells high as she parts from her son, on devoting him to the service of the Temple:—
‘Alas, my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me, The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes; And now fond thoughts arise, And silver cords again to earth have won me, And like a vine thou claspest my full heart— How shall I hence depart? ‘And oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day Turn’d from its door away? While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, I languish for thy voice, which past me still Went like a singing rill? ‘I give thee to thy God—the God that gave thee, A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart! And, precious as thou art, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, My own, my beautiful, my undefiled! And thou shalt be His child. ‘Therefore, farewell! I go—my soul may fail me, As the hart panteth for the water-brooks, Yearning for thy sweet looks. But thou, my first-born! droop not, nor bewail me; Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, The Rock of Strength.—Farewell!’
“The same high feeling of maternal duty and love inspires the little poem, ‘The Wreck,’ which every one has read. ‘The Lady of the Castle,’ ‘The Grave of Körner,’ ‘The Graves of a Household,’ are all on domestic subjects. But why do we allude to poems which are in every one’s hands? The mother’s voice breaks out again in the piece entitled ‘Elysium.’ Children, according to the heathen mythology, were banished to the infernal regions, and religious faith had no consolation for a mourning parent.
‘Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay, Too roselike still, too beautiful, too dear, The child at rest before its mother lay; E’en so to pass away, With its bright smile! Elysium! what wert thou To her who wept o’er that young slumberer’s brow? ‘Thou hadst no home, green land! For the fair creature from her bosom gone, With life’s fresh flowers just opening in its hand, And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, Which in its clear eye shone Like spring’s first wakening! But that light was past— —Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast? ‘Not where thy soft winds play’d, Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!— Fade with thy bowers, thou land of visions! fade! From thee no voice came o’er the gloomy deep, And bade man cease to weep! Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love! ‘For the most loved are they Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice In regal halls! The shades o’erhang their way; The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, And gentle hearts rejoice Around their steps; till silently they die, As a stream shrinks from summer’s burning eye. ‘And the world knows not then— Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled! Yet these are they, who on the souls of men Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread, The long-remember’d dead! But not with thee might aught save glory dwell— Fade, fade away, thou shore of asphodel!’
“And the same feelings of a woman and mother dictated ‘The Evening Prayer at a Girls’ School,’—a poem which merits to be considered in connexion with Gray’s ‘Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College.’
‘O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest, Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,” etc.
“Of other spirited, and lively, and pathetic short poems of Mrs Hemans, which form some of the brightest ornaments of the lyric poetry of the language, we take no particular notice—for in what part of the United States are they not known? So general has been the attention to those of her pieces adapted to the purposes of a newspaper, we hardly fear to assert that, throughout a great part of this country, there is not a family of the middling class in which some of them have not been read. The praise which was not sparingly bestowed upon her, when her shorter first productions became generally known among us, has been often repeated on a careful examination of her works; and could we hope that our remarks might one day fall under her eye, we should hope she would not be indifferent to the good wishes which are offered her from America, but feel herself cheered and encouraged in her efforts, by the prospect of an enlarged and almost unlimited field of useful influence, opened to her among the descendants of her country in an independent land. The ocean divides us from the fashions as well as the commotions of Europe. The voice of America, deciding on the literature of England, resembles the voice of posterity more nearly than any thing else, that is contemporaneous, can do. We believe that the general attention which has been given to Mrs Hemans’s works among us, may be regarded as a pledge that they will not be received with indifference by posterity.”—North American Review.
[At the conclusion of “The Records” we gave the opinions of one of our most celebrated Cisatlantic critics regarding the poetry of Mrs Hemans, and we think it but right to show now (as has just been done) the general estimate in which her genius is held in America, as evidenced by the North American Review, the best-known and most widely-circulated of the Transatlantic periodicals.
Judging from the state of feeling in America—from the ideas of practical philosophy entertained there—and from the pervading utilitarian bias of its prose literature, we must confess that, had we been asked to name any votary of the British muse more likely than another to be appreciated in that country, we should have had very little hesitation in fixing upon Crabbe. And why? Because his poetry is characterised by a stern adherence to the realities of life, as contradistinguished from romance, and because his characters and situations are taken from existing aspects of society, appreciable by all. In this theory it appears we are wrong; and Professor Norton has here done his best to account for it. We are most given to admire what is least attainable; and therefore it is that the spiritual glow which Mrs Hemans has blent with human sentiment—the imaginative beauty with which she has clothed “the shows of earth and heaven,”—and the leaven of romance which she has infused into the communications of daily life, have, as lucus a non lucendo, been elements of, and not the impediments to, her American popularity.]