# v^ ^■^mxalit>/ The Two Weavers - . . Extract from Daniel - . . Passion, the Source of Misery - MISS HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS Sonnet to Hope .... Paraphrase .... 206 206 207 209 209 210 212 212 214 214 216 216 218 218 221 221 222 223 224 226 226 928 229 228 Sonnet to Twilight Song ...... Sonnet to the Moon Habitual Devotion ... MRS. ELEANOR ANNE FRANK- LIN Extract from Cwur dc Lion MISS SUSANNA BLAMIRE - Song The Siller Crown - . . . MRS. MARY BRUNTON . Stanzas for Music . . . ANNA LiETITIA BARBAULD - To a Lady with some Flowers . Ode to Spring . - . . Hymn to Content . . - On tlie Diety . . . . Hymn MRS. LADY ANNE BARNARD . AuM Robin Gray ... MRS. ANNE GRANT (of Laggan) - Extract from The Highlanders MRS. ANNE HUNTER - To-morrow ... Simile ---.-. The Lot of Thousands The Ocean Grave - • . Song Song To my Daughter on her Marriage MRS. HESTER LINCH PIOZZI The Three Warnings - . - 229 230 231 232 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE To the Winds The Glow Worm Song of a Spirit MRS. HENRY ROLLS - Sighs . . . . Smiles ... The Warrior's Song - LADY BURRELL - Chloe and Myra - To Emma - . . MISS LUCY AIKIN - The Beggar I\Ian - Arabia MRS AMELIA OPIE - The Orphan Boy's Tale Song .... Hymn ... 2.33 2:33 237 237 233 240 240 242 243 244 246 243 249 252 252 254 255 257 257 259 253 259 200 260 261 2G2 262 2G6 206 267 269 271 271 272 273 275 275 276 277 277 279 280 280 282 282 CONTENTS. On AVar Remembrance - A Lament - 2S3 2S4 - 2S4 MISS JOANNA BAILLIE - - 2S7 To a Child 283 A Mother to her Waking Infant 289 Song jTom the Beacon - - 291 Song 2i)-2 Hymn 292 Hymn 293 The Grave of Columbus - - 294 Extract from Dt Monfort - - 297 Extract from Henriquez - - 303 : MRS. MARGARET HODSON - 307 The Dream of Gra;me - - 307' On Memory 310 Extract from Margaret of Anjou - 312 MISS MARY RUSSELL MITFORD 327 Infant Love . . - - The March of Mind - The Voice of Praise - Jerusalem . . - - - Antigone To my Mother Sleeping - The Masque of the Seasons - Bridal Song . . . - Extract from Rienzi - MRS. MARY HOWITT Tyre The Children . - - . Birds in Summer - - - • Mountain Children . - - Pauper Orphans - - - A City Street - . - - The Sale of tlie Pet Lamb • Thoughts of Heaven English Churches - The Seven Temptations - MRS. CAROLINE SOUTHEY The Pauper's Deathbed - The Dying Mother to her Infant The River The Death of the Flowers - Mariner's Hymn ... *The Last Journey * I Never Cast a Flower Away » To Death - - . - 323 328 I 329 I 331 332 336 337 340 343 3.50 350 353 355 357 358 360 360 3G3 364 366 374 374 375 378 379 380 381 383 384 *The American Forest Girl - • 392 *The Landing of tlie Pilgrim Fathers - - - - 395 *The Traveller at the Source of the Nile - - - - 396 ♦Mozart's Requiem - - - 393 * The Hour of Death - - - 400 * Tlie Adopted Child ... 402 *MRS. TONNA, (CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH) - - - - 404 * To a Horse 404 * A Night Storm at Sea - - 406 *The Millenium - - - - 407 THE HONOURABLE MRS. NOR- TON 409 The Mother's Heart - - - 410 The Aralj's Farewell to his Steed 411 To the Dutchess of Sutherland - 413 j * The Visionary Portrait - - 416 i * To the Lady H. O. - - - 418 I * The Blind Man's Bride - - 420 I * Weep not for Him that Dieth ■ 422 MRS. L^TITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN, (MISS LANDON) - 424 Extract from the Improvisgutrice 425 Song 427 Song 423 Song 429 Change . - - • - - 430 The Soldier's Funeral - - 432 The Grasp of the Dead - - 433 Crescentius - . - - - 435 Sir Walter Manny - - - 436 *The Awakening of Endymion 433 * We Might Have Been - - 440 * Stanzas on the Death of Mrs. Hemans - - . - MRS. ABDY - The Destiny of Genius - The Child in a Garden Where shall I die? MRS. FELICIA HEMANS - - 386 Extract from The Burial of the Forest 3?9 Extract from Tlie Sceptic - 391 - 442 440 - 446 447 - 443 Lines on the Death of Mrs. Hemans 449 The Builders of the Ark - - 451 The Darkness of Egypt - - 452 Tlie White Poppy ... 454 The Language of Flowers - - 455 MRS. ELLIS. (SARAH STICKNET) 457 ♦The Pilgrim's Rest - - - 45S * Love's Early Dream - - 460 *MISS JEWSBURY, (MRS. FLETCHER) .... 462 * The Lost Spirit ... - 402 * The Dying Girl to her Mother 404 CONTENTS. IX * A Dream of the Future - - 465 •LADY FLORA HASTINGS - 470 * 'I'he Cross of Vasco de Gama 470 * The Swan Song ... 471 • MARY ANNE BROWNE (MRS. GRAY) 472 * The Embroideress at Midnight 472 *Tl;e Biidegroom to his Bride - 474 »MRS. SARA COLERIDGE - 477 *Love Song ----- 477 * False Love - - - . 478 * One Face Alone - - - 47S MISS ELIZA COOK - - . 480 The Gipsey's Tent - - - 481 The Worhl .... 4.'^2 We'll Sing another Christmas Song 4^4 The Mourners - - - - 485 He that is without Sin - - 488 Love 491 * The Old Arm Chair - - 493 ♦Washington - ... 404 * The Loved One was not There 495 MRS. FRANCES ANNE BUTLER 49G Autumn 496 Winter 497 Ballad 498 *To 4'J9 MRS. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING . - . . Chorus of Edsn Spirits Extracts from A Drama of Exile The Measure . - . . The Sleep Victoria's Tears - . - - * Calarina to Camoens * The Cry of the Human * Uowper's Grave - . - *MISS LOWE * Extract from Cephalus and Procris - . - . * Hour of Night Departing - MISS CHARLOTTE YOUNG - The Bird and the Fountain - Every-day Heroes - - . Extract from The World's Com- plaint - . . . . Oh ! ever thus do Sun and Shade Evening . . - - . The Poor Man's Flower - 500 502 503 505 506 508 509 514 518 522 523 524 524 626 523 529 530 531 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. In presenting to the reader a History of the Female Poets of Great Britain, the author feels called upon to make a few general remarks upon the subject. First, he would express his profound conviction that the Poet- esses of our country have displayed a richness and depth of ge- nius which may challenge the admiration, and demand the serious attention, of the world. The following pages offer, in the hum- ble opinion of their Compiler, undeniable evidence in support of this belief; and further show that the female soul contains inex- haustible mines of precious jewels, the existence of which has as yet been scarcely recognised. The fact that this is almost the first book expressly devoted to the poetical productions of the British Female mind, tends strongly to prove that woman's intellect has been overlooked, if not despised, by us hitherto ; and that it is high time we should awake to a sense of our folly and injustice. We have practically, if not professedly, avowed our belief that the thoughts of the feminine soul are not worth preserving : with how little reason we have done so, this work aims to show. It may be true that woman's verse is less exciting than man's ; and less " interesting" to the mass of readers: but I am inclined to think that this is so only because the mind of the world has been hitherto unduly stimulated, and therefore can only relish highly-seasoned food. War, Passion, Glory, and Sensual Plea- sures have been the chief subjects of verse down to a compara- tively recent period ; and not until this false excitement has alto- gether passed away, can the gentler glow of woman's unobtrusive spirit be fairly felt. The qualities of woman's mind are the stars of the mental hemisphere : and during the time that is past, they B* xi INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. have been outblazed by fiercer fires; but the heaven is now clearing, and tlie soft starlight is becoming visible. I would go on to observe that other influences have tended to repress the poetical faculty of W(>man, and to keep it in the back- ground of the universe. Our system of educating females has narrowed their sphere of observation, contracted their experience, and done its best to chain their intellects to the mere frivolities of life. Further, their poetical attempts have met with discourage- ments. I do not mean to say that they have not been flattered and applauded, — every Poetess has found her little coterie of admirers, who have fed her to surfeit with their unwholesome adulation; but I mean that the world has on the whole disre- garded the mental efiorts of woman, or else has looked upon them as something out of the proper sphere of the sex, and therefore to be petted and protegeed and lionized, rather than honestly welcomed and carefully cultivated. If I am asked for proof of this assertion, I point to the fact that our female versifiers, though always applauded highly by cotemporaries, have never yet been included in the list of our national Poets. I know that of late this fault of neglect has been, in part, amended. During the last half-century our Poetesses have received a far healthier kind of regard: indeed their claim to distinction has been so far admitted as to make our wise men ask one another whether they should any longer permit such a word as Poetfss at all? But this in no degree disproves the as- sertion which I have made, — that, on the whole, woman's intel- lectual efforts have been in effect discouraged. Nay, even the present day, with all its boasted gallantry, has done much to repulse and retard woman's advancement. Have we not seen that when young Female Poets have by their genius placed them- selves prominently before the public, they have been met with shameful malice and slander, and bidden back, wounded in heart, into privacy and retirement? Critics who could not deny their talents, have belied their characters ; and a gossiping Morld has only been too ready to believe the calumniators. Indeed, considering the hindrances in woman's way, the won- der is, not that she has done so little, but that she has done so much. To me there could not be a clearer proof of the strength INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. and excellence of the female intellect, than is found in the fact that woman has persevered so long, and accomplished such great things, in spite of the difficulties she has had to encounter : and I cannot but think that the superior place which woman now holds in the world's esteem, as compared with her relative posi- tion in past ages, is due, not to man's justice, but to her own determination. But, not to speculate further upon what woman's literary- efforts miglit have been under more favourable circumstances, let us now speak of her works as we find them exemplified in the pages before us. It may be at once admitted that woman has not soared so high as man has done in the realm of Poetry. We certainly have no female Sliakspere. We have Poetesses who resemble him : Joanna Baillie is often like him ; so is Miss Holford ; so is Miss Mitford ; so are many others who could be named ; but the similarity is in single features, not in the whole character. We have no female Milton, either. Many of our lady Poets are sub- lime, many devotional : Mrs. Barbauld has Milton's solemn sense of adoration; Mrs. Rowe has his meditative calmness; Mrs. Hemans has his gentle, confiding humility: — but where is the female imagination that has mounted such stupendous heights, or penetrated such awful depths ? We must remember, however, that there is but one Shakspere, but one Milton ; and that men seem as little likely as women to furnish their counterparts. But what other great British Poets are there with whom we have not Poetesses to compare? Have we not a Byron in Miss Landon, a Cowper in the Countess of Winchelsea, a Spenser in Mrs. Tighe, a Goldsmith in Mrs. Grant, a Johnson in Hannah More, a Wycherly in Mrs. Centlivre, a Collins in Mrs. Radcliffe, a Coleridge in Mrs. Browning, a Wordsworth in Mary Howitt, a Scott (and more) in Joanna Baillie ? Or if it will still be main- tained that some, or even all, of these ladies fail to reach the full height of the Poets they resemble, where is to be found the dogmatist daring enough to say that the difference is sufficiently great to be set up as a mark of distinction between the one sex and the other ? I cannot doubt that if woman had been permitted the enjoyment of the same opportunities as man, she would have xiv INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. presented to the world works as lofty in imagination and as noble in sublimity as any that have proceeded from the greatest of the other sex. The doctrine of woman's intellectual inferiority is one which I cannot think upon without an impatience bordering on indigna- tion. That our mothers, wives, sisters — that one half of the human race — should be deemed to be endowed with an inferior kind, or degree, of intelligence to that which animates the remaining portion of the species, is a theory so monstrous, that I can only wonder at even a savage age believing it. Woman intellectually inferior to man ! Woman, who is man's helpmeet; ■woman, who has the care of the infant mind, and can impress it as she will ; woman, who from the cradle to the grave has power to command, to enslave, to direct, man's intellect at her pleasure ! Is it credible that a belief so absurd should have gained footing in the world at all ? It may be. But it is incredible that it should form a subject for debate in this, the nineteenth century. It is at least a satisfaction to think that, in addition to the immense amount of testimony which the records of all arts and sciences bear to woman's mental equality, the present volume furnishes a further overpowering proof to the same effect. I am quite prepared to grant that the mental constitutions of the sexes are different ; but I am not at all prepared to say that "difference" means "inferiority." It is easy enough to under- stand that the sphere of woman's duty requires powers altogether dissimilar from those which are needed by man ; but that this is any proof of a smaller development of mind, I beg leave emphati- cally to deny. Woman's qualities may be less conspicuous, but they are quite as important; they may be less apparent, but they are quite as influential. Man has to bear outward, tangible, rule; and his faculties are necessarily of an authoritative, evident, external, commanding order. Woman has to bear invisible sway over the hidden mechanism of the heart; and her endowments are of a meek, persuasive, quiet, and subjective kind : seen rather in result than in action. Man rules the mind of the world : woman ils heart. To man belongs the sway of force. To direct and use actual strength, whether it be of the intellect or of the body, is his pro- INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. vince. It is his to tame barbarism, to establish law, to control thought, to develope energy : and the senate, the platform, the mart, the pulpit, and the battle-field, are his scenes of action. It is his to explore, to analyse, to judge, to arrange, to provide. It is his to inquire, to test, to determine. Exertion, enterprise, action, and deliberation, are his duties. Reason is his weapon : and the establishment of Truth is the great task he has to perform. To woman belongs the sway of influence. Her province is to soften, round off, smooth down, the angularities of life and conduct : to act (gently, but unceasingly) upon the swift-beating heart of the world, soothing it into calmness when violent ; mildly stimulating it into action when torpid; and refining, purifying and exalting its passions and aspirations when excited. Home is her empire, and affection her sceptre. It is hers to endure, to watch, to suggest, to inspirit, to reinvigorate, to sustain. It is hers to colour and perfume and beautify the way of life; to adorn existence, and to make it musical. It is hers to I'esist and coun- teract the deadening influences of the world. Man goes forth to his labour day after day ; he performs day after day the same cramping round of duties : it is woman's office to preserve him, from becoming a mere machine. He comes in contact with villaiiy and selfishness : it is hers to keep alive in his bosom the generous flame of virtue. He falls in with the degraded and deceiving : it is hers to prevent their evil influence upon him, and to keep up a proper estimate of humanity. It is hers, when the world has disgusted him with its hoUowness, to restore him by the tranquil delights of home. It is hers, when misfortune overtakes him, to cheer him with hope, and support his sinking spirit. It is hers to preserve in their purity the moral sentiments of his nature. It is hers, while intellectual knowledge makes him wise, by moral persuasion to render him good. It is hers at all seasons to inspire him with a purifying love for the Beautiful, and to anchor his soul firmly in the everlasting rock of Religion. I repeat, then, that woman's sphere requires a different mental constitution from that of man, not an inferior one : and very different we find the intellectual faculties of the sexes to be. It Is worth our while to note a few of these peculiarities. INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. Looking at the whole spiritual character, we see some such broad distinctions as the following. — Man is bold, enterprising, and strong; woman cautious, prudent, and steadfast. Man is self- relying and self-possessed ; woman timid, clinging, and dependent. Man is suspicious and secret ; woman confiding. Man is fearless ; ■woman apprehensive. Man arrives at truth by long and tedious study; woman by intuition. He thinks; she feels. He reasons; she sympathises. He has courage ; she patience. He soon despairs; she always hopes. The strong passions are his ; am- bition, love of conquest, love of fame. The mild affections are hers ; love of home, love of virtue, love of friends. Intellect is his ; heart is hers. In the religious sentiments they are equally unlike. His is the religion of the understanding ; hers the reli- gion of faith. Man must have a creed ; woman's piety is inde- pendent of all rubrics. Or taking the mere intellectual faculties of the female mind, apart from the whole spiritual organization, we find a marked difference from those of man. The qualities of the Female Intellect seem to be rather negative than positive : they appear to be fitted more for passive endurance than for aggressive exertion. They can grasp less ; but they can hold longer. Just as woman's physical frame is formed for smaller but more continuous labour than man's, so her mental constitution seems less competent to violent than to sustained action. She appears to have inferior force, but greater evenness : not so much energy, but more equa- bility, of character. Woman's intellectual perceptions are infinitely quicker than man's. She sees in a moment. Incongruities, resemblances, dif- ferences, characteristics, are intuitively and instantly perceived by her. The whole range of her mental faculties appears to be apter, readier, quicker, than man's. She has a finer perception of colour; a more correct ear for tune; a truer taste ; a readier sensibility to beauty in form ; a more sensitive appreciation of melody. Man's intellectual perceptions are comparatively slow. He sees farther, but his vision is not so instantaneous. I think his insight into essences is truer than her's ; but I believe that she has a belter appreciation of surfaces. She sees at once, and INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. xvii is satisfied with that ; he distrusts first appearances, and inquires into their essential quahties. The Poetical Selections which form the bulk of this work will, I think, amply illustrate and fully prove the distinctions which I have attempted to draw in the preceding paragraphs. They will show, if I mistake not, that while Man's intellect is meant to make the world stronger and wiser. Woman's is intended to make it purer and better. The reader will not fail to notice how rarely our Female Poets have addressed themselves to the mere understanding, and on the other hand how constantly they have sought to impress the feelings of the race ; how little they liave endeavoured to increase our wisdom, and how much they have laboured to promote our virtue. It is for man to ameliorate our condition ; it is for woman to amend our character. Man's Poet- ry teaches us Politics ; Woman's, Morality. In all the Poems contained in this Volume, it would be difficult to find a passage written to accelerate man's political advancement : whilst every page will display some effort to stimulate his moral progress. In one place we shall see a Katherine Philips exhibiting the de- ceitfulness of Pleasure ; in another, a Mary Chandler proclaiming the blessings of Temperance ; in a third, a Lady Carew enjoining the duty of Forgiveness ; in a fourth, an Amelia Opie teaching the sinfulness of War ; in a fifth, a Mary Howitt sweetly sym- pathising with the wants and sufferings of the Poor ; in all, \v e shall find a cheerful love for Humanity, a noble trust in Virtue, and a hoping, clinging, earnest Piety. Woman's mind not equal in strength to man's ! Can we venture to say that man's mind is equal in value to woman's ? It is not, however, to promote a rivalry between the sexes that these pages are written. They aim, not at separating the two half minds of the world, but at making them act in concert and unison. Single, they are incomplete ; but together they are powerful for every kind of good. Man without woman is strong, but unenduring ; courageous, but impatient ; enterprising, but incautious. He is self-relying, Dut easily deceived ; confident, but soon cast down ; undertakes much, but is soon wearied. Left to itself, his hope fails almost 3 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. at its birth ; his faith speedily turns to doubt ; his mind preya upon itself; he becomes gloomy, suspicious, and misanthropical. On the other hand, woman without man is timid, feeble, ap- prehensive, and defenceless. The first shock of doubt or affliction overcomes her ; and afterwards she hopes beyond reason. Evil preys upon her unresisted ; she confides to be deceived : her affections become idolatrous ; her sympathies, weaknesses ; and her religion grows into superstition. Thus the perfect mental character is only formed by the union of the two incomplete parts. United, there is strength with endurance, enterprise with caution, courage with patience. Self- reliance is moderated by dependence. Thought is aided by feel- ing. Reason is confirmed by sympathy. Reliance links itself with belief, ambition with love, faith with piety ; despondency meets with cheerfulness, affliction with consolation, and despair with hope. It is our policy, therefore, no less than our duty, to admit and develop, in their fullest extent, the noble intellectual gifts which nature has bestowed on woman. Urged by a blinding pride, or a ridiculous envy, we have for ages denied her right to share with us the throne of intellect ; and, as has before been urged, we have paid a heavy penalty for our folly. Let us amend our fault for the future. Let us give woman's mind that free scope for its exertions which we have so long refused it. And let us gratefully recognise in woman, a partner, not a rival, in the mental race ; a fellow worker, and that a pure and courageous one, in the great task of enlightening and elevating the whole family of man ! Frederick Rowton. FEMALE POETS GREAT BRITAIN. JULIANA BERNERS. 1460. The first British Poetess of whom we have any record is the lady whose name is mentioned above ; Juliana, daughter of Sir James Berners, or Barnes, of Roding, in Essex, Knight; and sister of Richard, first Lord Berners. She flourished in the middle of the fifteenth century ; about fifty years after Chaucer and Gower. She received what at that time was considered a learned education ; and eventually became Prioress of Sopwell Nunnery, near St. Albans. Her literary productions consist of three tracts, one on Hunting, another on Hawking, and the third on Armory, or Heraldry : they are to be found in The Booh of St. Albans, printed at Westminster, by Wynkyn de Worde, 1496. Her style is excessively coarse and unfeminine, and wholly jl inconsistent with her sacred calling; but the barbarism of the |l times is a sufficient, if not a complete excuse for her. From the j era of Richard the Third much refinement cannot be expected. !: The tract on Hunting, which is the only one in rhyme, f furnishes the following short extract : quite long enough, I am sure, in the opinion of the reader. j 4 c 25 I I OPENING OF THE POEM. Mi dere sones, where ye fare, be frith, or by fell. Take good hede in his tyme how Tristrem wol tell ; How many maner bestes of venery there were, Listenes now to oure Dame, and ye shullen here. Ffowre maner of bestes of venery there are. The first of hem is a hert, the second is an hare ; The boor is one of iho, The wolff, and no mo. And whereso ye comen in play or in place. Now shal I tel you which ben bestes of chace ; One of tho a buk, another a doo, The ffox and the marteryn, and the wilde roo ; And ye shall, my dere sones, other bestes all, Where so ye hem finde, rascall hem call, In frith or in fell. Or in fforest, y yow tell. And to speke of the hert, if ye wil hit lere. Ye shall cal him a calfe at the first yere ; The seconde yere a broket, so shal he be. The third yere a spayard, lerneth this at me ; The iiii yere calles hem a stagge, be eny way The fift yere a grete stagge, my dame bade you say. The Epilogue to this book of Hunting is not without merit. TO HAVE A FAITHFUL FRIEND. A faithful friend would I fain find. To find him there he might be found ; But now is the world wext so unkind. That friendship is fall to the ground. Now a friend I have found. That I will neilher ban ne curse: But of all friends in field or town. Ever gramercy mine own purse. My purse it is my privy wife : (This song I dare both sing and say :) It parteth men of muehe strife, When every man for himself shall pay. As I ride in rich array, For gold and silver men will me flourish ; By this matter I dare well say. Ever gramercy mine own purse. As I ride with gold so rede, And have to do with landys law, Men for my money will make me speed, And for my goods they will me knowe: More and less to me will draw Both the better and the worse ; By this matter I say in sawe * Ever gramercy mine own purse. It fell by me upon a time, As it hath done by many one mo, My horse, my neat, my sheep, my swine. And all my goods, they tell me fro: I went to my friends and told them so. And home again they bade me truss : I said again when I was wo, Ever gramercy mine own purse. Therefore I rede you, sires all. To assay your friends or you have need ; For an ye come down, and have a fall. Full few of them for you will grede. Therefore assay them every one. Both the better and the worse. — Our Lord, that shope that both sun and moon, Send us spending in our purse ! * Proverbially. 28 QUEEN ANNE BOLEYN QUEEN ANNE BOLEYN. 1507—1536. The following pathetic and womanly verses have been ascribed to this ill-fated lady. Sir John Hawkins, in his History of Music, vol. iii. p. 30, says that they were communicated to him by " a very judicious antiquary, lately deceased." Whether this state- ment is sufficient, however, to establish Anne Boleyn's claim to the authorship of the production, the reader musi decide. I believe that the verses have never been attributed to any other person. Defiled is my name full sore. Through cruel spite and false report. That I may say, for evermore. Farewell, my joy ! adieu, comfort! For wrongfully ye judge of me, Unto my fame a mortal wound ; Say what ye list, it will not be, Ye seek for that cannot be found. O Death ! rock me on sleep ! Bring me a quiet rest: Let pass my vei-y guiltless ghost Out of my careful breast: Toll on the passing bell. Ring out the doleful knell, Let the sound my death tell, For I must die, There is no remedy, For now I die. QUEEN ANNE BOLEYN. 29 My paines who can express ? Alas ! they are so strong, My dolour will not suffer strength My life for to prolong : Toll on the passing bell, &c. Alone, in prison strong, I wail ray destiny ; Wo worth this cruel hap that I Should taste this misery. Toll on the passing bell, &c. Farewell my pleasures past. Welcome my present pain ; I feel my torments so increase, That life cannot remain. Cease now the passing bell. Rung is my doleful knell. For the sound my death doth tell : Death doth draw nigh, Sound my end dolefully, For now I die. It is as well, perhaps, to say that in the above Lines, the spelling is modernised ; and that the same course is followed, ai far as possible, in all the extracts from the older writers. 30 ANNE ASKEWE. ANNE ASKEWE. 1520—1546. Anne Askewe was the daughter of William Askewe, or Ayscough, of Kelsey, in the county of Lincoln ; and was born in the year 1520. Her natural talents were great, and she received a learned education. Her family followed the Roman Catholic faith, and by her father's desire (although against her own inclination) she married a Roman Catholic gentleman, named Ryme. Her mind, always of a deeply religious cast, after much thought became deeply impressed with the belief that the Roman Catholic religion was not the true one, and she abjured it in favour of Protestantism. Upon this, her husband drove her from his house, and she found refuge with some friends in London. While in that city, she sought to interest the King (Henry the Eighth) in her behalf, through Queen Katherine (Parr) ; but in vain. Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, caused her to be seized and committed to prison on a charge of heresy. After a short detention, however, she was liberated. But in a little while she was again arrested, thrown into the Tower, found guilty of heresy, and condemned to die at the stake. Her demeanour, throughout the whole proceedings, was in the highest degree heroic ; and affords a striking proof of the strength of the religious sentiment in woman. A contemporary writer (Mr. Loud, of Lincoln's Inn) says of her — "I must needs confess of Mrs. Askewe, now departed to the Lord, that the day afore her execution, and the same day also, she had an angel's countenance and a smiling face ; though when the hour of darkness came, she was so racked, that she could not stand, but was holden up between two Serjeants." On being fastened to the stake, she was asked for the last time to recant; the royal pardon being offered her if s?ie would do so. Her reply was, " I do not come here to deny my Lord and Master." The faggots Avere thereupon lighted, and she was burnt to ashes. This was in 1546, in the twenty-sixth year of her age. After her last examination in Newgate, she composed the following lines : the true martyr spirit is visible in every word of them : — Like as the armed knight Appointed to the field. With this world will I fight, And faith shall be my shield. Faith is that weapon strong Which will not fail at need ; My foes therefore among Therewith will I proceed. As it is had in strength And force of Christes way, It will prevail at length, Though all the devils say nay. Faith in the fathers old Obtained righteousness. Which make me very bold To fear no world's distress. I now rejoice in heart. And hope bid me do so, For Christ will take my part And ease me of my woe. Thou say'st. Lord, whoso knock, To them wilt thou attend ; Undo therefore the lock, And thy strong power send. 32 ANNE • ASKEWE. More enemies now I have Than hairs upon my head; Let them not me deprave, But fight thou in my stead. On thee my care I cast, For all their cruel spite, I set not by their hast, For thou art my delight. I am not she that list My anchor to let fall; For every drizzling mist, My ship substantial. Not oft I use to write In prose nor yet in rhyme, Yet will I show one sight That I saw in my time. I saw a royal throne Where Justice should have sit. But in her stead was one Of moody cruel wit. Absorb'd was righteousness As of the raging flood : Satan in his excess Suck'd up the guiUless blood. Then thought I, Jesus, Lord, When thou shalt judge us all, Hard is it to record On these men what will fall. Yet Lord, I thee desire. For that they do to me. Let them not taste the hire Of their iniquity ! It would be difficult, I think, to find a more illustrious instance of consistent Christian faith than is displayed in these Lines. They present a noble evidence of woman's exalted courage in the hour of trial, and of the pure and forgiving spirit with which she can endure persecution. 34 QUEEN ELIZABETH. QUEEN ELIZABETH. 1533—1603. Among the vanities of this royal lady, the most innocent, per- haps, was her desire of shining as a Poet : whether she does sliine or not, the present writer will not undertake to determine. That she gained very extravagant praises from contemporary critics is not perhaps surprising : Royalty enters into the lists of Literature so rarely, that a few extra-sweet plaudits may be pardoned when it makes its appearance there. I transcribe first the Lines written by the Royal Poet when a Prisoner at Woodstock. Oh, Fortune ! how thy restless wavering state Hath fraught with cares my troubled wit ! Witness this present prison, whither fate Could bear me, and the jovs I quit: Thou causedest the guilty to be loos'd From bands, wherein are innocents inclos'd : Causing the guiltless to be strait reserv'd, And freeing those that death had well deserv'd. But by her envy can be nothing wrought. So God send to my foes all they have thought. Puttenham, in his ^rt of Enc^Jish Poesy, speaking of the rhetorical figure Exargasia, or the Gorgeous, says, " I find none example in English metre so Avell maintaining this figure as this ditty of her Majesty's own making, passing sweet and harmoni- cal : which figure being, as his very original name purporteth, the most beautiful and gorgeous of all others, it asketh in reason to be reserved for a last compliment, and decyphered by a lady's pen, herself being the most beautiful, or rather beauty of queens." It is to be feared that Mr. Pultenham's loyalty sent to sleep his taste. The poem relates to the plotters in favour of Mary, Queen of Scots. The doubt of future foes Exiles my present joy, And wit me warns to shun such snares As threaten mine annoy. For falsehood now doth flow. And subject faith doth ebb ; Which would not be if reason ruled, Or wisdom weav'd the web. But clouds of toys untried Do cloak aspiring minds ; Which turn to rain of late repent, By course of changed winds. The top of hope suppos'd The root of ruth will be ; And fruitless all their grafi'ed guiles. As shordy ye shall see. Then dazzled eyes with pride. Which great ambition blinds. Shall be unseal'd by worthy wights, Whose foresight falsehood finds. The Daughter of Debate,* That eke discord doth sow. Shall reap no gain where former rule Hath taught still peace to grow. No foreign banish'd wight Shall anchor in this port ; Our realm it brooks no strangers' force. Let them elsewhere resort. Mary, Queen of Scots. 36 QUEEN ELIZABETH. Our rusty sword with rest Shall first his edge employ, Shall poll their tops that seek Such change, and gape for joy. It would seem that her majesty — " Whose realm would brook no stranger force," had a heart of more yielding materials. Tyrant as she was, Queen Elizabeth did homage to a greater tyrant still, — the name of him — Love. The candid critic must confess that " the beauty of queens" whines somewhat under the influence of la belle passion. The following woe-begone stanzas were written on the departure of some favourite from court : — I grieve and dare not show my discontent ; I love, and yet am forced to seem to hate ; I do, yet dare not say I ever meant ; I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate : I am, and not; I freeze, and yet am burn'd, Since from myself, my other self I turn'd. My care is like my shadow in the sun, Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it ; Stands and lies by me, does what I have done ; This too familiar care does make me rue it : No means I find to rid him from my breast, Till by the end of things it be supprest. Some gentler passions slide into my mind, For I am soft and made of melting snow ; Or be more cruel, Love, and so be kind, Let me or float or sink, be high or low : Or let me live with some more sweet content, Or die, and so forget what love e'er meant. Signed, " Finis, Eliza. Regina, upon Moun 's departure." QUEEN ELIZABETH. 37 One cannot read this passage without feeling that whatever may have been Queen Elizabeth's poetical powers, she at least had not the faculty of self-portraiture- For when she says of herself — "That she is soft, and made oi melting snow" one cannot, with all the charity in the world, coincide with her. Had the royal Limner compared herself to ice instead of snow, she might have won our assent to her proposition : but " melting snow" no, no ! that is not by any means the verdict of History ! MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 1560—1621. This lady was a sister of Sir Philip Sidney, and appears to have been a most excellent and accomplished person. Spenser mentions her as "most resembling, both in shape and spirit, Her brother dear:" and Sir Philip dedicated his Arcadia to her. She wrote largely, both in prose and verse, and was a most generous patron of literature. Her poems display no inconsiderable amount of learning, and are characterised by much elegance and grace. She assisted her brother in a translation of the Psalms, which was first printed so recently as 1823. A DIALOGUE Between two Shepherds, Thenol and Piers, in praise of Astrcea. THENOT. I sing divine Astraea's praise, Muses ! help my Avits to raise, And heave my verses higher. PIERS. Thou need'st the truth but plainly tell, AVhich much I doubt thou can'st not well, Thou art so oft a liar. MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 39 THENOT. If in my song no more I show. Than heaven and earth and sea do know, Then truly I have spoken. PIERS. Sufficeth not no more to name ; But being no less, the like, the same, Else laws of truth be broken. THENOT. Then say she is so good, so fair. With all the earth she may compare. Not Momus' self denying. PIERS. Compare may think where likeness holds, Nought like to her the earth enfolds, I look'd to find you lying. THENOT. Astraea sees with Wisdom's sight, Astraea works by Virtue's might, And jointly both do stay in her. PIERS. Nay, take from them, her hand, her mind, The one is lame, the other blind ; Shall still your lying stain her ? THENOT. Soon as Astraea shows her face. Straight every ill avoids the place. And every good aboundeth. PIERS. Nay, long before her face doth show. The last doth come, the first doth go ; How loud this lie resoundeth. 40 MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. THENOT. Astraea is our chiefest joy, Our chiefest guard against annoy, Our chiefest wealth, our treasure. PIERS. Where chiefest are, there others be, To us none else but only she ; When wilt thou speak in measure ? THENOT. Astraea may be justly said, A field in flowery robe array'd. In season freshly springing. PIERS. That spring endures but shortest time, This never leaves Astraea's clime ; Thou liest instead of singing. THENOT. As heavenly light that guides the day. Right so doth shine each lovely ray. That from Astraja flieth. PIERS. Nay, darkness oft that light inclouds, Astraea's beams no darkness shrouds ; How loudly Thenot lieth ! THENOT. Aslraea rightly term I may, A manly palm, a maiden bay. Her verdure never dying. PIERS. Palm oft is crooked, bay is low ; She still upright, still high doth grow ; Good Thenot,leave thy lying ! MARY, COUNTESS OF PEIVIBROKE. 41 THENOT. Then, Piers, of friendship tell me why, My meaning true, my words should lie, And strive in vain to raise her ? PIERS. Words from conceit do only rise. Above conceit her honour flies ; But silence, nought can praise her. CHORUS FROM THE TRAGEDY OF ANTONY. 1595. The boiling tempest still Makes not sea-waters foam, Nor still the northern blast Disquiets quiet streams, Nor who, his chest to fill. Sails to the morning beams, On waves wind tosseth fast, Still keeps his ship from home. Nor Jove still down doth cast, Inflamed with bloody ire, On man, on tree, on hill, His darts of thundering fire : Nor still the heat doth last On face of parched plain, Nor wrinkled cold doth still On frozen furrows reign. D* 42 1 MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. But still as long as we In this low world remain, Mishaps, our daily mates. Our lives do entertain ; And woes which bear no dates, Still perch upon our heads ; None go, but straight will be Some greater in their steads. Nature made us not free, When first she made us live ; When we began to be. To be began our woe ; Which growing evermore. As dying life doth grow. Do more and more us grieve. And tire us more and more. blest who never breath'd. Or whom, with pity moved. Death from his cradle 'reav'd, And swaddled in his grave. And blessed also he (As curse may blessing have), Who low, and living free. No prince's charge hath prov'd. By stealing sacred fire. Prometheus, then unwise. Provoking gods to ire. The heap of ills did stir ; And sickness, pale and cold, Our end which onward spur To plague our hands, too bold, To filch the wealth of skies. In heaven's hate since then. Of ill with ill enchain'd. MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 43 We race of mortal men Full fraught our breasts have borne ; And thousand, thousand woes Our heavenly souls now thorn, Which free before from those, No earthly passion pain'd. War and war's bitter cheer Now long time with us stay, And fear of hated foe Still, still increaseth sore. Our harms worse daily grow : Less yesterday they were Than now, and will be more To-morrow than to-day. That this lady was much esteemed in her own day, we may fairly infer from her Epitaph : written by Ben Jonson : EPITAPH. Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ; Death ! ere thou hast slain another Learn'd, and fair, and good as she. Time shall throw a dart at thee. 44 ELIZABETH MELVILL. ELIZABETH MELVILL, 1603, Was daughter of Sir James Melvill of Halhill, and wife of Colvill of Culross. She wrote Ane Godlie Breame, compiled in Scottish metre, the first edition of which appeared at Edin- burgh in 1603. In the following quotation, the language has been Anglicised. FROM ANE GODLIE DREAME. I looked down, and saw a pit most black. Most full of smoke, and flaming fire most fell ; That uglj' sight made me to fly aback, I fear'd to hear so many shout and yell : I him besought that he the truth would tell — Is this, said I, the Papists' purging place, Where they affirm that silly souls do dwell. To purge their sin, before they rest in peace ? The brain of man most surely did invent That purging place, he answer'd me again : For greediness together they consent To say that souls in torment may remain, Till gold and goods relieve them of their pain. O spiteful sprites that did the same begin ! O blinded beasts, your thoughts are all in vain. My blood alone did save thy soul from sin. ELIZABETH MELVILL. 45 This pit is Hell, where through thou now must go, There is thy way that leads thee to the land : Now play the man, thou need'st not tremble so, For I shall help and hold thee by the hand. Alas ! said I, I have no force to stand. For fear I faint to see that ugly sight ; How can I come among that baleful band? Oh, help me now, I have no force nor might ! Oft have I heard that they that enter there In this great gulf, shall never come again : Courage, said he, have I not bought thee dear ? My precious blood it was not shed in vain. I saw this place, my soul did taste this pain. Or ere I went into my Father's gloire ; Through must thou go, but thou shalt not remain ; Thou needs't not fear, for I shall go before. I am content to do thy whole command, Said I again, and did him fast embrace: Then lovingly he held me by the hand, And in we went into that fearful place. Hold fast thy grip, said he, in any case Let me not slip, whatever thou shalt see ; Dread not the death, but stoutly forward press For Death nor Hell shall never vanquish thee. His words so sweet did cheer my heavy heart. Incontinent I cast my care aside ; Courage, said he, play not a coward's part. Though thou be weak, yet in my strength confide. I thought me blest to have so good a guide, Though I was weak I knew that he was strong ; Under his wings I thought me for to hide. If any there should press to do me wrong. Into that Pit, when I did enter in, I saw a sight which made my heart aghast ; 46 ELIZABETH MELVILL. Poor damned souls, toi-mentod sore for sin, In flaming fire were burning fierce and fast : And ugly sprites, and as we thought them past, My heart grew faint and I began to tire ; Ere I perceived, one seized me at last And held me high above a flaming fire. The fire was great, the heat did pierce me sore, My faith was weak, my grip was wondrous small, I trembled fast, my fear grew more and more, My hands did shake that I him held withal. At length they loos'd, then they began to fall, I cried, O Lord ! and caught him fast again ; Lord Jesus, come ! and lake me out of thrall : Courage, said he, now thou art past the pain. With this great fear, I staggered and woke. Crying, O Lord ! Lord Jesus come again! But after this no kind of rest I took, I press'd to sleep, but diat was all in vain. I would have dream'd of pleasure after pain. Because I know I shall it find at last: God grant my guide may still with me remain, It is to come that I believed was past. LADY ELIZABETH CAREW. 47 LADY ELIZABETH CAREW. 1613. Who this lady was is not altogether certain. She is gene- rally understood to have been the wife of Sir Henry Carew, or Gary. She was a lady of great accomplishments, and was called, by John Davis, of Hereford, in the dedication prefixed to his Muses' Sacrifice, or Divine Meditations, "a darling, as well as patroness, of the muses." The chief, indeed the only, work attributed to her is The Tragedy of Mariam, the Fair Queen of Jewry, written by that learned, virtuotts, and truly noble lady, E.G., 1613; a play abounding in fine womanly touches of feeling and sentiment. I extract the CHORUS TO THE FOURTH ACT. The fairest action of our human life Is scorning to revenge an injury: For who forgives without a further strife, His adversary's heart doth to him tie. And 'tis a firmer conquest, truly said, To win the heart, than overthrow the head. If we a worthy enemy do find, To yield to worth it must be nobly done ; But if of baser metal be his mind, In base revenge there is no honour won. Who would a worthy courage overthrow. And who would wrestle with a worthless foe ? 48 LADY ELIZABETH CAREW. We say our hearts are great and cannot yield ; Because they cannot yield it proves them poor ; Great hearts are task'd beyond their power, but seld* The weakest lion will the loudest roar. Truth's school for certain doth tliis same allow, High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow. A noble heart doth teach a A-irtuous scorn. To scorn to owe a duty overlong ; To scorn to be for benefits, forborne, To scorn a lie, to scorn to do a wrong. To scorn to bear an injury in mind, To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind. But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have, Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind ; Do we his body from our fury save. And let our hate prevail against our mind ? What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be, Than make his foe more worthy far than he ? Had Mariam scorn'd to leave a due unpaid, She would to Herod then have paid her love ; And not have been by sullen passion sway'd. To fix her thoughts all injury above Is virtuous pride. Had Mariam thus been proud, Long famous life to her had been allow'd. * Seldom. LADY MARY WROTH, 1621, Was the daughter of Robert, Earl of Leicester, (a younger bro- ther of Sir Philip Sidney), and the wife of Sir Robert Wroth. In 1621 she published a romance, called Urania, interspersed with poetry. It was to Lady Wroth that Ben Jonson dedicated The Alchyraist. From the romance to which I have alluded, I make the foUow- inw selections. — Who can blame me if I love. Since Love before the world did move ? When I lov'd not, I despair'd. Scarce for handsomeness I car'd ; Since so much I am refined, As new-framed of state and mind, Who can blame me if I love. Since Love before the world did move ? Some in truth of Love beguil'd. Have him blind and childish styl'd ; But let none in these persist. Since so judging judgment miss'd. Who can blame me ? Love in chaos did appear ; When nothing was, yet he seem'd clear Nor when light could be descried, To his crown a light was tied. Who can blame me ? 50 LADY MARY WROTH. Love is truth and doth delight, Whereas Honour shines most bright : Reason's self doth Love approve, Which makes us ourselves to love. Who can blame me ? Could I my past time begin, I would not commit such sin, To live an hour, and not to love ; Since Love makes us perfect prove, Who can blame me ? SONG. Love, a child, is ever crying ; Please him, and he straight is flying ; Give him, he the more is craving, Never satisfied with having. His desires have no measure ; Endless folly is his treasure ; What he promiseth he breaketh, Trust not one word that he speaketh. He vows nothing but false matter; And to cozen you will flatter ; Let him gain the hand, he'll leave you, And still glory to deceive you. He will triumph in your wailing; And yet cause be of your failing : These his virtues are, and slighter Are his gifts, his favors lighter. LADY MARY WROTH. 51 Fathers are as firm in staying, Wolves no fiercer in their preying ; As a child, then, leave him crying. Nor seek him so given to flying. The reader will not fail to notice the remarkably contradictory sentiments which these two poems present upon that important subject, the character of Cnpid. Like the laAvyer in Cowper's Eyes and Nose, the fair author pleads upon both sides of the question. In the one song we are told that " Love, a child, is ever crying,"' — and that we are to " Trust not one word that he speaketh :" in the other we are informed that Love is truth, and that those who call him childish " Have, so judging, judgment miss'd.'' Which doctrine are we to believe ? 52 ANNE, COUNTESS OF ARUNDEL. ANNE, COUNTESS OF ARUNDEL. 1630. This lady was sister of Thomas, Lord Dacre, and the wife of Philip, Earl of Arundel, who died in the Tower of London, in 1595. The following verses, written b); her on the cover of a letter, have been preserved by Mr. Lodge (Illustrations of British History, vol. iii.), who is of opinion that they were called forth by the death of her husband. In sad and ashy weeds I sigh, I groan, I pine, I mourn ; My oaten yellow reeds I all To jet and ebon turn. My watery eyes, like winter's skies, My furrow'd cheeks o'erflow : All heavens know why, men mourn as I, And who can blame my woe ? In sable robes of night my days Of joy consumed be ; My sorrow sees no light ; my lights Through sorrow nothing see : For now my sun his course has run, And from his sphere doth go To endless bed of folded lead. And who can blame my woe ? My flocks I now forsake, that so My sheep ray grief may know ; The lilies loth to take, that since His death presum'd to grow. ANNE, COUNTESS OF ARUNDEL. 53 I envy air, because it dare Still breathe and he not so ; Hate earth that doth entomb his youth, And who can blame my woe ? Not I, poor I alone — (alone How can this sorrow be ?) Not only men make moan, but more Than men make moan with me : The gods of greens, the mountain queens, The fairy circled row, The Muses nine, and Powers divine. Do all condole my woe. I have not been able to discover any other poems attributed to this lady, and therefore I conclude that her writings were few. The verses quoted do not look like the production of a practised writer, certainly, for the thoughts are obscure, and the style laboured. The last stanza seems to me particularly unhappy. The expression " gods of greens" is almost laughable ; and the idea of the " Muses nine," et cetera, condoling her woe, is ludicrously ridiculous. What could Terpsichore, for instance, have to mourn for in the loss of Lord Arundel ? And why should " the moun- tain queens" make moan with his widowed lady? The woe seems very forced and unnatural throughout. 54 DIANA PRIMROSE. DIANA PRIMROSE, 1630, Wrote an insufferably prosy tract of twelve pages, called A Chain of Pearl, or a Memorial of the peerless Graces and heroic Virtues of Queen Elizabeth, of glorious memory, composed by the noble lady, Diana Primrose. The pearls which form this chain are the Religion, Chastity, Prudence, Temperance, Cle- mency, Justice, Fortitude, Science, Patience, and Bounty of her Majesty : all of which are described at length. I give, as a sample of this fulsome panegyric, THE EIGHTH PEARL — SCIENCE. Among the virtues intellectual, The van is led by that we Science call ; A pearl more precious than the Egyptian queen Quaff'd off to Antony : of more esteem Than Indian gold, or most resplendent gems. Which ravish us with their translucent beams. How many arts and sciences did deck This Heroina ! who still had at beck The Muses and the Graces, -when that she Gave audience in state and majesty : Then did the goddess Eloquence inspire Her royal breast : Apollo with his lyre Ne'er made such nmsic ; on her sacred lips Angels enthroned, most heavenly manna sips. Then might you see her nectar-flowing vein Surround the hearers ; in which sugar'd stream She able was to drown a world of men, DIANA PRIMROSE. 55 And drown'd with sweetness to revive again. Alasco, the ambassador Polonian, Who perorated like a mere Slavonian, And in rude rambling Rhetoric did roll, She did with Attic eloquence control. Her speeches to our Academians, Well shew'd she knew among Athenians How to deliver such well-tuned words As with such places punctually accords. But with what Oratory-ravishments Did she imparadise her Parliaments ! Her last most princely speech doth verify, How highly she did England dignify. Her loyal Commons how did she embrace, And entertain with a most royal grace ! In justice to Mrs. Primrose, we should call to mind that many contemporary writers of the other sex far surpassed her in their adulations of Royalty. Indeed, she follows some of them at a very humble distance. And I think that flattery is at all times far less chargeable upon the female than upon the male sex. Woman keeps much closer to truth than man does. Whether it be that her natural timidity leads her to keep always in sight of land, or that she has a more honest and consistent regard for verity, it might seem like flattery to determine ; but certain it is, that she very rarely sails out boldly into the sea of falsehood, or trusts herself to any considerable distance upon its treacherous waters. 56 MARY FAGE. MARY FAGE. 1637. This lady deserves mention, if only for her ingenuity. In a volume published by her in 1637, and entitled Fame's Foiile, she presents no fewer than four hundred and twenty anagrams and acrostics upon the names of the Royal Family and the nobility ! Such instances of patient labour are (happily) rare. To the Bight Hon. John, Earl of Clare, Lord Houghton, of Houghton. John Hollis. Anagramma, Oh ! on hy hills. In virtue when I see you make such speed, Oh ! it doth then no admiration breed, Hy, on hy hills of honor that you stand : Nature commandeth virliie such a band. Honor on virtue ever should attend : Oh, on hy hills you may forever wend: Loving of virtue which doth shine so clear. Likely it is, you Earl of Clare appear. Insue then well, what you have well begun, So on hy hills to stand you Avell have won. MARY FAGE. 57 To the Right Hon. John, Earl of Weymes, Lord Weymes. John Weymes. Anagramma, Shew men joy. In your great honour free from all alloy, O truly noble Weymes, you sheiv m,en joy ; Having your virtues in their clearer sight. Nothing there is can breed them more delight. With Joy your wisdom so doth men content: Ever we pray it might be permanent: Your virtuous life doth breed so great delight, Men wish you endless Jo?/, you to requite ; Eternal Joy may unto you succeed, Shewing men joy, who do our comfort breed. It is due to our Female Poets to observe, that as a body they are singularly free from such acrostical and alliterative fancies. Not more than two or three of the Sisterhood have manifested in any degree that cruelty of disposition which consists in subject- ing the words they employ to the torture-drill of ingenuity : — and the majority of them disdain any use of language but a sim- ple and sensible one. I cannot call to mind a punster among them. 8 58 ANNA HUME. ANNA HUME, 1644, Was the daughter of David Hume, of Godscroft. In 1644 she published, at Edinburgh, The Triumphs of Love, Chastity, Death: translated out of Petrarch; from which Book the following selection is made. TO THE READER. Reader, I have oft been told, Verse that speak not Love are cold. I would gladly please thine ear. But am loth to buy 't too dear. And 'tis easier far to borrow Lovers' tears than feel their sorrow. Therefore he hath furnisht me Who had enough to serve all three. FROM THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH. — (cHAP. 1.) Lauretta meeting cruel Death, Mildly resigns her noble breath. The fatal hour of her short life drew near. That doubtful passage which the world doth fear; Another company, who had not been Freed from their earthly burden, there were seen, ANNA HUME. 59 To try if prayers could appease the wrath, Or stay the inexorable hand of death. That beauteous crowd conven'd to see the end Which all must taste ; each neighbour, every friend Stood by, when grim death with her hand took hold And pull'd away one only hair of gold. Thus from the world this fairest flower is ta'en To make her shrine more bright, not out of spleen. How many moaning plaints, what store of cries Were utter'd there, when fate shut those fair eyes For which so oft I sung ; whose beauties burn'd My tortur'd heart so long: whiles others mourn'd She pleas'd, and quiet did the fruit enjoy Of her blest Ufe ; farewell, without annoy, True saint on earth, said they : so might she be Esteem'd, but nothing 'bates death's cruelty. * * * * Now at what rate I should the sorrow prize, I know not ; nor have art that can suffice The sad affliction to relate in verse Of these fair Dames that wept about her hearse : Courtesy, Virtue, Beauty, all are lost. What shall become of us ? none else can boast Such high perfection, no more we shall Hear her wise words, nor the angelical Sweet music of her voice ; whiles thus they cried. The parting spirit doih itself divide With every virtue from the noble breast. As some grave hermit seeks a lonely rest; The heavens were clear, and all the ambient air Without a threatening cloud ; no adversaire Durst once appear, or her calm mind affright: Death singly did herself conclude the fight ; After, when fear and the extremest plaint Were ceased, the attentive eyes of all were bent On that fair face, and by despair became Secure ; she who was spent, not like a flame By force cxtinguish'd, but as lights decay, — And undiscerned waste themselves away : Thus went the soul in peace, so lamps are spent, As the oil fails which gives them nourishment : In sum, her countenance you still might know The same it was, not pale, but white as snow Which on the tops of hills in gentle flakes Falls in a calm, or as a man that takes Desired rest, as if her lovely sight Were clos'd with sweetest sleep, after the sprite Was gone. If this be that fools call to die, Death seem'd in her exceeding fair to be. For the foregoing passage I am indebted to the Rev. Mr. Dyce's Specimens of British Poetesses, a work of much research and merit. I take this opportunity to acknowledge very conside- rable obligations to that production. MRS. ANNE BRADSTREET. [Mrs. Anne Bradstreet, though born in England, lived nearly all her life in America, where she died about the middle of the seventeenth century. She was the daughter of one and the wife of another Governor of Massachusetts, and she was celebrated by the Puritan Fathers as the " glory of her sex," as the " tenth muse," &c., &c. Her name and history appear more appropri- ately in " The Female Poets of America." — Editor.'] ANN COLLINS. 1653, Wrote a book called Divine Songs and Meditations, from which I extract the following- The Winter being over, In order comes the Spring, Which doth green herbs discover, And cause the birds to sing. The night also expired, Then comes the morning bright. Which is so much desired By all that love the light. This may learn Them that mourn, To put their grief to flight : The Spring succeedeth Winter, And day must follow night. He therefore that sustaineth Affliction or distress. Which every member paineth And findeth no release : Let such therefore despair not. But on firm hope depend, Whose griefs immortal are not. And therefore must have end They that faint F 62 ANN COLLINS. With complaint Therefore are to blame : They add to their atflictions, And amplify the same. For if they could with patience Awhile possess the mind, By inward consolations They might refreshing find, To sweeten all their crosses, That little time they 'dure: So might they gain by losses, And sharp would sweet procure. But if the mind Be inclined To unquietness, That only may be called The worst of all distress. He that is melancholy, Detesting all delight, His wits by sottish folly Are ruinated quite. Sad discontent and murmurs To him are incident: Were he possessed of honors, He could not be content. Sparks of joy Fly away. Floods of care arise ; And all delightful motion In the conception dies. But those that are contented, However things do fall, Much anguish is prevented. And they soon freed from all. They finish all their labours ANN COLLINS. 63 With much felicity, Their joy in trouble savours Of perfect piety. Cheerfulness Doth express A settled pious mind ; Which is not prone to judging, From murmuring refin'd. The calm, pious cheerfulness of sentiment displayed in the above lines will not fail to yield a warm sensation of pleasure to the reader. I make especial reference to it, because I think it characteristic of the female spirit generally, as this volume will prove almost in every page ; and because I think that a critic is bound to take every possible opportunity to pay honour to those writers who address the better feelings of humanity. MARY MORPETH, 1656, "A Scotch poetess, and a friend of the poet Drummond, of whom, besides many other things in poetry, she had a large Encomium in verse." — Theatrum Poet arum. TO WILLIAM DRUMMOND, OF HAWTHORNDEN. (Prefixed to his Poems, 1656.) I never rested on the Muses' bed. Nor dipt my quill in the Thessalian fountain, My rustic muse was rudely fostered. And flies too low to reach the double mountain. Then do not sparks with your bright suns compare, Perfection in a woman's work is rare ; From an untroubled mind should verses flow ; My discontent makes mine too muddy show ; And hoarse encumbrances of household care, Where these remain, the Muses ne'er repair. If thou dost extol her hair. Or her ivory forehead fair. Or those stars whose bright reflection Thralls thy heart in sweet subjection . Or when to display thou seeks The snow-mixt roses on her cheeks, Or those i-ubies soft and sweet MARY MORPETH. 65 Over those pretty rows that meet: The Chian painter as asham'd Hides his picture so far fani'd ; And the queen he carv'd it by With a bhish her face doth dye, Since those lines do Umn a creature. That so far surpass'd her feature. When thou show'st how fairest Flora Prankt with pride the banks of Ora, So thy verse her streams doth honour, Strangers grow enamour'd on her ; All the swans that swim in Po Would their native brooks forego, And, as loathing Phoebus' beams. Long to bathe in cooler streams. Tree-turned Daphne would be seen In her groves to flourish green ; And her boughs would gladly spare To frame a garland for thy hair. That fairest nvmphs. with finest fingers May thee crown the best of singers. But when thy Muse, dissolv'd in showers, Wails that peerless prince of ours, Cropt by too untimely fate. Her mourning doth exasperate Senseless things to see thee mourn. Stones do weep, and trees do groan, Birds in air, fishes in flood, Beasts in field forsake their food ; The Nymphs foregoing all their bowers Tear the chaplets deckt with flowers ; Sol himself with misty vapour Hides from earth his glorious taper, And, as moved to hear thee 'plain, Shows his grief in showers of rain. Mary Morpeth, of Oxlie. 06 MARi' MORPETH. Mary Morpeth was the author of several Poetical Epistles, with titles like the following: — To the most Illustrious John, Earl of Lauderdale ; a congratulatory welcome of an heart- well-wishing quill: but I find nothing in those poems that is worth extracting. Should the reader be disposed, however, from the style of the passage above quoted, to entertain a higher opinion of our fair author's merits than I do, I may refer him to a volume of Scottish Fugitive Poetry, which was published at Edinburgh in 1823, and w.hich contains several of the letters in verse to which I have alluded. They will be found under the signature of "M. M." KATHERINE PHILIPS, 1631—1664, Was the daughter of John Fowles, of Bucklersbury, a London merchant, and was born in 1631. Slie was married in 1647 to Mr. James Philips, of the Priory, Cardigan, and died of small- pox in 1664. Mrs. Philips has always seemed to me to be one of the best of our Female Poets. Her versification, though often careless, is chaste and harmonious, and her sentiments extremely pure and excellent. She appears to have enjoyed considerable fame, for Cowley and Dryden celebrated her genius, and Jeremy Taylor dedicated to her his Discourse on Friendship. That must have been a noble spirit which in such a licentious and gaudy era as the reign of Charles the Second could conceive and embody the following ODE AGAINST PLEASURE. There's no such thing as pleasure here, 'Tis all a perfect cheat. Which does but shine and disappear, Whose charm is but deceit : The empty bribe of yielding souls. Which first betrays, and then controls. 'Tis true, it looks at distance fair, But if we do approach, The fruit of Sodom will impair, And perish at a touch ; It being than in fancy less. And we expect more than possess. For by our pleasures we are cloy'd And so desire is done ; Or else, like rivers, they make wide The channels where they run ; And either way true bliss destroys, Making us narrow, or our joys. We covet pleasure easily, But ne'er true bliss possess ; For many things must make it be. But one may make it less. Nay, were our state as we would choose it, 'Twould be consumed by fear to lose it. What art thou, then, thou winged air, More weak and swift than fame ? Whose next successor is despair, And its attendant shame. The' experienced prince then reason had Who said of Pleasure, — " It is mad." It is from passages like this that we gain a true idea of the power and mission of the female mind. To refine, to exalt, and to purify the soul of the world, is woman's noble office: to keep chaste its sentiments, to spiritualise its affections, and to detach it from the too-material pleasures and engagements of life, is her lofty duty : and the poem above quoted is one proof among many in this work, how earnestly and ably, even under the most discouraging circumstances, she applies herself to her allotted task. Great indeed is the debt that morality owes to her ! The pure and chaste sentiments which Katherine Philips urged may further be seen in this fine poem, called A COUNTRY LIFE. How sacred and how innocent A country life appears ; How free from tumult, discontent. From flattery or fears ! This was the first and happiest life, When man enjoy'd himself; Till pride exchanged peace for strife, And happiness for pelf. 'Twas here the poets were inspired. Here taught the multitude ; The brave they here with honour fir'd, And civilised the rude. That golden age did entertain No passion but of love ; The thoughts of ruling and of gain Did ne'er their fancies move. None then did envy neighbour's wealth. Nor plot to wrong his bed ; Happy in friendship and in health, On roots, not beasts, they fed. They knew no law nor physic then, Nature was all their wit : And if there yet remain to men Content, sure this is it. What blessings doth this world afford To tempt or bribe desire ! Her courtship is all fire and sword. Who would not then retire ? Then welcome dearest solitude, My great felicity ; Though some are pleas'd to call thee rude. Thou art not so, but we. Them that do covet only rest, A cottage will suffice : It is not brave to be possest Of earth, but to despise. 70 KATHERINE PHILIPS. Opinion is the rate of things, From hence our peace doth flow ; I have a better late than kings, Because I think it so. When all the stormy world doth roar, How unconcern'd am I ! I cannot fear to tumble lower Who never could be high. Secure in these unenvy'd walls, I think not on the state, And pity no man's case that falls From his ambitious height. Silence and innocence are safe ; A heart that's nobly true At all these little arts can laugh That do the world subdue. While others revel it in stale. Here I'll coiilenied sit. And think I have as good a fate As wealth and pomp admit. Let some in courtsliip take delight, And to the' Exchange resort; Then revel out a winter's night. Not making love, but sport. These never knew a noble flame, 'Tis lust, scorn or design : While vanity plays all their game. Let peace and honour mine. When the inviting spring appears. To Hyde Park let them go. And hasting thence be full of fears To lose Spring-Garden show. Let others (nobler) seek to gain In knowledge happy fate, And others busy them in vain To study ways of state. But I resolved from within, Confirmed from without, In privacy intend to spin My future minutes out. And from this hermitage of mine, I banish all wild toys, And nothing that is not divine Shall dare to tempt my joys. There are below but two things good, Friendship and Honesty ; And only those of all I would Ask for felicity. In this retir'd and humlile seat, Free from both war and strife, I am not fore'd to make retreat, But choose to spend my life. The subjoined lines seem to me to contain some sound philo- sophy, most pointedly expressed. TO MY ANTENOR, MARCH 16, 1660-1. My dear Antenor, now give o'er. For my sake talk of graves no more ; Death is not in our power to gain. And is both wish'd and fear'd in vain. Let 's be as angry as we will. Grief sooner may distract than kill ; And the unhappy often prove Death is as coy a thing as love. Those whose own sword their death did give, Afraid were, or asham'd, to live ; And by an act so desperate, Did poorly run away from fate ; 'Tis braver much t' outride the storm, Endure its rage, and shun its harm ; Affliction nobly undergone. More greatness shows than having none. But yet the wheel in turning round, At last may lift us from the ground ; And when our fortune 's most severe, The less we have, the less we fear. And why should we that grief permit, Which cannot mend nor shorten it ? Let 's wait for a succeeding good. Woes have their ebb as well as flood ; And since the parliament have rescued you. Believe that Providence will do so too. Mrs. Philips was known, as a poetess, by the name of Orinda ; and was as exemplary m the discharge of her domestic duties as she was celebrated for her poetical abilities. PRINCESS ELIZABETH. 1597—1662. This lady was the amiable daughter of King James the First; and she became the Queen of Bohemia. The following verses were given by her to Lord Harrington of Exton, her preceptor ; they are, as will be seen, full of devout feeling, very gracefully and eloquently expressed. This is joy, this is true pleasure, If we best things make our treasure, And enjoy them at full leisure, Evermore in richest measure. God is only excellent, Let up to Him our love be sent : Whose desires are set or bent On aught else, shall much repent. Theirs is a most wretched case, Who themselves so far disgrace, That they their affections place Upon things nam'd vile and base. Let us love of heaven receive. These are joys our hearts will heave Higher than we can conceive. And shall us not fail nor leave. Earthly things do fade, decay. Constant to us not one day : Suddenly they pass away. And we can not make them stay. 10 o All the vast world doth contain, To content man's heart, are vain, That still justly will complain. And imsatisfied remain. God most holy, high and great, Our delight doth make complete : When in us he takes his seat, Only then are we replete. Why should vain joys us transport? Earthly pleasures are but short, And are mingled in such sort. Griefs are greater than the sport. And regard of this yet have, Nothing can from death us save, Then we must into our grave. When we most are pleasure's slave. By long use our souls will cleave To the earth ; then it we leave ; Then will cruel death bereave. All the joys that we receive. Thence they go to hellish flame, Ever tortur'd in the same, With perpetual blot of name. Flout, reproach, and endless shame , Torment not to be exprest, But O then ! how greatly blest. Whose desires are whole addreat To the heavenly things and best. Thy affections shall increase Growing forward without cease, Even until thou diest in peace, And enjoyest eternal ease. When thy heart is fullest fraught With heaven's love, it shall be caught To the place it lov'd and sought, Which Christ's precious blood hath bought. Joys of those which there shall dwell. No heart can think, no tongue can tell ; Wonderfully they excel, Those thy soul will fully swell. Are these things indeed even so ? Do I certainly them know, And am I so much ray foe, To remain yet dull and slow ? Doth not that surpassing joy, Ever freed from all annoy, Me inflame ? and quite destroy Love of every earthly toy 1 Oh, how frozen is my heart ! Oh, my soul ! how dead thou art ! Thou, O God ! we may impart, Vain is human strength and art. my God ! for Christ his sake, Quite from me this dulness take ; Cause me earth's love to forsake, And of heaven my realm to make. If early thanks I render thee. That thou hast enlightened me. With such knowledge that I see What ttiings must behoveful be : That I hereon meditate, That desire, I find (though late) To prize heaven at higher rate. And these pleasures vain to hate. 0, enlighten more my sight, And dispel my darksome night, Good Lord, by thy heavenly light, And thy beams most pure and bright. Since in me such thoughts are scant, Of thy grace impair my Avant, Often meditations grant, And in me more deeply plant. Work of wisdom more desire, Grant I may with holy ire Slight the world, and me inspire With thy love to be on fire. What care I for lofty place. If the Lord grant me his grace, Shewing me his pleasant face, And with joy I end my race. This is only my desire, This doth set my heart on fire. That I might receive my hire. With the saints' and angels' quire O my soul of heavenly birth. Do thou scorn this basest earth, Place not here thy joy and mirtn. Where of bliss is greatest deartti. From below thy mind remove. And affect the things above : Set thy heart and fix thy love Where thou truest joys shalt prove. If I do love things on high, Doubtless them enjoy shall I, Earthly pleasures if I try They pursu{?d faster fly. PRINCESS ELIZABETH. 77 Lord ! glorious, yet most kind, Thou hast these thoughts put in my mind ; Let me grace increasing find. Me to thee more firmly bind. To God glory, thanks and praise, 1 will render all my days, Who has blest me many ways, Shedding on me gracious rays. To me grace, Father! send. On thee wholly to depend. That all may to thy glory tend; So let me live, so let me end. Now to the true Eternal King, Not seen with human eye, The' immortal, only wise, true God, Be praise perpetually ! The foregoing extract is taken from the Nugse ^ntiquse. I am not aware that the Princess wrote any other poems ; but that her powers and acquirements were well appreciated, there is plenty of evidence to show. Like many of the noble ladies of her time, the Princess Elizabeth was well taught in classical and polite learning. It will be observed that most of the Female Poets of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were highly-educated women of rank : and the ease and grace with which they bore their scholastic attainments will not fail to be remarked by the reader. FRANCES BOOTHBY, 1670, Lived in the reign of Charles the Second, and was related to Lady Yate, of Harvington in Worcestershire, as we learn from the dedication of the only piece she has written, a play called Marcelia. You powerful Gods ! if I must be An injur'd ofTering to Love's deity, Grant my revenge, this plague on men. That woman ne'er may love again. Then I'll with joy submit unto my fate, Which by your justice gives their empire date. Depose that proud insulting boy, Who most is pleas'd when he can most destroy ; O let the world no longer govern'd be By such a blind and childish Deity ! For if you gods be in your power severe. We shall adore you, not from love, but fear. But if you'll his divinity maintain. O'er men, false men, confine his torturing reign ; And when their hearts love's greatest torments prove. Let that not pity, but our laughter move. Thus scorn'd and lost to all their wishes aim. Let Rage, Despair, and Death, then end their flame. MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. 1673. This very voluminous and indefatigable authoress was born at St. John's, near Colchester, about the end of the reign of James the First : her father was Sir Charles Lucas. She became one of the Maids of Honour to Queen Henrietta Maria, whom she accompanied to France. She there was married to the Marquis of Newcastle, who assisted her in her literary labours. The noble pair produced between them nearly twelve folio volumes of plays, poems, orations, and essays ; most of them sufficiently ambitious in their aim, but none of them at all remarkable for wit or genius. The Duchess is not without force, and that, too, often of a picturesque and effective sort, as the following extracts will show : but the bulk of her works are insufferably tame, common- place, and prosy. OF THE THEME OF LOVE. O Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme ! Thou art a tree whereon all poets climb ; And from thy branches every one takes some Of thy sweet fruit, which Fancy feeds upon. But now thy tree is left so bare and poor. That they can hardly gather one plum more. DESCRIPTION OF THE ELFIN QUEEN. She on a dewy leaf doth bathe, And as she sits the leaf doth wave: 80 MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. There, like a new fall'n flake of snow Doth her white limbs in beauty show. Her garments fair her maids put on, Made of the pure light from the sun. PERSONIFICATION OF MELANCHOLY. Her voice is low, and gives a hollow sound ; She hates the light, and is in darkness found ; Or sits with blinking lamps, or tapers small. Which various shadows make against the wall. She loves nought else but noise which discord makes. As croaking frogs, whose dwelling is in lakes; The raven's hoarse, the mandrake's hollow groan, And shrieking owls, which fly i' the night alone : The tolling bell which for the dead rings out ; A mill where rushing waters run about ; The roaring winds, which shake the cedars tall. Plough up the seas, and beat the rocks withal. She loves to walk in the still moonshine night. And in a thick dark grove she takes delight ; In hollow caves, thatch'd houses, and low cells, She loves to live, and there alone she dwells. The account which Melancholy gives of herself scarcely agrees with the foregoing portrait of her by her rival, Mirth. melancholy's description of her dwelling. I dwell in groves that gilt arc with the sun ; Sit on the banks by which clear waters run ; In summers hot down in a shade I lie ; ■ My music is the buzzing of a fly ; I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass ; In fields where corn is high, I often pass ; MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. 81 Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see, Some brushy woods, and some all champaigns be ; Returning back, I in fresh pastures go, To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low ; In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on, Then I do live in a small house alone ; Although 'tis plain, yet cleanly 'tis within. Like to a soul that's pure and clear from sin ; And there I dwell in quiet and still peace, Not fill'd with cares how riches do increase ; I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures ; No riches are, but what the mind intreasures. Thus am I solitary, live alone, Yet better lov'd the more that I am known ; And though my face ill-favour'd at first sight, After acquaintance, it will give delight. Refuse me not, for I shall constant be ; Maintain your credit and your dignity. THE FUNERAL OF CALAMITY. Calamity was laid on sorrow's hearse. And coverings had of melancholy verse ; Compassion, a kind friend, did mourning go, And tears about the corpse, as flowers, strow ; A garland of deep sighs by Pity made Upon Calamity's sad corpse was laid ; Bells of complaint did ring it to the grave. Poets a monument of fame it gave. QUEEN MAb's dinner-table. Upon a mushroom there is spread A cover fine, of spider's web ; 11 82 MARGARET. DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. And for her stool a thistle-down, And for her cup an acorn's crown, Wherein strong nectar there is fill'd That from sweet flowers is distill'd. Flies of all sorts, both fat and good, Partridge, snipes, quails and poult, her food. Pheasants, larks, cocks, or any kind, Botli wild and tame, you there might find. But for her guard serves grosser meat, On stall-fed dormouse they do eat. ANNE KILLEGREW. 83 ANNE KILLEGREW, 1685, Was the daughter of Dr. Henry Killegrew, Master of the Savoy, and one of the Prebendaries of Westminster. She was born shortly before the restoration of Charles the Second, and died in 1685. She appears to have been highly accomplished, and to have gained a high reputation amongst her contemporaries. Dryden says of her, — " Art she had none, yet wanted none ; For nature did that want supply, So rich in treasures of her own, She might our boasted stores defy : Such noble vigour did her verse adorn. That it seem'd borrow'd where 'twas only born." The following poem is a pleasing specimen of her verse : — THE COMPLAINT OF A LOVER. See'st thou yonder craggy rock. Whose head o'erlooks the swelling main. Where never shepherd fed his flock. Or careful peasant sow'd his grain? No wholesome herb grows on the same, Or bird of day will on it rest ; 'Tis barren as the hopeless flame. That scorches my tormented breast. B4 ANNE KILLEGREW. Deep underneath a cave doth lie, The entrance hid with dismal yew, Where Phoebus never show'd his eye, Or cheerful day yet pierced through. In that dark melancholy cell, (Retreat and solace to my woe,) Love, sad despair, and I, do dwell, The springs from whence my griefs do flow. Treacherous love that did appear, (When he at first approached my heart,) Drest in a garb far from severe. Or threatening aught of future smart. So innocent those charms then seem'd, When Rosalinda first I spy'd. Ah ! who would them have deadly deem'd ? But flowers do often serpents hide. Beneath those sweets concealed lay, To love that cruel foe, Disdain, With which, alas ! she does repay My constant and deserving pain. When I in tears have spent the night, With sighs I usher in the sun, Who never saw a sadder sight In all the courses he has run. Sleep, which to others ease does prove, Comes unto me, alas ! in vain ; For in my dreams I am in love. And in them, too, she does disdain. Sometimes t' amuse my sorrow, I Unto the hollow rocks repair. And loudly to the echo cry, Ah ! gentle nymph, come ease my care. ANNE KILLEGREW. 85 Thou, who times past a lover wert, Ah, pity me, who now am so ; And by a sense of thine own smart Alleviate my mighty woe. Come flatter, then, or chide my grief; Catch my last words and call me fool ; Or say she loves for my relief. My passion either soothe, or school. The following is her EPITAPH, WRITTEN BY HERSELF. When I am dead, few friends attend my hearse, And for a monument, I leave — my verse. HERODIA'S DAUGHTER Freseniing St. John's head in a charger. Behold, dear mother, who was late our fear, Disarm'd and harmless, I present you here ; The tongue tied up that made all Jewry quake, And which so often did our greatness shake : No terror sits upon his awful brow, Where fierceness reign'd, there calmness triumphs now. As lovers use he gazes on my face, With eyes that languish as they sued for grace ; Wholly subdued by my victorious charms. See how his head reposes in my arms. Come join then with me in my just transport. Who thus have brought the hermit to the court. 80 ANNE KILLEGREW It seems that our author was accusea of plagiarism by her contemporaries ; or that at least, in Dryden's phrase, her vigour "seemed borrowed." The following is her notice of the charge : — The envious age, only to me alone, Will not allow what I do write my own ; But let them rage, and 'gainst a maid conspire. So deathless numbers from my tuneful lyre Do ever flow ; so PhcEbus, I by thee Inspired divinely, and possest may be ; I willingly accept Cassandra's fate, To speak the truth, although believed too late. ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON. 87 ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON, 1685, Was the daughter of Sir Henry Lee, of Ditchley, in Oxfordshire, and first wife of Thomas Wharton, Esq., afterwards Marquis of Wharton. She wrote Paraphrases on The Lamentations of Jeremiah and on Tlie Lord's Prayer ; Verses to Mr. Waller, an Elegy on Lord Rochester, the Poems quoted below, and some other effusions, but not many. She was highly esteemed in her own day, and was complimented by Waller and Dryden. She died in 1685. The following poem appears in Dryden's Miscellany : On the Snuff of a Candle : made in Sickness. See there the taper's dim and doleful light, In gloomy waves rolls silently about. And represents to my dim weary sight. My light of life almost as near burnt out. Ah, health ! best part and substance of our joy, (For without thee 'tis nothing but a shade,) Why dost thou partially thyself employ, Whilst thy proud foes as partially invade ? What we, who ne'er enjoy, so fondly seek, Those who possess thee still, almost despise ; To gain immortal glory, raise the weak. Taught by their former want thy worth to prize. Dear, melancholy Muse ! ray constant guide, Charm this coy health back to my fainting heart, Or I'll accuse thee of vainglorious pride, And swear thou dost but feign the moving art. But why do I upbraid thee, gentle Muse, Who for all sorrows mak'st me some amends ? Alas ! our sickly minds sometimes abuse Our best physicians and our dearest friends. How hardly I conceal'd my tears ? How oft did I complain? When, many tedious days, my fears Told me I lov'd in vain. But now my joys as wild are grown, And hard to be concealed ; Sorrow may make a silent moan, But joy will be reveal'd. I tell it to the bleating flocks, To every stream and tree. And bless the hollow murm'ring rocks For echoing back to me. Thus you may see with how much joy We want, we wish, believe ; 'Tis hard such passion to destroy. But easy to deceive. The Marchioness of Wharton's paraphrase of the 53d chapter of Isaiah suggested Waller's Cantos of Divine Poesy, and led that writer to address to her several complimentary verses. Lady Wharton's poems are distinguished by a fine sweetness of sentiment, and her thoughts are always very gracefully and deli- cately expressed. Her productions are widely scattered, and are to be found in different miscellaneous collections of contemporary verse. 12 H* 90 MRS. TAYLOR- MRS. TAYLOR. 1685. In a Miscellany, being a Collection of Poems by several Hands, published by Aphara Behn, in 1685, are the three following Pieces, "made by Mrs. Taylor," of whom there is no account. Ye virgin powers, defend my heart From amorous looks and smiles, From saucy Love, or nicer Art, Which most our sex beguiles : From sighs and vows, from awful fears That do to Pity move, From speaking silence, and from tears, Those springs that water Love. But if through Passion I grow blind, Let Honour be my guide. And where frail nature seems inclin'd. There fix a guard of Pride. A heart whose flames are seen though pure. Needs every virtue's aid, And those who think themselves secure. The soonest are betray'd. TO MERTILL, Who desired her to speak to Clorinda of his love. Mertill, though my heart should break In granting thy desire, To cold Clorinda I will speak, And Avarra her with my fire. To save thee from approaching harm. My death I will obey ; To save thee sinking in the storm, I'll cast myself away. May her charms equal those of thine, No words can e'er express, And let her love be great as mine ; Which thee would only bless ! Maj- you still prove her faithful slave. And she so kind and true ; She nothing may desire to have, Or fear to lose — but you. Strephon has fashion, wit, and youtn. With all things else that please ; He nothing wants but love and trum. To ruin me with ease. But he is flint, and bears the art To kindle stray desire ; His power inflames another's heart. Yet he ne'er feels the fire. MRS. TAYLOR. Alas ' It does my soul perplex, Wlien I his charms recall, To lliink he should despise the sex, Or what's worse, love them all. My wearied heart, like Noah's dove, la vain may seek for rest, Finding- no hope to fix my love, Relurns into my breast. Tlie snia;)ihness, grace, and lively fancy displayed in the three poems wliifh I have above quoted lead us to imagme that Mrs. Taylor was a practised writer : but I can find no further trace of her than that which is here presented. There is something in the nice rounding ofT of the sentences, and in the soft, semi- vohiptuous sentiment, which makes me almost suspect that " Mrs. Taylor" was no other than Mrs. Aphara Behn herself. To say the least, of it, she was evidently brought up in the same school of taste as that which produced the clever but meretri- cious writer jusr named. APHARA BEIIN. 93 APHARA BEHN, 1645—1689, Is one of the most prominent, but one of the least estimable, of the British Female Poets. She has been called " a Female Wycherley," and there could not well be a more characteristic description of her. To a fine and subtle humour she joins great grossness of thought ; and to a lively and laughing imagination she unites an essential coarseness of passion which disfigures and depraves nearly all she writes. Allowances are of course to be made for the wicked era in which she flourished (the reign of the second Charles); but still it must be confessed that the licen- tiousness complained of is not (as in some other writers of the same period) a mere adjunct, which can be lopped off", but an integral part of the composition, which cannot be removed from the rest. Aphara Johnson was born in 1645, of a good family, her father being Lieutenant-Governor of Surinam. At her father's death the family returned to London, where she married a Dutch merchant, named Behn. She became a favourite at court, and displayed so much ability, that Charles the Second entrusted her with several political affiiirs of importance, in which she did the state some service. She was even sent out to the Netherlands on a secret mission, and was enabled to give some valuable information to the Government. On finding, however, that her services were not sufficiently recognised, she quitted the stormy arena of politics, and devoted herself entirely to literary pursuits. Her chief works are Oronooko, a novel, on which Southern's traeedv of the same name is founded ; a volume of Miscellaneous Poems, and a number of Plays, which are amongst the grossest productions ever given to the world. Mrs. Behn died in 1689. 94 APHARA BEHN. This lady's muse has been likened to Moore's, and not, I think, without some reason. She exhibits the same liveliness and pointedness of fancy, and writes with an aptness and happy expressiveness which might easily be mistaken for the similar characteristics of Ireland's bard. The following lyric has quite the expression of Moore, although it is deficient in the point which always distinguishes that writer. Love in fantastic triumph sat. Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd ; For whom fresh pains he did create. And strange tyrannic power he show'd. From thy bright eyes he took his fires Which round about in sport he hurl'd ; But 'twas from mine he took desires Enough t' undo the amorous world. From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his pride and cruelty ; From me his languishment and fears, And every killing dart from thee ; Thus thou and I the god have arm'd. And set him up a deity ; But my poor heart alone is harm'd ; Whilst thine the victor is, and free. I quote, next, a poem, entitled, THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN HYMEN AND CUPID- MARRIAGE AND LOVE. In vain does Hymen with religious vows Oblige his slaves to wear his cliains with ease, A privilege alone that Love allows : — 'Tis Love alone can make our fetters please. The angry tyrant lays his yoke on all, Yet in his fiercest rage is charming still ; Officious Hymen comes whene'er we call, But haughty Love comes only when he will. For fluency and harmony of style, Mrs. Behn has scarcely a superior in our language. I do not know a poem that flows more smoothly and musically than the following : — THK RETURN. Amyntas ! whilst you Have an art to subdue, And can conquer a heart with a look or a smile ; You pitiless grow. And no faith will allow ; 'Tis the glory you seek when you rifle the spoil. Your soft warring eyes. When prepared for the prize. Can laugh at the aids of my feeble disdain : You can humble the foe. And soon make her to know, Though she arms her with pride, that her efforts are vain. But, shepherd ! beware. Though a victor you are, A tyrant was never secure on his throne ; Whilst proudly you aim New conquests to gain, Some hard-hearted nymph may return you your own ! 96 APHARA BEHN. IN IMITATION OF HORACE. What mean those amorous curls of jet? For what heart-ravish'd maid Dost tliou thy hair in order set, Thy wanton tresses braid ? And thy vast stores of beauties open lay, That the deluded fancy leads astray ? For pity hide thy starry eyes, Who?e lanfruishments destroy ; And look not on the slave that dies With an excess of joy. Defend thy coral lips, thy amber breath ; To taste these sweets, alas ! is certain death. LADY MARY CHUDLEIGH. 97 LADY MARY CHUDLEIGH, 1656—1710, Was the author of a book entitled Poems on several Occasions, and published in London in the year 1703. She was the daugh- ter of Richard Lee, Esquire, of Winsloder, in Devonshire, and wife of Sir George Chudleigh, Baronet, of Ashton, in the same county. She was born in 1656, and died in 1710. Besides ner poems, she was the author of a volume of Essays, which was published in 1710. THE RESOLVE. For what the world admires I'll wish no more, Nor court that airy nothing of a Name ; Such fleeting shadows let the proud adore. Let them be suppliants for an empty fame. If Reason rules within and keeps the throne. While the inferior faculties obey. And all her laws without reluctance own. Accounting none more fit, more just than they ; If Virtue my free soul unsullied keeps, Exempting it from passion and from stain ; If no black guilty thoughts disturb my sleeps. And no past crimes my vext remembrance pain : — If though I pleasure find in living here, I yet can look on death without surprise ; If I've a soul above the reach of fear. And which will nothing mean or sordid prize • 13 I 98 LADY MARY CHUDLEIGH. A soul which cannot be depress'd by grief, Nor too much rais'd by the subUmest joy ; Which can, when troubled, give itself relief, And to advantage all its thoughts employ; — Then am I happy in my humble state, Although not crown'd with glory nor with bays ; A mind that triumplis over vice and fate Esteems it mean to court the world [or praise. Lady Chudleigh distinguished herself by her clever champion- ship of her sex at a time when the female mind was far too little esteemed. There is a noble assertion and defence of Woman's mental powers in her Poem entitled The Ladies^ Defence; or the Bride-woman^ s Counsellor ansivered. A Poem hi a Dia- logue between Sir John Brute, Sir IVilliam LoveaU, Melissa, and a Parson. The poor parson is admirably put down. I re- gret that I cannot find an extractable passage which will give a good idea of the genius and good sense displayed in this produc- tion- I think, however, that Lady Chudleigh could f?f/c?KZ her sex much more wisely than she could advise them. Let the follow- ing lines bear witness : — TO THE LADIES. Wife and servant are the same, But only differ in the name : For when that fatal knot is tied, Which nothing, nothing, can divide, When she the word obey has said, And man by law supreme has made, Then all that's kind is laid aside. And nothing left but state and pride : Fierce as an Eastern prince he grows, And all his innate rigour shows : Then but to look, to laugh, or speak, Will the nuptial contract break. Like mutes, she signs alone must make, And never any freedom take ; But still be govern'd by a nod, And fear her husband as her god ; Him still must serve, him still obey, And nothing act and nothing say, But vi'hat her haughty lord thinks fit. Who with the power has all the wit. Then shun, oh ! shun that wretched state, And all the fawning flatterers hate : Value yourselves, and men despise : You must be proud, if you'll be wise. THE HONOURABLE MARY MONK, 1715, Was the daughter of Lord Molesworth, of Ireland, and the Avife of George Monk, Esq. In 1715 was pubhshed, after her death, a volume entitled Marinda: Poems and Translations. In the Dedication to the Princess of Wales, written by her lather, we are told " Most of them are the product of the leisure hours of a young gentlewoman, lately deceased ; who, in a remote country retirement, without omitting the daily care due to a large family, not only perfectly acquired several languages, but the good morals and principles contained in those books, so as to put them in practice, as well during her life and languishing sickness as the hour of death : in short, she died not only like a Christian, but like a Roman lady; and so became at once the object of the grief and comfort of her relations." The following are extracted from the book referred to : — I. FROM THE EPISTLE TO MARINDA. A just applause and an immortal name Is the true object of the Poet's aim ; In quest of this they boldly quit the shore, And dangerous seas and unknown lands explore. In the whole plan their interest has no share, The goods of fortune are beneath their care : They on the smoke of public incense live. Look down on wealth, and think it mean to thrive. THE HONOURABLE MARY MONK. 101 II. ON PROVIDENCE. As a kind mother with indulgent eye Views her fair charge, and melts with sympathy, And one's dear face imprints with kisses sweet, One to her bosom clasps, one on her knee Sofdy sustains in pleasing dignity. And one permits to cling about her feet ; And reads their various wants, and each request In look or action or in sigh express'd : This little supplicant in gracious style She answers ; that she blesses with a smile ; Or if she blames their suit, or if approves, And whether pleas'd or griev'd, yet still she loves With like regard liigh Providence divine Watches affectionate o'er human race, One feeds, one comforts, does to all incline, And each assists with kind parental care ; Or, once denying us some needful grace. Only denies to move an ardent prayer ; Or, courted for imaginary wants, Seems to deny, but in denying grants. Ill, VERSES Written on her Deathbed, at Bath, to her Husband in Undon. Thou who dost all my worldly thoughts employ, Thou pleasing source of all my earthly joy, Thou tenderest husband and thou dearest friend, To thee this first, this last adieu I send ! At length the conqueror Death asserts his right. And will for ever veil me from thy sight ; I* 102 THE HONOURABLE MARY MONK. He woos me to him with a cheerful grace, And not one terror clouds his meagre face ; He promises a lasting rest from pain, And shews that all life's fleeting joys are vain : The' eternal scenes of heaven he sets in view, And tells me that no other joys are true. But love, fond love, would yet resist his power. Would fain awhile defer the parting hour: He brings thy mourning image to my eyes, And would obstruct my journey to the skies. But say, thou dearest, thou unwearied friend ! Say, shouldst thou grieve to see my sorrows end ? Thou know'st a painful pilgrimage I've past ; And shouldst thou grieve that rest is come at last ' Rather rejoice to see me shake off" life, And die as I have liv'd, thy faithful wife. ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA, 1720, Was the daughter of Sir William Kinffsmill, of Sidmonton, in the county of Southampton. She was Maid of Honour to the Duchess of York, second wife of James the Second, and married Heneage, Earl of Winchelsea, She died in 1720, Her poems have been highly admired for their simplicity and naturalness. She seems to have been the precursor of the school of Cowper. " It is remarkable," says Wordsworth, " that excepting The Nocturnal Reverie (one of Lady Winchelsea's poems), and the Tflndsor Forest of Pope, the poetry of the period intervening between the publications of Paradise Lost and The Seasons does not contain a single new image of external nature." A NOCTURNAL REVERIE. In such a night, when every louder wind Is to its distant cavern safe confin'd, And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings. And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings ; Or from some tree, fam'd for the owl's delight, She, hollowing clear, directs the wanderer right: In such a night, when passing clouds give place, Or thinly veil the heavens' mysterious face; When in some river, overhung with green. The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen ; When freshen'd grass now bears itself upright, And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite, Whence springs the woodbine and the bramble-rose, And where the sleepy cowslip shelter'd grows ; Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes, Yet chequers still with red the dusky brakes ; When scatter'd glow-worms, but in twilight fine. Show trivial beauties watch their hour to shine; Whilst Sal'sbury stands the test of every light. In perfect charms and perfect virtue bright : When odours which declin'd repelling day. Through temperate air uninterrupted stray ; When darken'd groves their softest shadows wear. And falling waters we distinctly hear; When through the gloom more venerable shows Some ancient fabric, awful in repose ; AVhile sun-burnt hills their swarthy looks conceal. And swelling hay-cocks thicken up the vale: When the loos'd horse now, as his pasture leads, Comes slowly grazing through the' adjoining meads, Whose stealing pace, and lengthen'd shade we fear, Till torn up forage in his teeth we hear; When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food. And unmolested kine rechew the cud ; When curlews cry beneath the village walls, And to her straggling brood the partridge calls ; Their short lived jubilee the creatures keep, AVhich but endures whilst tyrant man does sleep ; When a sedate content the spirit feels. And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals ; But silent musings urge the mind to seek Something too high for syllables to speak ; Till the free soul to a composedness charm'd. Finding the elements of rage disarm'd, O'er all below a solemn quiet grown, Joys in the' inferior world, and thinks it like her own In such a night let me abroad remain, Till morning breaks, and all 's confus'd again ; Our cares, our toils, our clamours are renewed. Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued. ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA. 105 In reply to some lines of Pope's addressed to her concerning The Rape of the Lock, the Countess writes thus playfully to her clever antagonist ; — Disarm'd with so genteel an air, The contest I give o'er ; Yet, Alexander, have a care, And shock the sex no more. We rule the world our whole life's space ; Men but assume that right ; First slaves to every tempting face, Then martyrs to our spite. You of one Orpheus sure have read, Who would like you have writ. Had he in London town been bred, And polish'd, too, his wit. But he, poor soul ! thought all was well. And great should be his fame, When he had left his wife in hell, And birds and beasts could tame. Yet venturing then with scoffing rhymes, The women to incense. Resenting heroines of those times Soon punish'd his offence. And as the Hebrews roU'd his scull. And harp besmear'd with blood. They clashing as the waves grew full. Still harmonis'd the flood. But you our follies gently treat, And spin so fine the thread, You need not fear his awkward fate, The Lock won't cost the Head. 14 106 ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA. Our admiration you command, For all that's gone before ; What next we look for at your hand Can .only raise it more. Yet, sooth, the ladies I advise (As me to pride has wrought), We're born to wit, but to be wise By admonitions taught. The following, for aptness and point, might have come from the pen of Cowper : — THE ATHEIST AND THE ACORN. Methinks the world is oddly made, And every thing 's amiss, A dull, presuming Atheist said, As stretch'd he lay beneath a shade, And instane'd it in this : Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing, A pumpkin large and round, Is held but by a little string, Which upwards cannot make it spring, Or bear it from the ground. While on this oak an acorn small, So disproportion'd grows ; That who with sense surveys this all, This universal casual ball, Its ill contrivance knows. My better judgment would have hung The pumpkin on the tree. And left the acorn, lightly strung, 'Mongst things which on the surface sprung, And small and feeble be. ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA. 107 No more the caviller could say, Nor farther faults descry ; For as he upwards gazing lay, An acorn, loosen'd from its stay, Fell down upon his eye. The wounded part with tears ran o'er. As punish'd for the sin ; Fool ! had that bough a pumpkin bore, Thy whimsies would have work'd no more. Nor scull have kept them in. In the ensuing extract, too, there is much well-expressed thought and harmonious versification. LIFE S PROGRESS. How gaily is at first begun Our life's uncertain race ! Whilst yet that sprightly morning sun. With which we just set out to run. Enlightens all the place. How smiling the world's prospect lies, How tempting to go through ! Not Canaan to the prophet's eyes, From Pisgah, with a sweet surprise. Did more inviting shew. How soft the first ideas prove. Which wander through our minds ! How full the joys, how free the love, Which does that early season move, As flow'rs the western winds ! X08 ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA. Our sighs are then but vernal air, But April drops our tears, Which swiftly passing, all grows fair. Whilst beauty compensates our care, And youth each vapour clears. But oh ! too soon, alas ! we climb. Scarce feeling, we ascend The gently rising hill of Time, From whence with grief we see that prime* And all its sweetness end. The die now cast, our station known. Fond expectation past ; The thorns which former days had sown To crops of late repentance grown. Through which we toil at last. Whilst every care 's a driving harm, That helps to bear us down ; Which faded smiles no more can charm But every tear 's a winter-storm. And every look 's a frown. SONG. Would we attain the happiest slate That is design'd us here ; No joy a rapture must create. No grief beget despair No injury fierce anger raise, No honour tempt to pride; No vain desires of empty praise Must in the soul abide : ANNE. COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA. 109 No charms of youth or beauty move The constant settled breast : Who leaves a passage free to love, Shall let in all the rest. In such a heart soft peace will live, Where none of these abound ; The greatest blessing Heav'n does give, Or can on earth be found. One of Lady Winchelsea's most powerful productions is her poem called The Spleen. I extract a few lines from this fine apostrophe : Patron thou art to every gross abuse, The sullen husband's feign'd excuse. When the ill humour with his wife he spends, And bears recruited wit and spirits to his friends. The son of Bacchus pleads thy power. As to the glass he still repairs Pretends but to remove thy cares, Snatch from thy shades one gay and smiling hour, And drown thy kingdom in a purple shower. * * * * By thee, Religion, all we know That should enlighten here below. Is veil'd in darkness, and perplext With anxious doubts, with endless scruples vext, And some restraint implied from each perverted text : Whilst Touch not. Taste not, what is freely given. Is but thy niggard voice, disgracing bounteous Heaven. no ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. ESTHER VANHOMRIGH. 1691—1721. The "Vanessa" of Swift; to whom the following lines refer. ODE TO SPRING. Hail, blushing goddess, beauteous Spring ! Who in thy jocund train doth bring Loves and graces, smiling hours, Balmy breezes, fragrant flowers ; Come, with tints of roseate hue, Nature's faded charms renew. Yet why should I thy presence hail ? To me no more the breathing gale Comes fraught with sweets, no more the rose "With such transcendent beauty blows. As when Cadenus blest the scene, And shared Avith me those joys serene. When, unperceiv'd, the lambent fire Of friendship kindled new desire ; Still listening to his tuneful tongue, The truths which angels might have sung Divine imprest their genlle sway. And sweetly stole my soul away. My guide, instructor, lover, friend. Dear names, in one idea blend ; Oh ! still conjoin'd, your incense rise. And waft sweet odours to the skies. SUSANNA CENTLIVRE. Ill SUSANNA CENTLIVRE, 1660—1723, Was born about 1660. Her maiden name was Freeman. Her third husband, Joseph Centlivre, was one of Queen Anne's cooks. He fell in love with her at Windsor, where she performed the part of Alexander the Great, in Lee's play of that name. She will long be remembered as the authoress of The JVonder, The Busy Body, and other clever but gross comedies. The following is the Prologue to her Play of A Bold Stroke for a Wife : — To-night we come upon a bold design. To try to please without one borrowed line : Our plot is new and regularly clear. And not one single tittle from Moliere. O'er buried poets we with caution tread, And parish sextons leave to rob the dead. For you, bright British fair, in hopes to charm ye. We bring to-night a lover from the army. You know the soldiers have the strangest arts, Such a proportion of prevailing parts. You 'd think that they rid post to women's hearts. I wonder whence they draw their bold pretence ; We do not choose them sure for our defence : That plea is both impolitic and wrong, And only suits such dames as want a tongue. Is it their eloquence and fine address ? The softness of their language ? — Nothing less. Is it their courage, that they bravely dare To storm the sex at once ? — Egad ! 'tis there : 112 SUSANNA CENTLIVRE. Thev ant by us as in the rough campaign ; Unmindful of repulses, charge again : They mine and countermine, resolv'd to win. And if a breach is made, they will come in. You '11 think by what we have of soldiers said, Our female wit was in the ser\'ice bred : But she is to the hardy toil a stranger ; She loves the cloth, indeed, but hates the danger; Yet to this circle of the brave and gay She bids one, for her good intentions, say She hopes you '11 not reduce her to half-pay. As for our Play, 'tis English humour all ; Then will you let our manufacture fall ? Would you the honour of our nation raise. Keep English credit up, and English plays. MRS. CATHERINE COCKBURN 113 MRS. CATHERINE COCKBURN. 1679—1749. This lady was the daughter of Captain David Trotter, a Scot- tish gentleman, who lived in the reign of Charles the Second, to whom he was well known, and who called him "honest David." Our authoress was born in 1679, and gave early marks of genius. At fourteen she wrote very excellent verses ; and at seventeen produced a tragedy, called Agnes de Castro, which was acted with great success at the Royal Theatre. In 1700, when twenty- one years of a^e, we find her to be one of nine ladies who wrote a joint work, entitled T7ie Nine Muses, or Poems ivritten by so many Ladies upon the Death of the late famous John Dry den, Esquire. About this time she married Mr. Cockburn, a clergy- man, who falling into a scruple about the oath of abjuration, was obliged to give up his curacy. Notwithstanding the difficulties and privations she had to endure under these circumstances, Mrs. Cockburn appears to have followed her literary pursuits with even greater ardour ; and she wrote, besides her plays and poems, some remarkably clever and acute treatises in defence of the phi- losophy of Locke. Her Vindication of Locke's Christian Prin- ciples is an extremely powerful piece of reasoning. After suffering some considerable changes of fortune, Mrs. Cockburn died on the 1 1th of May, 1749, in the seventieth year of her age. Her poetry has a compression of thought and an ease of style which greatly distinguished it from the verse of most female wri- ters in her time. 15 K* THE CAUTION. Soft kisses may be innocent, But ah ! too easy maid, beware ; Though that is all thy kindness meant, 'Tis love's delusive fatal snare. No virgin e'er at first design'd Through all tlie maze of love to stray ; But each new path allures her mind, Till, wandering on, she lose her wny- 'Tis easy ere set out to stay ; But who the useful art can teach, Wlien sliding down a steepy way, To stop, before the end we reach? Keep ever something in thy power Beyond what would thy honour stiiin j He will not dare to aim at more, Who for small favours sighs in vain. THE VAIN ADVICE. Ah, gaze not on those eyes! forbear That soft enclianting voice to hear : Not looks of basilisks give surer death Nor Syrens sing with more destructive breath. Fly, if thy freedom thou 'dst maintain : Alas ! I feel the advice is vain ! A heart whose safety but in flight does lie, Is too far lost to have the power to fly. ELIZABETH THOMAS. 1675—1730. The following poem from the pen of this lady had a singular origin. Mrs. Thomas became much disturbed in her mind respecting the doctrine of predestination, and, after studying the cnief writers on that subject, found herself, as many besides her have done, more and more perplexed. Upon this she retired (as is related in her Memoirs) to her closet, where, after a most serious discussion of this point with herself, she formed the fol- lowing poem ; which she often read to confirm her in her senti- ments. It is a fine burst of womanlv faith. PREDESTINATION ; OR THE RESOLUTION. Ah ! Strive no more to know what fate Is pre-ordain' d for thee : 'Tis vain in this my mortal state, For Heaven's inscrutable decree Will only be reveal'd in vast Eternity. Then, O my soul ! Remember thy celestial birth. And live to Heaven while here on earth : Thy God is infinitely true — All Justice, yet all Mercy, too : To him, then, through thy Saviour pray For grace, to guide thee on thy way, And give thee Will to do. But humbly, for the rest, my soul ! Let Hope, and Faith, the limits be Of thy presumptuous curiosity ! 116 ELIZABETH THOMAS. In the Life, of Mrs. Thomas, prefixed to Pylades and Corinna (2d edit. 1736), the authoress relates the history of this poem, as given above. She goes on to say that " she languished for some time in perplexity upon the awful subject of Fate and Freewill ; and hearing that Bishop Burnet's Exposition of the Thirty-nine Articles was in the press, she waited the publication with the utmost impatience. But alas ! she was never the nearer : for the Bishop stated the different opinions of each sect with such candour, that it was impossible to find out which he most leaned to himself." Mrs. Thomas received from Dryden the poetical name of Corinna ; and she figures in The Dunciad, MARY BARBER. 117 MARY BAllBER. 1734. Or this lady I have been able to learn but little. All that I can say of her is that she was the wife of a tradesman in Dublin, and that, in 1734, she published a volume of poems, prefaced by a letter from Dean Swift to John, Earl of Orrery. I have never been able to meet with this book, although I have diligently searched for it. For the following extract I am indebted to the Reverend Mr. Dyce s Specimens of British Poetesses. ON SENDING MY SON AS A PRESENT TO DR. SWIFT, DEAN OF ST. Patrick's, on his birthday. A curious statue, we are told. Is priz'd above its weight in gold ; If the fair form the hand confess Of Phidias, or Praxiteles : But if the artist could inspire The smallest spark of heavenly fire. Though but enough to make it walk. Salute the company, or talk, This would advance the prize so high. What prince were rich enough to buy ? Such if Hibernia coukl obtain. She sure would give it to the Dean : So to her patriot should she pay Her thanks upon his natal day. 118 MARY BARBER. A richer present I design, A finished form, of work divine, Surpassing all the power of art ; A thinking head, a grateful heart : A heart that hopes, one day, to show How much we to the Drapier owe. Kings could not send a nobler giftf A meaner were unworthy Swift MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE. 119 MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE, 1736, Was the daughter of Mr. Walter Singer, a gentleman of good family in London. In her twenty-second year she published a volume of poems, which met with much success. In 1710 she married iMr, Thomas Rowe, a literary gentleman, who died a few years after their marriage. Mrs. Rowe died in 1736. She is well known as the writer of a work entitled Letters from the Dead to the Living. HYMN. The glorious armies of the sky To Thee, Almighty King, Triumphant anthems consecrate, And hallelujahs sing. But still their most exalted flights Fall vastly short of Thee : How distant then must human praise From Thy perfection be ! Yet how, my God, shall I refrain. When to my ravish' d sense Each creature every where around Displays thy excellence ? The active lights that shine above. In their eternal dance. Reveal their skilful Maker's praise With silent elegance. 120 MRS. ELIZABETH ROWE. The blushes of the morn confess Thai thou art still more fair, When in the East its beams revive, To gild the fields of air. The fragrant, the refreshing breeze, Of every flowery bloom. In balmy whispers own from Thee Their pleasing odours come. The singing birds, the warbling winds And water's murmuring fall ; To praise the First Almighty Cause With diflerent voices call. Thy numerous Works exalt Thee thus, And shall I silent be ? No ; rather let me cease to breathe. Than cease from praising Thee ! Oh ! lead me to some solitary gloom. Where no enlivening beams nor cheerful echoes come ; But silent all, and dusky let it be, Remote and unfrequented but by me ; Mysterious, close, and sullen as that grief Which leads me to its covert for relief. Far from the busy world's detested noise. Its wretched pleasures, and distracted joys; Far from the jolly fools, who lauoh and play. And dance, and sing, impertinenily gay, Their sliort inestimable hours away; Far from the studious follies of the great, The tiresome farce of ceremonious state. There, in a melting, solemn, dying strain. Let me all day upon my lyre complain, And wind up all its soft harmonious strings To noble, serious, melancholy things. And let no human foot but mine e'er trace The close recesses of the sacred place : Nor let a bird of cheerful note come near, To whisper out his airy raptures here. Only the pensive songstress of the grove — Let her, by mine, her mournful notes improve ; While drooping winds among the branches sigh. And sluggish waters heavily roll by. Here to my fatal sorrows let me give The short remaining hours I have to live. Then with a sullen, deep-fetched groan expire, And to the grave's dark solitude retire. Among Prior's Poems will be found " An Answer to Mrs. Singer's Pastoral on Love and Friendship." 16 L JANE BRERETON. 1685—1740. This clever writer, who was very popular in her own day, was the daugliter of Mr. Thomas Hughes, a gentleman of good family, in Flintshire, where she was born in 1685. In 1711 she married Mr. Thomas Brereton, of Oxford University ; with whom, however, she lived so unhappily, that a separation took place a few years after their union. In 1721 she retired into Wales ; and she died in 1740. It Avas the custom of literary ladies in the seventeenth century to assume some fanciful name, and to write under that appellation. Mrs. Brereton signed herself " Melissa," and under that mm de guerre acquired some celebrity in the pages of the Gentleman's Magazine. She particularly distinguished herself in some poet- ical controversies which were carried on in that work. For readiness, tact, and good, strong, witty satire she has not many superiors among lady-writers. Mrs. Brereton's productions are by no means remarkable for the delicacy and gracefulness that usually distinguish the writings of the female sex: on the contrary, there is a roughness, a vigour, a breadth in them, which might lead the reader to fancy that the productions of Melissa proceeded from the pen of a gen- tleman, rather than from that of a lady. There is something very charming in the disdain with which she addresses one of her lovers : TO DAMON. Cease, Damon, cease, I '11 hear no more ; Your fulsome flattery give o'er ; I scorn this mean fallacious art By which you'd steal, not win, my heart: In me it never can compassion move, And sooner will aversion raise than love. If you to love would me incline, Assert the man, forbear to whine ; Let time and plain sincerity And faithful love your pleaders be ; For trust me, Damon, if those fail, These servile wheedling tricks will ne'er prevail. Poor Damon must have looked rather sheepish, one fancies, at such a rebuke as this from his mistress ; and the gentleman named below — Philotinus — must equally have felt that he got, in sporting phrase, " decidedly the worst of it." TO PHILOTIXUS. Philotinus ! if you 'd approve Yourself a faithful lover, — You must no more my anger move, But in the mildest terms of love Your passion still discover. Though born to rule, you must submit To my command with awe ; Nor think your sex can you acquit. For Cupid's empire won't admit Nor ovun, a Salic Law. Mrs. Brereton's satire is of an equally bold, strong, and sting- ing sort. The following lines have been generally, but erro- neously attributed to Lord Chesterfield : 124 JANE BRERETON. ON BEAU NASH S PICTURE AT FULL LENGTH, BETWEEN THE BUSTS OF SIR ISAAC NEWTON AND MR. POPE. The old Egyptians hid their wit In hieroglyphic dress, To give men pains to search for it, And please themselves with guess. Moderns, to tread the self-same path, And exercise our parts, Place figures in a room at Bath,— Forgive them, God of Arts ! Newton, if I can judge aright, All wisdom doth express; His knowledge gives mankind new lignt. And swells their happiness. Pope is the emblem of true wit, The sunshine of the mind ; Read o'er his works for proof of it. You '11 endless pleasure find. Nash represents man in the mass, Made up of wrong and right ; Sometimes a knave, sometimes an ass, Now blunt, and now polite. The picture, placed the busts between, Adds to the tliought much strength; Wisdom and Wit are little seen. But Folly 's at full length. ' MART CHANDLER. 125 MARY CHANDLER, 1687—1745, Was the daughter of a dissentinir- minister at Bath. Pope com- mended her poetry. Sound sense and harmonious versification characterise her works. TEMPERANCE. Fatal efTects of luxury and ease ! We drink our poison and we eat disease ; Indulge our senses at our reason's cost. Till sense is pain, and reason hurt or lost. Not so, O Temperance bland ! when rul'd by thee, The brute 's obedient, and the man is free. Soft are his slumbers, balmy is his rest. His veins not boiling from the midnight feast. Touch'd by Aurora's rosy hand, he wakes Peaceful and calm, and with the world partakes The joyful dawnings of returning day, For which their grateful thanks the whole creation pay;— All but the human brute : 'tis he alone, Whose works of darkness fly the rising sun. 'Tis to thy rules, O Temperance ! that we owe All pleasures, which from liealth and strength can flow ; Vigour of body, purity of mind, Unclouded reason, sentiments refin'd, Unmixt, untainted joys without remorse, The intemperate sinner's never failing curse. T* 126 ELIZA HAYWOOD. ELIZA HAYWOOD, 1693—1750, Was the daughter of a London tradesman, and was born in the year 1693. She wrote several books, chiefly novels, one of which, Betsy Thoughtless, is said to have suggested Miss Burney's Evelina. She died in 1756. EXTRACT FROM THE TEA TABLE. Ximene, fearing to be forsaken by Palcmon, desires he would kill her. If by my words my soul could be exprest. You will not wonder at my fond request : But in compassion with my wish partake, 'Tis kinder far to kill than to forsake. 'Tis not long life, but glorious death, renowns The hero's honours, and the martyr crowns ; Laurels acquired in youth, in age decay, Or by superior force are torn away. To deck some new-made, hated, favourite's brow, Who in the noble ruin great does grow. A happy end is still the wise man's prayer, Death is a safe, a sure retreat from care. Should I live longer, I may lose your love. And all the hells of desperation prove. But now to die — now, in my joy's high noon. Ere the cold evening of contempt comes on, Were to die blest ; and balHe cruel fate. Which, envious, watches close to change my state. Nay, more, to die /or theeJ and bi/ thee, too! Would all my rival's happiness outdo ; ELIZA HAYWOOD. 127 My love would live forever in thy minci, And I should pity those I left behind. To have those eyes, dear heaven-drest orbs of light, Convey soft pity to expiring sight, That voice, whose every melting note inspires Dissolving languishments, and warm desires, Tun'd to kind, mournful, murmurings at my pain. Would give a pride which life could never gain ! Haste then, the joys of passion to refine. Let through my breast thy glittering weapon shine^ Dispel my fears, and keep me ever thine ! Miss Haywood was, for some reason or other, included in Pope's Dunciad ; but, says a writer on the subject, " it is proba- ble that Pope was as much actuated by some provocation of a personal nature, as by indignation at the immorality of her early writings, for which, however, her later works greatly atoned." 128 ELIZABETH TOLLET. ELIZABETH TOLLET, 1694—1754, Was the author of a vokime of Poems, and Susanna, a sacred drama. WINTER SONG. Ask me no more my truth to prove, What I would suffer for my love ; With thee I would in exile go To regions of eternal snow ; O'er floods by solid ice confin'd, Through forest bare, with northern wind ; While all around my eyes I cast, Where all is wild, and all is waste. If there the timorous stag you chase, Or rouse to fight a fiercer race. Undaunted, I thy arms would bear, And give thy hand the hunter's spear. When the low sun withdraws his light. And menaces an half-year's night. The conscious moon and stars above Shall guide me with my wandering love. Beneath the mountain's hollow brow. Or in its rocky cells below, Thy rural feast I would provide, Nor envy palaces their pride ; The softest moss should dress thy bed. With savage spoils about thee spread ; Whilst faithful love the watch should keep. To banish danger from thy sleep. ELIZABETH TOLLET. 129 ON A death's head. On this resemblance, where we find A portrait drawn from all mankind, Fond lover! gaze awhile, to see What beauty's idol charms shall be ! Where are the balls that once could dart Quick lightning through the wounded heart? The skin, whose tint could once unite The glowing red and polished white ? The lip in brighter ruby drest ? The cheek with dimpled smiles opprest? The rising front, where beauty sate, Thron'd in her residence of state ; Which, half disclos'd, and half conceal'd. The hair in flowing ringlets veil'd ? 'Tis vanished all ! remains alone The eyeless scalp of naked bone ; The vacant orbits sunk within ; The jaw that offers at a grin. Is this the object, then, that claims The tribute of our youthful flames ? Must amorous hopes and fancied bliss, Too dear delusions, end in this ? How high does Melancholy swell ! Which sighs can more than language tell; Till Love can only grieve or fear ; Reflect a while, then drop a tear For all that 's beautiful or dear. 17 130 • L^TITIA PILKINGTON. LiETITIA PILKINGTON. 1712—1750. This lady, the daughter of Dr. Van Lewen, of Dublin, and wife of the Reverend Mr. Pilkington, was born in 1712, and mani- fested her poetical genius at an early age. She acquired much fame by her writings, which, however, are not quite so chaste and moral as they might be. She died in 1750. One of the best and purest of her productions is the following ODE, IN IMITATION OF HORACE. I envy not the proud their wealth, Their equipage and state ; Give me but innocence and health, I ask not to be great. I in this sweet retirement find A joy unknown to kings ; For sceptres to a virtuous mind Seem vain and empty things. Great Cinclnnatus at his plough With brighter lustre shone, Than guilty Caesar e'er could show, Though seated on a throne. Tumultuous days, and restless nights. Ambition ever knows, A stranger to the calm delights Of study and repose. L^TITIA PILKINGTON. 131 Then free from envy, care, and strife. Keep me, ye powers divine ! And pleas'd, when ye demand my life, May I that life resign ! Mrs. Pilkington's sharp, clever style, is well seen in the suc- ceeding SONG. Lying is an occupation Us'd by all who mean to rise ; Politicians owe their station But to well concerted lies. These to lovers give assistance To ensnare the fair one's heart, And the virgin's best resistance Yields to this commanding art. Study this superior science. Would you rise in church or state. Bid to truth a bold defiance, 'Tis the practice of the great. 132 MARY LEAPOR. MARY LEAPOR, 1722—1746, Was the daughter of tlie gardener of Judge Blencowe, of Marston St. Lawrence, in Northamptonshire ; and it is said that she was herself in service. Her writings, of which two volumes have appeared, display very considerable genius. THE TEMPLE OF LOVE A DREAM. When lonely night composed the drowsy mmd. And hush'd the bosom of the weary hind, Pleas'd with plain nature, and with simple life, I read the scenes of Shore's deluded wife. Till my faint spirits sought the silent bed, And on its pillow dropt my aching head ; Then fancy, ever to her Mira kind, Prepar'd her phantoms for the roving mind. Behold a fabric rising from the ground, To the soft timbrel and the cittern's sound ; Corinthian pillars the vast building hold. Of polished silver, and Peruvian gold ; In four broad arches spread the sliining doors, The blazing roofs enlighten all the floors : Beneath a sparkling canopy, that shone AVith Persian jewels, like a morning sun, Wrapp'd in a robe of purest Tyrian dye, Cytherea's image met the ravish'd ej-e ; Whose glowing features would in point beguile, So well the artist drew her mimic smile. 1 MARY LEAPOR. 133 Her shining eyes confess' d a sprightly joy, Upon her knees reclined her wanton boy ; On the bright walls around her and above, AVere drawn the statutes and the arts of love : These taught the silent language of the eye. The broken whisper, and amusing lie ; The careless glance peculiar to the fair. And vows of lovers that dissolve in air ; The graceful anger, and the rolling eyes, The practis'd blush, and counterfeit surprise. The language proper for pretending swains. And fine description for imagin'd pains ; The friendly caution, and designing ease. And all the arts that ruin while they please. Now enter'd, follow'd by a splendid train, A blooming damsel and a wealthy swain ; The gaudy youth in shining robes array'd ; Behind him follow'd the unthinking maid : Youth in her cheek like opening roses sprung, Her careless tresses on her shoulders hung. Her smiles were cheerful as enlivening May ; Her dress was careless, and her eyes were gay. Then to soft voices and melodious sound The board was spread, the sparkling glasses crown'd ; The sprightly virgin in a moment shines In the gay product of the eastern mines ; Then Pride comes in with patches for the fair, And spicy odours for her curling hair; Rude Riot, in a crimson vest array'd, With smooth-faced Flattery like a chambermaid ; Soft Pomp and Pleasure at her elbow stand. And Folly shakes the rattles in her hand. But now her feeble structure seem'd to shake ; Its bases trembled, and its pillars quake ; Then rush'd Suspicion through the lofty gate. With heart-sick Loathing, led by ghastly Hate ; M 134 MARY LEAPOR. And foaming Rage, to close the horrid band, With a drawn poniard in her trembling hand. Now like an earthquake shook the reeling frame, The lamps extinguish in a purple flame ; One universal groan was heard, and then The cries of women, and the voice of men : Some roar out vengeance, some for mercy call, And shrieks and tumult fill the dreadful hall ; At length the spectres vanish'd from my sight; Again the lamps resum'd a feeble light, But chang'd the place : no splendour there was shown. But gloomy walls, that mirth had never known ; For the gay dome where pleasure us'd to dwell Appear'd an abbey, and a doleful cell; And here the sad, the ruin'd nymph was found. Her robe disorder'd and her locks unbound ; While from her eyes the pearly drops of woe Wash'd her pale cheek, where roses us'd to blow : Her blue and trembling lips prepar'd to breathe The sighs that made her swelling bosom heave ; Thus, stupid with her grief, she sat and prest Her lily hands across her pensive breast : A group of ghastly phantoms stood behind. Whose task it is to rack the guilty mind ; Widc-mouth'd Reproach with visage rude and thin. And hissing Scandal, made a hideous din ; Remorse, that darted from her deadly wings Invenom'd arrows and a thousand stings ; Then with pale cheeks, and with a ghastly stare, Peop'd o'er her shoulder hollow-eyed Despair, Whose hand extended bore a bleeding heart. And Death behind her shook his threatening dart : These forms with horror fill'd my aching breast. And from my eyelids drove tlie balm of rest: I woke, and found old night her course had run. And left her empire to the rising sun. HENRIETTA, LADY LUXBOROUGH, 1756, Was half sister to the famous Lord Bolingbroke. In Dodsley's Collection, some pieces of poetry, ascribed to a Lady of Quality, proceeded from her pen ; one of them is given here. A volume of her Letters to Shenstone was printed in 1775. She died in 1756. THE BULLFINCH IN TOWN. Hark to the blackbird's pleasing note. Sweet usher of the vocal throng ! Nature directs his Avarbling throat. And all that hear, admire the song. Yon bullfinch, with unvaried tone. Of cadence liarsh, and accent shrill, Has brighter plumage to atone For want of harmony and skill. Yet discontent with nature's boon, Like man, to mimic art he flies ; On Opera-pinions hoping soon Unrivall'd he shall mount the skies. And while to please some courtly fair. He one dull tune with labour learns, A well-gilt cage remote from air And faded plumes, is all he earns ! 136 HENRIETTA, LADY LUXBOROUGH. Go, hapless captive ! still repeat The sounds which nature never taught; Go, listening fair ! and call them sweet, Because you know them dearly bought. Unenvied both ! go hear and sing Your studied music o'er and o'er ; AVhilst I attend th' inviting spring, In fields where birds unl'ctter'd soar. MRS. PENNINGTON. 137 MRS. PENNINGTON, 1734—1759, Was the author of a poem called The Copper Farthing, an imi- tation of The Splendid Shilling, and some miscellaneous verses, one of which productions is subjoined. She died in 1759, aged 25. ODE TO MORNING. Hail, roseate Morn ! returning light ! To thee the sable queen of night Reluctant yields her sway ; And, as she quits the dappled skies, On glories greater glories rise, To greet the dawning day. O'er tufted meads gay Flora trips ; Arabia's spices scent her lips, Her head with rose-buds crown'd ; Mild Zephyr hastes to snatch a kiss, And, fluttering with the transient bliss. Wafts fragrance all around. The dew-drops, daughters of the Morn, With spangles every bush adorn, And all the broider'd vales ; Their voice to thee the linnets raise. The lark, soft trilling in thy praise, Aurora, rising, hails ! 18 H* 138 MRS. PENNINGTON. While nature, now in lively vest Of glory green, has gaily drest Each tributary plain ; While blooming flowers, and blossom'd trees, Soft waving with the vernal breeze, Exult beneath thy reign ; Shall I with drowsy poppies crown'd By sleep in silken fetters bound. The downy god obey 1 Ah no ! through yon embowering grove. Or winding valley let me rove, And own thy cheerful sway ! For short-lived are thy pleasing powers: Pass but a few uncertain hours, And we no more shall trace Thy dimpled cheek, and brow serene ; Or clouds may gloom the smiling scene, And frowns deform thy face. So in life's youthful bloomy prime, AVe sport away the fleeting time. Regardless of our fate ; But by some unexpected bloAv Our giddy follies we shall know. And mourn them when too late ! MARY MASTERS. 139 MARY MASTERS, 1750, Published poems, which, as Boswell informs us, were corrected by Dr. Johnson. I extract as a specimen the subjoined verses. TO LUCINDA. Lucinda, you in vain dissuade Two hearts from mutual love ; What amorous youth, or tender maid, Could e'er their flames remove? What if the charms in him I see Only exist in thought ; Yet Cupid, like the Mede's decree. Is firm, and changeth not. Seek not to know my passion's spring, The reason to discover ; For reason is an useless thing. When we've commenc'd the lover. Should lovers quarrel with their fate, And ask the reason why They are condemn'd to dote on that, Or for this object die ? They must not hope for a reply. And this is all they know ; They sigh, and weep, and rave, and die. Because it must be so. 140 MARY MASTERS. Love is a mighty god, you know, That rules with potent sway ; And when he draws his awful bow, We mortals must obey. Since you the fatal strife endur'd, And yielded to his dart; How can I hope to be secur'd, And guard a weaker heart ? MRS. MAD AN. 141 MRS. MADAN. About 1750. One of the Cowper family, and the wife of Colonel Madan. VERSES Written in her brother's Coke upon Littleton. , O thou, who labour' St in this rugged mine, Mayst thou to gold th' unpolish'd ore refine ! May each dark page unfold its haggard brow ! Doubt not to reap, if thou canst bear to plough. To tempt thy care, may, each revolving night, Purses and maces swim before thy sight ! From hence in times to come, adventurous deed ! Mayst thou essay to look and speak like Mead ! When the black bag and rose no more shall shade With martial air the honours of thy head ; When the full wig thy visage shall enclose, And only leave to view thy learned nose ; Safely mayst thou defy beaux, wits, and scoffers, While tenants, in fee simple, stuff thy coffers ! Our author's brother appears to have followed this advice very closely, for he became Lord Chancellor of England. 142 LADY ANNE IRWIN. LADY ANNE IRWIN. Anne Howaud, whose father was Earl of Carlisle, was twice married. Her husbands were Viscount Irwin and Colonel Doug- lass. She is chiefly celebrated as a poet for the defence of her sex against Pope's " Characters of Women,'' which Duncombe says " entitles her to a grateful tribute from all female hands." — Died, 1760. By custom doomed to folly, sloth and ease, No wonder Pope such female triflers sees ; Nor would the satirist confess the truth. Nothing so like as male and female youth ; Nothing so like as man and woman old, . Their joys, their woes, their hates, if truly told ; Though different acts seem different sexes' growth, 'T is the same principle impels them both. — View daring man, strong with ambition's fire ; The conq'ring hero or the youthful squire, By different deeds aspire to deathless fame. One numbers man, the other numbers game. — View a fair nymph, blessed with superior charms, Whose tempting form the coldest bosom warms ; No eastern monarch more despotic reigns Than this fair tyrant of the Cyprian plains. Whether a crown or bauble we desire, Whether to learning or to dress aspire, Whether we wait with joy the trumpet's call. Or wish to shine the fairest at a ball ; In either sex the appetite 's the same. For love of power is still the love of fame. LADY ANNE IRWIN. 143 — Woman must in a narrow orbit move, But power alike both males and females love. What makes the difference then, you may inquire, Between the hero and the rural squire ? Between the maid bred up with courtly care, Or she who earns by toil her daily fare ? Their power is stinted, but not so their will, Ambitious thoughts the humblest cottage fill; For as they can they push their little fame, And try to leave behind a deathless name. In education all the difference lies ; Woman, if taught, would be as learned and wise As haughty man, inspired by arts and rules ; Where God makes one, nature makes many fools ; And though nugatixes are daily found. Flattering nugators equally abound. Such heads are toy-shops filled with trifling ware, And can each folly with each female share. A female mind like a rude fallow lies. No seeds are sown, but weeds spontaneous rise. As well m.ight we expect in winter spring. As land untilled a fruitful crop should bring. As well we might expect Peruvian ore We should possess, yet dig not for the store. Culture improves all fruits, all sorts we find, Wit, judgment, sense, fruits of the human mind. Can female youth, left to weak woman's care, Misled by custom. Folly's fruitful heir ; Told that their charms a monarch may enslave ; That beauty, like the gods, can kill or save ; Taught the arcana, the mysterious arts. By ambush, dress to catch unwary hearts ; Or, wealthy born, taught to lisp French or dance. Their morals left, Lucretius-like, to chance ; Unused to books, nor virtue taught to prize, AVhose mind a savage waste, unpeopled lies. Which to supply, trifles fill up tlie void. And idly busy to no end employed ; 144 LADY ANXE IRWIX. Can these resist, when soothing pleasure woos ? Preserve their virtue, Avhen their fame they lose ? Can they on other themes converse or write. Than what they hear all day, or dream all night ? LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 145 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 1690—1762. The celebrated daughter of the Duke of Kingston. She was born in 1690. Her fame chiefly rests upon her Letters. Her poetry is of rather a coarse, masculine, sensuous order, and is quite destitute of imagination. It has, however, some good sen- sible touches that go far to redeem it from the charge of mediocrity. She died in 1762. THE lady's resolve. Whilst thirst of praise and vain desire of fame In every age is every woman's aim ; With courtship pleas'd, of silly toasters pioud, Fond of a train, and happy in a crowd ; On each proud fop bestowing some kind glance, Each conquest owing to some loose advance : While vain coquettes afl'ect to be pursued. And think they 're virtuous if not grossly lewd: Let this great maxim be my virtue's guide ; In part she is to blame that has been tried : He comes too near that comes to be denied. HYMN TO THE MOON. Thou silver deity of secret night, Direct my footsteps through the woodland shade ; Thou conscious witness of unknown delight. The lover's guardian, and the muse's aid ! 19 N 146 LADY MARY WORTLEY IMONTAGU. By thy pale beams I solitary rove, To thee my tender grief confide, Serenely sweet you gild the silent grove, My friend, my goddess, and my guide ! Even thee, fair queen, from thy amazing height, The charms of young Endymion drew ; Veil'd with the mantle of concealing night ; With all thy greatness, and thy coldness, too. ADVICE. Good madam, when ladies are willing, A man must needs look like a fool ; For me I would not give a shilling For one who would love out of rule. You should leave us to guess by your blushing, And not speak the matter so plain ; 'T is ours to write and be pushing, 'Tis yours to affect a disdain. That you are in a terrible taking. By all these sweet oglings I see ; But the fruit that can fall without shaking Indeed is too mellow for me. AN ANSWER TO A LADY WHO ADVISED LADY >I. TO RETIRE. You little know the heart that you advise ; I view this various scene with equal eyes ; In crowded court I find myself alone, And pay my worship to a nobler throne. LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 147 Long since the value of this world I knew ; Pitied the folly and despised the shew : Well as I can, my tedious part I bear, And wait dismissal without pain or fear. Seldom I mark mankind's detested ways, Not hearing censure, nor affecting praise ; And unconcern'd, my future fate I trust To that sole Being merciful and just. us FRANCES SHERIDAN. FRANCES SHERIDAN, 1724—1776, The mother of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, was born in 1724, Her maiden name was Cha'uberlaine. She is chiefly known by her novels of Sidney Biddulph and Nourjahad. She died in 1767. ODE TO PATIENCE. Unaw'd by threats, unmov'd by force, My steady soul pursues her course, Collected, calm, resign'd ; Say, you who search with curious eyes The source whence human actions rise, Say, whence this turn of mind ? 'T is Patience ! lenient goddess, hail ! O let thy votary's vows prevail, Thy threaten'd flight to stay ; Long hast thou been a welcome guest, Long reign'd an inmate in this breast, And rul'd with gentle sway. Through all the various turns of fate, Ordain'd me in each several state, My wayward lot has known ; What taught me silently to bear. To curb the sigh, to check the tear, When sorrow weijjli'd me down ? FRANCES SHERIDAN. 143 'T was Patience ! temperate goddess, stay ! For still thy dictates I obey, Nor yield to passion's power ; Though by injurious foes borne down. My fame, my toil, my hopes o'ertluown, In one ill-fated hour. When robb'd of what I held most dear, My hands adorn'd the mournful bier Of her I lov'd so well ; What, when mute sorrow chain'd my tongue, As o'er the sable hearse I hung Forbade the tide to swell ? 'T was Patience ! goddess ever calm ! pour into my breast thy balm, That antidote to pain ; Which flowing from thy nectar'd urn, By chemistry divine can turn Our losses into gain. When sick and languishing in bed. Sleep from my restless couch had fled, (Sleep which e'en pain beguiles,) What taught me calmly to sustain A feverish being, rack'd with pain. And dress'd my looks in smiles ? 'T was Patience ! Heaven-descended maid Implored, flew swiftly to my aid. And lent her fostering breast ; Watch'd my sad hours with parent care, Repell'd the approaches of despair. And sooth'd my soul to rest. Say, when dissevered from his side. My friend, protector, and my guide — When ray prophetic soul, N* 150 FRANCES SHERIDAN. Anticipating all the storm, Saw danger in its direst form, What could my fears control ? 'T was Patience ! gentle goddess, hear ! Be ever to thy suppliant near, Nor let one murmur rise ; Since still some mighty joys are given. Dear to her soul, the gifts of heaven, The sweet domestic ties. MARY JONES. 151 MARY JONES. 1750. " Miss Jones lived at Oxford, and was often of our parties. She was a very ingenious poetess, and published a volume of poems ; and, on the whole, was a most sensible, agreeable, and amiable woman. She was a sister to the Reverend River Jones, chanter of Christ-church Cathedi:al at Oxford, and Johnson used to call her The Chantress. I have heard him often address her in this passage from Jl Penseroso, ' Thee, chantress of the woods among, I woo,' &c. Note on a letter from Johnson to T. Warton, in 1757." — BosiveWs Life of Johnson, vol. i. In the preface to her volume. Miss Jones calls her poems "the produce of pure nature only, and most of them wrote at a very early age." Our author seems to have enjoyed considerable cele- brity, for the names of a vast number of subscribers appear pre- fixed to the work alluded to, — Miscellanies in Prose and Verse, 1750. I subjoin two specimens of Miss Jones's powers ; by which it will be seen that she excelled in lively strains, and possessed a quaint and humorous genius. I. EXTRACT FROM AN EPISTLE TO LADY BOWYER. How much of paper's spoil'd ! what floods of ink ! And yet how few, how very few, can think ! The knack of writing is an easy trade ; But to think well requires — at least a head. Once in an age one genius may arise, With wit well cultured, and with learning wise : Like some tall oak, behold his branches shoot, No tender scions springing from the root. 152 MARY JONES. Whilst lofty Pope erects his laurell'd head, No lays like mine can live beneath his shade : Nothing but weeds, and moss, and herbs, are found : — Cut, cut them down ; why cumber they the ground ? And yet you 'd have me write ? — For what ? To whom ? To curl a favourite in a dressing-room ? To mend a candle when the snuff 's too short ? Or save rappee for chambermaids at court? Glorious ambition! — noble thirst of fame! No ! but you 'd have me write — to get a name ! Alas ! I 'd live unknown, unenvy'd too ; 'T is more than Pope with all his wit can do. 'T is more than you with wit and beauty join'd, A pleasing form, and a discerning mind. The world and I are no such cordial friends : I have my purpose, tliey their various ends. I say my prayers, and lead a sober life, Nor laugh at Cornus, or at Cornus' wife. What 's fame to me, who pray and pay my rent? If my friends know me honest, I 'm content. II. TO STELLA, AFTER THE SMALL-POX. When skilful traders first set up, To draw tlie people to their shop, They straight hang out some gaudy sign, Expressive of the goods within. The Vintner has his boy and grapes, The Haberdasher thread and tapes. The Shoemaker exposes boots. And Monmouth Street old tatter'd suits. So fares it with the nymph divine ; For what is beauty but a sign ? MARY JONES. 153 A face hung out, through which is seen The nature of the goods within. Thus the coquette her beau ensnares With studied smile and forward airs ; The graver prude hangs out a frown To strike the audacious gazer down ; But she alone whose temperate wit Each nicer medium can hit, Is still adorn'd with every grace, And Avears a sample in her face. What though some envious folks have said That Stella now must hide her head, That all her stock of beauty 's gone, And e'en the very sign took down ; Yet grieve not at the fatal blow. For if you break awhile, we know 'T is bankrupt like, more rich to grow. A fairer sign you '11 soon hang up, And with fresh credit open shop ; For nature's pencil soon shall trace, And once more finish off your face : Which all your neighbours shall outshine, And of your Mind remain the sign ! 154 MRS. ANNE STEELE. MRS. ANNE STEELE. Mrs. Steele was the daughter of a Baptist clerg-yman, and was born in Hampshire. She may be said to claim a place by the side of Dr. Watts as a writer of sacred songs. Died, 1779. TO MY WATCH. Little monitor, by thee Let me learn what I should be ; Learn the round of life to fill, Useful and progressive still. Thou canst gentle hints impart • How to regulate the heart ; When I wind thee up at night, Mark each fault and set thee right, Let me search my bosom too. And my daily thoughts review ; Mark the movements of my mind. Nor be easy till I find Latent errors brought to view. Till all be regular and true. FRANCES BROOKE. 155 FRANCES BROOKE, 1745—1789, Was the daughter of a clergyman named Moore, residing in De- vonshire, and wife of the Reverend J. Brooke. She was born in 1745, and died in 1789. Mrs. Brooke was the author of the operettas entitled Bosina and Marian ; both of which are very elegant and pleasing productions. Besides these she wrote some novels, plays, and poems, which are now forgotten. Mrs. Brooke's verses have a spirit, a clear, sparkling, livmg style, which is very delightful. The following song from M^trian sounds like the shout of a clear merry voice ringing in the open morning air. To the chase, to the chase ! on the brow of the hill Let the hounds meet the sweet-breathing morn ; Whilst full to the welkin, their notes clear and shrill. Join the sound of the heart-cheering horn. What music celestial ! when urging the race Sweet Echo repeats — " To the chase, to tlie chase I" Our pleasure transports us, how gay flies the hour ! Sweet health and quick spirits attend ; Not sweeter when evening convenes to the bower. And we meet the loved smile of a friend. See the stag just before us ! He starts at the cry : — He stops-his strength fails— speak, my friends— must he die? His innocent aspect while standing at bay, His expression of anguish and pain. All plead for compassion,— your looks seem to say Let him bound o'er his forests again. Quick, release him to dart o'er the neighbouring plain, Let him live, let him bound o'er his forests again! 156 FRANCES BROOKE. This last stanza is " pure womanly." No male writer would have let the stag loose again, or even have debated about his death. The conception is in my idea most beautifully feminine, and embodies one of the most exquisite touches of pity I know of. The following little song, too, from the same opera, has some- thing very plaintive in it. By the osiers so dank, As we sat on the bank, Andlook'd at the swell of the biUow, This chaplet lie wove As a token of love ; Alas ! 't was the branch of the willow. How sad all the day Through the meadows I stray, And rest flies at night from my pillow ! The garland I wore From my ringlets I tore, Alas ! must I wear the green willow 2 Here is another little sparkling piece ; extracted from Rosina, Her mouth, which a smile Devoid of all guile Half opens to view, Is the bud of the rose In the morning that blows, Impearl'd with the dew. More fragrant her breath Than the flow'r-scented heath At the dawning of day ; The hawthorn in bloom. The lily's perfume, Or the blossoms of May. FRANCES BROOKE. 157 Her Ode to Health, too, is a very graceful and harmonious composition. ODE TO HEALTH. The Lesbian lute no more can charm, Nor my once panting bosom warm ; No more I breathe the tender sigh ; Nor when my beauteous swain appears With downcast look and starting tears, Confess the lustre of his eye. With Freedom blest, at early dawn, I wander o'er the verdant lawn, And hail the sweet returning Spring ; The fragrant breeze, the feather'd choir To raise my vernal joys conspire. While Peace and Health their treasures bring. Come, lovely Health ! divinest maid ! And lead me through the rural shade, To thee the rural sliades belong : T is thine to bless the simple swain. And, while he tries the tuneful strain. To raise the raptur'd poet's song. Behold the patient village hind ! No cares disturb his tranquil mind ; By thee, and sweet Contentment blest. All day he turns the stubborn plain. And meets at eve his infant train. While guiltless pleasure fills his breast. O ever good and bounteous ! still By fountain fresh, or murmuring rill, Let me thy blissful presence find ! Thee, Goddess ! tliee my steps pursue, When, careless of the morning dew, I leave the lessening vales behind. o 158 MRS. GREVILLE. MRS. GREVILLE. Of this lady, whose Prayer for Indifference has been so much admired, I can give no account. PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE. Oft I 've implor'd the gods in vain. And pray'd till I 've been weary; For once I '11 seek my wish to gain Of Oberon, the Fairy. Sweet airy being, wanton sprite, Who lurk'st in woods unseen. And oft by Cynthia's silver light, Trip'st gaily o'er the green : If e'er thy pitying heart was mov'd. As ancient stories tell, And for the Athenian maid * who lov'd, Thou sought'st a wondrous spell ; deign once more t' exert thy power ! Haply some herb or tree, Sovereign as juice of western flow^er. Conceals a balm for me. 1 ask no kind return of love, No tempting cliarm to please ; Far from the heart those gifts remove, That sighs for peace and ease ; • See ''Midsummer Nights Dream." MRS. GREVILLE. 159 Nor peace, nor ease, the heart can know, That, like the needle true. Turns at the touch of joy or woe, But, turning, trembles too. Far as distress the soul can wound, 'T is pain in each degree ; 'T is bliss but to a certain bound, Beyond, is agony. Then take this treacherous sense of mine, Which dooms me still to smart ; Which pleasure can to pain refine, To pain new pangs impart. haste to shed the sovereign balm, My shatter'd nerves new string; And for my guest, serenely calm. The nymph Indifference bring ! At her approach, see Hope, see Fear, See Expectation fly ! And Disappointment in the rear, That blasts the promis'd joy! The tear which Pity taught to flow The eye shall then disown ; The heart that melts for others' woe Shall then scarce feel its own. The wounds which now each moment bleed, Each moment then shall close ; And tranquil days shall still succeed To nights of calm repose. O Fairy Elf! but grant me this, This one kind comfort send. And so may never-fading bliss Thy flowery paths attend ! So may the glow-worm's glimmering light Thy tiny footsteps lead To some new region of delight, Unknown to mortal tread ! And be thy acorn goblet filled With heaven's ambrosial dew, From sweetest, freshest flowers distill'd, That shed fresh sweets for you ! And what of life remains for me I '11 pass in sober ease ; Half pleased, contented will I be, Content but half to please. For the answer to this Poem, by the Countess of Carlisle, see page 218. CONSTANTIA GRIERSON, 1706—1733, Was an Irish poetess, of extraordinary erudition. She was born in 1706. " She died," says Mrs. Mary Barber (with whose poems her own were pubUshed), " at the age of 27, and was allowed, long before, to be an excellent scholar, not only in Greek and Roman literature, but in history, divinity, philosophy, and mathematics. She gave a proof of her knowledge in the Latin tongue, by her dedication of the Dublin edition of Tacitus to the Lord Carteret, and by that of Terence to his son, to whom she likewise wrote a Greek epigram." Mrs. Pilkington informs us that she was also mistress of Hebrew ; that her parents were poor, illiterate country people ; and that when questioned how she had acquired such learning, she said " she had received som little instruction from the minister of the parish, when she could spare time from her needle-work, to which she was closely kept by her mother." The following lines are addressed To Miss Lsetitia Van Lewen (afterwards Mrs. Pilkington) at a Country Jissize. The fleeting birds may soon in ocean swim, And northern whales through liquid azure skim ; The Dublin ladies their intrigues forsake, To dress and scandal an aversion take ; When you can in the lonely forest walk. And with some serious matron gravely talk Of possets, poultices, and waters 'still'd. And monstrous casks with mead and cider fiU'd ; How many hives of bees she has in store, And how much fruit her trees this summer bore ; Or, home returning, in the yard can stand. And feed the chickens from your bounteous hand : 21 o* 162 CONSTANTIA GRIERSON. Of each one's top-knot tell, and hatching pry, Like Tully, waiting for an augury. When night approaches, down to table sit With a great crowd, choice meat, and little wit ; What horse won the last race, how mighty Tray, At the last famous hunting, caught the prey; Surely you can't but such discourse despise, Methinks I see displeasure in your eyes : O my Lajtitia ! stay no longer there, You 'II soon forget that you yourself are fair; Why will you keep from us, from all that 's gay, There in a lonely solitude to stay ? Where not a mortal through the year you view, But bob-wigged hunters, who their game pui-sue With so much ardour, they 'd a cock or hare To thee in all thy pleasing charms prefer. You write of belles and beaux that there appear, And gilded coaches, such as glitter here ; For gilded coaches, each estated clown That gravely slumbers on the bench has one ; But beaux ! they 're young attorneys sure you mean, Who thus appear to your romantic brain. Alas ! no mortal there can talk to you, That love, or wit, or softness ever knew ; All they can speak of 's capias and law. And writs to keep the country fools in awe. And if to wit or courtship they pretend, 'T is the same way that they a cause defend ; In which they give of lungs a vast expense, But little passion, thought, or eloquence : Bad as they are, they 'd soon abandon you, And gain and clamour in the town pursue. So haste to town, if even such fools you prize, O haste to town ! and bless the longing eyes Of your CoNSTANTIA. HENRIETTA. ONEIL. 163 HENRIETTA O'NEIL, 1758—1793, Was the only daughter of Charles, Viscount Dungarvon, and wife of John O'Neil, Esquire, of Slanes Castle, in the county of An- trim, who was created an Irish Peer about two months after the death of his wife. Lady O'Neil was born in 1758, and died in 1793. The two poems here quoted have been preserved in the woiks of her friend, Charlotte Smith. ODE TO THE POPPY. Not for the promise of the labour'd field, Not for the good the yellow harvests yield, I bend at Ceres' shrine ; For dull to humid eyes appear The golden glories of the year ; Alas ! a melancholy worship 's mine : I hail the goddess for her scarlet flower ! Thou brilliant weed. That dost so far exceed The richest gifts gay Flora can bestow, Heedless I pass'd thee in life's morning hour, Thou comforter of woe. Till sorrow taught me to confess thy power. In early days, when Fancy cheats, A varied wreath I wove, Of laughing Spring's luxuriant sweets, To deck ungrateful Love : 164 HENRIETTA ONEIL. The rose, or thorn, my labours crown'd. As Venus smil'd, or Venus frown'd. But Love and Joy and all their train are flown ; E'en languid Hope no more is mine. And I will sing of thee alone : Unless perchance the attributes of Grief, The cypress bud and willow leaf Their pale funereal foliage blend with thine. Hail, lovely blossom ! thou canst ease The wretched victims of Disease ; Canst close those weary eyes in gentle sleep, Which never open but to weep ; For oh ! thy potent charm Can agonizing Pain disarm ; Expel imperious Memory from her seat, And bid the throbbing heart forget to beat. Soul-soothing plant, that can such blessings give, By thee the mourner bears to live ! By thee the hopeless die ! Oh, ever friendly to despair. Might Sorrow's pallid votary dare. Without a crime that remedy implore. Which bids the spirit from its bondage fly, I 'd court thy palliative aid no more. No more I'd sue that thou shouldst spread Thy spell around my aching head ; But would conjure thee to impart Thy balsam for a broken heart ! And by thy soft Lethean power, Inestimable flower ! Burst these terrestial bonds, and other regions try ! VERSES WRITTEN ON SEEING HER TWO SONS AT PLAY. Sweet age of blest delusion ! blooming boys, Ah ! revel long in childhood's thouglidess joys, With light and pliant spirits, that can stoop To follow sporUvely the rolling hoop : To watch the sleeping top with gay delight, Or mark with raptur'd gaze the sailing kite. Or eagerly pursuing Pleasure's call, - Can find it centred in the bounding ball ! Alas ! the day will come, when sports like these Must lose their magic and their power to please ; Too swiftly fled, the rosy hours of youth Shall yield their fairy charms to mournful Truth ; Even now, a mother's fond prophetic fear Sees the dark train of human ills appear ; Views various fortune for each lovely child. Storms for the bold, and anguish for the mild ; Beholds already those expressive eyes Beam a sad certainty of future sighs ; And dreads each suffering those dear breasts may know In their long passage through a world of woe ; Perchance predestin'd every pang to prove. That treacherous friends inflict, or faithless love ; For ah 1 how few have found existence sweet. Where grief is sure, but happiness deceit ! The first of the two beautiful poems above quoted will be found in Charlotte Smith's Desmond ^ the last in the same writer's second Volume of Poems : but I have met with both of them frequently in books containing poetical selections. I am not aware that Lady O'Neil wrote any other verses. 166 MARY ROBINSON. MARY ROBINSON, 1758—1800, Was a native of Bristol, where she was born in 1758. Her father, whose name was Darby, was a merchant there. At the age of fifteen she married a young lawyer, Mr. Robinson, but the union was not a happy one. Profligacy and extravagance soon reduced his circumstances, and Mrs. Robinson, whose beauty and talents were remarkable, turned for subsistence to the stage. Her character suffered by her connection with the theatre ; and she became, unfortunately, notorious for her gallantries. As an authoress, she displays very considerable powers, but, being one of the Delia Cruscan school, she was mercilessly attacked by Gifford. She died in 1800. I extract two of her poems. I. SONNET. High on a rock, coeval with the skies, A temple stands, rear'd by immortal powers To Chastity divine ! ambrosial flowers Twining round icicles, in columns rise. Mingling with pendent gems of orient dyes ! Piercing the air, a golden crescent towers, Veil'd by transparent clouds ; while smiling hours Shake from their varying wings celestial joys ! Tlie steps of spotless marble scatter'd o'er With deathless roses, arm'd with many a thorn. Lead to the altar. On the frozen floor. Studded with tear-drops, pt trifled by scorn. Pale vestals kneel, the goddess to adore. While Love, his arrows broke, retires forlorn. MARY ROBINSON. 167 THE SNOW-DROP. The Snow-drop, Winter's timid child, Awakes to life, bedew'd with tears ; And flings around its fragrance mild, And where no rival flow'rets bloom. Amid the bare and chilling gloom, A beauteous gem appears ! All weak and wan, with head inclin'd. Its parent breast the drifted snow ; It trembles while the ruthless wind Bends its slim form ; the tempest lowers, Its emerald eye drops crystal showers On its cold bed below. Poor flower ! on thee the sunny beam No touch of genial warmth bestows ; Except to thaw the icy stream Whose little current purls along Thy fair and glossy charms among. And whelms thee as it flows. The night breeze tears thy silken dress, Which deck'd with silvery lustre shone ; The morn returns not thee to bless. The gaudy crocus flaunts its pride. And triumphs where its rival died, Unshelter'd and unknown ! No sunny beam shall gild thy grave. No bird of pity thee deplore ; There shall no spreading branches wave, For Spring shall all her gems unfold. And revel mid her buds of gold, When thou art seen no more ! 168 MARY ROBINSON. Where'er I find thee, gentle flower, Thou still art sweet and dear to me ! For I have known the cheerless hour. Have seen the sunbeams cold and pale. Have felt the cliilling wintry gale, And wept and shrunk like thee MRS. HESTER CHAPONE. 169 MRS. HESTER CHAPONE. 1727—1801. Mrs. Chapone, well known for her admirable Letters on the Improvement of the Mind, was the daughter of Mr. Mulso, of Twywell, in Northamptonshire, and was born in 1727. She married in 1760, but her husband died within the first year of their union, leaving her in very straitened circumstances. Her first poetical work, a Volume of Miscellanies, appeared in 1775, and attracted much attention. It is to her prose writings, however, that she chiefly owes her fame. She died in 1801. WRITTEN DURING A STORM AT MIDNIGHT, 1749. In gloomy pomp whilst awful midnight reigns. And wide o'er earth her mournful mantle spreads, Whilst deep-voiced thunders threaten guilty heads, And rushing torrents drown the frighted plains. And quick-glanc'd lightnings to my dazzled sight Betray the double horrors of the night ; A solemn stillness creeps upon my soul. And all its powers in deep attention die ; My heart forgets to beat ; my steadfast eye Catclies the flying gleam ; the distant roll, Advancing gradual, swells upon my ear With louder peals, more dreadful as more near. Awake, my soul, from thy forgetful trance ! The storm calls loud, and Meditation wakes, How at the sound pale Superstition shakes, 22 P 170 MRS. HESTER CHAPONE. Whilst all her train of frantic Fears advance ! Children of Darkness, hence ! fly far from me ! And dwell with Guilland Infidelity ! But come, with look composed and sober pace, Calm Contemplation, come ! and hither lead Devotion, that on earth disdains to tread ; Her inward flame illumes her glowing face. Her upcast eye and spreading wings prepare Her flight for Heaven, to find her treasure there. She sees enraptured, through the thickest gloom, Celestial beauty beam, and midst the howl Of warring winds, sweet music charms her soul ; She sees, while rifted oaks in flame consume, A Father-God, that o'er the storm presides, Threatens, to save — and loves when most he chides ! ODE TO SOLITUDE. Thou gentle nurse of pleasing woe. To thee from crowds, and noise, and show, With eager haste I fly ; Thrice Avelcome, friendly Solitude, O let no busy foot intrude, Nor listening ear be nigh ! Soft, silent, melancholy maid, With thee to yon sequester'd shade My pensive steps I bend ; Still at the mild approach of niglit, When Cynthia lends her sober light. Do thou my walk attend ! 1 MRS. HESTER CHAPONE. 171 To thee alone, my conscious heart Its tender sorrow dares impart, And ease my lab'ring breast; To thee I trust the rising sigh And bid the tear that swells my eye No longer be supprest. With thee among the haunted groves, The lovely sorceress, Fancy, roves; let me find her here ! For she can time and space control, And swift transport my fleeting soul To all it holds most dear. Ah ! no — ye vain delusions, hence ! No more the hallow'd innocence Of Solitude pervert ! Shall Fancy cheat the precious hour, Sacred to Wisdom's awful power. And calm Reflection's part ? Wisdom ! from the sea-beat shore Where, listening to the solemn roar, Thy loved Eliza * strays, ' Vouchsafe to visit my retreat, And teach my erring, trembling feet ' Thy heaven-protected ways ! guide me to the humble cell Where Resignation loves to dwell. Contentment's bower in view ! Nor pining grief with absence drear, Nor sick suspense, nor anxious fear. Shall there my steps pursue. * Eliza Carter. 172 MRS. HESTER CHAPONE. There, let my soul to Him aspire, Whom none e'er sought with vain desire, Nor lov'd in sad despair ; There, to his gracious will divine, My dearest, fondest hope resign, And all my tenderest care. Then peace shall heal this wounded breast, That pants to see another blest, From selfish passion pure ; Peace, which when human wishes rise, Intense, for augfht beneath the skies, Can never be secure. GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE. 173 GEORGIA.NA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE, 1757—1806, Was the daughter of John, Earl Spencer, and was born in 1757. " This beautiful woman, who shone a brilliant star in the fashion- able world, cultivated and liberally patronised literature and the fine arts. Gibbon says, ' She was made for something better than a duchess.' The following poem has been translated into French by the Abbe De Lille." The duchess died in 1806. THE PASSAGE OF THE MOUNT ST. GOTHARD. To my Children. t Ye plains, where threefold harvests press the ground. Ye climes, where genial gales incessant swell, Where Art and Nature shed profusely round Their rival wonders — Italy, farewell ! Still may thy year in fullest splendour shine ! Its icy darts in vain may Winter throw 1 To thee a parent, sister, I consign, And wing'd with health, I woo thy gales to blow. Yet pleas'd Helvetia's rugged brows I see. And through their craggy steeps delighted roam ; Pleas'd with a people, honest, brave, and free. Whilst every step conducts me nearer home. I wander where Tesino madly flows, From cliif to cliflf in foaming eddies tost ; On the rude mountain's barren breast he rose, In Po's broad wave now hurries to be lost. 174 GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE. His shores neat huts and verdant pastures fill, And hills where woods of pine the storm defy; While, scorning vegetation, higher still Rise the bare rocks, coeval with the sky. Upon his banks a favour'd spot I found, Where shade and beauty tempted to repose : Within a grove, by mountains circled round. By rocks o'erhung, my rustic seat I chose. Advancing thence, by gentle pace and slow, Unconscious of the way my footsteps prest, Sudden, supported by the hills below, St. Gothard's summits rose above the rest. Midst towering cliffs, and tracts of endless cold. The' industrious path pervades the rugged stone, And seems — Helvetia ! let thy toils be told — A granite girdle o'er the mountain thrown. No haunt of man the weary traveller greets, No vegetation smiles upon the moor. Save where the floweret breathes uncultur'd sweets. Save where the patient monk receives the poor. Yet let not these rude paths be coldly traced. Let not these wilds with listless steps be trod ; Here fragrance scorns not to perfume the waste, Here charity uplifts the mind to God. His humble board the holy man prepares. And simple food and wholesome lore bestows ; Extols the treasures tiiat his mounlam bears, And paints the perils of impending snows. For whilst bleak Winter numbs with chilling hand, Where frequent crosses mark the traveller's fate. In slow procession moves the merchant band, And silent treads where tottering ruins wait. GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE, 175 Yet, midst those ridges, midst that drifted snow, Can Nature deign her wonders to display ; Here Adularia shines with vivid glow. And gems of crystal sparkle to the day. Here, too, the hoary mountain's brow to grace, Five silver lakes in tranquil state are seen ; While from their waters many a stream we trace. That, scap'd from bondage, rolls the rocks between. Hence flows the Reuss to seek her wedded love. And, with the Rhine, Germanic climes explore ; Her stream I mark'd, and saw her wildly move Down the bleak mountain, through her craggy shore. My weary footsteps hop'd for rest in vain. For steep on steep in rude confusion rose : At length I paus'd above a fertile plain. That promis'd shelter, and foretold repose. Fair runs the streamlet o'er the pasture green. Its margin gay, with flocks and cattle spread ; Embowering trees the peaceful village screen, And guard from snow each dwelling's jutting shed. Sweet vale ! whose bosom wastes and clifls surround, Let me awhile thy friendly shelter share ! Emblem of life ! where some bright hours are found Amidst the darkest, dreariest years of care. Delv'd through the rock, the secret passage bends ; And beauteous horror strikes the dazzled sight ; Beneath tlie pendent bridge the stream descends Calm — till it tumbles o'er the frowning height. We view the fearful pass — we wind along The path that marks the terrors of our way — Midst beetling rocks, and hanging woods among. The torrent pours, and breathes its glittering spray 176 GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE. Weary at length, serener scenes we hail — More cultur'd groves o'ershade the grassy meads ; The neat though wooden hamlets deck the vale, And Altorf 's spires recall heroic deeds. But though no more amidst those scenes I roam, My fancy long eacla image shall retain — The flock returning to its welcome home. And the wild carol of the cow-herd's strain. Lucernia's lake its glassy surface shows, Whilst Nature's varied beauties deck its side ; Here rocks and woods its narrow waves enclose. And there its spreading bosom opens wide. And hail the chapel! hail the platform wild! Where Tell directed the avenging dart, With well-stnmg arm, that first preserv'd his child, Then wing'd the arrow to the tyrant's heart. Across the lake, and deep embower'd in wood, Behold another hallow'd chapel stand. Where three Swiss heroes lawless force withstood. And stamp'd the freedom of their native land. Their liberty required no rites uncouth, No blood demanded, and no slaves enchained ; Her rule was gentle, and her voice was truth. By social order form'd, by laws restrain'd. We quit the lake — and cultivation's toil. With Nature's charms conibin'd, adorns the way ; And well-earn'd wealth improves the ready soil, And simple manners still maintain their sway. Farewell, Helvetia ! from whose lofty breast Proud Alps arise, and copious rivers flow ; Where, source of streams, eternal glaciers rest. And peaceful Science gilds the plain below. GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE. 177 Oft on thy rocks the wondering eye shall gaze, Thy valleys oft the raptur'd bosom seek — There, Nature's hand her boldest work displays, Here, bliss domestic beams on every cheek. Hope of my life ! dear children of my heart! That anxious heart, to each fond feeling true. To you still pants each pleasure to impart, And more — O transport ! — reach its home and you. 23 178 MISS ELIZABETH CARTER. MISS ELIZABETH CARTER, 1717—1806, One of the most learned of the British poetesses, was the daugh- ter of Dr. Nicholas Carter of Deal, in Kent, where she was born in the year 1717. Her father appears to have taken the greatest possible pains Avith her education; and, although at first slow and inapt at study, she eventually became remarkably distinguished for her extensive and varied acquirements. She was well ac- quainted with the Greek, Latin, Hebrew, French, Italian, Span- ish, and German languages ; and, in later life, attained considera- ble knowledge of Portuguese and Arabic. ]Miss Carter acquired great celebrity by her translation of Epictetus, and was intimately acquainted with Dr. Johnson and the other chief literary charac- ters of the day. She never married. She had consented to an union with a gentleman whose name has not transpired ; but she eventually refused him in consequence of his having written some verses which she did not approve! It is satisfactory to add, that the gentleman subsequently found a less squeamish partner. Miss Carter died in London in 1806, being 89 years of age. This lady's poetical writings display but little passion or ima- gination, and have none of those strong thoughts and sublime ideas which betoken lofty genius : but her verses exhibit great classical purity, and are remarkable for an unusual sweetness of versification. They embody, too, a cheerful serenity very highly calculated to improve the reader's mind ; for although Miss Car- ter translated Epictetus, she by no means followed his philosophy. The following Ode to Wisdom (whicli originally appeared in Richardson's Clarissa), is a fair average sample of her powers. MISS ELIZABETH CARTER. 179 ODE TO WISDOM. The solitary bird of night Through the thick shades now wings his flight, And quits this time-shook tower ; Where shelter'd from the blaze of day, In philosophic gloom he lay, Beneath his ivy bower. With joy I hear the solemn sound, Which midnight echoes waft around, And sighing gales repeat : Favourite of Pallas ! I attend, And faithful to thy summons, bend At Wisdom's awful seat. She loves the cool, the silent eve. Where no false shows of life deceive. Beneath the lunar ray. Here Folly drops each vain disguise. Nor sports her gaily-colour' d dyes. As in the glare of day. O Pallas! queen ofev'ry art. That glads the sense and mends the heart. Blest source of purer joys : In ev'ry form of beauty bright, That captivates the mental sight. With pleasure and surprise : To thy unspotted shrine I bow : Attend thy modest suppliant's vow. That breathes no wild desires: But, taught by thy unerring rules, To shun the fruitless wish of fools. To nobler views aspires. 180 MISS ELIZABETH CARTER. Not Fortune's gem, Ambition's plume, Nor Cytheraea's fading bloom, Be objects of my prayer: Let Avarice, Vanity, and Pride, Those envied, glittering toys, divide. The dull rewards of care. To me thy better gifts impart. Each moral beauty of the heart. By studious thoughts refined ; For Wealth, the smiles of glad content, For Power, its amplest, best extent, An empire o'er the mind. When Fortune drops her gay parade. When Pleasure's transient roses fade, And wither in the tomb ; Unchang'd is thy immortal prize, Thy ever-verdant laurels rise In undecaying bloom. By thee protected, I defy The coxcomb's sneer, the stupid lie Of ignorance and spiie : Alike contemn the leaden fool. And all the pointed r'dicule Of undiscerning wit. From envy, hurry, noise, and strife. The dull impertinence of life. In thy retreat I rest : Pursue thee to the pe?coful groves, Where Plato's sacred spirit roves. In all thy beauties drest. He bade Ilissus' tuneful stream Convey thy phil sophic thnme. Of perfect fair and irood : Attentive Athens caught tlie sound, And all her listening sons around In awful silence stood : Reclaim'd, her Avild licentious youth, Confess'd the potent voice of truth, And felt its just control : The passions ceas'd their loud alarms, And Virtue's soft persuasive charms O'er all their senses stole. Thy breath inspires the poet's song, The patriot's free unbiass'd tongue, The hero's generous strife : Thine are retirement's silent joys, And all the sweet engaging ties Of still, domestic life. No more to fabled names confined. To thee, supreme, all perfect Mind, My thoughts direct their flight; Wisdom's thy gift, and all her force From Thee derived, eternal source Of Intellectual light ! send her sure, her steady ray, To regulate my doubtful way. Through life's perplexing road ; The mists of error to control. And through its gloom direct my soul To happiness and good ! Beneath her clear discerning eye. The visionary shadows fly Of Folly's painted show : She sees, through every fair disguise, That all but Virtue's solid joys Is vanity and woe. Q 182 MISS ELIZABETH CARTER. LINES WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT DURING A THUNDER-STORM. Let coward Guilt, with pallid Fear, To sheltering caverns fly, And justly dread the vengeful fate That thunders through the sky. Protected by that Hand, whose law The threatening storms obey, Intrepid Virtue smiles secure As in the blaze of day. In the thick cloud's tremendous gloom, The lightning's lurid glare. It views the same all gracious Power That breathes the vernal air. Through Nature's every varying scene, By different ways pursued. The one eternal end of Heaven Is universal good. With like beneficent effect, O'er flaming ether glows, As when it tunes the linnet's voice, Or blushes in the rose. Bv reason taught to scorn those fears That vulgar minds molest. Let no fantastic terrors break My dear Narcissus' rest. Thy life may all the tenderest care Of Providence defend ; And delegated angels round Their guardian wings extend ! MISS ELIZABETH CARTER. 183 When through Creation's vast expanse The last dread thunders roll, Untune the concord of the spheres, And shake the rising soul ; Unmov'd, may'st thou the final storm Of jarring worlds survey, That ushers in the glad serene Of everlasting day ! 184 ANN YEARSLEY. ANN YEARSLEY, 1760—1806, A NATIVE of Bristol, where she lived until maturity, in very- humble circumstances. She was lifted from obscurity by Mrs. Hannfih More, who published her poems ; and prefaced them by a letter to Mrs. Montagu. Mrs. Yearsley's poems, although often laboured and artificial, frequently display great force and felicity of expression ; but they contain nothing striking in thought or sentiment. FROM CLIFTON HILL. Ye silent, solemn, strong, stupendous heights, Whose terror-striking frown the schoolboy frights From the young daw ; whilst in your rugged breast The chattering brood, secur'd by Horror, rest : Say, Muse, what arm the lowering brothers cleft, And the calm stream in this low cradle left ? Coeval with Creation tliey look down. And, sundcr'd, still retain their native frown. Beneath those heights, lo ! balmy springs arise, To which pale Beauty's faded image flies ; Their kindly powers life's genial heat restore, The tardy pulse, whose throbs were almost o'er, Here beats a livelier tune. The breezy air, To the wild hills invites the languid fair; Fear not the western gale, thou timorous maid, Nor dread its blast shall thy soft form invade ; Though cool and strong the quickening breezes blow, And meet thy panting breatli, 'twill quickly grow ANN YEARSLEY. 185 More strong: then drink the odoriferous draught, With unseen particles of heahh 'tis fraught Sit not within the threshold of Despair, Nor plead a weakness fatal to the fair ; Soft term for Indolence, politely given, By which we win no joy from earth or heaven. Foul fiend ! thou bane of health, fair virtue's bane. Death of true pleasure, source of real pain ! Keen exercise shall brace the fainting soul. And bid her slacken'd powers more vigorous roll. « * * * * How thickly cloth'd, yon rock of scanty soil, Its lovely verdure scorns the hand of toil. Here the deep green, and here the lively plays. The russet beech, and ever blooming bays ; The vengeful black-thorn, of wild beauties proud, Blooms beauteous in the gloomy chequer'd crowd : The barren elm, the useful feeding oak. Whose Hamadryad ne'er should feel the stroke Of axe relentless, till twice fifty years Have crown'd her woodland joys and fruitful cares. The poisonous reptiles here their mischiefs bring. And through the helpless sleeper dart the sting ; The toad envenom'd, hating human eyes, Here springs to light, lives long, and aged dies.. The harmless snail, slow journeying, creeps away,. Sucks the young dew, but shuns the bolder day. The long-nosed mouse, the woodland rat is here,. The sightless mole, with nicely pointed ear:; The timid rabbit hails the impervious gloom, Eludes the dog's keen scent, and shuns her doom. Various the tenants of this tangled wood. Who skulk all day, all night review the flood. Chew the wash'd weed driven by the beating wave, Or feast on dreadful food, which hop'd a milder grave. 24 Q* 186 ANN YEARSLEY. Hail, useful Channel ! Commerce spreads her wings, From either pole her various treasure brings ; Wafted by thee, the mariner, long stray'd, Clasps the fond parent and the sighing maid ; Joy tunes the cry ; the rocks rebound the roar : The deep vibration quivers 'long the shore : The merchant hears, and hails the peeping mast, The wave-drench'd sailor scorns all peril past : Now love and joy the noisy crew invite. And clumsy music crowns the rough delight. FROM A POEM ON MRS. MONTAGU. Oft as I trod my native wilds alone, Strong gusts of thought would rise, but rise to die ; The portals of the swelling soul ne'er oped By liberal converse, rude ideas strove Awhile for vent, but found it not, and died. Thus rust the mind's best powers. Yon starry orbs, Majestic ocean, flowery vales, gay groves. Eve-wasting lawns, and heaven-attempting hills. Which bound the horizon, and which curb the view ; All those, with beauteous imagery, awaked My ravish'd soul to extacy untaught, To all the transport the rapt sense can bear ; But all expired, for want of powers to speak ; All perish'd in the mind as soon as born, Eras'd more quick than ciphers on the shore. O'er which the cruel waves unheedful roll. The most precocious of our female poets, was the daughter of the Rev. Charles Symonds, and was born in 1792. She died at the age of eleven years, and it may be safely said that none of our poetesses have exhibited any thing like the same genius at the same age. I subjoin a variety of specimens. THE HAREBELL. In Spring's green lap there blooms a flower, Whose cup imbibes each vernal shower ; That sips fresh nature's balmy dew, Clad in her sweetest, purest blue ; Yet shuns the ruddy eye of morning, The shaggy wood's brown shades adorning. Simple flow'ret ! child of May ! Though hid from the broad gaze of day, Doom'd in the shade thy sweets to shed, Unnotic'd droops thy languid head ; Still nature's darling thou' It remain. She feeds thee with her softest rain ; Fills each sweet bud with honied tears, With genial gales thy bosom cheers. Ah, then unfold thy simple charms, In yon deep thicket's circling arms, Far from the fierce and sultry glare, No heedless hand shall harm thee there ; 188 CAROLINE SYMONDS. Sti)l> then, avoid the gaudy scene, The flaunting sun, th' embroider'd green. And bloom, and fade, with chaste reserve, unseen. THE FADED ROSE, Which grew on the tomb of Zelida. I gaz'd on the rose-bud, I heav'd a deep sigh. And mine eyelid was gemm'd with a tear; O let me, I cried, by my Zelida lie. For all that I value sleeps here ! Her sweetness, simplicity, virtue, and charms, Could with naught but a seraph compare ; Ah ! now since my Zelida's torn from my arms, There is nothing I love, but despair. This rose-tree once flourish'd, and sweeten'd the air, Like its blossom, all lovely, she grew ! The scent of her breath, as its fragrance was rare, And her cheeks were more fresh than its hue. She planted, she lov'd it, she water'd its head, And its bloom every rival defied ; But alas ! what was beauty or virtue, soon fled. In Spring they both blossom'd and died. And now for my bosom this life has no charms, I feel all its troubles and care ; And since my dear Zelida's torn from my arms. There is nothing I love, but despair. CAROLINE SYMONDS. 189 The subjoined lines display great delicacy of feeling, and exhibit a sweetness and simplicity of fancy, very remarkable in so young a writer. To Lady Lucy Foley, on her birthday, February, 1803. No morn now blushes on the enamour'd sight, No genial sun now warms the torpid day ; Since February sternly check'd his ray, When Lucy's eyes first beam'd their azure light. What though no vernal flowers my hand invite To crop their fragrance on your natal day ; Lucy, for you the snow-drop and the bay, Shall blend the unfading green and modest white. Though on this festive hour with aspect bleak, Stern Winter frowns, in icy garments drest; Still may the rosy Summer robe your cheek, And the green Spring still bud within your breast ; Till the world fading on your closing eyes, You find a golden Autumn in the skies. The following sonnet, singularly applicable to herself, was ma,de ner Epitaph : THE BLIGHTED ROSEBUD. (Insaihed on the Writer's Tomb.) Scarce had thy velvet lips imbib'd the dew, And nature hail'd thee, infant queen of May ; Scarce saw thy opening bloom the sun's broad ray. And on the air its tender fragrance threw ; When the north wind enamour'd of thee grew, And from his chilling kiss, thy charms decay ; 190 CAROLINE SYMONDS, Now droops thine head, and fades thy bhishing hue No more the queen of flowers, no longer gay. So blooms a maid, her guardian's health and joy, Her mind array'd in innocency's vest; When suddenly, impalieut to destroy. Death clasps the victim to his iron breast : She fades — the parent, sister, friend, deplore The charms and buddinsr virtues now no more. MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 191 MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH, 1749—1806, One of the most atlmired of our female poets, is also a noble spe- cimen of womanly excellence. She was the daughter of Nicho- las Turner, Esq., of Stoke House in Surrey, where she was born in 1479. Deprived of her mother at an early age, she was in- duced in her fifteenth year to marry Mr. Smith, the son of a rich merchant : the bridegroom's age being only twenty-one. Care- lessness and extravagance on Mr. Smith's part, and the death of his father, whose will was so complicated that all the property was swallowed up in lawsuits, reduced the unhappy pair to great embarrassments. The husband was thrown into prison, which the wife shared with him : and it was while labouring under these difficulties that Mrs. Smith turned her literary talents to account. In 1782 she published a volume of Sonnets, which was favoura- bly received by the public, and passed through no fewer than ele- ven editions. The domestic life of Mr. and Mrs. Smith becom- ing more and more unhappy, a separation at length took place ; and Mrs. Smith retired to a cottage near Chichester, where she applied herself assiduously and cheerfully to literary pursuits. She here produced her well-known novels of Emmeline, Ethc- lincle, and Cclestina, and various other works in prose and verse. She died at Tilford, near Farnham, in 1806. Mrs. Smith's poetry is at once forcible and elegant : her de- scriptions of nature are peculiarly true and pleasing: and her sen- timents, altliough somewhat sombre in their tone, are marked by great purity of thought, and clearness of expression. Her love of flowers is exquisitely developed. 192 MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. SONNET. W7ilten tit the close of Sjjritig. The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower, which she had nurs'd in dew, Anemonies, that spangled every grove. The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain. Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. Ah, poor humanity ! so frail, so fair. Are the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion and corrosive care. Bid all thy fairy colours fade away ! Another May new buds and flowers shall bring; Ah ! why has Happiness no second Spring ? SONNET. Sighing, I see yon little troop at play. By sorrow yet untouch'd, unhurt by care, While free and sportive they enjoy to-day, Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare. O happy age ! when Hope's unclouded ray Lights their green path, and prompts their simple mirth, Ere yet they feel the thorns that lurking lay To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth. Making them rue the hour that gave them birth, And threw them on a world so full of pain. Where prosperous folly treads on patient worth, And to deaf pride misfortune pleads in vain ! Ah ! for their future fate how many fears Oppress my heart, and fill mine eyes with tears ! MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. 193 SONNET, The Glow-worm. When, on some balmy-breathing night of Spring, The happy child, to whom the world is new, Pursues the evening moth of mealy wing, Or from the heathbell beats the sparkling dew ; He sees before his inexperienc'd eyes The brilliant Glow-worm, like a meteor, shine On the turf bank; — amaz'd and pleas'd he cries, " Star of the dewy grass, I make thee mine !" Then, ere he sleep, collects the moisten'd flower. And bids soft leaves his glittering prize enfold, And dreams that fairy lamps illume his bower ; Yet with the morning shudders to behold His lucid treasure, rayless as the dust : — So turn the World's bright joys to cold and blank disgust. SONNET. To the Moon. Queen of the silver bow ! by thy pale beam Alone and pensive, I delight to stray. And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way. And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast ; And oft I think, fair planet of the night. That in thy orb the Avretched may have rest : The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go, Releas'd by death, to thy benignant sphere, And the sad children of despair and woe Forget in thee their cup of sorrow here. Oh, that I soon may reach thy world serene, Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene! 25 R 194 MRS. CHARLOTTE SIMITH. SONNET. On the Departure of the Nightingale. Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu ! Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year! Ah ! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. Whether on Spring thy wandering flights aAvait, Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate, And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest ; And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide The gentle bird, who sings of pity best ; For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to sorrow, and to love ! SONNET. Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way, Rest for a moment of the sultry hours. And, though his path through thorns and roughness lay. Pluck the wild rose, or woodbine's gadding flowers, Weaving gay wreatlis beneath some slieltering tree. The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose. So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy ! So charm'd my way Avilh Friendship and the Sluse. But darker now grows life's unhappy day. Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come, Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away. And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb, And points my wishes to that tranquil shore. Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more. ANNA SEWARD, 1747—1809, The daughter of the Reverend Thomas Seward, Canon Residen- tiary of Lichfield, was born in 1747. She early manifested a remarkable taste for poetry, and before she was nine years old, she could repeat the three first books of Paradise Lost. Her father, although himself a poet, endeavoured to repress her passion for the muse : but when she became of an age to choose her own studies, she devoted herself to poetical composition. In spite of a somewhat inflated and turgid style, Miss Seward gained a large share of public favour; we find that the was called " The Swan of Lichfield :" but she has few admirers m the present day. Sir Walter Scott, to whom she bequeathed three volumes of poetry for publication, pronounced her verses " execrable." I subjoin some varied specimens of Miss Seward's powers. SONNET. December Morning, 1782. I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light, Winter's pale dawn ; and as warm fires illume And cheerful tapers shine around the room. Through misty windows bend thy musing sight. Where'' round the dusky lawn, the mansions white. With shutters clos'd, peer faintly through the gloom, That slow recedes ; while yon grey spires assume. Rising from theii dark pile, an added height By indistinctness given. Then to decree 196 ANNA SEWARD. The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold To Friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee Wisdom's rich page : O hours ! more worth than gold, By whose blest use we lengthen life, and free From drear decays of age, outlive the old ! TIME PAST. Written, January, 1773. Return, blest years ! when not the jocund Spring, Luxuriant Summer, nor the amber hours Calm Autumn gives, my heart invok'd, to bring Joys, whose rich balm o'er all the bosom pours ; When ne'er I wished might grace the closing day, One tint purpureal, or one golden ray ; When the loud storms, that desolate the bowers, Found dearer welcome than Favonian gales, And Winter's bare, bleak fields, than Summer's flowery vale«. Yet not to deck pale hours with vain parade, Beneath the blaze of wide-illumin'd dome ; Not for the bounding dance ; not to pervade And charm the sense with music; nor as roam The mimic passions o'er theatric scene. To laugh, or weep ; O ! not for these, I ween, But for delights that made the heart their home. Was the grey night-frost on the sounding plain More than the sun invok'd, that gilds the grassy lane. Yes, for the joys that trivial joys excel. My lov'd Honora, did we hail the gloom Of dim November's eve ; and, as it fell, A.nd the bright fire shone cheerful round the room, Dropt the warm curtains with no tardy hand. ANNA SEWARD. IST And felt our spirits and our hearts expand ; Listening their steps, who still, where'er they come, Make the keen stars, that glaze the settled snows. More than the sun invok'd, when first he tints the rose. Affection — Friendship — Sympathy,— your throne Is Winter's glowing hearth; — and ye were ours, Thy smile, Honora, made tliem all our own. Where are they now? —alas ! their choicest powers Faded at thy retreat ; — for thou art gone. And many a dark, long eve I sigh alone. In thrill'd remembrance of the vanish'd hours. When storms were dearer than the balmy gales. And the grey barren fields than green luxuriant vales. SONG. From thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly ; From the rocks that are lash'd by their tide ; From the maid whose cold bosom, relentless as they, Has wreck'd my warm hopes by her pride ! Yet lonely and rude as the scene. Her smile to that scene could impart A charm that might rival the bloom of the vale — But away, thou fond dream of my heart ! From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly ! Now the blasts of the winter come on ! And the waters grow dark as they rise ! But 'tis well ! — they resemble the sullen disdain That has lour'd in those insolent eyes. Sincere were the sighs they represt. But they rose in the days that are flown ! Ah, nymph ! unrelenting and cold as thou art, My spirit is proud as thine own ! From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly 1 R* leS ANNA SEWARD. Lo ! the wings of the sea-fowl are spread To escape the loud storm by their flight ; And these caves will afford them a gloomy retreat From the winds and the billows of night : Like them, to the home of my youth, Like them, to its shades I retire ; Receive me, and shield my vext spirit, ye groves, From the pangs of insulted desire ! To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu ! THE GRAVE OF YOUTH. When life is hurried to untimely close, In the years of crystal eyes and burnish'd hair, Dire are the thoughts of death ; eternal parting From all the precious soul's yet known delights. All she had clung to here ; from youth and hope, And the year's blossom'd April ; bounding strength, AVhich had outleap'd the rose, when morning suns Yellow'd their forest glade ; from reaper's shout And cheerful swarm of populous towns ; from Time, Which tells of joys forepast, and promises The dear return of seasons, and the bliss Crowning a fruitful marriage ; from the stores Of well-engrafted knowledge ; from all utterance, Since in the silent grave, no talk ! no music ! No gay surprise, by unexpected good, Social, or individual ! — no glad step Of welcome friend, with more intenseness listen'd Than warbled melody ! no father's counsel ! No mother's smile ! no lover's whisper'd vow ! There nothing breathes save the insatiate worm. And nothing is, but the drear altering corse. Resolving silentl)^ to shaptdcss dust. In unpierc'd darkness and in black oblivion. MISS SCOTT. 1^9 MISS SCOTT (of Ancram). In the third volume of Ellis's Specimens of the Early English Poets, are two poems by Miss Scott, of Ancram. The following is one of them. THE OWL. While the Moon, with sudden gleam, Through the clouds that cover her, Darts her light upon the stream, And the poplars gently stir, Pleas'd I hear thy boding cry ! Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky, Sure, thy notes are harmony ! While the maiden, pale with care, Wanders to the lonely shade, Sighs her sorrows to the air. While the flowerets round her fade. Shrinks to hear thy boding cry ! Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky. To her it is not harmony 1 While the wretch, with mournful dole. Wrings his hands in agony. Praying for his brother's soul. Whom he pierced suddenly. Shrinks to hear thy boding cry. Owl that lov'st the cloudy sky, To him it is not harmony. 200 MRS. MARY TIGHE. MRS. MARY TIGHE. 1773—18] 0. This highly gifted lady was the daughter of the Rev. William Blachford, of the county of Wicklow, where she was born in or about the year 1773. She is chiefly known by her splendid poem of Psyche, which for gorgeousness of colouring and refine- ment of imagination, is scarcely behind the best verses of Moore, while it is certainly more chaste and spiritual in its sentiment. Mrs. Tighe died in 1810. FROM PSYCHE. (Canto II.) Psyche's return to the Palace of Love. -^ Her disobedknre. — Love asleep. — Psyche's amazement. — The flight of Love. — Sudden banishment of Psyche from the Island of Pleasure, Illumin'd bright now shines the splendid dome, Melodious accents her arrival hail : But not the torch's blaze can chase the gloom, And ail the soothing powers of music fail ; Trembling she seeks her couch with horror pale. But first a lamp conceals in secret shade, While unknown terrors all her soul assail. Thus half their treacherous counsel is obey'd. For still her gentle soul abhors the murderous blade. And now with softest whispers of delight. Love welcomes Psyche still more fondly dear ; Not unobserv'd, though hid in deepest night, The silent an-om each shore, To bid each climate know its want no more. Exil'd on earth, a fetter' li prisoner here, Barr'd from all treasures which my soul holds dear, The kindred soul, the fame my youth desir'd. Whilst hope hath fled which once my bosom fir'd ; Dead to all joy, still to mv fancy glow Dreams of delight which heavenward thoughts bestow. Not then in death shall I unconscious be Of that whose whispers are Eternity. Far, far from me my love is fled. In a light skiflT lie tempts the sea, The young Desires his sails have spread, And Hope his pilot deigns to be. The promis'd land of varied joys. Which so delights his fickle mind. In waking dreams his days employs. While I, poor I, sing to the wind. But young Desires grow old and die. And Hope no more the Helm may steer ; Beneath a dark and stormy sky Shall fall the late repentant tear. While I, within my peaceful grot, May hear the distant tempest roar, Contented with my humble lot. In safety on the friendly shore. O tuneful voice ! I still deplore Those accents which, tliough heard no more. MRS. ANNE HUNTER. 261 Still vibrate on my heart ; In echo's cave I long to dwell, And still would hear the sad farewell When we were doom'd to part. Bright eyes ! that the task were mine To guard the liquid fires tliat shine, And round your orbits play ; To watch them with a Vestal's care. And feed with smiles a light so fair, That it may ne'er decay. TO MY DAUGHTER, On being separated from her on her marriage. Dear to my heart as life's warm stream, Which animates this mortal clay, For thee I court the waking dream, And deck with smiles the future day ; And thus beguile the present pain With hopes that we shall meet again. Yet will it be, as when the past Twin'd every joy and care and thought. And o'er our minds one mantle cast Of kind affections finely wrought ? Ah, no ! the groundless hope were vain, For so we ne'er can meet again ! May he who claims thy tender heart Deserve its love, as I have done ! For, kind and gentle as thou art, If so belov'd, thou 'rt fairly won. Bright may the sacred torch remain, And cheer thee till we meet again ! 262 HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI. HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI, 1739—1821, The well-known friend of Dr. Johnson, was the daughter of Mr. John Salusbury, of Caernarvonshire. She was born in 1739, and married, first Mr. Thrale, the brewer, who was so warmly attached to Johnson, and subsequently Signor Piozzi, a music-master. As an authoress, she is chiefly known by her tale called THE THREE WARNINGS. The tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground ; 'T was therefore said by ancient sages. That love of life increas'd with years So much, that in our latter stages. When pain grows sharp, and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears : This great affection to believe, Which all confess, but few perceive, If old assertions can't prevail. Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale. When sports went round, and all were gay On neighbour Dobson's weddmg-day, Death called aside the jocund groom With him into another room ; And looking grave, "You must," says he, " Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." " With you ! and quit my Susan's side ! .J " With you !" the hapless husband cried ; " Young as I am — 't is monstrous hard ; Besides, in truth I 'mnot prepar'd; My thoughts on other matters go, This is my wedding-day, you know." What more he urg'd I have not heard, His reasons could not well be stronger ; So Death the poor delinquent spar'd, And left to live a little longer. Yet, calling up a serious look. His hour-glass trembled while he spoke, " Neighbour," he said, "farewell ! no more Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour : And farther, to avoid all blame Of cruelty upon my name. To give you time for preparation, And fit you for your future station, Three several warnings you shall have, Before you 're summoned to the grave : Willing for once I '11 quit my prey. And grant a kind reprieve ; In hopes you '11 have no more to say, But when I call again this way, Well pleas'd the world will leave." To these conditions both consented. And parted, perfecdy contented. What next the hero of our tale befell, How long he liv'd, how wise, how well, How roundly he pursued his course. And smok'd his pipe, and strok'd his horse, The willing Muse shall tell : He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold, Nor once perceiv'd his growing old, Nor thought of Death as near : His friends not false, his wife no shrew. Many his gains, his children few, 264 HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI. He passed his hours in peace : But while he view'd his weahh increase, While thus along Life's dusty road The beaten track content he trod, Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares. Brought on his eightieth year. And now, one night, in musing mood, As all alone he sat. The unwelcome messenger of fate Once more before him stood. Half kill'd with anger and surprise, " So soon return'd !" old Dobson cries ; " So soon d'ye call it ?" Death replies ; " Surely,my friend, you 're but in jest! Since I was here before, 'T is six and thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore." " So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd, " To spare the aged would be kind ; However, see your search be legal ; And your authority — is 't regal ? Else you are come on a fool's errand. With but a secretary's warrant ; Besides, you promis'd me Three Warnings, Which I have look'd for nights and mornings ! But for that loss of time and ease, I can recover damages." " I know," cries Death, " that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest ; But don't be captious, friend, at least : I little thought you 'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable ; Your years have run to a great length, I wish you joy, though, of your strength !" HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI. 265 " Hold " — says the farmer, " not so fast ! I have been lame these four years past." " And no great wonder," Death replies, " However, you still keep your eyes : And sure to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends !" " Perhaps," says Dobson, "so it might, But latterly I 've lost my sight." " This is a shocking story, 'faith. But there's some comfort still," says Death; " Each strive your sadness to amuse, I warrant you hear all the news !" " There 's none," cries he, " and if there were, I 'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." "Nay then," the spectre stern rejoin'd, " These are unjustifiable yearnings ; If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, You 've had your Three sufficient Warnings , So, come along! no more we '11 part !" He said, and touch'd him with his dart ; And now old Dobson, turning pale, Yields to his fate — so ends my tale, S4 Y 266 ANN RADCLIFFE. ANN RADCLIFFE, 1764—1823, Whose fame rests, as needs hardly to be said, upon her splendid but terrible novels of The Italian and The Mysteries of Udolpho, was a poetess of no mean pretensions. The pieces of verse interspersed in her various romances display the same peculiar powers which characterise her prose compositions ; they are marked by great energy of imagination, and rich eloquence of style. Mrs. Radcliffe was born in London, in 1764, of a respectable family named Ward. She married Mr. Radcliffe, a law-student, in 1787 : and died in 1823. TO THE WINDS. Viewless, through Heaven's vast vault your course ye steer, Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go ! Mysterious powers ! I hear you murmur low. Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear, And, awful, seems to say — some God is near ! I love to list your midnight voices float In the dread storm that o'er the ocean rolls, And, while their charm the angry wave controls. Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote. Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note. The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail, A sweeter note oft swells wliile sleeps the gale ! But soon, ye sightless powers ! your rest is o'er, Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air, ANN RADCLIFFE. 267 Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear, And the faint-warbled dirge — is heard no more ! Oh ! then I deprecate your awful reign ! The loud lament yet bear not on your breath ! Bear not the crash of bark far on the main, Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain, The crew's dread chorus sinking into death ! Oh ! give not these, ye powers ! I ask alone. As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps. The elemental war, the billow's moan ; I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps. THE GLOW-WORM. How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade On a midsummer's eve when the fresh rain is o'er ; When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle through the glade, And swiftly in the thin air the ligh swallows soar ! But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest. And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay Tripping through the forest-walk, where flowers unprest Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play. To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour. Till moonlight steals down among the trembling leaves. And checkers all the ground, and guides them to the bower. The long-haunted bower, where the nightingale grieves. Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done, But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend ; And often as her dying notes their pity have won, They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend. 268 ANN RADCLIFFE. When, down among the mountains, sinks the evening star, And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere, How cheerless would they be, though they fairies are, If I, with my pale light, came not near ! Yet cheerless though they 'd be, they 're ungrateful to my love ! For, often when the traveller 's benighted on his way. And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him through the grove, They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray ; And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out. While in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground, And afar in the woods they raise a dismal shout. Till I shrink into my cell again, for terror of the sound ! But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring. With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabour, and the horn, And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string. Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn. Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy queen, Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me, That yester eve I lighted them, along the dewy green. To seek the purple flower whose juice from all her spells can free. And now to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band, With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabour, and the lute ; If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand. And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute. Oh ! had I but that purple flower whose leaves her charms can foil. And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind, I 'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile, And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind ! But soon the vapour of the woods will wander afar, And the fickle moon wiU fade, and the stars disappear, Then, cheerless will they be, though they fairies are. If I with ray pale light come not near ! ANN RADCLIFFE. 269 SONG OF A SPIRIT. In the sightless air I dwell, On the sloping sunbeams play ; Delve the cavern's inmost cell, Where never yet did daylight stray. I dive beneath the green sea-waves, And gambol in the briny deeps ; Skim every shore that Neptune laves, From Lapland's plains to India's steeps. Oft I mount with rapid force, Above the wide earth's shadowy zone ; Follow the day-star's flaming course, Through realms of space to thought unknown. j And listen to celestial sounds That swell in air, unheard of men, As I watch my nightly rounds O'er woody steep and silent glen. Under the shade of waving trees, On the green bank of fountain clear, At pensive eve I sit at ease. While dying music murmurs near. And oft, on point of airy clift That hangs upon the western main, I watch the gay tints passing swift. And twilight veil the liquid plain. Then, when the breeze has sunk away. And Ocean scarce is heard to lave. For me the sea-nymphs softly play Their dulcet shells beneath the wave. 270 ANN RADCLIFFE. Their dulcet shells ! — I hear them now ; Slow swells the strain upon mine ear ; Now faintly falls — now warbles low, Till rapture melts into a tear. The ray that silvers o'er the dew, And trembles through the leafy shade, And tints the scene with softer hue. Calls me to rove the lonely glade; Or hie me to some ruin'd tower, Faintly shown by moonlight gleam. When the lone wanderer owns my power, In shadows dire that substance seem ; In thrilling sounds that murmur woe. And pausing silence make more dread ; In music breathing from below Sad, solemn strains, that wake the dead. Unseen I move — unknown am fear'd ; Fancy's wildest dreams I weave ; And oft by bards my voice is heard To die along the gales of eve. MRS. HENRY ROLLS. 271 MRS. HENRY ROLLS. I AM not able to give any account at all of this lady. The fol- lowing productions have been extracted from common-place books : the poetry, however, is any thing but common-place. There is a sigh — that half supprest. Seems scarce to heave the bosom fair ; It rises from the spotless breast. The first fair dawn of tender care. There is a sigh — so soft, so sweet. It breathes not from the lip of woe ; 'T is heard where conscious lovers meet. Whilst yet untold young passions glow. There is a sigh — short, deep and strong, That on the lip of rapture dies ; It floats mild evening's shade along. When meet the fond consenting eyes. There is a sigh — that speaks regret. Yet seems scarce conscious of its pain ; It tells of bliss remember'd yet. Of bliss that ne'er must wake again. There is a sigh — that, deeply breathed, Bespeaks the bosom's secret woe ; It says the flowers which Love had wreathed, Are wither'd, ne'er again to blow. 272 MRS. HENRY ROLLS. There is a sigh — that slowly swells, Then deeply breathes its load of care ; It speaks that in that bosom dwells That last, worst pang, fond love's despair. What is that smile that o'er the cheek Of artless blooming childhood strays ; That revels in the dimple sleek — That charms the mother's tender gaze ? 'Tis the bright sun of April's morn. That rises with unsullied ray ; Nor marks the clouds, that swift are borne, To wrap in shades the future day ! What is that soft, that languid smile, That mingles with a tender sigh ; Light spreads the timid blush the while, And sweetly sinks the melting eye ? 'T is the bright dew-drop on the rose. Sweet remnant of the early shower, That will its ripen'd leaves unclose, And to full fragrance spread the flower ! What is that smile, whose rapturous glow Passion's impetuous breast inspires, Whilst Pleasure's gaudy blossoms blow. And the eye beams with guilty fires ? 'T is the volcano's baleful blaze That pours around a fatal light ; Whose victim dies that stops to gaze; Whence safety is but found in flight ! MRS. HENRY ROLLS. 273 Whence is that sad, that transient smile That dawns upon the lip of woe ; That checks the deep-drawn sigh awhile, And stays the tear that starts to flow ? 'T is but a veil cast o'er the heart. When youth's gay dreams have pass'd away : When joy's faint lingering rays depart. And the last gleams of hope decay ! What is that bright, that fearful smile. Quick flashing o'er the brow of care ; When fades each fruit of mental toil. And nought remains to check despair ? 'Tis the wild lurid lightning's gleam, Swift bursting from a stormy cloud ; That spreads a bright destructive beam. Then sinks into its sable shroud ! What is that smile, calm, fix'd at last, On the hoar brow of reverend age, When the world's changing scenes are past, And nearly clos'd life's varied page ? 'T is the rich glowing western beam. Bright spreading o'er the dark'ning skies ; That shows, by its mild parting gleam, A cloudless heavenly morn shall rise ! THE WARRIORS SONG. Fill high the bowl ! 't is perhaps the last The kindred warriors e'er may drain ! Oh, when to-morrow's fight is past, How few to pledge it may remain ! 35 274 MRS. HENRY ROLLS. Fill high the bowl ! 't is perhaps the last That Beauty's hand may yield to thine ! Oh, when it o'er her lip has pass'd, It gives a joy more sweet than wine. Fill high the bowl ! 't is perhaps the last That will beneath this roof be crown'd ; Soon the wild breeze that murmurs past May sweep its ruin'd wall around. Fill high the bowl ! 't is perhaps the last In which we hail our fathers' fame ; Oh, when 't is by our children pass'd. May added glories gild their name ! Fill high the bowl ! 't is perhaps the last — In it come pledge the hero's grave ! For him Death's pang, ere felt, is past, It lingers only to the slave. LADY BURRELL. 275 LADY BURRELL Wrote two volumes of poems, in 1793. They display conside- rable liveliness of fancy, but are occasionally coarse and vulgar. The two poems which the reader finds below are about the best in the collection. CHLOE AND MYRA. Chloe is elegant and pretty. But silly and affected ; Myra is sensible and witty, And by the wise respected. When pretty Chloe I behold, I think myself her lover ; But ere I have my passion told. Her failings I discover. When Myra talks, I'm pleased to hear, And venerate her mind : But in her face no charms appear, My wavering heart to bind. Blindfold I should to Myra run, And swear to love her ever ; Yet when the bandage was undone, Should only think her clever. With the full usage of my eyes, I Chloe should decide for ; But when she talks, I her despise. Whom, dumb, I could have died for ! 276 LADY BURRELL, My ear or eye must tortur'd be If I make choice of either ; 'T is therefore best I should agree Ladies ! — to marry neither ! TO EMMA. Why, pretty rogue ! do you protest The trick of stealing you detest? 'T is what you are doing every day, Either in earnest or in play. Cupid and you, 't is said, are cousins, [Aufait in stealing hearts by dozens,) Who make no more of shooting sparks, Than schoolboys do of wounding larks ; Nay, what is worse, 't is my belief. Though known to be an arrant thief, Such powers of witchcraft are your own, That Justice slumbers on her throne ; And should you be arraign'd in court For practising this cruel sport, In spite of all the plaintiff's fury Your smile would bribe both judge and jury. LUCY AIKIN. 277 LUCY AIKIN, The daughter of Dr. John Aikin, and niece of Mrs. Barbauld, seems to have inherited no small share of the genius of her family. Miss Aikin has been engaged in various literary undertakings, in none of which perhaps has she been more successful than in her Poetry for Children, which is, probably, the most difficult style of verse that can be attempted. Miss Aikin very ably avoids a too great simplicity on the one hand, and a too refined diction on the other : and thus grasps the youthful mind with a sure hold. THE BEGGAR MAN. Around the fire, one winter night. The farmer's rosy children sat ; The faggot lent its blazing light. And jokes went round, and careless chat. When, hark ! a gentle hand they hear Low tapping at the bolted door ; And thus to gain their willing ear, A feeble voice was heard t' implore : — " Cold blows the blast across the moor : The sleet drives hissing in the wind : Yon toilsome mountain lies before ; A dreary treeless waste behind. " My eyes are weak and dim with age ; No road, no path, can I descry ; And these poor rags ill stand the rage Of such a keen inclement sky. z 278 LUCY AIKIN. " So faint I am — these tottering feet No more my feeble frame can bear ; My sinking heart forgets to beat, And drifting snows my tomb prepare. " Open your hospitable door : And shield me from the biting blast ; Cold, cold it blows across the moor The weary moor that I have pass'd ! " With hasty step the farmer ran, And close beside the fire they place The poor half-frozen beggar-man. With shaking limbs and pallid face. The little children flocking came. And warm'd his stiff"ening hands in theirs ; And busily the good old dame A comfortable mess prepares. Their kindness cheer'd his drooping soul ; And slowly down his wrinkled cheek The big round tears were seen to roll, And told the thanks he could not speak. The children, too, began to sigh. And all their merry chat was o'er ; And yet they felt, they knew not why, More glad than they had done before. This last verse has quite the manner and spirit of Words- worth : indeed, the whole composition is full of the finest and most tender feeling. LUCY AIKIN. 279 As a sample of the clever manner in which Miss Aikin com- bines information with amusement, I select her little poem called O'er Arabia's desert sands The patient camel walks ; Mid lonely caves and rocky lands The fell hyaena stalks. On the cool and shady hills Coffee shrubs and tamarinds grow, Headlong fall the welcome rills Down the fruitful dells below. The fragrant myrrh and healing balm Perfume the passing gale ; Thick hung with dates, the spreading palm Tow'rs o'er the peopled vale. Locusts oft, a living cloud. Hover in the darken'd air; Like a torrent dashing loud, Bringing famine and despair. And often o'er the level waste The stifling hot winds fly ; Down falls the swain with trembling haste, The gasping cattle die. Shepherd people on the plain Pitch their tents and wander free ; Wealthy cities they disdain. Poor, — yet blest with liberty. 280 MRS. AMELU OPIE. MRS. AMELIA OPIE. This estimable lady, who is a member of the Society of Friends, is chiefly known for her admirable prose stories, in which is contained a pure, simple, and sweet morality, not sur- passed by any writer in our literature. She, however, published, in 1802, a volume of miscellaneous Poems, and, in 1834, a work entitled " Lays for the Dead,'''' both of which are characterised by ^eat tenderness and grace of feeling. Her song of The Or- phan Boy is one of the most touching productions contained in our language. THE ORPHAN BOy's TALE. Stay, Lady, stay for mercy's sake, And hear a helpless orphan's tale ; Ah ! sure my looks must pity wake, 'T is want that makes my cheek so pale. Yet I was once a mother's pride, And my brave father's hope and joy ; But in the Nile's proud fight he died, And I am now an orphan boy. Poor foolish child ! how pleas'd was I, When news of Nelson's victory came, Along the crowded streets to fly, And see the lighted windows flame ! To force me home my mother sought, She could not bear to see my joy ; For with my father's life 't was bought, And made me a poor orphan boy. The people's shouts were long and loud, My mother shuddering closed her ears ; "Rejoice, rejoice," still cried the crowd, My mother answer'd with her tears. ♦' Why are you crying thus," said I, "While otliers laugh and sliout with joy ?" She kiss'd me — and with such a sigh! She call'd me her poor orphan boy. " What is an orphan boy ?" T cried. As in her face I look'd and smil'd ; My mother through her tears replied, " You '11 know too soon, ill fated child !" And now they 've toU'd my mother's knell. And I 'm no more a parent's joy, Lady ! I have learnt too well What't is to be an orphan boy. O were I by your bounty fed ! — Nay, gentle Lady, do not chide, — Trust me, I mean to earn my bread ; The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Lady, you weep ! — ha ! — this to me ? You '11 give me clothing, food, employ ? Look down, dear parents ! look and see Your happy, happy orphan boy. It is a fault of the Female Poets of the last century that they expended their strength rather on sentiment than on feeling. This makes most of the verse which they produced, appear tame and unimpassioned ; and it is a reason, perhaps the chief reason, why so many of their names have nearly passed into oblivion : for sentiment is, in its very nature, evanescent: and, even when pnintcd in its brightest colours, lasts but a little while. It is a phosphorescent flame, flashing for a moment through the mental atmosphere, but giving neither warmth nor light: Avhilst true passion is a ray shot from the everlasting sun of the spiritual 36 z* 282 MRS. AiMELIA OPIE. firmament, shedding- a glow and a brightness upon all time. Of this true sterling sort is the pathos of Mrs. Opie. SONG. Go, youth belov'd, in distant glades New friends, new hopes, new joys to find ! Yet sometimes deign, 'midst fairer maids. To think on her thou leav'st behind. Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share Must never be my happy lot; But thou mayst grant this humble prayer, Forget me not, forget me not. Yet, should the thought of my distress Too painful to thy feelings be. Heed not the wish I now express. Nor ever deign to think on me : But, oh ! if grief thy steps attend, If want, if sickness be thy lot. And thou require a soothing friend. Forget me not, forget me not ! From Mrs. Opie's numerous devotional poems I extract the subjoined HYMN. There 's not a leaf within the bower ; There 's not a bird upon the tree ; There 's not a dewdrop on the flower. But bears the impress. Lord ! of Thee. Thy hand the varied leaf design'd. And gave the bird its thrilling tone : Thy power the dewdrop's tints combined, Till like a diamond's blaze they shone. MRS. AMELIA OPIE. 283 Yes : dewdrops, leaves, and birds, and all, The smallest like the greatest things ; The sea's vast space, the earth's wide ball, Alike proclaim Thee King of Kings. But man alone to bounteous Heaven Thanksgiving's conscious strains can raise ; To favour'd man alone 'tis given To join the angelic choir in praise. Mrs. Opie's poems bear fresh evidence to the truth of an assertion more than once made in this work, that woman's moral sentiments are generally in advance of man's. Those who doubt the fact will do well to remember how continually man's verse celebrates the infernal glories of war, the cruel excitements of the chase, or the selfish pleasures of bacchanalian enjoyment; and, on the other hand, how unceasingly woman's verse exposes the wickedness and folly of such pursuits. Very rarely do we find in the writings of the male sex, passages like the following, though we continually see similar sentiments in the works of our female writers : — Alas ! to think one Christian soul At War's red shrine can worship still. Nor heed, though seas of carnage roll. Those awful words — " Thou shalt not kill ! " O Lord of all, and Prince of Peace, Speed, speed the long-predicted day. When War throughout the world shall cease, And Love shall hold eternal sway ! Mrs. Opie's Lays for the Dead is a book of truest beauty : and, although the perusal of it resembles (from the mournfulness of its subjects) a visit to a churchyard, the effect it produces upon us is of a most pleasing character. It hushes all unquiet emotion ; bids the cares of earth far into the distance ; and awakens a calm sweet pensiveness of feeling, which nothing could make us wish 284 MRS. AMELIA OPIE. to change. We seem to converse with the Past and the Departed, and to stand on the very shore of the great ocean of Eternity. It is very difficult to select fair samples of this book ; for it is as a whole that its exquisite beauty is apparent : but I nevertheless subjoin two extracts, to show the pure tone which marks the volume. REMEMBRANCE. Where'er I stray, thou dear departed one, I see thy form, thy voice I seem to hear ! And though thou art to brighter regions gone, Thy smile still charms my eye, thy tones my ear ! Whene'er adown thy favourite walk I go. Still, still I feel the pressure of tliy arm ; And oh ! so strong the sweet illusions grow, I shun, I loathe whatever breaks the charm. In vain I 'm urged to join the social scene; This silent shade alone has charms for me: I love to be where I willi thee have been ; And home, though desolate, is full of thee ! It is not difficult to perceive that the foregoing, as well as the following, lines refer to her excellent husband, the late John Opie, of the Royal Academy. It is impossible for sentiment to be more exquisitely feminine than this : A LAMENT. There was an eye, whose partial glance Could ne'er my numerous failings see ; There was an ear that heard untired When others spoke in praise of me. There was a heart time only taught With warmer love for me to burn ; A heart whene'er from home I roved Which fondly pmed for my return. There was a lip which always breathed, E'en short farewells in tones of sadness ; There was a voice whose eager sound My welcome spoke with heartfelt gladness There was a mind whose vigorous power On mine its own effulgence threw, And called my humble talents forth. While thence its dearest joys it drew. There was a love, which for my weal With anxious fears would overflow ; Which wept, which pray'd, for me, and sought From future ills to guard — But now ! — That eye is closed, and deaf that ear. That lip and voice are mute for ever; And cold that heart of anxious love, Which death alone from mine could sever : And lost to me that ardent mind, Which loved my various tasks to see ; And oh ! of all the praise I gain'd. His was the dearest far to me 1 Now I unloved, uncheer'd, alone, Life's dreary wilderness must tread. Till He who heals the broken heart In mercy bids me join the dead. O Thou ! who from thy throne on high, Can'st heed the mourner's deep distress ; O Thou, who hear'st the widow's cry. Thou ! Father of the fatherless ! 286 MRS. AMELIA OPIE. Though now I am a faded leaf, That 's sever'd from its parent tree, And thrown upon a stormy tide, Life's awful tide that leads to Thee ! — Still, gracious Lord ! the voice of praise Shall spring spontaneous from my breast ; Since, though I tread a weary way, I trust that he I mourn is blest. JOANNA BAILLIE. 287 JOANNA BAILLIE. This distinguished lady, in many respects the most remarkable of our Female Poets, has attempted almost every kind of verse, and has succeeded in all she has tried. Lyrical, social, devotional, heroic, and domestic poems have alike proceeded from her pen, and in strains of equal beauty : while her muse has undeniably accomplished "Tilings unattempted yet ia prose or rhyme " by any other writer of her sex. Her Plays on the Passions would have been marvellous productions, even had they been the work of a JMan, of long and varied experience : but they become infinitely more so when we reflect that they were composed by a young Female writer, whose sex and station must have kept her comparatively secluded from the world of active life and emotion. Sir Walter Scott had, therefore, good reasons for saying — " That Avon's swans, while rang the grove With Monfort's hate and Basil's love, — Awakening at the inspired strain, Deeni'd their own Shakspere lived again." 1 think that Mrs. Baillie may be said to be the most purely and serenely intellectual of all our Female Poets. There is a clearness, a plainness, a massiveness in her genius, which reminds one of the simple but severe perfection of a Doric column. Strength rather than elegance, chasteness rather than beauty, and proportion rather than grace, distinguish her productions. I do not mean to say that they want warmth ; no verse can be more living and thrilling than hers is : but I mean that they have none of that glare which is often mistaken for true poetic fire, but is in fact 288 JOANNA BAILLIE. only the unreal brilliancy of an ignis fatuus. There is nothing phosphorescent or slage-firelike in Mrs. Baillie's poetry : it is the calm, soft, refreshing, wholesome sunshine of a clear spring morning. Sir Walter Scott has likened Mrs. Baillie's muse to Shakspere's ; I venture to think that it is more like Chaucer's. The great characteristics of Mrs. Baillie's general style are vigour, clearness, and simplicity. Nothing can exceed the force and transparency of her compositions. I do not think that a strained, turgid, or unintelligible expression is to be found in her writings : every thought is plain, every image distinct, every conclusion unmistakeable. Much as Mrs. Baillie has published, I cannot call to mind a single hurried idea or undigested sentiment. We never meet with noise or bustle in her works : she is not at all of the steam-engine class of poets : everything is calm, unconscious, and serene. Deep as may be the emotions which she describes, she exhibits no symptoms of self disturbance. She is above her subject, just as a Shakspere or a Goethe is. There is none of the strained sentimentalism, none of the spasmodic effort, that we find in the productions of second-rate minds ; but with a firm strong hand she grasps the very heart of passion, and lays its inmost secrets bare. Before I speak of Mrs. Baillie's chief poetical efforts, her Tragedies, I would direct the reader's attention briefly to her miscellaneous poems. A good idea of her simple style and natural sentiments will be gathered from the following lines TO A CHILD. Whose imp art thou, with dimpled clieek, And curly pate and merry eye. And arm and shoulder round and sleek, And soft and lair? — thou urchin sly ! What boots it who, with sweet caresses, First called thee his, — or squire or hind ? Since thou in every wight that passes, Dost now a friendly playmate find. JOANNA BAILLIE. 289 Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning, As fringed eyelids rise and fall ; Thy shyness swifdy from me running, Is infantine coquetry all. But far afield thou hast not flown , With mocks and threats, half lisped, half spoken, I feel thee pulling at my gown, Of right good will thy simple token. And thou must laugh and wrestle, too, A mimic warfare with me waging; To make, as wily lovers do, Thy after-kindness more engaging. The wilding rose, sweet as thyself. And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure; I 'd gladly part with worldly pelf To taste again thy youthful pleasure. But yet for all thy merry" look. Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook Thy weary spell or horn-book thumbing. Well, let it be ! — through weal and woe. Thou know'st not now thy future range ; Life is a motley shifting show. And thou a thing of hope and change. As a further specimen of Mrs. Baillie's womanly tenderness of feeling, and also of her terse and concentrative style, I may quote her poem entitled — A MOTHER TO HER WAKING INFANT. Now in thy dazzled, half-oped eye, Thy curled nose and lip awry, 37 AA 290 JOANNA BAILLIE. Uphoisted arms and noddling head, And little chin with crystal spread, Poor helpless thing! what do I see That I should sing of thee ? From thy poor tongue no accents come, Which can but rub thy toothless gum: Small understanding boasts thy face ; Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace : A few short words thy feats may tell ; And yet I love thee well. When wakes the sudden bitter shriek, And redder swells thy little cheek ; When rattled keys thy woes beguile, And through thy eyelids gleams the smile ; Still for thy weakly self is spent Thy little silly plaint. But when thy friends are in distress, Thou 'It laugh and chuckle ne'ertheless ; Nor with kind sympathy be smitten Though all are sad but thee and kitten ; Yet, puny varlet that thou art. Thou twitchest at the heart. Thy smooth round cheek so soft and warm ; Thy pinky hand and dimpled arm ; Thy silken locks that scandy peep. With gold-tipp'd ends, where circles deep, Around thy neck in harmless grace So soft and sleekly hold their place, Might harder hearts with kindness fill, And gain our right good will. Each passing clown bestows his blessing. Thy mouth is worn wiili old w'ives' kissing: E'en lighter looks the gloomy eye Of surly sense when thou art by ; And yet, I think, whoe'er they be, They love thee not like rae. Perhaps when time shall add a few Short months to thee, thou 'It love me too ; And after that, through life's long way Become my sure and cheering stay ; Wilt care for me and be my hold, When I am weak and old. Thou 'It listen to my lengthen'd tale, And pity me when I am frail* — — But see ! the sweepy swimming fly. Upon the window takes thine eye. Go to thy little senseless play ; Thou dost not heed my lay. Mrs. Baillie takes high rank as a Lyric poet. Her Songs and Hymns have singular merit. For conciseness and vigour of expression they stand almost alone amongst the lyrical produc- tions of the period. There is a Scott-like spirit in the following song, from The Beacon : — Up ! quit thy bower, late wears the hour ; Long have the rooks caw'd round thy tower ; On flower and tree, loud hums the bee ; The wilding kid sports merrily : A day so bright, so fresh, so clear, Shineth when good fortune 's near. Up ! lady fair, and braid thy hair, And rouse thee in the breezy air ; The lulling stream, that soothed thy dream, Is dancing in the sunny beam ; And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay, Will waft good fortune on its way. * Feeble. 292 JOANNA BAILLIE. Up ! time will tell ; the friar's bell Its service sound hath chimed well; The aged crone keeps house alone, And reapers to the field are gone ; The active day so boon and bright, May bring good fortune ere the night. As a sentimental song-writer Mrs. Baillie is perhaps not so successful. Her style is too intense and terse for this species of composition : and she is apparently deficient in that mere pret- tiness of fancy which seems essential to a poet of this class. She can, however, at times be very sweetly plaintive, as we may see by the following What voice is this, thou evening gale ! That mingles with thy rising wail ; And as it passes sadly seems The faint return of youthful dreams ? Though now its strain is wild and drear, Blythe was it once, as skylark's cheer — Sweet as the night-bird's sweetest song — Dear as the lisp of infant's tongue. It was the voice at whose sweet flow The heart did beat and cheek did glow, And lip did smile, and eye did weep, And motion'd love the measure keep. Oft be thy sound, soft gale of even, Thus to my wistful fancy given; And as I list the swelling strain. The dead shall seem to live again. Mrs. Baillie's genius is seen to great advantage in her devotional Poems. Her peculiar compression of thought and strength of style are very effective in this kind of composition. The sens J JOANNA BAILLIE. 293 of religion, too, is in her very serene and lofty. The two fol- lowing hymns seem to me among the best of such productions : — I. O God ! who mad'st earth, sea, and air, And living creatures, free and fair, Thy hallow'd praise is everywhere, Halleluja! All blended in the swelling song Are wise and simple, weak and strong. Sweet woman's voice and infant's tongue, Halleluja ! Yea, woods and winds and waves convey To the rapt ear a hymn, and say " He who hath made us we obey, Halleluja !" II. Up ! sluggard soul ! awake and raise To thy blest Lord a song of praise. Who lifts thee from the gloomy grave When low on eartli thou Rest, — To Him who lived and died to save, Hosanna in the highest ! To Him, thy friend of friends, whose love Invites thee to a home above, When thou, the world's poor outcast slave, In grief and anguish criest, — To Him who lived and died to save, Hosanna in the highest ! His love a living stream hath found For pilgrims faint on barren ground. Their parched and languid souls to lave. When earthly streams are driest, — To Him who lived and died to save, Hosanna in the highest ! 294 JOANNA BAILLIE. In the Metrical Legends Mrs. Baillie strongly reminds the reader of Scott. There is, it is true, more reflection and more seriousness in them than in Scott's poems ; but still the likeness is great. Her Christopher Columbus is a very spirited, and, withal, very affecting poem ; the following passage seems to me exceedingly fine : — THE GRAVE OF COLUMBUS. Silence, solemn, awful, deep, Doth in that hall of death her empire keep ; Save when at times the hollow pavement, smote By solitary wanderer's foot, amain From lofty dome and arch and aisle remote, A circling loud response receives again. The stranger starts to hear the growing sound, And sees the blazon'd trophies waving near ; " Ha ! tread my feet so near that sacred ground !" He stops and bows his head : — " Columbus resteth here !" Some ardent youth, perhaps, ere from his home He launch his vent'rous bark, will hither come ; Read fondly o'er and o'er his graven name. With feelings keenly touch'd, — with heart of flame. Till wrapp'd in fancy's Avild delusive dream, Times past, and long forgotten, present seem ; To his charm'd ear the east-wind rising shrill. Seems through the Hero's shroud to whistle still. The clock's deep pendulum swinging, through the blast Sounds like the rocking of the lofty mast ; While fitful gusts rave like his clam'rous band Mix'd with the accents of his high command. Slowly the stripling quits the pensive scene. And burns, and sighs, and weeps to be what he has been. Oh ! who shall lightly say that fame Is nothing but an empty name ! Whilst in that sound there is a charm JOANNA BAILLIE. 295 The nerves to brace, the heart to warm ; As thinking of the mighty dead, The young from slothful couch will start, And vow, with lifted hands outspread. Like them to act a noble part. Oh ! who shall lightly say that fame Is nothing but an empty name ! When but for those our mighty dead, All ages past a blank would be, Sunk in oblivion's murky bed, A desert bare, a shipless sea ! They are the distant objects seen, — The lofty marks of what hath been. Oh ! who shall lightly say that fame Is nothing but an empty name ! When memory of the mighty dead To earth-worn pilgrims' wistful eye The brightest rays of cheering shed That point to immortality ? A twinkling speck, but fix'd and bright. To guide us through the dreary night. Each hero shines, and lures the soul To gain the distant happy goal. For is there one who musing o'er the grave Where lies interr'd the good, the wise, the brave, Can poorly think beneath the mouldering heap, That noble being shall for ever sleep ? " No !" saith the generous heart, and proudly swells, — " Though his cered corpse lies here, with God his spirit dwells !" But it is of course by her Plays that Mrs. Baillie will hereafter be chiefly known. To these productions, therefore, we must turn for our best view of her genius. 296 JOANNA BAILLIE. I quite agree with the opinion expressed by an eminent critic that " no female has ever struck at once into so high a vein of poetry, or obtained so much success, in the noblest and most con- summate branch of poetic composition as Mrs. Baillie has done in her Tragic Dramas." The aim, the tone, the style and the moral are alike lofty, fresh, and pure. Intensely natural, the emo- tions she depicts are yet always free from that familiar nearness which makes passion coarse and vulgar. Though casting aside poetical decorations, she ever writes in the spirit of poetry. She disdains the use of the conventionalisms which weak writers have employed to depict impassioned feeling, and, with the true origi- nality of genius, chooses rather to trace the passions to their sources for herself, and describe them as she finds them. To acquire a just idea of Mrs. Baillie's merit, we must recol- lect what was the aspect of dramatic literature when she produced her first volume of plays. The German school was then in full vogue. Kotzebue and his vicious style were on the very pinnacle of public favour. Rant, fustian, violence, noise and heroics were the chief ingredients of dramatic composition, and passion had become lost in contortion. Great, then, must have been the genius that first saw the deep mistake of this departure from na- ture : and resolute the spirit that could at once and alone set itself to oppose so strong a tide of error. I see in Mrs. Baillie, there- fore, not merely a powerful and successful dramatist, but a great literary reformer: if not the very first, at least amongst the first, of those who once again placed our poetry under the dominion of nature. She preceded and heralded the school of Wordsworth ; and maybe safely said to have done more for the restoration of our national drama than any living writer. It is not necessary to speak much of Mrs. Baillie's Plays as connected with their fitness for theatrical representation. The success which has attended the performance of Tlie Separation and Henriquez clearly shows that with performers sedulously bent on carrying out the author's design, and willing to sacrifice momentary applause for ultimate appreciation, Mrs. Baillie's Plays would be as forcible in action as they are striking on perusal. But our Stage is too melodramatic for this at present: and possibly the taste of the public too melodramatic also. There JOANNA BAILLIE. 297 is too great a love for blue-fire, and tin-foil, and broadsword-com- bats as yet : when once this taste for mere show is rendered subservient to the higher effects of moral beauty and fitness, the Plays on the Passions cannot fail to become popular upon the Stage. It may be as well to say, however, that all Joanna Baillie's poetical gifts are seen to the greatest advantage in her Plays. Her clear style, energetic diction, and keen direct vision are there quite in place, and contribute very materially to the success which she undoubtedly achieves. It is impossible to dispute the power and dramatic skill of the following scene from De Monfort. [De Monfort is revealing to his sister Jane liis hatred of Rezentelt, wliich at last hurries liim into the crime of murder.] DE MONFORT. No more, my sister, urge me not again ; My secret troubles cannot be revealed. From all participation of its thoughts My heart recoils : I pray thee be contented. JANE. What, must I, like a distant humble friend, Observe thy restless eye, and gait disturbed, In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart I turn aside to weep ? O no ! De Monfort ! A nobler task thy noble mind will give ; Thy true intrusted friend I still shall be. DE MONFORT. Ah, Jane, forbear I I cannot e'en to thee. JANE. Then fie upon it ! fie upon it, Monfort ! There was a time when e'en with murder stain'd, Had it been possible that such dire deed Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous, Thou wouldst have told it me. 38 298 JOANNA BAILLIE. DE MONFORT. So would I now — but ask of this no more. All other trouble but the one I feel I had disclosed to thee. I pray thee spare me. It is the secret weakness of my nature. JANE. Then secret let it be : I urge no farther. The eldest of our valiant father's hopes, So sadly orphan'd, side by side we stood, Like two young trees, whose boughs, in early strength, Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove, And brave the storm together — I have so long, as if by nature's right, Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been, I thought through life I should have so remain'd, Nor ever known a change. Forgive me, Monfort, A humbler station will I take by thee : The close attendant of thy wandering steps ; The cheerer of this home, by strangers sought : The soother of those griefs I must not know. This is mine office now : I ask no more. DE MONFORT. Oh Jane ! thou dost constrain me with thy love ! Would I could tell it thee ! JANE. Thou shalt not tell me. Nay, I'll stop mine ears, Nor from the yearnings of affection wring What shrinks from utterance. Let it pass, my brother. I'll stay by thee : I'll cheer thee, comfort thee : Pursue with thee the study of some art. Or nobler science, that compels the mind To steady thought progressive, driving forth All floating, wild, unhappy fantasies : Till thou, with brow unclouded, smil'st again, Like one who from dark visions of the night. JOANNA BAILLIE. 299 When th' active soul within its lifeless cell Holds its own world, with dreadful fancy press'd Of some dire, terrible, or murd'rous deed, Wakes to the dawning morn, and blesses heaven. DE MONFORT. It will not pass away : 'twill haunt rae still. JANE . Ah ! say not so, for I will haunt thee too ; And be to it so close an adversary, That though I wrestle darkling with the fiend, I shall o'ercorae it. DE MONFORT. Thou most generous woman! Why do I treat thee thus ? It should not be — And yet I cannot — O that cursed villain ! He will not let me be the man I would. JANE. What say'st thou,Monfort ? Oh ! what words are these? They have awaked my soul to dreadful thoughts. I do beseech thee speak ! [He shakes his head, and turns from her : she following him.'] By the afTection thou didst ever bear me, By the dear memory of our infant days ; By kindred living ties, ay, and by those Who sleep i' the tomb, and cannot call to thee, I do conjure thee speak. [_He waves her off with his hand.'] Ha ! wilt thou not ? Then, if affection, most unwearied love. Tried early, long, and never wanting found. O'er generous man hath more authority, More rightful power than crown and sceptre give, I do command thee. [_He sinks into a chair, greatly agitated J 300 JOANNA BAILLIE. De Monfort, do not thus resist my love. Here I entreat thee on my bended knees. [^Kneeling.'] Alas ! my brother ! TDe Monfort starts up, raises her, and kneels at her feet.'] DE monfort. Thus let him kneel who should the abased be, And at thine honoured feet confession make. I '11 tell thee all — but oh ! thou wilt despise me. For in my breast a raging passion burns, To which thy soul no sympathy will own. A passion which hath made my nighdy couch A place of torment; and the light of day, With the gay intercourse of social man. Feel like th' oppressive airless pestilence. Jane ! thou wilt despise me. JANE. Say not so : 1 never can despise thee, gentle brother. A lover's jealousy and hopeless pangs No kindly heart contemns. DE MONFORT. A lover, say'st thou? No, it is hate ! black, lasting, deadly hate ; Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred peace, From social pleasure, from my native home, To be a sullen wanderer on the earth. Avoiding all men, cursing and accurs'd. JANE. De Monfort, this is fiendlike, frightful, terrible ! What being, by the Almighty Father formed, Of flesh and blood, created even as thou. Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake. Who art thyself his fellow ? Unknit thy brows, and spread (hose wrath-clench' d hands Some sprite accurs'd within tliy bosom mates To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother ! Strive bravely with it: drive it from thy breast: 'T is the degrader of a noble heart ; Curse it, and bid it part. DE MONFORT. It will not part. I 've lodged it here too long ; With my first cares I felt its rankling touch, I loath'd him when a boy. JANE. Who didst thou say ? DE MONFORT. Oh ! that detested Rezenvelt? E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps Of hostile breed, instinctively averse. Each 'gainst the other pitch'd his ready pledge, And frown'd defiance. As we onward pass'd From youth to man's estate, his narrow art, And envious gibing malice, poorly veil'd In the affected carelessness of mirth, Still more detestable and odious grew. There is no living being on this earth Who can conceive the malice of his soul. With all his gay and damned merriment. To those, by fortune or by merit plac'd Above his paltry self. When, low in fortune. He look'd upon the state of prosperous men. As nightly birds, rous'd from their murky holes. Do scowl and chatter at the light of day, I could endure it ; even as we bear The' impotent bite of some half-trodden worm, I could endure it. But when honours came, And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride; Whilst flattering knaves did trumpet forth his praise, BB 303 JOANNA BAILLIE. And grov'ling idiots grinn'd applauses on him; Oh ! then I could no longer suffer it ! It drove me frantic. — What ! what would I give ! "What would I give to crush the bloated toad, So rankly do I loathe him ! JANE. And would thy hatred crush the very man Who gave to thee that life he might have ta'en ? That life which thou so rashly didst expose To aim at his ! oh ! this is horrible ! DE MONFORT. Ha ! thou hast heard it, then ? From all the world. But most of all from thee, I thought it hid. JANE. I heard a secret whisper, and resolv'd Upon the instant to return to thee. Didst thou receive my letter ? DE MONFORT. I did ! I did ! 'twas that which drove me hither. I could not bear to meet thine eye again. JANE. Alas ! that, tempted by a sister's tears, I ever left thy house ! These few past months, These absent months, have brought us all this woe. Had I remain'd with thee it had not been. And yet, methinks, it should not move you thus. You dar'd him to the field ; both bravely fought ; He, more adroit, disarm'd you ; courteously Return'd the forfeit sword, which, so return'd, You did refuse to use against him more ; And then, as says report, you parted friends. JOANNA BAILLIE. 303 DE MONFORT. When he disarm'd this curs'd, this worthless hand, Of its most worthless weapon, he but spar'd From devilish pride, which now derives a bliss In seeing me thus fetter'd, sham'd, subjected With the vile favour of his poor f(»rbearance ; Whilst he securely sits with gibing brow, And basely baits me, like a muzzled cur Who cannot turn again. — Until that day, till that accursed day, I knew not half the torment of this hell Which burns within my breast. Heaven's lightnings blast him ! JANE. O this is horrible ! Forbear, forbear ! Lest Heaven's vengeance light upon thy head, For this most impious wish. DE MONFORT. Then let it light. Torments more fell than I have felt already It cannot send. To be annihilated — What all men shrink from — to be dust, be nothing, Were bliss to me, compared to what I am. There is consummate strength and skill, too, in the following passage from the magnificent play of Henriquez. Henriquez, a favourite general of King Alonzo, moved by strong, but, as it turns out, groundless jealousy, kills his friend, Don Juan. A youth named Antonio is seized on suspicion of having committed the murder, and thrown into prison. Henri- quez, stung by overpowering remorse, resolves to explain the true facts of the case. The King has at a former time promised to grant him any favour he may ask from him on the production of a certain ring. At the period fixed for the examination of the supposed culprit, Henriquez suddenly appears in the presence- chamber. The scene is wrought with surpassing power. 304 JOANNA BAILLIE. [_Enter Hi^krkivez, foUoived by Carlos and ksio- Nio, the prisoner, fettered and manacled.'] KING. Thou, too, my valiant friend, a suitor here ? HENRIQUEZ. A humble supplicant. KING. Who needs not sue. Say freely what thou would'st, and it is granted. HENRIQUEZ. But what I beg, an earnest boon, must be Confirmed to me with all solemnity Before I utter it. A strange request ! But that thy services have been to me Beyond all recompense, and that I know Thy country's welfare and thy sovereign's honour Are dear to thee, as thou full well hast prov'd, I should with some precaution give my word ; But be it so : I say thy suit is granted. HENRIQUEZ. Nay, swear it on this sword. KING. Where doth this tend ? Doubt'st thou my royal word ? HENRIQUEZ. When honoured lately by your princely presence, You gave to me this ring with words of favour ; And said if I should e'er, by fortune press'd, Return the same to you, whatever grace 1 then might ask should be conceded to me. [_Giving the ring."] JOANNA BAILLIE. 305 Receive your royal token : my request Is that you swear upon my sword to grant This boon which I shall beg. [Holds sivord to the King, who lays his hand upon it.'] KING. This sword, this honour'd blade, I know it well ; Which thou in battle from the princely Moor So valiantly did win : why should I shrink From any oath that should be sworn on this ? I swear by the fair honour of a soldier, To grant thy boon, wiiatever it may be. Declare it then, Henriquez. And silent, too. Thou art pale, I wait upon thy words. [e4 pause.'] HENRIQUEZ. My breath forsook me. 'T is a passing weakness I have power now. — There is a criminal. Whose guilt before your Highness in due form Shall shortly be attested : and my boon Is, that your Highness will not pardon him, However strongly you may be inclined To royal clemency, — however strongly Entreated so to do. KING. This much amazes me. Ever till now Thou 'st been inclined to mercy, not to blood. HENRIQUEZ. Yea, but this criminal, with selfish cruelty. With black ingratitude, with base disloyalty To all that sacred is in virtuous lies, Knitting man's heart to man — What shall I say ? I have no room to breathe [Tearing open his doublet with violence 39 BB* 306 JOANNA BAILLIE. He had a friend, Ingenuous, faithful, generous and noble : Even but to look on him had been full warrant Against the accusing tongue of man or angel. To all the world beside, — and yet he slew him. A friend whose fostering love had been the stay, The guide, the solace of his wayward youth, — Love steady, tried, unwearied, — yet he slew him. A friend, who in his best devoted thoughts, His happiness on earth, his bliss in heaven, Intwin'd his image, and could nought devise Of separate good, — and yet he basely slew him ; Rush'd on him like a ruffian in the dark, And thrust him forth from life, from light, from nature, Unwitting, unprepared for the awful change Death brings to all. This act, so foul, so damned, This he hath done : therefore upon his liead Let fall the law's unmitigated justice ! KING. And wherefore doubt'st thou that from such a man I will withhold all grace ? Were he my brother 1 would not pardon him. Produce your criminal. ^Attendants lead forward Antonio.] HENRIQUEZ. [^Motioning with his hand to forbid them.'] Undo his shackles, He is innocent ! KING. What meaneth this ? Produce your criminal. HENRIQUEZ. [^Kneeling.'] My Royal Master, — he is at your feet! The King endeavours to save Henriquez, but in vain. He persists in dying on the scaffold. MRS. MARGARET HODSON. (Formerly Miss Holford.) This lady is the author of Wallace, or the Fight of Falkirk ; Margaret of Anjou; and some Miscellaneous Verses, which, I believe, have not yet appeared in a collected form. Her poetical writings display a strong, romantic, vigorous genius, lofty and daring in its flight, and essentially firm and healthy in its consti- tution. She presents a fine contrast to those gossamer Poetesses who have since appeared among us so frequendy. Like Mrs. Baillie, she finds that simplicity is the truest strength : and she never exhibits the slightest leaning towards the rhapsodical, the sentimental, or the spasmodic. Clear in thought and intelligible in style, she is one of the most agreeable Poets we possess. Her narratives flow on as gracefully and smoothly as Scott's : she closely resembles that great writer, indeed, in many respects, although as regards dramatic skill she is certainly superior. Her stories are very skilfully conducted, and a strong chain of interest runs through them from the first page to the last. In her spirited descriptions of " broil and battle," few writers in our language surpass her : and one cannot but feel surprised that a lady of our peaceful age should be so thoroughly imbued with the martial spirit of our warlike ancestors. The fact proves not merely the strength of the human imagination, but also that the imagination is not sexual. The reader will find ample specimens of Mrs. Hodson's poetical powers in the subjoined extracts. THE DREAM OF GRjEME. (From " Wallace. '" ) Wallace in sober mood revolves High-soaring hopes and deep resolves : 308 MRS. MARGARET HODSON. Sees victory gain'd, the day his own, A native monarch on the throne, — And hears his much-loved country shed A thousand blessings on his head ! 'T was a gay dream, — the voice of Graeme Dispers'd it, and it fled away, As fly from morning's ruddy beam The mists of early day : As its accents came to Wallace' ear, They sounded with half their wonted cheer ; And when he rais'd his speaking eye, It sparkled with half the usual joy ; For who so blithe as the gallant Graeme, When he stood on the edge of the hour of fame ! But now a strange unwelcome guest O'erclouds his brow, and chills his breast; His generous heart disdain'd to bear The ponderous weight of untold care ; Though half asham'd, his lips confess His fancy's dreary dreams, his bosom's heaviness. " Wallace, in many a busy hour We have look'd on death together : We have seen the fiercest war-clouds lower, Stood calm 'mid many an iron-shower. And mock'd the pelting weather ; And smil'd to see our burnish'd mail Turn the thick storm of arrowy hail ; For still, wherever Wallace trod. My foot as firmly press'd the sod ; My heart's first boast, my dearest pride, To stand or fall by Wallace' side ! How wilt thou marvel then to hear. That gossip tales and baby fear. Sleep's flimsy shades — night's mockeries, With magic film delude my eyes, MRS. MARGARET HODSON. 309 Till to my heart the future seems Crowded with sanguine forms, a scene of ghastly dreams. " Nay, Wallace, smile not on thy friend ; 'T is pressing on a thorn : Chide, and thy voice shall not offend ; But Graeme endures not scorn ! "Of late in great Kincardine's tower, Subdued by slumber's welcome power, In willing thrall I lay ; When to my eyes a phantom rose, Which scar'd the angel of repose. And fill'd me with dismay : All shivering, wan, and sniear'd with blood. Close to my couch Sir Patrick stood ; His pale, pale cheek and clotted hair, His hollow eyes' unearthly glare, Appall'd my senses, from my brow The beads of fear began to flow ; The phantom shook its gory head — 'Art thou a Graeme ? ' it sternly said ; ' Art thou a Graeme ? and does thine eye Shrink to behold war's livery? The Fates, enamour'd of our name, Loudly demand another Graeme ; Thy death-word is pronounc'd on high The last of all thy fields is nigh ! Farewell, thy task shall soon be o'er ; We meet ere long, to part no more ! ' " I sprang from my couch as the dawn arose, And thought in my restless mind, That the grizzly forms of vex'd repose Would flee from the morning wind ; And I climb'd to the brow of the upland heath, To taste of the gale the freshest breath ; A cloud was on Craig Rossie's brow, 310 MRS. MARGARET HODSON. Dark gloom'd Kincardine's towers below ; And the winding Ruthven's rippling swell Murraur'd low on mine ear, ' Farewell, farewell!' Then I thought on thee, and thy loyal tryste, And I sprang on my berry-brown steed ; That it might not be said that Graeme was miss'd In the hour of Scotland's need ; But still as I rode, I turn'd me round. To list to the Ruthven's mournful sound, And thou canst not think how its voice was dear, When its last faint murmur met mine ear ! For prophetic was my answering sigh To the stream which I lov'd in infancy !" ON MEMORY. Written at Aix-la-Chapelle. No ! this is not the land of Memory, It is not the home where she dwells; Though her wandering, wayward votary Is ever the thrall of her spells. Far off were the fetters woven which bind Still closer and closer the Exile's mind. Yet this land was the boast of minstrelsy, And the song of the Troubadour ; Where Charlemagne led his chivalry To the fields which were fought of yore ; Still the eye of Fancy may see them glance, Gilded banner and quivering lance ! But Memory from Fancy turns away, She hath wealth of her own to guard ; And whisperings come to her ear which say Sweeter things than the song of the bard. MRS. MARGARET HODSON. 311 They are solemn and low, and none can hear The whispers which come to Memory's ear ! They tell of the dews that brightened the way By our earliest footsteps prest ; They tell of the visions hopeful and gay, Which were born, and which died, in the breast; They recall the accents which sweetly spake To the soul, when the soul was first awake. In Memory's land springs never a flower, Nor the lowliest daisy blooms ; Ne'er a robin chirps from its russet bower. But to call from their silent tombs The thoughts and the things which Time's pitiless sway Has long since swept from the world away ! In Memory's land waves never a leaf, There never a summer-breeze blows. But some long-smother'd thought of joy or grief Starts up from its long repose : And forms are living and visible there, \Vhich vanish'd long since from our earthly sphere ! I would not escape from Memory's land For all that the eye can view ; For there 's dearer dust in Memory's land Than the ore of rich Peru. I clasp the fetters by Memory twin'd. The wanderer's heart and soul to bind '. Mrs. Hodson's chief work is doubtless the fine poem entitled Margari! of Anjou. The fate of this royal lady seems to have called forth the warm sympathy of her sex; for her career has met witli many female historians. None, however, have traced her story so eloquently and graphically as Mrs. Hodson. Her portrait is masterly : 312 MRS. MARGARET HODSON. Now who is she, whose awful mien, Whose dauntless step's firm dignity, Whose high arch'd brow, sedate, serene. Whose eye, unbending, strong and keen. The solemn presence hint of conscious majesty ? * * * * But she is calm : — a peace profound On the unruffled surface rests ; Yet is that breast in iron bound, And fill'd with rude and sullen guests ; No female weakness harbour'd there, Relentings soft, nor shrinking fear, Within its centre deep abide : The stern resolve, the purpose dire. And grim revenge's quenchless fire. The intrepid thought, cold, thawless pride, And fortitude in torture tried, — These are its gentlest inmates now, Tho' lawless love, they say, once heard its secret vow- Very exquisitely does our fair author from time to time cause the beautiful ray of maternal love to light up this dark and gloomy heart. We will take here a brief specimen. When the Queen's son. Prince Edward, after the unsuccessful battle of Hexham, falls fainting at her feet, overcome with exertion and dispirited by defeat, — In Margaret's fierce and stormy breast A thousand warring passions strove ; Yet now, unbid, a stranger-guest Dispers'd and silenc'd all the rest — Thy voice. Maternal Love ! Ambition, Hatred, Vengeance wild, Hot Ire, and frozen Pride were fiown, While gazing on her lifeless child. On heaven she cried, in frenzied tone, " Oh, save my gallant boy ! oh, Edward ! oh, my son !" MRS. MARGARET HODSON. 313 The description of the preservation of the fainting Prince by the robbers is given with remarkable spirit. There is great force in the picture which the poetess gives us of the awe which the queenly Margaret wields over the fierce robber Rudolph. The bloodhound darting on his prey Checks when his master bids him stay, Crouches and cowers at his command, And licks with gory tongue his hand ; Rudolph, the forest's ruihan child. As shaggy bloodhound fierce and wild. Of lion heart and iron frame. Beneath Queen Margaret's eye was tame, And by mysterious impulse sway'd. In unseen fetters held, he listen'd and obey'd ! In the fourth canto of this poem there is a striking episode de- scriptive of the unwitting slaughter by a knight of his unrecog- nised brother. The whole passage is too long for quotation, but I extract a portion of it. The three children of Lord Edric part on that nobleman's death. Two of them, Sir Gerald and Geraldine, are placed under the charge of a lawless baron, while Edwin, the other son, de- parts to Spain to off'er a relique upon the shrine of St. Jago, pur- suant to his deceased mother's injunctions. Gerald and his sis- ter, sorely oppressed by their wicked guardian, fled from their home, and gave Their fortunes to the bounding wave. A storm overtakes them, their vessel founders, and all are lost but Sir Gerald, who is rescued from the waves by a hardy crew of sailors. He is carried to a neighbouring castle, where he is trained to knightly deeds. At length he seeks the field of fame, and fights under the banner of the Red Rose. After describing a disastrous conflict in which he had been engaged, he continues, — 40 cc 314. MRS. MARGARET HODSON. Stoutly we strove, till hope declined In every brave Lancastrian's mind, No more to conquer then we fought, That thought, that cheering thought was chill'd, And now the prize for which we sought Was death upon the hostile field ! Yet ill to strife like this inur'd, My manly strength but half-matur'd, And stung with sorrow and disdain To find we had but striven in vain, I paus'd a little while to breathe, And cast a hopeless look around that dismal heath. While thus I stood, for long before My steed had dropp'd to rise no more, A brook's refreshing murmurs stole Like music o'er my harass'd soul; I turn'd to seek the cooling tide, Resolv'd to taste it ere I died ; Alas ! commissioned from on high ! That brook entic'd my steps, its voice was destiny ! Just as I gain'd tlie sparkling flood, A martial form beside it stood, Whose towering mien and bearing bold, A noble soldier's presence told ; " That rill," he said, "to toil and pain Lends grateful solace ! Briglit success May only for a while sustain Man's feeble spirit ! — Weariness E'en Fortune's minions must confess ! Our task is over !" — I perceiv'd My badgeless coat his eye deceiv'd ; While, all unwittingly, his tongue Thus with a victor's boast, a foe's proud bosom stung ! "Thou dost mistake ! — One struggle more Awaits us ere our task is o'er ! Oh ! ere yon glorious orb shall set, One struggle for the Red Rose yet!" " Alas ! young knight," he cried, " methinks Too much of precious British blood The mother soil already drinks ! If but hope's shadow linger'd yet To nerve thine arm and edge thy sword, I am no recreant, and my word Should ne'er oppose thy gallant will !" " What ! thinkest thou to see me led Thv rebel party's scorn and mock, Meekly to lay my captive head An offering on your tyrant's block ! Oh no ! that felon lot to shun, I '11 perish with my armour on !" " Brave youth ! be rul'd ! Seem but to yield, Quit thou this blood-stain'd heath with me, This night my voice shall be thy shield, To-morrow thou shalt wander free I" A fatal fire was in my heart. Lit by the Furies ; " From my grasp," I cried, " this sword shall ne'er depart Till I have breath'd life's latest gasp ! And yet, methinks, I too would fain From slaughter and from toil refrain ; And since to thee it seems not vile To yield up liberty awhile, Give me thy sword and purchase peace, And do thou follow me, and let our parley cease !" His soul was rous'd : " Insulting boy ! I would have spar'd thee ! — Heav'n record How all unwilling to destroy, Provok'd, I lift the sated sword, 316 MRS. MARGARET HODSON. Which to the hilt in slaughter dyed, Appeas'd, would fain have turn'd aside And shunn'd the useless homicide !" We fought : — and tho' the stranger's brand Seem'd wielded with a veteran's hand, Tho' all my strokes were spent in air, Incens'd I saw his skilful care Was bent his foeman's life to spare : I paus'd: — " Come on, Sir Knight," I cried, " By heaven ! thou boldest me at bay ! I cannot brook thy scornful pride, Mock not a man with childish play ! " Again we strove, — a mortal stroke The stranger's brittle cuirass broke ! Backward he reel'd, and from his side Impetuous rush'd the boiling tide ; Oh ! why do I survive to tell, The stroke was death ! — The stranger fell I Then, all too late, wrath's wasteful flame Expir'd extinguish'd and supprest, And a still voice within my breast Did greet me with the murderer's name ! The Fury which had urged me on, Forsook me when her work was done. Now by the fallen warrior's side I knelt, and gently rais'd his head From off its cold and bloody bed. And many a fruitless aid supplied : And, eager in the futile task, I flung aside the heavy casque. And vainly hop'd the evening breath Would chase away the damps of death ! I met the stranger's lifted eye. It beamed forgiveness ; yet, methought. With heaven's blue bolt that glance was fraught! I turn'd me shuddering from his look, The solid earth beneath me shook, I shriek'd " My brother ! " — Oh ! my hand Was with a brother's life-blood stain'd, And my accursed sword its noble source had drain'd ! Oh ! when my dying brother found What hand had dealt the fatal wound, And when he saw the frantic woe Which tortur'd his unnatural foe, The hero melting into man Swift down his cheeks the big drop ran ; " Oh, Gerald ! while mine eyes can see, Oh, quick that envious helm embrace ! Alas ! I yearn to look on thee, And gaze once more upon thy face ! Where is our sister ? " — " Drown'd," I cried, " And would to God my bones lay bleaching by her side ! " There is a passage of extraordinary power in the seventh canto of this Poem. It describes the visit of Margaret and a band of followers to the cave of a sorceress — " The haggard Woman of the Wold." The mind is excellently prepared for the interview by the description of the scenery : — All nature sleeping seem'd, or dead ; The air was motionless — unheard Or insects' hum, or song of bird, — And underneath or overhead No living thing around them stirr'd ! E'en the strange bird, whose circling flight Still heralds in approaching night. His task forewent, — nor heavily The drowsy dorr fled buzzing by : Still on they trod, — the ghasdy light. Which hither led them, past away, — Thick rolling clouds obscured the night. And to assist their baffled sight Not one small star shone forth its ray. cc* 3-18 MRS. MARGARET HODSON. At once upon the darkness burst A blaze so dazzling that each eye, Abash'd and baffled, clos'd at first, Abiding not its brilliancy ! Their senses reel'd, — for every sound Which the ear loves not, fill'd the air; Each din that reason might confound Echoed in ceaseless tumult there ! Swift whirling wheels, — the shriek intense Of one who dies by violence ; Yells, hoarse and deep, from bloodhound's throat; The night-crow's evil boding note ; Such wild and chattering sounds as throng Upon the moon-struck idiot's tongue ; The roar of bursting flames, the dash Of waters wildly swelling round. Which, unrestrained by dyke or mound, Leap down at once with hideous crash, — And sounds without a name, — so drear. So full of wonder and of fear, As seldom come to those who walk this middle sphere ! This din unearthly so prevail'd That e'en the Queen's high spirit fail'd ; With fainting heart, and freezing blood, And trembling limbs, the Lady stood ! As yet nor she nor Rudolph rais'd Their eyelids, lest some hideous sight Might quell their tottering senses quite, By that dire chorus sore amaz'd : At once it ceased ; for over all They heard a voice in thunder call " Silence ! " Once, twice, and thrice it cried, Then all those deafeaning sounds sank on the ear and died ! # * * * " If my word has force to bind The riders of the midnight wind. If from ocean's weltering wave. MRS. MARGARET HODSON. 319 If from the firm earth's midmost cave, If from that region, cold and dim, The wintry land of Fiacim, Where all is still, and frozen sleep Chains e'en the billows of tlie dei-p ; Whether amid the halo pals Around the wat'ry moon ye sail, Or ye be they who love to dwell In some dank cemetery's cell, And drink the yellow dews tluit fall In slow drops from the stained wall, — If each has felt that word of might Which quells the disobedient sprite. And grasps him in his swiftest flight ; If Balkin, and if Liiridane, Strong spirits, tremble in w.y chain, And tread my circle, — now let all. Mute and unseen, attend my call, And all within, around, and over The magic ringlet, closely hover ! — Lady, now unclose thine eyes ! Behold ! behold our mysteries ! " * * * « Now bright, and brighter still, I ween. The magic tapers blaze ! And with wond'ring heart the dauntless Queen Beholds how quickly shifts the scene. Beneath her deep fix'd gaze ! On either side, in double row, Do massy pillars rise ! Majestic o'er the Lady's brow The high roof arches ! and below A chequer'd pavement lies ! And hark ! for the trumpet brays without, And the organ peals within ! And louder yet from a festive rout Echoes the wild triumphant shout, A joy-proclaimiiifT din ! Now open spreads the ponderous door, Andlo! a princely band, With golden censers toss'd before. Come sweeping- o'er the chequer'd floor, Link'd kindly hand in hand ! NoAv Margaret well her sight may strain, And doubt if sooth it be, Or some strange error of the brain That first amid that pompous train, Her haughty self she see ! Oh ! scarce might the indignant tide Within her breast be stay'd. When by that shadowy Lady's side. Like gallant bridegroom leading bride, Earl Warwick she survey'd 1 Next Edward comes, of Lancaster The only hope and pride ; But his cheek was wan and his look was drear, And a tear-drop dimm'd his eye so clear. And heavily he sigh'd ! Now wherefore, wherefdre sigheth he ? Why wet Avith tears the hour? Since smiling by his side, ye see Of all that noble company The bright and peerless llow'r ! For by the lily hand he held Proud Warwick's beauteous heir ! While joy, by fair decorum quell'd. Within the Lady"s bosom swell'd, His foster'd black despair ! MRS. MARGARET HODSOX. 321 Anon that fair and princely pair Were link'd in golden chain ! — Then — all the pageant shrank in air, Nor aught of all that glitter'd there E'en now, doth now remain ! This does not satisfy the impatient Queen. She cries, " Oh wondrous woman, more ! Let me Fate's awful page explore ! Leaf after leaf would 1 unfold. E'en to the final word ! — till all the tale be told !" Scarce had she spoken, when behold The gloomy night seem'd fled away ! Two mighty armies, fierce and bold. Await the sign in firm array. And armour glanc'd, and courser neigh'd ; And the sun on many a bickering blade And many a gaudy banner play'd ! On this side rear'd Lancastria's flow'r Its bright and blushing head ; And high above th' opposing pow'r Her paler leaf the rival spread ! And, hark ! the signal ! — Now begin. Of those who lose and those who win. The strife, the shout, the mortal din ! Behold ! — they meet ! — they clash ! — they close ! — They mix ! — Sworn friends and deadly foes, In one dire mass, one struggling host, All order and distinction lost. Roll headlong, guideless, blind, like waves together toss'd ! But mark the Queen ! — the hue of death Blanches her cheek ! — her lab'ring breath, Her hard-clasp'd hands, her blood-shot eye, Speak nature's utmost agony ! The cold drops on her writhed brow Her heart's convulsive struggles show, 41 322 MRS. MARGARET HODSON. And — hark ! that scream ! — scarce can the ear Its shrill and piercing echo bear ! " Hold ! monsters! fiends in human mould ! Oh ! stay your bloody hands ! remorseless monsters, hold !" " Come, cheer thee ! cheer thee, mighty Dame ! These are but toys of airy frame ; Faint shadowings forth of things to be ; Mere mockings of futurity ! But see ! — like morning mists they fly, — See how they melt in vacancy ! Oh, bid them quit thy mind as they elude thine eye ! " Now, ere our royal guests go hence, One pageant more our art must show, — Come, let us stir each mortal sense Till rage or transport, joy or woe, In either bosom overflow ! Night wanes apace ! — prepare, prepare ! 'T is time, — 'tis time our task were done ! My sprites and I must journey far Ere the grey dawning shall declare The coming of the sun ! Prepare !" With crowned head and ermin'd robe Grasping the sceptre and the globe. While a vile rabble's uncheck'd tide Roll'd after swells his regal pride, Stalks slowly round the charmed ring. What seems in act and state a king ! Amid the gems which deck his brow Triumphant nods the Rose of Snow, Wliile, crush'd beneath the despot's tread, The Red Rose droops her blushing head ! What lightnings flash from Margaret's eyes While " Long live Richard !" rends the skies ! For he it is, in shapeless frame, Dark scowl, and halting step, the same Before him waves his well-known crest. That symbol of his soul, the grizzly arctic beast ! In the tenth and last canto, the poet gives a vivid description of the battle of Tewksbury, into the spirit of which she enters with all the vivacity and energy of a "warrior tried." Marga- ret's bravery and conduct on the fatal field are most characteristic, and are powerfully drawn. Before the conflict, a priest appeals to the Queen, and prays her to stay the shedding of more English blood, adjuring her by the mandates of religion. Very fine is her reply : — Oh, holy father ! if indeed To mutter'd prayer, or counted bead. The distant powers of heaven give heed, I know not : — But 't is now too late By humbleness to conquer fate ! Long since these eyes have done with teai-s ! Harden'd by many wintry years, My heart its wrongs unshrinking bears ! My lips have ceased to supplicate, My knees to bend, and I do wait With resolute and settled soul Till I have seen, and prov'd the whole ! The battle-scene is too long to be transcribed, and too complete a picture to admit of an extract. I give, therefore, the conclusion of the poem only ; descriptive of the death of the two royal pri- soners, the Queen and Prince Edward. In Tewksbury's walls triumphant York Refresh' d him from his bloody Avork, While Gloster, Clarence, Hastings, Grey, Blythe sharers in th' eventful fray. Boast o'er the perils of the day ; And they have wash'd their crimson hands, And sheath'd their weary swords, when lo ! 324 MRS. MARGARET HODSON. In helpless plight before them stands The battle's crown, — their royal foe ! * * * * Alone, defenceless, Edward stood Encompass'd by these men of blood ! E'en yet a spark of royal pride Flash'd from his eye, the hectic bloom Rush'd o'er his features, and defied. With gallant show, th' impending doom ; Such mournful, stern, majestic grace Dwells on the ruin'd Prince's face, That they who hate him, half respect The virtue by their fury wreck'd ! E'en York deliberates, and surveys His victim's form with troubled gaze, — Did he relent ? No ! — From his breast He drove in scorn th' intrusive guest, And then, in thund'ring voice, his captive foe address'd: " Who art thou, stripling? what impell'd Thy puny pride to wake the ire Which has consum'd thee in its fire ? Who taught thy boyish arm to wield Rebellion's blade ? What frantic rage, What demon was 't, who bade thee dare With fate the desperate fight to wage. And brave thy sov'reign to the war ? Kneel, stubborn traitor ! and confess What message from below provok'd thee to transgress ?" " Dost thou not know me, York ? 'T is strange How memory fails with fortune's change ! But I will tell thee, — I am one To whom thy knee, unbid, should bend ; I came to claim my father's throne, And my fair birthright to defend. And with God's favour, to chastise Mine own and England's enemies ! Now thou art answer'd ! — and my tongue Would do its royal office wrong To parley with thee more ! Thou knowest Full well, usurping York, to whom that place thou owest !' Nor needed farther to provoke Of fell revenge the savage stroke ; York rush'd upon the unarm'd youth And smote him rudely on the mouth With mailed hand ; — that outrage borne The rest was easy ! Edward's soul. Rejoicing, from its spoils forlorn, Escapes to its eternal goal And closes with a thankful sigh. Life's long and lingering tragedy ! * * * * Now from without, a parley rude Does on their wondering ears intrude : York shudder'd, — e'en his callous breast Trembled to meet th' unwelcome guest Whose voice claim'd entrance ! It was she, She who was Queen of England ! —late The people's gaze, the voice of fate, To whom the loftiest bent his knee ! A fond fallacious hope had led The mother's frantic footsteps thither, — She look'd upon the weapons red, She guess'd what blood their points had shed. And felt that fond hope wither ! "Then ye have done the deed ! " she said: " I come too late ! — Ye might have staid One moment longer ! I would fain Have kiss'd my living son again. And whisper'd somewhat in his ear Ere he began th' unknown career On which ye sent him ! — Hark ye, Lords ! I long to feel those reeking swords ! In mercy kill me ! Will ye not ? DD 326 MRS. MARGARET HODSON. Ye sons of York, have ye forgot How many a deep and bitter debt Ye owe the hated Margaret ? Where is my child ? Mine only one ! Oh, God! Oh, God! Is this my son? " Cold, cold and pale ! — Some flatterers said That heav'n still guards the holy head ! Why this grim heap did late contain A soul which never crime did stain, Pure, gentle, innocent ! — And yet Your swords are with his life-blood wet, And heav'n the while look'd smiling on Nor aim'd its thunderbolts, when the black deed was done ! " Monsters ! A mother's curse lie strong And heavy on you ! May the tongue, The ceaseless tongue which well I ween Lives in the murderer's murky breast. With goading whispers, fell and keen, Make havoc of your rest ! For ever in your midnight dream May the wan, wintry smile, which stays On yon cold lips, appal your gaze, And many a madden'd mother's scream Ring in your ears, till ye awake And every unstrung limb with horror's palsy shake !" An impulse like the grasp of death Now hardly held her gasping breath ! Dire was the conflict ! Mute she stood, Striving and fain to utter more. Her writhing features struggled sore With black convulsion ; till the blood Burst from her hps, a ghasdy flood, Then Nature gave the combat o'er. And the heart-stricken Queen fell senseless on the floor ! MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. Miss Mitford is, I tliink, the most thoroughly English of all our Female Poets, — I mean -S'ox-on-English. Her verse, like her prose, has the strong, sanguine, cheerful robustness which seems characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon constitution. Miss Mit- ford's writings always suggest to me golden hair, blue eyes, ruddy cheeks and vigorous limbs : — and her thoughts have a large, full, dimpled, rounded expression which is very healthful and cheerful to look upon. I never read Miss Mitford's Poems without feeling that I have before me a sound, comprehensive, true-seeing, and widely sympathising mind, very just in its views, utterly unaffected in its sentiments, and unwaveringly true in its philosophy : — whilst her mode of expression is marked by a graceful and refreshing simplicity which is very rare in minds so fully stored. Miss Mitford's poetical works comprise almost every variety of verse, from the simplest to the loftiest ; and she displays the same power and excellence in all. There is less inequality in Miss Mitford's writings, wide as is their grasp, than in the pro- ductions of almost any other author in the language. You see her wliole mind in all she does ; and a beautiful, loveable mind it is. Whether the work be Sonnet or Tragedy, Song or Descrip- tive Poem ; whether the subject be homely or heavenly, rustic or classical ; the same strong, unaffected, sympathetic spirit is similarly manifest : and, let her write what she will, she is always in earnest. A Daisy in her garden is the source of as true an emotion as the picture of Jerusalem during the Crucifixion ; and her sympathy is as powerfully excited towards the little Forget- me-not " that loves on sliadowy banks to lie," as towards the noble Rienzi, or the martyred Charles Stuart. I subjoin without comment some varied extracts, in order that Miss Mitford's wide range of sympathy may be fairly seen. I. INFANT LOVE. {^From Blanch, a Poem.) If in this world of breathing harm, There lurk one universal charm, One povv^er, which, to no clime confin'd, Sways either sex and every mind ; Which cheers the monarch on his throne ; The slave beneath the torrid zone ; The soldier rough, the letter'd sage, And careless youth, and helpless age ; And all that live, and breathe, and move, — 'T is the pure kiss of infant love ! II. THE MARCH OF MIND. Fair Nature smiled in all her bowers, But man, the master-work of God, Unconscious of his latent powers. The tangled forest trod. Without a hope, without an aim Beyond the sloth's, the tiger's life, His only pleasure sleep or strife, And war his only fame. Furious alike and causeless beam'd His lasting hate, his transient love: And e'en the mother's fondness seem'd The instinct of the dove. The mental world was wrapp'd in night Though some, the diamonds of the mine, Burst through the shrouding gloom to shine With self-emitted liffht. MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 329 But see the glorious dawn unfold The brightest day that lurks behind ! The march of armies may be told, But not the march of mind. Instruction ! child of Heaven and earth! As heat expands the vernal flower, So wisdom, goodness, freedom, power, From thee derive their birth. From thee, aU mortal bliss we draw ; From thee. Religion's blessed fruit ; From thee, the good of social law. And man redeem'd from brute. From thee, all ties to virtue dear, The father's, brother's, husband's name From thee the sweet and holy fame That never cost a tear. Oh I breathe thy soul along the gale, That Britons sliU, in generous strife. Knowledge and freedom may inhale,— The mingled breath of life ! So shall they share what they possess. And show to distant worlds thy charms Wisdom and peace their only arms. Their only aim to bless. in. THE VOICE or PRAISE. There is a voice of magic power To charm the old, delight the young — In lordly hall, in rustic bower. In every clime, in every tongue ; Howe'er its sweet vibration rung. In whispers low, in poet's lays. There lives not one who has not hung Enraptur'd on the voice of praise. 42 DD* 330 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. The timid child, at that soft voice Lifts for a moment's space the eye ; It bids the fluttering heart rejoice, And stays the step prepar'd to fly : 'T is pleasure breathes that short quick sigh, And flushes o'er that rosy face ; Whilst shame and infant modesty The lovely maiden's dimpled cheek At tliat sweet voice still deeper glows ; Her quivering lips in vain would seek, To hide the bliss her eyes disclose ; The charm her sweet confusion shows Oft springs from some low broken word : O Praise ! to her how sweetly flows Thine accent from the lov'd one heard ! The hero, when a people's voice Proclaims their darling victor near, Feels he not then his soul rejoice. The shouts of love, of praise, to hear ? Yes ! fame to generous minds is dear — It pierces to their inmost core : He weeps, who never shed a tear ; He trembles, who ne'er shook before. The poet, too ; — ah ! well I deem Small is the need the tale to tell ; Who knows not that his thought, his dream, On thee at noon, at midnight, dwell ? Who knows not that tliy magic spell Can charm his every care away? In memory, cheer his gloomy cell ; In hope, can lend a deathless day ? 'T is sweet to M'atch Afiection's eye : 'J'o mark the tear with love replete ; MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 331 To feel the softly-breathing sigh, When Friendship's lips the tones repeat; But oh ! a thousand times more sweet The praise of those we love to hear ! Like balmy showers in summer heat, It falls upon the greedy ear. The lover lulls his rankling wound, By dwelling on his fair one's name ; The mother listens for the sound Of her young warrior's growing fame. Thy voice can soothe the mourning dame Of her soul's wedded partner riven, Who cherishes the hallow'd flame, Parted on earth, to meet in heaven ! — That voice can quiet passion's mood, Can humble merit raise on high ; And from the wise, and from the good. It breathes of immortality ! There is a lip, there is an eye Where most I love to see it shine. To hear it speak, to feel it sigh, — My mother ! need I say 't is thine ! ON A PICTURE OF JERUSALEM AT THE TIME OF THE CRUCIFIXION. Jerusalem ! and at the fatal hour ! No need of dull and frivolous question here ! No need of human agents to make clear The most tremendous act of human power ! The distant cross ; the rent and fallen tower ; The opening graves, from which the dead uprear 332 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. Their buried forms ; the elemental fear, When horrid light and horrid darkness lower ; All tell the holy tale : the mystery And solace of our souls. Awe-struck we gaze On this so mute yet eloquent history ! Awe-struck and sad, at length our eyes we raise To go : — yet oft return that scene to see, Too full of the great theme to think of praise. How varied is the style of these four Poems ! We have, first, the simplicity of a child ; next a pure and noble intellectuality : then a frank and picturesque burst of moral eloquence ; and, lastly, a fine religious bending of the spirit until it seems to become almost speechless with the awe it feels. But for a full view of our fair Poet's powers we must go farther still. I espe- cially refer the reader to the following Poem of ANTIGONE. 'T was noon ; beneath the ardent ray Proud Thebes in all her glory lay ; On pillar'd porch, on marble wall, On temple, portico and hall. The summer sunbeams gaily fall ; Bathing, as in a flood of light, Each sculptur'd frieze and column bright Dirce's pure stream meanders there, A silver mirror clear and fair ; Now giving back the deep-blue sky, And now the city proud and high, And now tlie sacred grove ; And sometimes on its wave a shade. Making the light more lovely, play'd. When some close-brooding dove Flew from her nest, on rapid wing. For needful food across the spring. Or sought her home of love. The very air in that calm hour. Seem'd trembling with the conscious power Of its own balminess ; The herbage, if by light foot press'd, Sent up sweet odours from its breast ; — Sure, if coy happiness E'er dwelt on earth, 't was in that clime Of beauty, in that noon-day prime Of thrilling pleasantness '. But who are they before the gate Of Thebes conven'd in silent state ? Sad, grey-hair'd men, with looks bow'd down, Slaves to a tyrant's haughty frown ; And he the wicked king, and she The royal maid Antigone, Passing to death. Awhile she laid Her clasp'd hands on her heart, and stay'd Her firmer step, as if to look On the fair world which she forsook ; And then the sunbeams on her face Fell, as on sculptur'd Nymph or Grace, Lighting her features with a glow That seemed to mock their patient woe. She stay'd her onward step, and stood A moment's space ; — oh, what a flood Of recollected anguish stole In that brief moment o'er her soul ! The concentrated grief of years. The mystery, horror, guilt and tears, The story of her life past by, E'en in the heaving of a sigh ! She thought upon the blissful hour Of infancy, when, as a flower Set in the sun, she grew, Without a fear, without a care, Enjoying, innocent and fair, 334 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. As buoyant as the mountain air, As pure as morning dew ; 'Till burst at once like lightning's flame, The tale Ave tremble but to name, Of them from whom her being came, Poor ffidipus, and one, The wretched yet unconscious dame, Who wedded with her son ! Then horror fast on horror rose : She maddening died beneath her woes, Whilst crownless, sightless, hopeless, he Dared to outlive tliat agony. Through many a trackless path and wild The blind man and his duteous child Wandered, 'till pitying Theseus gave The shelter brief, the mystic grave. One weary heart finds rest at last ; But, when to Thebes the maiden pass'd, The god's stern wrath was there : — Her brothers each by other slain, And one upon the bloody plain Left festering in the sun and rain, Tainting the very air ; For none, the haughty Creon said. On pain of death should yield the dead Burial, or tear, or sigh ; And, for alone she feebly strove To pay the decent rites of love. The pious maid must die. She paus'd — and in that moment rose As in a mirror all her woes ; She spake — the flush across her cheek Told of the woe she Avould not speak. As a brief thought of Ila-mon stole With bitter love across her soul. " I die, — and what is death to me MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 335 But freedom from long misery ? Joyful to fall before my time, I die ; and, tyrant, hear my crime : I did but strive his limbs to shield From the gaunt prowlers of the field ; I did but weave, as nature weaves, A shroud of grass and moss and leaves ; I did but scatter dust to dust. As the desert wind on marble bust; I did but as the patient wren And the kind redbreast do for men. I die — and what is death to me ? But tremble in thy tyranny. Tyrant ! and ye, base slaves of power, Tremble at freedom's coming hour ! I die — and death is bliss to me !" Then, with a step erect and free. With brow upraised and even breath. The royal virgin passed to death. Nothing, I think, can exceed the pure taste which characterises' this exquisite poem. Nowhere is a classical story more classi- cally treated. The spirit of the poem is wholly Greek. Yet it has a charm which is more than classical. There is a life m it which we rarely find in the classical models. To the statuesque Miss Mitford adds the picturesque ; to correctness of form she adds beauty of colour ; to chasteness of design she adds beauty of expression. The foregoing poem amply illustrates these asser- tions. How beautifully Thebes is pictured to form the background of the scene ! And how the whole description is made instinct with moving life, as the " close brooding dove, Flies from her nest, on rapid wing, For needful food across the spring." It Ls in passages like this that Miss Mitford's strength is best seen : and they abound in every page of her poetry. 336 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. It has been said that purity of sentiment will always produce purity of style. Miss Mitford's compositions certainly bear out the assertion. I offer the following sweedy-expressed Sonnet in proof: I might select any our poetess has written, for the same purpose. TO MY MOTHER SLEEPING. Sleep on, my mother ! sweet and innocent dreams Attend thee, best and dearest I Dreams that gild Life's clouds like setting suns, with pleasure tilled, And saindy joy, such as thy mind beseems, — Thy mind where never stormy passion gleams. Where their soft nest the dovelike virtues buUd, And calmest thoughts, like violets distill'd. Their fragrance mingle with bright wisdom's beams. Sleep on, my mother ! not the Uly's bell So sweet; not the enamour'd west-wind's sighs That shake the dew-drop from her snowy cell So gentle ; not that dew-drop ere it flies So pure. E'en slumber loves with thee to dwell, Oh, model most beloved of good and wise. No reader of " Our Village" can have failed to notice the coundess dramatic touches which those delightful prose sketches exhibit: no reader will therefore quarrel with me for saying that Miss Mitford's genius is essentially of a dramatic kind. The pic- turesqueness of her style, the universality of her sympathies, and the perspicacity of her mental vision, all tend to make her a dramatist. And a very powerful dramatist she proves herself. No one who reads her volume of Dramatic Scenes can doubt my assertion. These scenes display not merely a large measure ot the creative faculty which results in the invention of striking in- cidents and effective situations, but the existence in a high degree of that individualising faculty which selects, animates, and sus- tains human character, which surrounds the fictitious creation of the stage with real human interest, and which makes each person on the scene a separate, complete, and consistent being. Besides MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 337 this, Miss Mitford exhibits that spiritualising faculty which alone elevates Drama into Poetry. She always avoids harsh outline and too-literal fact, and she gives her creations an air of remote- ness which effectually preserves them from ever degenerating into common-place. She embellishes her scenes, too, with such sweet flowers of fancy, that our very taste is moralised by her, and our conception detached from all that is gross, vulgar, and sensual. So many fine passages in illustration of these remarks crowd upon my memory that I find the greatest difliculty in selecting a specimen. Cunigiinda'' s T^oiv, in which a proud heart is proudly punished, The Painter's Daughter, the death of Fair Rosamond, The Bridal Eve, The Captive, all claim a place, whilst I have scarcely space for one of them. But as I am obliged to resolve, I choose THE MASQUE OF THE SEASONS. GIACOMO. Where is Fiesco now ? ISABELLA. Oh, you should see him! Celia is showing him her gay saloon Sparkling with lamps and flowers, and her quaint masque Of country lasses, cunningly prankt out With rustic tancy, Tiie little thief Hath stolen all my roses — all save this — To deck the pretty damsel she calls Spring, And there is she turning them round and round To be admired ; and there are they, all blushes, Curtsying with coy and shame-faced bashfulness, Yet full of a strange joy ; and there is he. Dropping kind words and kinder smiles about, Delighting and delighted. We must join them. 43 EE 338 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. THE MASQUE. Enter Spring. SPRING. Room for the jocund queen of new-born flowers ! Bathed in light fragrant airs and sunny showers I come. Beneath my steps the grass is set With violets, cowslips, daffodils, all wet With freshest dew as any crystal clear. The youth, the smile, the music of the year Am I. Who loves not Spring ? Gay songs of birds Tell my delights, and rough uncouthest words Of shepherds. Fairest ladies, here are posies Of crisp curled hyacinths, pale maiden roses, And bright anemonies of richer dyes Than rubies, amethysts, or azure eyes Of sapphires. Summer ! hasten, leafy queen ! And Autumn help to bind my garlands sheen ! Enter Sdjimer. SUMMER. In a green nook, whose mossy bed receives Shade from my own unnumbered world of leaves, I heard a voice called Summer. SPRING. Hast thou not Brought flowery tribute ? To thy favourite grot I sent my deftist, trustiest messenger, A dappled butterfly, whose pinions whir Like thy mailed beetle's. He was charg'd to say That great Doria would be here to-day — Did not that rouse thee ? SUMMER. Yes ! his name hath won To my deep solitudes, where scarce the sun Can pierce the heavy umbrage. The cool places To which the sweltering noon the wild deer chases ; The shelter'd pools, which oft the swallow's winglet Skims, or where lazily her darker ringlet Some Naiad floating in her beauty laves ; The little bubbling springs, whose tiny waves Do murmur gently round old pollard trees, MingUng their music with the stir of bees ; All these are mine : mine the wild forest glade Where the bright sun comes flickering through the shade, Gilding the turfy wood-walks ; and his name Is wafted through them with an odorous fame, Balm breathing. Take my tribute. Strawberries bred In shrubby dingles : cherries round and red. And flowers that love the sun. SPRING. Sweet flowers are thine, Carnation, pink, acacia, jessamine, With coral-budded myrtle, which discloses White pearly blossoms, and perfumed musk roses. Enter Autumn. AUTUMN. Fair queen of leaves and flowers, give way to me, To Autumn and his fruits. Do you not see How I am laden ? Corn and grapes are here And olives. Of the riches of the year I am the joyful gatherer. Merry nights Have I at harvest-time, and rare delights When the brown vintagers beneath the trees Dance and drink in the sunset and the breeze. And I have brought young tendrils of the vine Amidst your gayer garlands to entwine For great Doria. 340 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. Enter Winter. SPRING. Ah ! what form is this? Stern Winter, hence ! Come not to mar our bliss With frosts and tempests. Icy season, hence ! See, Summer sickens at thy influence, And I can feel my coronet withering. Hence then, thyself, fair, dainty, delicate thing ! Light fluttering playmate of the infant loves. Mistress of butterflies and turtle-doves, Hence ! and bear with thee that gay blooming toy, To a fair girl from an enamoured boy Fit homage, not for heroes. In this form Thou hail'st a friend, Doria ! The wild storm, The raging of the elements, the wave That Winter flings aloft, are to the brave A victory and a glory. Thou hast breasted My billows, mountain-high and foamy-crested. And vanquished them. And I can guerdon thee, I, barren Winter, from the unfading tree To valour consecrate. This laurel crown Wear ! as it clips thy temples, thy renown Will cast upon its shining leaves a light Ineff'able. Approach, ye Seasons bright, With gifts and garlands ; let us offer here The blended homage of the circling year. Some exquisite snatches of song, sometimes of Shaksperean character, occur occasionally in the Dramatic Scenes. One of them I transcribe. BRIDAL SONG. Forth the lovely bride ye bring ; Gayest flowers before her fling. MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 341 From your high-piled baskets spread, Maidens of the fairy tread ! Strew them far, and wide, and high, A rosy shower 'twixt earth and sky ! Strew about ! Strew about ! Bright jonquil, in golden pride. Fair carnation, freak'd and dyed, Strew about! Strew about! Dark-eyed pinks, with fringes light. Rich geraniums, clustering bright. Strew about ! Strew about ! Flaunting pea, and harebell blue. And damask-rose of deepest hue. And purest lilies, maidens, strew ! Strew about ! Strew about ! Home the lovely bride ye bring : Choicest flowers before her fling. Till dizzying streams of rich perfume Fill the lofty banquet-room ! Strew the tender citron there, The crushed magnolia proud and rare, Strew about! Strew about! Orange blossoms, newly dropp'd. Chains from high acacia cropp'd. Strew about! Strew about ! Pale musk-rose, so light and fine, Cloves, and stars of jessamine. Strew about! Strew about ! Tops of myrtle, wet with dew, Nipp'd where the leaflets sprout anew. Fragrant bay-leaves, maidens, strew ! Strew about ! Strew about ! But to gain a just appreciation of Miss Mitford's dramatic ge- nius, we must go to her Plays. It is in them that she puts forth all her strength, and it will doubtless be by them that posterity will mainly judge her. Julian, Rienzi, Charles the First, and EE* 342 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. Tlie Vespers of Palermo, are the names of her Plays: and all of them display more or less the dramatic qualities which I have heretofore attributed to her. Charles the First and Bienzi are the two which have taken the strongest hold of the public mind; and I see no reason to dispute the verdict. Both are noble plays — full of poetry and characterisation. I take, however, one of them only for ray illustrations. It shall be Bienzi. There could not well be a more dramatic story than that of Rienzi. The dazzling and strange career of " The Last of the Tribunes" presents more than most histories those strong and startling points of interest which contribute so materially to dra- matic success. The time, the place, the men, the events, all attract and fasten the attention. The scene is Rome : the sub- ject Liberty: the passions addressed are amongst the intcnsest that belong to human nature. All these concurrent circumstances no doubt contributed materially to Miss Mitford's success : but still there seems to me no question that the story owes more to her than she to the story. Some of the chief dramatic faculties are displayed by the fair author of this work in a remarkable degree. There is great constructiveness in it : the piece is extremely well put together: the occurrences happen naturally and truthfully. The main points are most judiciously kept in view throughout, and the minor ones duly subordinated. There is a consistency, too, a coherency in the Play, which is essentially dramatic. There is no flying off at a tangent ; no forgetting the great object in view, even for a moment. The characters are brought upon the scene easily and naturally : and they speak not at all like automata, but like men and women of actual flesh and blood. The passions displayed in the Tragedy are, moreover, most correctly and affectingly delineated : there is not a syllable of false feeling or unreal sentiment in the whole composition. Besides this, there is an amazing range of sympathy shown by the writer. The proud, ambitious, fiery Rienzi, the gentle and innocent Claudia, the brave but indecisive and haughty Angelo, the revengeful Lady Colonna, and the fierce Ursini, are all so powerfully and sympathetically portrayed, that the mind of the author must have inhabited for a time the soul of each, and must have really felt as they are made to feel. The mere composition, too, is eminently MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 343 dramatic in its character. It is terse, vigorous, and suggestive. The writer never forgets that she is depicting, not describing. Here is the portrait of Rienzi : there is absolute, moving, speak- ing life in it. Lady Colonna calls him A. sad, wise man, of daring eye and free Yet mystic speech. While others laugh'd, I still Have shudder'd, for his darkling words oft fell Like oracles, answering with dim response To my unspoken thoughts, so that my spirit. Albeit unus'd to womanish fear, hath quail'd To hear his voice's deep vibration. Watch him ! Be sure he is ambitious. Watch him, lords ! To complete the picture, here are touches by his daughter, Claudia. Alas ! I 've learned to fear him : — he is chang'd. Grievously chang'd : still good and kind, but full Of fond relentings — cross'd by sudden gusts Of wild and stormy passion. Then he 's so silent : — He once was eloquent. Now he sits mute, His serious eyes bent on the ground: — each sense Turn'd inward. A dangerous man, this, one would say, in a wicked state! — especially when he begins to talk about ■■ "the will of man, the hallow'd names Of Freedom and of Country." But let us listen to him. He is speaking to the Romans of their wrongs : — incited by wrongs of his own. Friends, I come not here to talk. Ye know too well The story of our thraldom. We are slaves ! 344 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. The briglit sun rises to liis course, and lights A race of slaves ! — He sets, and his last beam Falls on a slave. Not such as swept along By the full tide of power the conqueror leads To crimson glory and undying fame — But base ignoble slaves, slaves to a horde Of petty despots, feudal tyrants : — lords Rich in some dozen paltry villages, Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great In that strange spell, a name. Each hour dark fraud Or open rapine, or protected murder, Cry out against them. But this very day An honest man, my neighbour — there he stands — Was struck — struck like a dog, by one who wore The badge of Ursini, because forsooth, He toss'd not high his ready cap in air, Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts At sight of that great ruffian. Be we men, And suffer such dishonour ? Men, and wash not I'he stain away in blood ? Such shames are common : I have known deeper wrongs. I that speak to ye. I had a brother once, a gracious boy. Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope. Of sweet and quiet joy. Oh how I lov'd That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years, Brother at once and son ! He left my side ; A summer-bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour The pretty harmless boy was slain ! I saw^ His corse, his mangled corse ; and when I cried For vengeance — Rouse ye, Romans ! rouse ye, slaves ! Have ye brave sons ? Look in the next fierce brawl To see them die. Have ye fair daughters ? Look Ye to see them live, torn from your arms ; distained, Dishonor'd ; and if ye dare to call for justice, Be answer'd with — the lash ! Yet this is Rome, That sat on her seven hills, and from her throne Of beauty rul'd the world ! And we are Romans! MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 345 Why in that elder day to be a Roman Was greater than a king ! And once again — Hear me, ye walls that echoed to the tread Of either Brutus! Once again, I swear. The eternal city shall be free ! Her sons Shall walk with princes ! Very consistent is the bearing of Rienzi M'hen lifted to the height of power. True to his nature, his ambition has grown in him, and is become selfish and infatuating. Still his great spirit remains true and noble. His sway must be just, however des- potic. Lordly fraud swings on the same gibbet with plebeian tlieft : there is no partial hand interposed for either. Though the head of the Ursini is the offender, he must hang with the rest of the criminals. The scene wherein Rienzi refuses mercy to the patrician culprit is a very fine and characteristic one. [The Nobles are come to intercede with Rienzi for Ursini. Colonna begins.] COLONNA. Sir, I come A suitor to thee. Martin iJrsmi — RIENZI. When last his name was on thy lips — Well, Sir, Thy suit, thy suit? If pardon, take at once My answer. — No ! ANGELO. Yet, mercy — RIENZI. Angelo, Waste not thy pleadings on a desperate cause, And a resolved spirit. My Lord Colonna, This is a needful justice. 44 B46 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. COLONNA. Noble Tribune; It is a crime which custom — RIENZI. Aye, the law Of the strong ag-ain St the weak — you f law, the law Of the sword and s pear. But, gentles , now ye live Under the good estate. SAVELLI. He is noble ! RIENZI. Therefore A thousand times, he dies. Ye are noble, Sirs, And need a warning. COLONNA. Sick, almost to death. KltN/.!. Ye have less cause to grieve. FRANGIPANI. New wedded. RIENZI. Aye, Madonna Laura is a blooming dame, And will become her weeds. CAFARELLO. Remember, Tribune, He hath two uncles, cardinals. Would'st outrage The sacred College ? , MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 347 RIENZI. The Lord Cardinals, Meek, pious, lowly men, and loving virtue, Will render thanks to him vs^ho wipes a blot So flagrant from their name ! COLONNA. An Ursini, Head of the Ursini ! JOHN OF URSINI. My brother! RIENZ.l. And dar'st thou talk to me of brothers ? Thou, Whose groom — Would'st have me break my own just laws To save thy brother ? Thine ! Hast thou forgotten When that most beautiful and blameless boy, The prettiest piece of innocence that ever Rreath'd in this sinful world, lay at thy feet, Slain by thy pamper'd minion, and I knelt Before thee for redress, — whilst thou — Didst never Hear talk of retribution? This is justice — Pure justice, not revenge ! mark well, my Lords, Pure equal justice. Martin Ursini Had open trial, is guilty, is condemn'd. And he shall die ! COLONNA. Yet listen to us — RIENZI. Lords, If ye could range before me all the peers, Prelates, and potentates of Christendom, The holy Pontiff kneeling at my knee, And emperors crouching at my feet, to sue For this great robber, still I should be blind 348 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. As Justice. But this very day a wife, One infant hanging at her breast, and two, Scarce bigger, first-born twins of misery, Clinging to the poor rags that scarcely hid Her squalid form, grasped at my bridle-rein To beg her husband's life, condemned to die For some vile petty theft, some paltry scudi : And whilst the fiery war-horse chaf'd and rear'd. Shaking his crest and plunging to get free. There 'midst the dangerous coil unmov'd she stood. Pleading in broken words, and piercing shrieks, And hoarse low shivering sobs, the very cry Of Nature. And when I at last said No, — For I said No to her — she flung herself And those poor innocent babes between the stones And my hot Arab's hoofs. We sav'd them all. Thank Heaven we sav'd them all ! But I said No To that sad woman midst her shrieks. Ye dare not Ask me for mercy now ! All this is in the highest degree dramatic, and most truly fitted to the character of the man who utters it. In his zenith of triumph, Rienzi is Reinzi still. The ambitious, unquiet spirit can find no rest, even M'hen most successful. We see that now He bears him like a prince, save that he lacks The port serene of majesty. His mood Is fitful : stately now, and sad ; anon. Full of a hurried mirth ; courteous awhile. And mild : — then bursting, on a sudden, forth Into sharp biting taunts. But the intoxication of ambition increases in him ; " his new power Mounts to his brain like wine: — " MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 349 He becomes reckless, hated, despised, deserted by those who raised him to his giddying elevation. Rebellion, turmoil, riot, meet him at every turn ; until at last his awakened spirit sees the vanity of the dream in M'hich he has indulged. "For this," (he cries) I left The assur'd condition of my lowliness, — The laughing days, the peaceful nights, the joys, Of my small quiet home ; for such I risk'd Thy peace, my daughter ! O had I laid All earthly passion, pride, and pomp, and power, And high ambition and hot lust of rule, Like sacrificial fruits upon the altar Of Liberty, divinest Liberty ! — Then — but the dream that fiU'd my soul was vast As his whose mad ambition thinn'd the ranks Of the seraphim, and peopled hell ! And so he falls — like a star from the sky — into the black- ness of darkness. Oh, ambition ! By that sin fell the angels — how shall man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to profit by 't? Thy dream is a sick and a vain one, and thy waking is to mis- ery and the tomb. " Madness is in thee, and Death — thy end is Bedlam and the Grave." FF MARY HOWITT, The poetess alike of the Fireside and of the Field, and perhaps the most popular of all our female writers, takes a rank second to none among the fair poets of our country. Not less harmonious and graceful than Mrs. Hemans, she is infinitely more spirited, natural, and powerful ; and whilst her sympathies are possibly less subtle and sentimental than those of the lady referred to, they are much more strong, more extended, and more human. She feels equally for creation, but more for humanity. She writes with a more direct and earnest purpose, too, than Mrs. Hemans does: Mrs. Hemans delights, Mrs. HoAvitt instructs us. In a word, I find in Mrs. Hemans music ; in Mrs. Howitt musical speech. In force and character of style, and in bold nervousness of thought, Mrs. Howitt may challenge comparison with most wri- ters in our literature. There is a strength approaching to mas- si\'eness in the following noble Sonnets on TYRE. I. In thought I saw the palace domes of Tyre : The gorgeous treasures of her merchandize ; All her proud people in their brave attire. Thronging her streets for sport or sacrifice. I saw her precious stones and spiceries ; The singing-girl, with flower-wreathed instrument; And slaves whose beauty ask'd a monarch's price : Forth from all lands all nations to her went, And kings to her on embassy were sent. I saw with gilded prow and silken sail, MARY HO WITT. 351 Her shiDs that of the sea had government. gallant ships, 'gainst you what might prevail ! She stood upon her rock, and in her pride Of strength and beauty, waste and woe defied. II. I looked again — I saw a lonely shore ; A rock amid the waters, and a waste Of trackless sand : I heard the bleak sea's roar, And winds that rose and fell with gusty haste. There was one scathed tiee, by storm defaced, Round which the sea-birds wheeled with screaming cry. Ere long came on a traveller, slowly paced : Now east, then west, he turn'd with curious eye, Like one perplexed with an uncertainty. Awhile he looked upon the sea, — and then Upon a book as if it might supply The thing he lack'd : — he read and gazed again — Yet as if unbelief so on him wrought. He might not deem this shore the shore he sought. III. Again I saw him come ; — 'twas eventide ; The sun shone on the rock amid the sea ; The winds were hush'd : — the quiet billows sighed With a low swell : — the birds winged silently Their evening flight around the scathed tree ; The fisher safely put into the bay And push'd his boat ashore ; then gathered he His nets, and hastening up the rocky way, Spread them to catch the sun's warm evening ray. 1 saw that stranger's eye gaze on the scene : And this was Tyre," — said he : how has decay Within her palaces a despot been. Ruin and silence in her courts have met, And on the city rock the fisher spreads his net. 352 MARY HOWITT. Not content with showing that she possesses noble powers, Mrs- Ilowitt exhibits the rare ambition of" using her gifts nobly : and, with an earnest eloquence, which often reaches sublimity, she proclaims herself the poet of the Young and the Humble and the Poor. Her sympathies with all classes are strong, " all tears Which human sorrow sheds are dear to her;" but with these classes thej^ are overpowering. Childhood has for her an inexpressible charm : a reminiscence of childhood takes precedence of everything besides. We see this in her lines respecting Smyrna. "Of Smyrna nought I know, Except that Homer was a child In Smyrna long ago :" indeed the sentiment is ever uppermost in her poetry : and never is it more graceful and beautiful than when allied to her delicate womanly sympathy for the poor. Take the following, for in- stance : — My heart o'erflowelh to mine eyes. And a prayer is on my tongue. When I see the poor man's children. The toiling, though the young, Gathering with sunburnt hands The dusty wayside flowers ! Alas ! that pastime symbolleth Life's after, darker, hours ! And how eloquently and touchingly she pleads for the children of the poor. I find the finest possible oratory in the subjoined beautiful extract from her Lyrics of Life : — MARY HOWITT. 35J THE CHILDREN. Beautiful the children's faces ! Spite of all that mars and sears : To my inmost heart appealinuf ; Calling forth love's tenderest feeling ; Steeping all my soul with tears. Eloquent the children's faces — Poverty's lean look, which saith, Save us ! save us ! woe surrounds us ; Little knowledge sore confounds us : Life is but a lingering death ! Give us light amid our darkness ; Let us know the good from ill ; Hate us not for all our blindness ; Love us, lead us, show us kindness — You can make us what you will. We are willing; we are ready ; We would learn, if you would teach ; We have hearts that yearn towards duty ; We have minds alive to beauty ; Souls that any heights can reach ! Raise us by your Christian knowledge: Consecrate to man our powers ; Let us take our proper station ; We, the rising generation. Let us stamp the age as ours ! We shall be what you will make us : — Make us wise, and make us good ! Make us strong for time of trial ; Teach us temperance, self-denial, Patience, kindness, fortitude ! 45 FF* 354 MARY HOWITT. Look into our childish faces ; See ye not our willing hearts ? Only love us, only lead us ; Only let us know you need us, And we all will do our parts. We are thousands, many thousands ! Every day our ranks increase ; Let us march beneath your banner, We, the legion of true honour, Combating for love and peace ! Train us! try us ! days slide onward, They can ne'er be ours again : Save us, save ! from our undoing ! Save from ignorance and ruin ; Make us worthy to be men ! Send us to our weeping mothers, Angel-stamped in heart and brow ! We may be our father's teachers : We may be the mightiest preachers, Li the day that dawneth now ! Such the children's mute appealing. All my inmost soul was stirred ; And my heart was bowed with sadness. When a cry, like summer's gladness, Said, " The children's prayer is heard !" There is a line in the preface to Mrs, Howitt's Ballads, which very happily describes her: the line that speaks of " love for Jlowers, and Christ, and little children f Beauty, Humility, and Dependence. Her sense of beauty is truly exquisite. It is not the soft semi-voluptuous, undefined sentiment of Mrs. Hemans, nor the rich, showy, brilliant conception of Miss Landon : but a clear, honest, happy, grateful appreciation of what is harmonious and loveable and elevating. There is nothing dreamy in her idea of beauty. It is a real existence : something that may be clasped to the heart, and felt, and transmitted. She says — Make beauty a familiar guest. So shalt thou elevate thy mind ! And let their glorious names be bless'd, Who leave one thought of grace behind, Be it in form or word express'd, For such are benefactors of mankind ! Equally fine is her sympathy with lowliness. Anything that is humble, or dependent, or patient, or uncomplaining, or enduring, has a charm which attracts the whole intellect and heart of Mrs. Howitt at once. And such sympathies proclaim her to be the possessor of one of those true, earnest, loving souls which alone (humanly speaking) can save us from sinking into that yawning gulf of pride and selfishness which now threatens to devour and close over all that is noble and self-denying in the heart of man. We need to be more childlike: and to be this we want writers who see with the true eyes, and speak with the fearless souls of children. This our author does. With one single exception (Jane Taylor) Mary Howitt has written more charmingly for children and of children, than any writer of poetry in our language. And whilst in all respects she is equal, in one respect she is far superior to the exception named : the information she conveys is of a higher and more solid order. In her volume entitled Birds and Flowers, there is a large amount of positive instruction : and most delightfully it is conveyed to the mind of the youthful reader ; not merely inculcating facts, but inducting sympathies : not merely fastening the young mind on intellectual Knowledge, but fixing it deeply in the rock of moral Truth. Her style contains everything that can attract the young imagination ; fervour, sim- plicity, harmony, affectionateness, and pictorial power. Take the following lines : — BIRDS IN SUMMER. How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Flitting about in each leafy tree ; 356 MARY HOWITT. In the leafy trees, so broad and tall, Like a green and beautiful palace hall ; With its airy chambers, light and boon, That open to sun and stars and moon. That open unto the bright blue sky, And the frolicsome winds as they wander by. They have left their nests in the forest bough, Those homes of delight they need not now ; And the young and the old they wander out. And traverse their green world round about : And hark ! at the top of this leafy hall, How one to the other they lovingly call ; " Come up, come up ! " they seem to say, " Where the topmost twigs in the breezes sway ! " " Come up, come up, for the world is fair. Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air ! ' And the birds below give back the cry, " We come, we come, to the branches high ! " How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Flitting about in a leafy tree ; And away through the air what joy to go. And to look on the green bright earth below. How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Skimming about on the breezy sea ; Cresting the billows like silvery foam. And then wheeling away to its clifl'-built home ! What joy it must be, to sail, upborne By a strong free wing, througli the rosy morn, To meet the young sun face to face. And pierce like a shaft the boundless space ! How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Wherever it listeth, there to flee ; To go when a joyful fancy calls Dashing adown 'mong the waterfalls ; MARY HO WITT. 357 Then wheeling about Avith its mates at play, Above and below, and among the spray, Hither and hither, with screams as wild As the laughing mirth of a rosy child ! What joy it must be, like a living breeze, To flutter about 'mong the flowering trees ; Lightly to soar, and to see beneath The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, And the yellow furze, like fields of gold, That gladden some fairy region old ! On mountain tops, on the billowy sea, On the leafy stems of the forest tree. How pleasant the life of a bird must be ! I quote next a little Poem full of sweet, simple tenderness, quite characteristic of Mrs. Howitt, and entided MOUNTAIN CHILDREN. Dwellers by lake and hill ! Merry companions of the bird and bee ! Go, gladly forth, and drink of joy your fill, With unconstrained step, and spirits free ! No crowd impedes your way. No city wall impedes your further bounds : Where the wild flock can wander, ye may stray The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds. The sunshine and the flowers, And the old trees that cast a solemn shade; The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers played ; — The grey and ancient peaks Round which the silent clouds hang day and night ; And the low voice of water as it makes, Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight ; — 358 MARY HOWITT. These are your joys ! Go forth — Give your hearts up unto their mighty power ; For in his spirit God has clothed the earth, And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower. The voice of hidden rills Its quiet way into your spirit finds ; And awfully the everlasting hills Address you in their many toned winds. Ye sit upon the earth Twining its flowers, and shouting full of glee ; And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth, Moulds your unconscious spirits silently. Hence is it that the lands Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons; Whom the world reverences. The patriot bands Were of the hills like you, ye little ones ! Children of pleasant song Are taught within the mountain solitudes ; For hoary legends to your wilds belong. And yours are haunts where inspiration broods. Then go forth — earth and sky To you are tributary ; joys are spread, Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread' Beautifully in the foregoing verses does the poet sympathize with Freedom and its joys : — but she has a heart that feels for the Captive, too. "Look on that picture, and on this T^ PAUPER ORPHANS. They never knew what 't was to play, Without control, the long long day, ir iHi [!•, MARY HOWITT. 359 In wood and field at will ; They knew no tree, no bird, no bud, They got no strawberries from the wood, No wild thyme from the hill. They play'd not on a mother's flcfor; They toil'd amidst the hum and roar Of bobbins and of wheels ; — The air they drew was not the mild Bounty of Nature, but defiled, — And scanty were their meals. Their lives can know no passing joy, Dwindled and dwarfed are girl and boy, And even in childhood old; "With hollow eye and anxious air, As if a heavy graspinsj care Their spirits did infold. Their limbs are swollen, their bodies bent. And worse, no noble sentiment Their darken'd minds pervade; Feeble and blemisii'd by disease, Nothing their marble hearts can please, But doings that degrade. Oh, hapless heirs of want and woe ! What hope of comfort can they know ? Them man and law condemn ; They have no guide to lead them right, Darkness they have not known from light,- Heaven be a friend to them ! This seems to me a noble instance of the strength of Mrs. Howitt's moral sympathies. Very kw writers equal this "finely touched" spirit. As a further illustration I quote her poem of 360 MARY HOWITT. A CITY STREET. I love the fields, the woods, tiie streams, The wild flowers fresh and sweet, And yet I love, no less than these, The crowded city street : For haunts of men, where'er they be, Awake my deepest sympathy. I see within the city street Life's most extreme estates. The gorgeous domes of palaces ; The prison's doleful gates ; The hearths by household virtues blest, The dens that are the serpent's nest. I see the rich man, proudly fed, And richly clothed, pass by ; I see the shivering homeless wretch. With hunger in his eye : For life's severest contrasts meet For ever in the city street. Infinitely varied as are the styles in which Mrs. Howitt has written, it is not saying too much to afiirm that she is suc- cessful in all. Perhaps, however, her " Ballads " are her master-pieces. Nothing can exceed the simple, plaintive tender- ness, the unaflTected, overpowering pathos of these beautiful compositions. Adopting the manner, she has caught the spirit, of our old Balladists : adding, moreover, a refinement of senti- ment which few of our ancient writers display. As a very interesting specimen of Mrs. Howitt's Ballad style, I present her poem called THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB. Oh ! poverty is a weary thing, 't is full of grief and pain, It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain : It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain ! MARY HOWITT. 361 The children of the rich man have not their bread to win ; They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin ; Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin. And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear ; In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share : They walk among life's pleasant ways, where all is rich and fair. The children of the poor man, — though they be young each one, Must rise betime each morning, before the rising sun : And scarcely when the sun is set their daily task is done. Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride. The sunshine and the summer flowers upon the highway side, And their own free companionship on heathy commons wide. Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three. But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty ; It may not have one thing to love, how small soe'er it be ! A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more, Feeding in sunshine pleasantly ; they were the rich man's store : There was the while one little lamb beside the cottage door: A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree, That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee ; That had a place within their hearts, as one of the family. But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed, The father laboured all day long, that his children might be fed. And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread. That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood ; Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued : " What is the creature's life to us ?" said he — 't will buy us food ! 46 GO " Ay, tboucrh the children weep all day, and with down-drooping liead Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed : And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread." It went. Oh ! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring: But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling, With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing ! Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see. Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously ; " Oh ! mother dear ! it loveth us ; and what beside have we ?" •'Let's take him off to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despair Said one strong boy: "let's take him off; — the hills are wide and fair, I know a little hiding place, and we will keep him there ! " Oh vain! they took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down. With a strong cord they tied him fast ; and o'er the common brown .And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town. The litde children through that day and throughout all the mor- row, From everything about the house a mournful thought did borrow ; The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow. • O poverty is a weary thing, 't is full of grief and pain. It keepeth down the soul of man as with an iron chain ; ;It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain. Like the great majority of her Sister-Poets, Mrs, Howitt is truly devotional. A fine spirit of piety breathes through all her works. As a specimen I take her well-known lines called MARY HOWITT. 363 THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN. Thoughts of heaven ! they come when low The summer even breeze doth faintly blow ; AVhen the mighty sea shines clear, unstirr'd By the wavering tide, or the dipping bird : They come in the rush of the surging storm, When the blackening waves rear their giant form,— When o'er the dark rocks curl the breakers white, And the terrible lightnings rend the night, — When the noble ship hath vainly striven With the tempest's might, come thoughts of heaven. They come where man doth not intrude, In the untrack'd forest's solitude ; In the stillness of the gray rock's height, Where the lonely eagle takes his flight ; On peaks where lie the eternal snows ; In the sunbright isle, 'mid its rich repose. In the healthy glen, by the dark clear lake. When the fair swan sails from her silent brake ; When Nature reigns in her deepest rest, Pure thoughts of heaven come unrepress'd. They come as we gaze on the midnight sky When the star-gemm'd vault looks dark and high, And the soul, on the wings of thought sublime, Soars from the dim world, and the bounds of time. Till the mental eye becomes unseal'd. And the mystery of being in Hght revealed. They rise in the Gothic chapel dim, When slowly comes forth the holy hymn. And the organ's rich tones swell full and high. Till the roof peals back the melody. Thoughts of heaven! from his joy beguiled. They come to the bright-eyed, sinless child ; 364 MARY HOWITT. To man of age in his dim decay, Bringing hope that his youth had home away ; To the woe-smit soul in its dark distress, As flowers spring up in the wilderness : And in silent chambers of the dead, When the mourner goes with soundless tread ; For, as the day-beams freely fall. Pure thoughts of heaven are sent to all. Highly religious, however, as Mrs. Howitt is, she is not in the slightest degree bigoted. She can appreciate piety in any of its shapes. Creeds matter not to her. She asks no more Than that the one Great Father, men adore : For loving Him, with better right we call On God as Father, who hath loved us all. Her Faith is the earnest trust of a true and childlike soul, un- fettered by wordy dogmas ; her Hope is the cheerful expectation of a spirit confident of a coming immortality, to be shared with people of every clime and kindred and nation and tongue : her Charity is of the kind that " envieth not, and thinketh no evil," — that can extend the hand of fellowship to all who bear the hu- man form, and find in the poorest of the species a brother and a friend. In the subjoined lines the spirit of true religion is very sweetly apparent ; and combined with it there is a touch of sound philo- sophy such as we should do well to take closely to our hearts. The Mammonism of the age is powerfully described ; and the purifying influences of religion become all the more evident from the contrast. The passage is quite a characteristic one. ENGLISH CHURCHES. How beautiful they stand, Those ancient altars of our native land ! Amid the pasture fields and dark green woods, Amid the mountain's cloudy solitudes ; MARY HOWITT. 365 By rivers broad that rush into the sea ; By little brooks that with a lapsing sound, Like playful children, run by copse and lea : Each in its little plot of holy ground. How beautiful they stand. Those old grey churches of our native land ! Our lives are all turmoil ; Our souls are in a weary strife and toil, Grasping and straining — tasking nerve and brain, — Both day and night for gain ! We have grown worldly : have made gold our god: Have turned our hearts away from lowly things : We seek not now the wild flower on the sod ; We see not snowy-folded angels' wings Amid the summer-skies ; For visions come not to polluted eyes ! Yet, blessed quiet fanes ! Still piety, still poetry remains. And shall remain, whilst ever on the air One chapel-bell calls high and low to prayer, — Whilst ever green and sunny churchyards keep The dust of one beloved, and tears are shed. From founts which in the human heart lie deep ! Something in these aspiring days we need To keep our spirits lowly, To set within our hearts sweet thoughts and holy ! And 't is for this they stand, The old grey churches of our native land ! And even in the gold-corrupted mart, In the great city's heart. They stand ; and chanting dim and organ sound And stated services of prayer and praise, Like to the righteous ten who were not found For the polluted city, shall upraise, Meek faith and love sincere, — Better in time of need than shield and spear ! GG* 366 MARY HOWITT. Occasionally we find in Mrs. Howitt's v/ritings a more lofty and ambitious aim than that simple one which generally charac- terises them : or perhaps I should rather say that she seeks to effect the same object which she has commonly in view, by lof- tier means. In her poem called The Seven Temptations, one of the finest works ever pritten by a woman, with touches, now like Byron's, now like Goethe's, now almost Miltonic, we find her analysing the nature and tracing the operations of the princi- ple of Evil : and although it is not to be expected that she should make this awful matter plain, still she often discourses most elo- quently and instructively upon it. The following lines are, I think, very nobly conceived : they mount, indeed, into true sub- limity. Thou, that createdst with a word each star ; Who out of nothingness brought systems forth ; Yet didst exalt beyond creation, far, The human sonl, immortal at its birth; — Thou gavest liglit and darkness ; life and death; Thou gavest good and ill. Twin powers, to be Companions of its mortal devious path ; Yet left the human will Unlimited and free ! We know how pain and woe. Sorrow and sin make up the sum of life ! How good and evil are at ceaseless strife. And how the soul doth err in choice we know ! Yet not for this droop we, nor are afraid ; We know thy goodness, we behold thy might ; We know thy truth can never be gainsaid, And what thou dost is right ! We glorify thy name that thus it is ; We glorify thy name for more than this ! We know that out of darkness shines thy light ; That out of evil cometh forth thy good ; That none shall circumvent the Infinite, Nor can Omnipotence be e'er subdued ! We know that doubt shall cease, and feeble terror ; That thou wilt wipe all tears from every eye ; That Thine Almighty Truth shall vanquish Error, And Death shall die ! We know that this shall be, Therefore we trust in Thee, And pour in balm to human hearts that bleed ; And bind the broken and the bruised reed ; And say, Rejoice, Rejoice ! For Truth is strong: Exalt ye every voice In one triumphant song — For Truth is God, and He shall make you free ! Evd is but of Time ; — Good, of Eternity ! To give a just and complete idea of Mrs. Howitt's varied and voluminous writings requires for more space than the limits of this work will afford : the reader, therefore, who desires — and who will not? — to make a more familiar acquaintance with this gifted lady's muse, must turn to her works for himself. He must go to her book of Birds and Floivers, and follow her through wood and copse, by lake and stream, "And think of angels' voices When the birds' songs he hears : " — and he must turn to her volume of Fireside Verses, and read of little Marien — "The angel of the poor," — and of Mabel on Midsummer-day: and of The Boy of the Southern Isle, in whom he will find a spirit akin to that of Coleridge's Ancient Mariner. And above all he must acquaint himself with her Book of Ballads; mourn with the desolate Magdalene ; hie with Mary to the top of the Caldon Low ; search the woods for little Lilien May ; and listen to the angel-words of The Boy of Heaven. He will find before long that he is in 368 MARY HOWITT. company with one of the most richly freighted spirits that ever sailed down the stream of Time. In summing up my imperfect estimate of Mary Howitt, I would say that no Female Poet in our literature surpasses her, and that but few equal her. As a versifier, as a moralist, and as a philo- sopher, she may safely challenge comparison with any writer of her own sex, and with most of the writers of the other sex : whilst as regards grace, pathos, womanly sentiment, and Christian sympathy, she has scarcely " a rival near her throne." I believe that her writings have done more to elevate our idea of woman's intellectual character, than all the treatises on that subject in our language : I believe further, that her works tend most powerfully to ameliorate, exalt, and purify the heart of the world ; and I be- lieve, finally, that she is the truest representative we have among our Poets of that fervent, practical, beautiful Christianity which was prophesied in the song of the angels at Bethlehem, — peace ON KARTH AND GOOD WILL AMONG MEN. Mrs. Howitt is indeed a writer of whom England may be, and will be eternally proud. THE LOST ONE. We meet around the board, thou art not there ; Over our household joys hath passed a gloom; Beside the fire we see thy empty chair, And miss thy sweet voice in the silent room. What hopeless longings after thee arise ! Even for the touch of thy small hand I pine ; And for the sound of thy dear little feet. Alas ! tears dim mine eyes, Meeting in every place some joy of thine, Or when fair children pass me in the street. Beauty was on thy cheek ; and thou didst seem A privileged being, chartered from decay ; And thy free spirit, like a mountain stream That hath no ebb, kept on its cheerful way. Thy laugh was like the inspiring breath of spring, That thrills the heart, and cannot be unfelt. The sun, the moon, the green leaves and the flowers, And every living thing, Were a strong joy to thee ; thy spirit dwelt Gladly in life, rejoicing in its powers. Oh ! what had death to do with one like thee, Thou young and loving one ; whose soul did cling, Even as the ivy clings unto the tree. To those that loved thee ? Thou, whose tears would spring Dreading a short day's absence, didst thou go Alone into the future world unseen, Solving each awful untried mystery. The dread unknown to know ; To be where mortal traveller hath not been. Whence welcome tidings cannot come from thee? My happy boy ! and murmur I that death Over thy young and buoyant frame had power? In yon bright land love never perisheth, Hope may not mock, nor grief the heart devour. The Beautiful are round thee ; thou dost keep Within the Eternal Presence ; and no more Mayst death, or pain, or separation dread: Thy bright eyes cannot weep. Nor they with whom thou art thy loss deplore ; For ye are of the living, not the dead. Thou dweller with the unseen, who hast explored The immense unknown ; thou to whom death and heaven Are mysteries no more ; whose soul is stored With knowledge for which man hath vainly striven ; Beloved child, oh ! when shall I lie down With thee beneath fair trees that cannot fade ? When from the immortal rivers quench my thirst ? 47 370 MARY HOWITT. Life's journey speedeth on ; Yet for a little while we walk in shade ; Anon, by death the cloud is all dispersed ; Then o'er the hills of heaven the eternal day doth burst. TIBBIE INGLIS, OR THE SCHOLAR S WOOING. Bonny Tibbie Inglis ! Through sun and stormy weather, She kept upon the broomy hills Her father's flock together. Sixteen summers had she seen, A rose-bud just unsealing, Without sorrow, without fear. In her mountain shieling. She was made for happy thoughts, For playful wit and laughter. Singing on the hills alone. With echo singing after. She had hair as deeply black As the cloud of thunder; She had brows so beautiful, And dark eyes flashing under. Bright and witty shepherd girl ! Beside a mountain water I found her, wliom a king himself Would proudly call his daughter. She was sitting 'mong the crags, Wild and mossed and hoary, Reading in an ancient book Some old martyr story. Tears were starting to her eyes, Solemn thought was o'er her; When she saw in that lone place A stranger stand before her. Crimson was her sunny cheek, And her lips seemed moving With the beatings of her heart — How could I help loving ! On a crag I sat me down, Upon the mountain hoary, And made her read again to me That old pathetic story. Then she sang me mountain songs., Till the air was ringing With her clear and warbling voice Like a sky-lark singing. And when eve came on at length. Among the blooming heather, We herded on the mountain side Her father's flock together. And near unto her father's house, I said " Good night" with sorrow. And inly wished that I might say, " We '11 meet again to-morrow !" I watched her tripping to her home ; I saw her meet her mother ; "Among a thousand maids," I cried " There is not such another I" I wandered to my scholar's home. It lonesome looked and dreary ; I took my books but could not read, Methought that I was weary 372 MARY HOWITT. I laid me down upon my bed, My heart with sadness laden ; I dreamed but of the mountain wild, And of the mountain maiden. I saw her of her ancient book The pages turning slowly; I saw her lovely crimson cheek, And dark eye drooping lowly. The dream was, like the day's delight, A life of pain's o'erpayment. I rose, and with unwonted care Put on my sabbath-raiment. To none I told my secret thoughts. Not even to my mother, Nor to the friend who, from my youth. Was dear as is a brother. I got me to the hills again ; The little flock was feeding, And there young Tibbie Inglis sate, But not the old book reading. She sate, as if absorbing thought With heavy spells had bound her. As silent as the mossy crags' Upon the mountains round her. I thought not of my sabbath dress ; I thought not of my learning ; I thought but of the gentle maid, Who, I believed, was mourning. Bonny Tibby Inglis ! How her beauty brightened. Looking at me, half-abashed. With eyes that flashed and lightened ! MARY HOWITT. > 373 There was no sorrow then I saw, There was no thought of sadness. Oh life ! what after-joy hast thou Like love's first certain gladness ! I sate me down among the crags, Upon the mountain hoary ; But read not then the ancient book,— Love was our pleasant story. And then she sang me songs again. Old songs of love and sorrow. For our sufficient happiness Great charm from woe could borrow. And many hours we talked in joy, Yet too much blessed for laughter : I was a happy man that day. And happy ever after ! HH 374 . MRS. SOUTHEY. MRS. SOUTHEY, Formerly Miss Caroline Bowles, is the daughter of the late Reverend William Lisle Bowles, and the widow of the late Robert Southey, the poet. She has written several poetical works, all of which have been received with the favour due to the author's genius. It would be difficult, I think, to find among our Female Poets one who in vigour of mind, intensity of feeling, and gracefulness of expression, excels Mrs. Southey. Her poems have a simpli- city, a naturalness, which is as pleasing as it is rare. Her verses are the very perfection of direct and inartificial thought. In terse force of style I do not know her superior: whilst at the same time she has the quickness of vision and the sensitiveness of sympathy which characterise her sex. It is impossible not to notice the freeness of the touches which compose the following fine picture of THE PAUPER S DEATHBED. Tread softly ! — bow the head - In reverent silence bow ! — No passing bell doth toll, Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. Stranger ! however great, With lowly reverence bow : There's one in that poor shed- One by that paltry bed. Greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo ! Death doth keep his state ; Enter ! — no crowds attend — Enter! — no guards defend This palace-gate ! That pavement damp and cold, No smiling courtiers tread ; One silent woman stands Lifting with meagre hands A dying head. No mingling voices sound — An infant wail alone ; A sob suppress'd — again That short deep gasp, and then The parting groan. Oh, change ! oh, wondrous change — Burst are the prison bars — This moment there, so low, So agonized, and now Beyond the stars ! Oh, change — stupendous change ! There lies the soulless clod : The sun eternal breaks — The new immortal wakes — Wakes with his God. For depth and irresistible force of natural pathos I think I may- challenge our literature to produce a more perfect specimen than Mrs. Southey's poem called THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. My baby ! my poor little one ! thou 'rt come a winter flower, A pale and tender blossom, in a cold unkindly hour ; 376 MRS. SOUTHEY. Thou comest like the snow-drop, and like that pretty thing, The power that calls my bud to life will shield its blossoming. The snow-drop hath no guardian leaves, to fold her safe and warm Yet well she bides the bitter blast, and weathers out the storm ; I shall not long enfold thee thus — not long, but well I know The everlasting arms, my Babe ! will never let thee go. The snow-drop — how it haunts me still! hangs down her fair young head; So thine may droop in days to come, when I have long been dead. And yet the little snow-drop 's safe — from her instruction seek ; For who would crush the motherless, the lowly, and the meek ? Yet motherless thou 'It not be long — not long in name, my life ! Thy father soon will bring him home another, fairer, wife : Be loving, dutiful to her — find favour in her sight — — But never, O my child, forget thine own poor mother quite. But who will speak to thee of her ? — The gravestone at her head Will only tell the name and age and lineage of the dead : But not a word of all the love — the mighty love for thee That crowded years into an hour of brief maternity. They '11 put my picture from its place to fix another's there, That picture that was thought so like, and then so passing fair ! Some chamber in thy father's house they '11 let thee call thine own ; Oh ! take it there to look upon, when thou art all alone — To breathe thine early griefs unto, if such assail my child ; To turn to from less loving looks, from faces not so mild. Alas ! unconscious little one, thou 'It never know that best, That holiest home of all the earth, a living mother's breast. I do repent me now too late of each impatient thought, That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I ought: I 've been too hasty, peevish, proud : I long'd to go away ; And now I'd fain live on for thee, God will not let me stay. MRS. SOUTHEY. 377 Oh ! when I think of what I was, and what I might have been, A bride last year — and now to die ! — and I am scarce nineteen ; And just, just opening in my heart a fount of love so new ! So deep! Could that have run to waste? Could that have fail'd me, too ? The bliss it would have been to see my daughter at my side ! My prime of life scarce overblown, and hers in all its pride : To deck her with my finest things, with all I've rich and rare: To hear it said, " How beautiful ! and good as she is fair!" And then to place the marriage-wreath upon that bright young brow, — Oh! no — not that — 't is full of thorns. — Alas! I 'm wander- ing now. This weak, weak head ! this foolish heart ! they '11 cheat me to the last: I 've been a dreamer all my life, and now that life is past ! Thou 'It have thy father's eyes, my child ! Oh ! once how kind they were ! His long black lashes, his own smile, and just such raven hair. But here 's a mark — Poor innocent! he'll love thee for 't the less — Like that upon thy mother's cheek, his lips were wont to press. And yet perhaps I do him wrong; — perhaps, when all's forgot But our young loves, in memory's mood he '11 kiss this very spot. Oh ! then, my dearest ! clasp thine arms about his neck full fast ; And whisper that I bless'd him now, and loved him to the last. I 've heard that little infants converse by smiles and signs With the guardian band of angels that round about them shines. Unseen by grosser senses ; beloved one ! dost thou Smile so upon thy heavenly friends, and commune with them now? 48 H"* 373 MRS. SOUTHEY. And hast thou not one look for me ? Those little restless eyes Are wand'ring, wand'ring everywhere, the while thy mother dies; And yet, perhaps thou 'rt seeking me, expecting me, mine own ! Come, Death ! and make me to my child at least in spirit known. The beauty of the following, as of the foregoing extracts, will be manifest without comment: indeed, Mrs. Southey is one of those particularly natural and lucid writers, whose genius is apparent without the aid of critic or eulogist. THE RIVER. River ! river ! little river ! Bright you sparkle on your way ; O'er the yellow pebbles dancing, Through the flowers and foliage glancing, Like a child at play. River! river ! swelling river ! On you rush o'er rough and smooth ; iLouder, faster, brawling, leaping 'Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping. Like impetuous youth. River ! river ! brimming river ! Broad, and deep, and still as Time; Seeming still, yet still in motion, Tending onward to the ocean, Just like mortal prime. River! river! rapid river! Swifter now you slip away ; Swift and silent as an arrow. Through a channel dark and narrow, Like life's closing day. MRS. SOUTHEY. 379 River! river! headlong river! Down you dash into the sea ; Sea, that line hath never sounded, Sea, that voyage hath never rounded, Like Eternity. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. How happily, how happily, the flowers die away ! Oh, could we but return to earth as easily as they ! Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence, and bloom : Then drop without decrepitude or pain into the tomb. The gay and glorious creatures ! " They neither toil nor spin," Yet lo ! what goodly raiment they are all apparell'd in ; No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems more bright Than ever brow of Eastern queen endiadem'd with light. The young rejoicing creatures ! their pleasures never pall, Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to all ; The dew, the shower, the sunshine, the balmy blessed air Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may freely share. The happy careless creatures ! of time they take no heed ; Nor weary of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed ; Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light away ; Nor when 't is gone cry dolefully, " Would God that it were day !" And when their lives are over, they drop away lo rest. Unconscious of the penal doom, on holy Nature's breast. No pain have they in dying — no shrinking from decay ; Oh, could we but return to earth as easily as they ! 380 MRS. SOUTHEY. mariner's hymn. Launch thy bark, mariner ! Christian, God speed thee ! Let loose the rudder-bands — Good angels lead thee ! Set thy sails warily, Tempests will come ; Steer thy course steadily ; Christian, steer home ! Look to the weather-bow, Breakers are round thee ; Let fall the plummet now. Shallows may ground thee. Reef in the foresail, there ! Hold the helm fast ! So — let the vessel wear — There swept the blast. " What of the night, watchman ? What of the night ?" " Cloudy, all quiet, No land yet — all 's right." Be wakeful, be vigilant ; Danger may be At an hour when all seemeth Securest to thee. How ! gains the leak so fast ! Clean out the hold ; Hoist up thy merchandise, Heave out thy gold ; There — let the ingots go — Now the ship rights ; Hurrah! the harbour's near, Lo ! the red lights ! Slacken not sail yet At inlet or island ; Straight for the beacon steer, Straight for the high land ; Crowd all thy canvass on, Cut through the foam : Christian ! cast anchor now, Heaven is thy home ! THE LAST JOURNEY. Michaud, in his description of an Egyptian funeral procession, which he met on its way to the cemetery of Rosetta, says — "The procession we saw pass stopped before certain houses, and sometimes receded a few steps. I was told that the dead stopped thus before the doors of their friends to bid them a last farewell, and before those of their enemies to effect a recon- ciliation before they parted for ever." — Correspondance d^Orient, par MM. MlCHAUI) et POUJOULAT. Slowly, with measured tread, Onward, we bear the dead To his long home. Short grows the homeward road, On with your mortal load. O Grave ! we come. Yet, yet — ah ! hasten not Past each familiar spot Where he hath been; Where late he walked in glee, There from henceforth to be Never more seen. Yet, yet — ah! slowly move — Bear not the form we love Fast from our sight — 382 MRS. SOUTHEY. Let the air breathe on him, And the sun leave on him Last looks of light. Rest ye — set down the bier, One he loved dwelleth here. Let the dead lie A moment that door beside. Wont to fly open wide Ere he came nigh. Hearken ! — he speaketh yet — "Oh, friend ! will thou forget (Friend more than brother !) How hand in hand we 've gone, Heart with heart linked in one — All to each other ? " Oh, friend ! I go from thee, Where the worm feasteth free, Darkly to dwell — Giv'st thou no parting kiss ? Friend ! is it come to this ? Oh, friend, farewell !" Uplift your load again. Take up the mourning strain ! Pour the deep wail ! Lo ! the expected one To his place passeth on — Grave ! bid him hail. Yet, yet — ah ! — slowly move ; Bear not the form we love Fast from our sight — Let the air breathe on him, And the sun leave on him Last looks of light. MRS, SOUTHEY. 383 Here dwells his mortal foe ; Lay the departed low, E'en at his gate. — Will the dead speak again ? Uttering proud boasts and vain, Last words of hate ? Lo ! the dead lips unclose — List! list! what sounds are those, - Plaintive and low ? " Oh thou, mine enemy ! Come forth and look on me Ere hence I go. " Curse not thy foeman now — Mark! on his pallid brow Whose seal is set ! Pard'ning I past away — Thou — wage not war with clay - Pardon — forget." Now his last labour 's done ! Now, now the goal is won ! Oh, Grave! we come. Seal up this precious dust — Land of the good and just. Take the soul home ! I NEVER CAST A FLOWER AWAY. I never cast a flower away, The gift of one who cared for me — A little flower — a faded flower — But it was done reluctantly. 384 MRS. SOUTHEY. I never looked a last adieu To things familiar, but my heart Shrank with a feeling almost pain, Even from their lifelessness to part. I never spoke the word "Farewell," But with an utterance faint and broken; An earth-sick longing for the time When it shall never more be spoken. TO DEATH. Come not in terrors clad, to claim An unresisting prey — Come like an evening shadow. Death ! So stealthily ! so silently : And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath Then willingly — oh ! willingly With thee 1 '11 go away. What need to clutch with iron grasp What gentlest touch may take ? What need, with aspect dark, to scare, So awfully — so terribly. The weary soul would hardly care. Called quietly, called tenderly, From thy dread power to break ? 'Tis not as when thou markest out The young — the blest — the gay; The loved, the loving ; they who dream So happily, so hopefully ; Then harsh thy kindest call may seem, And shrinkingly — reluctantly — The summoned may obey. MRS. SOUTHEY. 385 But, I have drunk enough of life (The cup assigned to me Dashed with a little sweet at best, So scantily — so scantily) — To know full well that all the rest, More bitterly — more bitterly Druo-ored to the last will be: — too" And I may live to pain some heart That kindly cares for nie — To pain, but not to bless. O Death ! Come quietly — come lovingly, And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath ; Then willingly — oh ! willingly With thee I '11 go away. 49 u 386 FELICIA HEMANS. FELICIA HEMANS. It would be as much out of good taste as it is unnecessary, to prefix a memoir of Mrs. Ilemans to this brief estimate of her writings. The melancholy circumstances connected with her his- tory are too generally known already, and should be screened rather than unveiled. Suffice it to say, therefore, that Mrs. Hemans was born in 1793, of a highly respectable family ; that she was married early in life to Captain Hemans, from whom she subsequently separated ; and that, after a life of singular purity and goodness, she died in 1835. I think there can be no doubt that Mrs. Hemans takes deci- dedly one of the most prominent places among our Female Poets. She seems to me to represent and unite as purely and completely as any other writer in our literature the peculiar and specific qualities of the female mind. Her works are to my mind a per- fect embodiment of woman's soul : — I would say that they are intensely feminine. The delicacy, the softness, the pureness, the quick observant vision, the ready sensibility, the devotedness, the faith of woman's nature find in Mrs. Hemans their ultra representative. The very diffuseness of her style is feminine, and one would not wish it altered. Diction, manner, senti- ment, passion, and belief are in her as delicately rounded off as are the bones and muscles of the Medicean Venus. There is not a harsh or angular line in her whole mental contour. I do not know a violent, spasmodic, or contorted idea in all her wri- tings ; but every page is full of grace, harmony, and expressive glowing beauty. In nothing can one trace her feminine spirit more strikingly than in her domestic Aojne-loving ideas. Her first volume, writ- ten before she was fifteen, is chiefly about home : it is entitled The. Donicfitic Jlffections ; and is full of calm sweet pictures of most gentle and refining tendency. I would particularly refer the reader to that exquisite passage in the poem where Domestic Bliss is compared to the Violet, smi- ling in the vale. The image is very purely conceived, and the spirit and treatment of it are most spiritual and elevating. No where, indeed, can we find a more pure and refined idea of home than that which pervades Mrs, Hcmans's writings on the subject. She reproduces the conception in very many instances, and always with the same chasteness. The beautiful lines enti- tied The Homes of England, in which every class is made to participate in domestic pleasures ; those called d Domestic Scene, where the father is represented as reading the evening Psalms in the soft sunset, while on his face shines — " A radiance all the spirit's own, Caught not from sun or star ;" and many more passages of similar character, might be cited in illustration. And not only of the homes of earth has Mrs. Hemans a fer- vent and beautiful conception ; but of a . " home more pure than this, Set in the deathless azure of the sky," — she fails not to speak also. The Temporal home suggests the Spi- ritual. The Mortal's resting-place on Earth prefigures the Im- mortal's resting-place in Heaven. The idea of heaven as a home is beautifully wrought out in her lines called The Two Homes, wherein a desolate stranger has a glowing picture of a happy home placed before him, and then is asked to describe his own. How touching is the sadness of the reply ! — . . . " In solemn peace 't is lying Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away ; 'T is where I, too, am loved with love undying, And fond hearts wait my step : — But where are they ? 388 FELICIA HEMANS. » Ask where the earth's departed have their dwelling, Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air ; I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling My lonely heart that love unchanged is there." In another very important respect Mrs. Hemans finely repre- sents the pure sentiment of her sex : I mean in her sensitive, deep, and clinging sense of affection. Her lovingness of feeling is exquisite. To passion she is well nigh a stranger; but it may be questioned whether passion ever proceeds from so great or so true a love as that more pervading and more sympathetic feeling which expresses itself less wildly. Passion may be said to be a sort of madness, resulting from an overpowering sense of beauty or desire ; and seems to have in it but little of the true nature of love at all. Real affection is ever mild, ever gracious and benign. It never raves till it becomes selfish ; and then it ceases to be love, and grows into a kind of guilt. Byron is a poet of passion — indeed, of all others the poet of passion. Love is with him a selfish and unrestrainable idolatry — wild and mighty, but fickle and forgetful. It is, while it lasts, a tempest, a hurricane, and it scathes where it alights ; but its force is soon spent, and then there is no trace of it, but in the ruin it has wrought. Far different is Mrs. Hemans. Affection is with her a serene, radiating principle, mild and ethereal in its nature, gentle in its attributes, pervading and lasting in its effects. Her soul is full of sympathies; and the refusal of sympathy seems to her almost the height of crime. This is pathetically shown in her poem en- titled The Burial of the Forest, founded on the following inci- dent : — An Indian who had established himself in a township of Maine, feelintr indignantly the want of sympathy evinced towards him by the white inhabitants, particularly on the death of his only child, gave up his farm soon afterwards, dug up the body of his child, and carried it with him two hundred miles through the for- est, to join his tribe of the Canadian Indians. Mrs. Hemans's Poem is a truly poetical version of this touch- ing fact. Very nobly speaks the high-souled father as — FELICIA HEMANS. 389 " With spirit high and fearless, As by mighty wings upborne," — he pursues his solitary way. I have rais'd thee from the grave-sod, By the white man's path defiled ; On to the ancestral wilderness I bear thy dust, my child. I have ask'd the ancient desert To give my dead a place. Where the stately footsteps of the free Alone should leave a trace. And the tossing pines made answer — " Go, bring us back thine own ;" And the streams from all the hunter's hills Rush'd with an echoing tone. Thou shalt rest by sounding waters That yet untamed may roll ; The voices of that chainless host With joy shall fill thy soul. To the forests, to the cedars. To the warrior and his bow. Back, back ! — I bore thee laughing thence, I bear thee slumbering now ! I bear thee unto burial With the mighty hunters gone ; I shall hear thee in the forest-breeze, Thou wilt speak of joy, my son! In the silence of the midnight I journey with the dead; But my heart is strong, my step is fleet, My father's path I tread. 390 FELICIA HEMANS. Mrs. Hemans has all the harmony of expression, all the subtle perception and refined love of beauty, which distinguish her sex. Her verses are at once pictures and music. What versification can be more beautiful and harmonious than this, from the J^oice of Spring? — I come, I come ! ye have call'd me long ; I come o'er the mountains with light and song! Ye may trace my steps o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth ; By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass. The sensibility of Mrs. Hemans to the influences of beauty is strikingly seen in her passion for flowers. Nothing can be more refined. Some poets write of flowers in the spirit of botanists. Not so our author. Her worship is paid to the spirit of beauty indwelling in them — and no logic can explain her devotion to her. She asks in one place — By what strange spell Is it, that ever when I gaze on flowers I dream of music ? Something in their hues All melting into colour'd harmonies, Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords, Of blended singing tones, that swell and die In tenderest falls away. I see in that simple inquiry a plummet sounding the lowest deep of Truth. I see in it a recognition of the infinite fact, that, as the heart of Nature is everywhere beauty, so it is everywhere music. But, after all, it is chiefly in the strength of her religious senti- ment that Mrs. Hemans most completely typifies and represents her sex. It has not now to be proved, I imagine, that in simple steadfastness of faith, in gentle calmness of hope, and in SAveet enthusiasm of piety, woman far surpasses man. She has more awe, more reverence, more reliance, more implicitness, than he : FELICIA HEMANS. 331 and hence her greater fervour of religion. The mild, forgiving, loving doctrines of the Man of Sorrows, too, find a readier home in her heart than in man's : and hence her prominence in all works of charity and goodness. But for this, man, with his wars, strifes, and passions, would long since have turned this earth into a hell. Mrs. Hemans, I repeat, embodies woman's religious excel- lence most completely. Religion is with her both an intellectual conviction and a moral persuasion. We may see here how she argues on the subject. EXTRACT FROM THE SCEPTIC. But hop'st thou, in thy panoply of pride, Heaven's messenger, AlHiction, to deride ? In thine own strength unaided to defy, With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky ? Torn by the Vulture, fettered to the rock. Still, demigod ! the tempest wilt thou mock ? Alas ! the tower that crests the mountain's brow A thousand years may awe the vale below, Yet not the less be shatter'd on its height. By one dread moment of the earthquake's might! A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne, In silent fortitude, or haughty scorn, Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent To break the mighty heart that ne'er was bent. Oh ! what is Nature's strength ? — the vacant eye, By mind deserted, hath a dread reply ! The wild delirious laughter of despair, The mirth of frenzy — seek an answer there ! Turn not away, though Pity's cheek grow pale. Close not thine ear against their awful tale. They tell thee. Reason, wandering from the ray Of faith, the blazing pillar of her way. In the mid-darkness of the stormy \vave, Forsook the struggling soul she could not save ! 392 FELICIA HEMANS. Weep not, sad moralist ! o'er desert plains, Strew'd with the wrecks of grandeur, mouldering fanes, Arches of triumph, long with weeds o'ergrown, And regal cities, now the serpent's own : Earth has more awful ruins — one lost mind. Whose star is quench'd, hath lessons for mankind Of deeper import than each prostrate dome, Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome. Note. — It is a source of deep regret to the Compiler, that he has not been at liberty to extract a single entire poem from the works of Mrs. Hemans. The genius of this gifted lady undoubtedly demands the most ample and copious illustration from any one who pretends to criticise it; and the Author originally selected a sufficient, yet a comparatively small, number of passages to support the title of Mrs. Hemans to the high place which be meant to claim for her amongst our Poetesses. The Proprietor of the Copy- right, however, declined to permit the republication of even the few selections which were made ; and hence the Compiler has been compelled to offer his opinions, without presenting any illustrations in support of tliem. He feels bound to mention this, lest it should be said, as it might very justly, that the writings of Mrs. Hemans have not been considered so fully as they ought to have been. (The holders of the copy-right of Mrs. Hemans's Works hav- ing prevented the editor of this volume from illustrating his criti- cisms with the liberal extracts he otherwise would have made, the following poems are added in the present edition.) THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL. A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid, Woman ! — a power to suffer and to love, Therefore thou so canst pity. Wildly and mournfully the Indian drum On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke; — " Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come," — So the red warriors to their captive spoke. FELICIA HEMANS. 393 Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, A youth, a fair-haired youth of England stood, Like a king's son ; though from his cheek had flown The mantling crimson of the island-blood. And his pressed lips looked marble. — Fiercely bright, And high around him, blazed the fires of night, Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro. As the wind passed, and with a fitful glow, Lighting the victim's face : — But who could tell Of what within his secret heart befel, Known but to Heaven that hour ? —Perchance a thought Of his far home then so intensely wrought, That its full image, pictured to his eye On the dark ground of mortal agony Rose clear as day ! — and he might see the band Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, Where the laburnum drooped ; or haply binding The jasmine, up the door's low pillars winding ; Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth, Gathering with braided hair, around the hearth Where sat their mother ; — and that mother's face Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place Where so it ever smiled ! — Perchance the prayer Learned at her knee came back on his despair ; The blessing from her voice, the very tone Of her '^ Good-night," might breathe from boyhood gone !— He started and looked up : — thick cypress boughs Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly red In the red stormy firelight; — savage brows. With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'erspread. Girt him like feverish phantoms ; and pale stars Looked through the branches as through dungeon bars, Shedding no hope.— He knew, he felt his doom — Oh ! what a tale to shadow with its gloom That happy hall in England '.—Idle fear ! Would the winds tell it?— Who might dream or hear Tho secret of the forests ?— To the stake They bound him ; and the proud young soldier strove 50 394 FELICIA HEMANS. His father's spirit in his breast to wake, Trusting to die in silence ! He, the love Of many hearts ! — the fondly reared, — the fair, Gladdening all eyes to see ! — And fettered there He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand Flamed up to light it, in the chieftain's hand. He thought upon his God. — Hush! hark! — a cry Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity, — A step hath pierced the ring ! — Who dares intrude On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood ? — A girl— a young slight girl — a fawn-like child Of green Savannas and the leafy wild, Springing unmarked till then, as some lone flower, Happy because the sunshine is its dower ; Yet one that knew how early tears are shed, — For hers had mourned a playmate brother dead. She had sat gazing on the victim long, Until the pity of her soul grew strong ; And, by its passion's deepening fervour swayed, Ev'n to the stake she rushed, and gently laid His bright head on her bosom, and around His form her slender arms to shield it wound Like close Liannes ; then raised her glittering eye And clear-toned voice that said, " He shall not die !" " He shall not die !" — the gloomy forest thrilled To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell On the fierce throng ; and heart and hand were stilled. Struck down, as by the whisper of a spell. They gazed, — their dark souls bowed before the maid, She of the dancing step in wood and glade ! And, as her cheek flushed through its olive hue. As her black tresses to the night-wind flew. Something o'ermastered them from that young mien — Something of heaven, in silence felt and seen ; And seeming, to their child-like faith, a token That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken. FELICIA HEMANS. 395 They loosed the bonds that held their captive's breath : From his pale lips they took the cup of death ; They quenched the brand beneath the cypress tree ; "Away," they cried, " young stranger, thou art free !" THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods, against a stormy sky, Their giant branches tost ; And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er. When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes. They, the true-hearted came. Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame ; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear, — They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea ! And the sounding isles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free ! The ocean-eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, 399 FELICIA HEMANS. And the rocking pines of tlie forest roared — This was their welcome home ! There were men with hoary hair, Amidst that pilgrim-band — Why had they come to wither there Away from their childhood's land ? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth ; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? — They sought a faith's pure shrine ! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod ! They have left unstained what there they found Freedom to worship God ! THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF THE NILE. In sunset's light o'er Afric thrown, A wanderer proudly stood Beside the well-spring, deep and lone, Of Egypt's awful flood ; The cradle of that mighty birth, So long a hidden thing to earth. He heard its life's first murmuring sound, A low mysterious tone ; A music sought, but never found By kings and warriors gone ; FELICIA HEMANS. 397 He listened — and his heart beat high — That was the song of victory ! The rapture of a conqueror's mood Rushed burning through his frame, The depths of that green solitude Its torrents could not tame, Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile, Round those calm fountains of the Nile. Night came with stars : — across his soul There swept a sudden change. E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal, A shadow dark and strange. Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall O'er triumph's hour — And is this all? No more than this ! — what seemed it noiv First by that spring to stand ? A thousand streams of lovelier flow Bathed his own mountain land ! Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track. Their wild sweet voices called him back. They called him back to many a glade. His childhood's haunt of play, Where brightly through the beechen shade Their waters glanced away ; They called hira, with their sounding waves, Back to his fathers' hills and graves. But darkly mingling with the thought Of each familiar scene. Rose up a fearful vision, fraught W^ith all that lay between ; The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom, The whirling sands, the red simoom ! KK 398 FELICIA HEMANS. Where was the glow of power and pride ? The spirit born to roam ? His weary heart within him died With yearnings for his home ; All vainly struggling to repress That gush of painful tenderness. He wept — the stars of Afric's heaven Beheld his bursting tears. E'en on that spot where fate had given The meed of toiling years. — Oh, happiness ! how far we flee Thine own sweet paths in search of thee ! MOZART S REQUIEM. A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger of remarkable ap- pearance, and dressed in deep mourning, called at his house, and requested him to prepare a requiem, in his best style, for the funeral of a distinguished person. The sensitive imagination of the composer immediately seized upon the circumstance as an omen of his own fate ; and the nervous anxie- ty with which he laboured to fulfil the task, had the effect of realizing his impression. He died within a few days after completing this magnificent piece of music, which was performed at his interment. These birds of Paradise but long to flee Back to their native mansion. Prophecy of Dante. A requiem ! — and for whom ? For beauty in its bloom ? For valour fallen — a broken rose or sword ? A dirge for king or chief, With pomp of stately grief, Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored ? • The arrival of Bruce at what he considered to be the source of the Nile, was followed almost immediately by feelings thus suddenly fluctuating from triumph to despondence. — See his Travels in Myssinia. Not so, it is not so ! That warning voice I know, From other worlds a strange mysterious tone ; A solemn funeral air It called me to prepare, And my heart answered secretly — my own ! One more then, one more strain, In links of joy and pain Mighty the troubled spirit to inthral ! And let me breathe my dower Of passion and of power Full into that deep lay — the last of all ! The last ! — and I must go From this bright world below. This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound ! Must leave its festal skies, With all their melodies. That ever in my breast glad echoes found. Yet have I known it long Too restless and too strong Within this clay hath been th' o'ermastering flame ; Swift thoughts, that came and went, Like torrents o'er me sent, Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame. Like perfumes on the wind, Which none may stay or bind. The beautiful comes floating through my soul ; I strive with yearnings vain, The spirit to detain Of the deep harmonies that past me roll ! Therefore disturbing dreams Trouble the secret streams And founts of music that o'erflow my breast; 400 FELICIA HEMANS. Something far more divine Than may on earth be mine, Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest. Shall I then year the tone That breathes from worlds unknown ? — Surely these feverish aspirations there Shall grasp their full desire. And this unsettled lire Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. One more then, one more strain. To earthly joy and pain A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell ! I pour each fervent thought With fear, hope, trembling fraught. Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell. THE HOUR OF DEATH. Leaves have their time to fall. And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer — But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth. The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and sonar, and wine ; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears — but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee — but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath. And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! Death. We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea. When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain - But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? Is it when Spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? — They have one season — all are ours to die ! Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air ; Thou art around us in our peaceful home. And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. Thou art where friend meets friend. Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — Thou art where foe meets foe and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall. And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh, Death ! 51 KK* 402 FELICIA HEMANS. THE ADOPTED CHILD. " Why wouldst thou leave me, oh ! gentle child ? Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, A straw-roofed cabin with lowly wall — Mine is a fair and pillared hall. Where many an image of marble gleams, And the sunshine of picture for ever streams." " Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers play, Through the long bright hours of the summer-day, They find the red cup-moss where they climb, And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme ; And the rocks where the heath-flowerblooms they know Lady, kind lady, oh ! let me go." " Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell. Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well ; Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, Harps which the wandering breezes tune ; And the silvery wood-note of many a bird Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." «' My mother sings, at the twilight's fall, A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; She sings it under our own green tree, To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; I dreamt last night of that music low — Lady, kind lady, oh ! let me go." " Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest, She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more, Nor hear her song at the cabin door. — Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, And we '11 pluck the grapes of the richest dye." FELICIA HEMANS. 403 'Is my mother gone from her home away? But I know that my brothers are there at play. I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell, Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well, Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow- Lady, kind lady, oh! let me go." " Fair child ! thy brothers are wanderers now, They sport no more on the mountain's brow. They have left the fern by the spring's green side. And the streams where the fairy barks were tried. — Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, For thy cabin-home is a lonely spot." "> Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill ? — But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still, And the red-deer bound in their gladness free. And the turf is bent by the singing bee. And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow — Lady, kind lady, oh ! let me go." 404 MRS. TONNA. CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH, (MRS. TONNA.) This celebrated wornun, who for the ability, variety, and extent of her literary labours may be classed with Hannah More, was the daughter of an Episcopal clergyman in Norwich, and at an early age was married to Captain Phelan, an officer of the British army, wiih whom she went to Nova Scotia, where she resided several years. She subsequently passed some time in Ireland, and her husband being again ordered abroad, she refused to accompany him, and turned her attention to literature as a means of support. Her principal Prose Works are Berry, a Tale of the Revolution ; The Rockite ; Letters from Ireland; JudaKs Sion ; Tlie Flower Garden ; Falsehood and Truth ; The Wrongs of Women ; The Deserter; Combination ; Principalities and Powers in Heaven- ly Places ; Judaea Capta ; The Church Visible in all Ages; Perseverance; and Personal Recollections ; giving, in thelast,an account of her own history, down to the year 1840. Her long- est Poem, containing about three thousand lines, is entitled Osric, a Missionary Tale; besides which a volume of her Miscellane- ous Poems has recently been published. Captain Phelan died in 1837; in 1841 she became the wife of Mr. Lucius H. J. Ton- na, of London; and she died on the 12th of July, 1846. She was for years afflicted with deafness, and those who conversed with her did so by signs, as with the deaf and dumb. TO A HORSE. ( Written in America.') I know by the ardour thou canst not restrain, By the curve of thy nock and the toss of thy mane^ By the foam of thy snorting which spangles my brow, The fire of the Arab is hot in thee now. MRS. TONNA. 405 'T were harsh to control thee, my frolicksome steed, I give thee the rein — so away at thy speed ; Thy rider will dare to be wilful as thee, Laugh the future to scorn, and partake in thy glee. Away to the mountain — what need we to fear ? Pursuit cannot press on my Fairy's career. Full light were the heel and well balanced the head That ventured to follow the track of thy tread ; Where roars the loud torrent, and starts the rude plank, And thunders the rock-severed mass down the bank. While mirror'd in chrystal the far-shooting glow. With dazzling effulgence is sparkling below. One start, and I die ; yet in peace I recline. My bosom can rest on the fealty of thine ; Thou lov'st me, my sweet one, and would'st not be free From a yoke that has never borne rudely on thee. Ah, pleasant the empire of those to confess. Whose wrath is a whisper, their rule a caress. Behold how thy playmate is stretching beside. As loth to be vanquish' d in love or in pride. While upward he glances his eye-ball of jet. Half dreading thy fleetness may distance him yet. Ah Marco, poor Marco — our pastime to-day Were reft of one pleasure if he were away. How precious these moments ? fair Freedom expands Her pinions of light o'er the desolate lands : The waters are flashing as bright as thine eye, Unchain'd as thy motion the breezes swept by ; Delicious they come, o'er the flower-scented earth. Like whispers of love from the isle of my birth ; While the white bosom'd Cistus her perfume exhales. And sighs out a spicy farewell to the gales. Unfeared and unfearing we '11 traverse the wood. Where pours the rude torrent the turbulent flood : The forest's red children will smile as we scour By the log-fashion'd hut and the pine-woven bower ; 406 MRS. TONNA. The feathery footsteps scarce bending the grass, Or denting the dew-spangled moss where we pass. What startles thee ? 'T was but the sentinel gun Flashed a vesper salute to thy rival the sun : He has closed his swift progress before thee, and sweeps With fetlock of gold, the last verge of the steeps. The fire-fly anon from his covert shall glide, And dark fall the shadows of eve on the tide. Tread sofdy — my spirit is joyous no more, A northern aurora, it shone and is o'er ; The tears will fall fast as I gather the rein, And a long look reverts to yon shadowy plain. A NIGHT STORM AT SEA. Frrnn " Osric." 'T is eve : — ascending high, the ocean storm Spreads in dark volume his portentous form ; His hollow breezes, bursting from the clouds. Distend the sail, and whistle through the shrouds. Roused by the note of elemental strife, The swelling waters tremble into life ; Lo ! through the tumult of the dashing spray The storm beat vessel labours on her way. With bending mast, rent sail, and straining sides, High on the foaming precipice she rides. Then reeling onward with descending prow, In giddy sweep, glides to the gulf below : Her fragile form conflicting billows rock, Her timbers echo to the frequent shock. While bursting o'er the deck, each roaring wave Bears some new victim to a hideous grave. The voice of thunder rides upon the blast, And the blue death-fire plays around the mast : MRS. TONNA. 407 Beneath the pennon of a riven sail, That vessel drives, abandoned to the gale. Above, more darkly frowns the brow of night, Beneath, the waters glow more fiercely bright ; Ploughing a track of mingled foam and fire, Fast flies the ship before the tempest's ire, While reeling to and fro the hapless crew Gaze on the wild abyss, and shudder at the view. THE MILLENIUM. When from scattered lands afar Speeds the voice of rumoured war, Nations in conflicting pride Heaved like Ocean's stormy tide, When the solar splendours fail. And the crescent waxeth pale, And the powers that star-like reign Sink dishonoured to the plain, World, do thou the signal dread. We exalt the drooping head. We uplift the expectant eye — Our redemption draweth nigh. When the fig-tree shoots appear. Men proclaim their summer near ; When the hearts of rebels fail. We the coming Saviour hail ; Bridegroom of the weeping spouse. Listen to her longing vows — Listen to her widow'd moan, Listen to creation's groan ! Bid, oh bid, the trumpet sound. Gather thine elect around ; Gird with saints thy flaming car. Gather them from climes afar, 408 MRS. TONNA. Call them from life's cheerless gloom, Call them from the marble tomb, From the grass-grown village grave, From the deep dissolving wave, From the whirlwind and the flame. Mighty Head ! thy members claim ! Where are those whose fierce disdain Scorn'd Messiah's gentle reign ? Lo, in seas of sulph'rous fire, Now they taste his tardy ire, Prison'd till th' appointed day When this world shall pass away. Quelled are all thy foes, O Lord, Sheath again the victor sword. Where thy cross of anguish stood. Where thy life distilled in blood, Where they mocked thy dying groan. King of nations, plant thy throne. Send the law from Zion forth. Over all the willing earth : Earth, whose Sabbath beauties rise Crowned with more than paradise. Sacred be the opposing veil ! Mortal sense and sight must fail. Yet the day, the hour is nigh. We shall see thee eye to eye. Be our souls in peace possest While M'e seek the promised rest. And from every heart and home Breathe the prayer, Lord Jesus come! Haste to set thy people free ; Come ; creation groans for thee ! THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON. 409 THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON. Amongst the Poetesses of our land Mrs. Norton certainly claims a most distinguished place. Not a few critics, indeed, assign her the very first. And I think it would be difficult to disprove her right to a position with the loftiest. It is most assuredly not my intention to attempt such a demonstration ; for if I do not agree unreservedly with the assertion of her superiority over all, I at all events am prepared to maintain her equality with any of, her sister poets. I will go further, and avow my belief that, under other and more favourable circumstances, Mrs. Norton might have gained even greater fame than she has yet achieved. Just as some paintings give one the idea that the artist has power to produce works of higher merit, so do Mrs. Norton's poems suggest the possession of latent genius far transcending that which is displayed in them. But we must speak of her as she is. The Quarterly Review, in a criticism of Mrs. Norton's writings, says of her — that " she is the Byron of our modern poetesses. She has very much of that intense personal passion by which Byron's poetry is distinguished from the larger grasp and deeper communion with man and nature of Wordsworth. She has also Byron's beautiful intervals of tenderness, his strong practical thouo-ht, and his forceful expression. It is not an artificial imi- tation, but a natural parallel." I think we cannot safely adopt this opinion without some little qualification. That Mrs. Norton has a fervour, a tenderness, and a force of expression which greatly resemble Byron's, there cannot be a doubt : but there all similarity ceases. Byron is the personification of passionate selfishness : his range of sympathy is extremely small : Mrs. Norton, on the other hand, has a large and generous heart, essen- tially unselfish in its feelings, and universal in its sympathies. Byron has a sneering, mockmg, disbelieving spirit: Mrs. Norton 52 410 THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON. a simple, beautiful, childlike implicitness of soul. Byron's strains resemble the vast, roaring, wilful Waterfall, rushing headlong over desolate rocks, with a sound like the wail of a lost spirit : Mrs. Norton's, the soft full-flowing River, margined with flowers, and uttering sweet music. What is there in Byron that resembles this : — THE mother's heart. When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond. My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; Nor thought that any love again might be So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, And natural piety that lean'd to heaven ; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears. Yet patient of rebuke when justly given — Obedient, easy to be reconciled, And meekly cheerful — such wert thou, my child ! Not willing to be left : still by my side Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying ; Nor leaving in thy turn ; but pleas'd to glide Through the dark room, where I was sadly lying ; Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. O boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made Earth's fragile idols ; like a tender flower, No strength in all thy freshness — prone to fade — And bending weakly to the thunder-shower — Still round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, And clung like woodbine shaken in the wind. Her passionate poems display a radical difference from those of Byron. Byron is, even in his purest moments, sensual and THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON. 411 earthly; Mrs. Norton is invariably serene and spiritual. Byron's passion is like a lightning flash. Mrs. Norton's like a sunbeam. I would refer the reader to her exquisite poem of " Sappho," in illustration. I deeply regret that I am not permitted to present the lines themselves. Mrs. Norton has a truer moral vision than Byron had : no where in Byron can be found a philosophical truth so calmly and justly asserted as in the following beautiful comparison of wo- man's endurance with man's : — Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise, And what they do, or suffer, men record ; But the long sacrifice of woman'' s days Passes without a thought, without a word ; And many a lofty struggle for the sake Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfill'd — For which the anxious mind must watch and wake, And the strong feelings of the heart be still'd — Goes by unheeded as the summer wind. And leaves no memory and no trace behind ! Yet it may be, more lofty courage dwells In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate. Than his whose ardent soul indignant swells Warm'd by the figlit, or cheer'd through high debate : The soldier dies surrounded : could he live Alone to suffer, and alone to strive ? A fine proof of Mrs. Norton's wide range of sympathy is to be found in the poem descriptive of an Arab's farewell to his Horse. The enthusiastic regard which it is well known the Arab always entertains for his steed finds a most eloquent expositor in our author. The feeling is a beautiful one, and it is beautifully rendered. THE Arab's farewell to his steed. My beauiiful ! my beautiful ! that standest meekly by. With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, thy dark and fiery eye — 412 THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON. Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed, I may not mount on thee again, thou'rt sold, my Arab steed ! Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind, The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind. The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master hath his gold. Fleet limbed and beautiful, farewell! thou'rt sold, my steed, thou 'rt sold ! Farewell ! those free untired limbs full many a mile must roam. To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home ; Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bread prepare, Thy silky mane, I braided once, must be another's care. The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont to be. Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again. Yes ! thou must go ! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky, Thy master's house, from all of these my exil'd one must fly. Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to meet. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright; Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light ; And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed. Then must I, starting, wake to feel thou 'rt sold, my Arab steed ! Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide. Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side; And the rich blood that 's in thee swells in thy indignant pain. Till careless eyes which rest on thee, may count each starting vein. Will they ill-use thee ? If I thought — but no, it cannot be — Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd, so gentle yet so free. And yet if haply when thou 'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn, Can the same hand which casts thee off command thee to return? Return ? Alas, my Arab steed, what shall thy master do, When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanish'd from his view? When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears, rhy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears. Slow and unmounted will I roam with weary foot alone. Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on : And sitting down by that green well, will pause and sadly think, 'T was here he bow'd his glossy neck, when last I saw him drink. Ulien last I saw him drink! Away ! the fever'd dream is o'er; I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more ; They tempted me, my beautiful ! for hunger's power is strong, They tempted me, my beautiful ! but I have lov'd too long; Who said that I had given thee up ? Who said that thou wert sold ? 'T is false, 't is false ! my Arab steed ! I fling them back their gold. Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains, — j^way ! — Who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains ! Of Mrs. Norton's impassioned verses none perhaps excel the lines addressed by her To the Duchess of Sutherland, when that noble lady remained steadfastly her friend under the most dis- couraging circumstances. Noble was the friendship, and noble is the monument erected to it. Once more, my harp ! once more, although I thought Never to wake thy silent strings again ; A wandering dream thy gentle chords have wrought, And my sad heart, which long hath dwelt in pain, Soars like a wild bird from a cypress bough. Into the poet's heaven, and leaves dull grief below ! n* 414 THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON. And unto thee, the beautiful and pure, Whose lot is cast amid that busy world Where only sluggish Dulness dwells secure. And Fancy's generous wing is faintly furl'd ; To thee — whose friendship kept its equal truth Through the most dreary hour of my embitter'd youth — I dedicate the lay. Ah ! never bard, In days when Poverty was twin with Song ; Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starr'd, Cheer'd by some castle's chief, and harbour'd long ; Nor Scott's Last Minstrel, in his trembling lays, Woke with a warmer heart the earnest meed of praise ! For easy are the alms the rich man spares To sons of Genius, by misfortune bent; But thou gav'st me, what woman seldom dares, Belief — in spite of many a cold dissent — When slander'd and malign'd, I stood apart From those whose bounded power hath wrung, not crush'd, my heart. Thou, then, when cowards lied away my name And scoff 'd to see me feebly stem the tide ; W^hen some were kind on whom I had no claim, And some forsook on whom my love relied, And some who might have battled for my sake. Stood off in doubt to see what turn the world would take — Thou gav'st me that the poor do give the poor, Kind words and holy wishes and true tears ; The lov'd, the near of kin could do no more. Who chang'd not with the gloom of varying years, But clung the closer when I stood forlorn, And blunted Slander's dart with their indignant scorn. For they who credit crime, are they who feel Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin ; Memory, not judgment, prompts the thoughts which steal O'er minds like these, an easy faith to win ; And tales of broken truth are still believed Most readily by those who have themselves deceived. But like a white swan down a troubled stream, Whose ruffling pinion hath the power to fling Aside the turbid drops which darkly gleam And mar the freshness of her snowy wing, — So thou, with queenly grace and gentle pride, Along the world's dark waves in purity dost glide. Thy pale and pearly cheek was never made To crimson with a faint false-hearted shame ; Thou didst not shrink — of bitter tongues afraid, Who hunt in packs the object of their blame ; * To thee the sad denial still held true, For from thine own good thoughts thy heart its mercy drew. And though my faint and tributary rhymes Add nothing to the glory of thy day, Yet every poet hopes that after-times Shall set some value on his votive lay ; And I would fain one gentle deed record. Among the many such with which thy life is stored. In conclusion I would say of Mrs. Norton that with a conside- rable similarity to Byron in manner, she is essentially unlike him in spirit : that whereas his imagination is daring and vigorous, hers is timid and gentle : that whereas his passion is selfish and infatuating, hers is mild and tender and pervading : that whereas he scoffs and sneers at the best and happiest ties of life, she does her most to strengthen and extend their influence : and that while he with a proud scepticism flings from him the consolations and delights of religion, she clasps them closely to her heart, and finds m them a balm for the bitterest wounds of her spirit. 416 THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON. THE VISIONARY PORTRAIT. I. As by his lonely hearth he sate, The shadow of a welcome dream Passed o'er his heart, — disconsolate His home did seem ; Comfort in vain was spread around. For something still was wanting found. Therefore he thought of one who might For ever in his presence stay ; Whose dream should be of him by night, Whose smile should be for him by day ; And the sweet vision, vague and far. Rose on his fancy like a star. "Let her be young, yet not a child. Whose light and inexperienced mirth Is all too winged and too wild For sober earth, — Too rainbow-like such mirth appears, And fades away in misty tears. IV. " Let youth's fresh rose still gently bloom Upon her smooth and downy cheek, Yet let a shadow, not of gloom. But soft and meek, Tell that some sorrow she hath known. Though not a sorrow of her own. ■ And let her eyes be of the grey, The soft grey of the brooding dove, Full of the sweet and tender ray Of modest love ; For fonder shows that dreamy hue Than lustrous black or heavenly blue. " Let her be full of quiet grace, No sparkling wit with sudden glow Bright'ning her purely chisell'd face And placid brow ; Not radiant to the stranger's eye, — A creature easily pass'd by ; " But who, once seen, with untold power For ever haunts the yearning heart, Raised from the crowd that self-same hour To dwell apart^ All sainted and enshrined to be, The idol of our memory ! *' And oh ! let Mary be her name — It hath a sweet and gentle sound. At which no glories dear to fame Come crowding round, But which the dreaming heart beguiles With holy thoughts and household smiles. IX. " With peaceful meetings, welcomes kind, And love, the same in joy and tears. And gushing intercourse of mind Through faithful years ; Oh ! dream of something half divine, Be real — be mortal — and be mine !" 53 418 THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON. TO THE LADY H. O. I$le of Wight, September, 1839. I. Come o'er the green hills to the sunny sea ! The boundless sea that washeth many lands, Where shells unknown to England, fair and free, Lie brightly scatter'd on the gleaming sands. There, 'midst the hush of slumbering ocean's roar, We '11 sit and watch the silver-tissued waves Creep languidly along the basking shore. And kiss thy gentle feet, like Eastern slaves. II. And we will take some volume of our choice, Full of quiet poetry and thought, And thou shalt read me, with thy plaintive voice, Lines which some gifted mind hath sweetly wrought ; And I will listen, gazing on thy face, (Pale as some cameo on the Italian shell !) Or looking out across the far blue space. Where glancing sails to gentle breezes swell. HI. Come forth ! The sun hath flung on Thetis' breast The glittering tresses of his golden hair ; All things are heavy with a noonday rest, And floating sea-birds leave the stirless air. Against the sky, in outlines clear and rude. The cleft rocks stand, while sunbeams slant between; And lulling winds are murmuring through the wood. Which skirts the bright bay with its fringe of green. Come forth ! All motion is so gentle now. It seems thy step alone should walk the earth, — THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON. 419 Thy voice alone, the "ever soft and lovir," Wake the far-haunting echoes into birth. Too wild would be Love's passionate store of hope, Unmeet the influence of his changeful power — Ours be companionship, whose gentle scope Hath charm enough for such a tranquil hour. And slowly, idly wandering, we will roam, Where the high cliffs shall give us ample shade ; And watch the glassy waves, whose wrathful foam Hath power to make the seaman's heart afraid. Seek thou no veil to shroud thy soft brown hair, — Wrap thou no mantle round thy graceful form ; The cloudless sky smiles forth as still and fair As though earth ne'er could know another storm. Come ! Let not listless sadness make delay, — Beneath Heaven's light that sadness will depart ; And as we wander on our shoreward way, A strange, sweet peace shall enter in thine heart. We will not weep, nor talk of vanish'd years. When, link by link, Hope's glittering chain was riven Those who are dead, shall claim IVom love no tears, — Those who have injured us, shall be forgiven. Few have my summers been, and fewer thine ; — Youth blighted is the weary lot of both : To both, all lonely shows our life's decline. Both with old friends and ties have waxed wroth. But yet we will not weep ! The breathless calm Which lulls the golden earth, and wide blue sea, Shall pour into our souls mysterious balm, And fill us with its own tranquillity. 420 THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON. VIII. We will not mar the scene — we will not look To the veil'd future, or the shadowy past ; Seal'd up shall be sad Memory's open book, And childhood's idleness return at last ! Joy, with his resdess, ever-fluttering wings, And Hope, his gentle brother, — all shall cease: Like weary hinds that seek the desert springs. Our one sole feeling shall be peace — deep peace ! THE BLIND MAN S BRIDE. I. When first, beloved, in vanish'd hours The blind man sought thy love to gain, They said thy cheek was bright as flowers New freshen'd by the summer rain : They said thy movements, swift yet soft, Were such as make the winged dove Seem, as it gently soars aloft. The image of repose and love. II. They told me, too, an eager crowd Of wooers praised thy beauty rare, But that thy heart was all too proud A common love to meet or share. Ah ! thine was neither pride nor scorn, But in thy coy and virgin breast Dwelt preference, not of passion born. The love that hath a holier rest ! Days came and went — thy step I heard - Pause frequent as it pass'd me by : — THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON. 431 Days came and went ; — thy heart was stirr'd, And answer'd to my stifled sigh ! And thou didst make a humble choice, Content to be the blind man's bride. Who loved thee for thy gentle voice, And own'd no joy on earth beside. And well by that sweet voice I knew (Without the happiness of sight) Thy years, as yet, were glad and few,' Thy smile, most innocently bright : I knew how full of love's own grace The beauty of thy form must be ; And fancy idolized the face W^hose loveliness I might not see ! Oh ! happy were those days, beloved ! I almost ceased for light to pine When through the summer vales we roved, Thy fond hand gently link'd in mine, Thy soft " Good night" still sweetly cheer'd. The unbroken darkness of my doom ; And thy " Good morrow, love," endear'd Each sunrise thatreturn'd in gloom ! At length, as years roU'd swiftly on, They spoke to me of Time's decay — Of roses from thy smooth cheek gone, And ebon ringlets turn'd to grey. Ah ! then I bless\l the sightless eyes Which could not feel the deepening shade, Nor watch beneath succeeding skies Thy withering beauty faintly fade. MM 422 THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON. / saw no paleness on thy cheek, No lines upon thy forehead smooth, — But still the blind man heard thee speak In accents made to bless and soothe : Still he could feel thy guiding hand As through the woodlands wild we ranged,- Still in the summer light could stand. And know thy heart and voice unchanged. VIII. And still, beloved, till life grows cold, We '11 wander 'neath a genial sky, And only know that we are old By counting happy years gone by : For thou to me art still as fair As when those happy years began,^ When first thou earnest to soothe and share The sorrows of a sightless man ! Old Time, who changes all below. To wean men gently for the grave. Hath brought us no increase of woe, And leaves us all he ever gave : For I am still a helpless thing. Whose darken'd world is cheer'd by thee — And thou art she whose beauty's spring The blind man vainly yearn'd to see ! WEEP NOT FOR HIM THAT DIETH. ='Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him; but weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more, nor see his native country." — Jeremiah xxii. 10. Weep not for him that dieth — For he sleeps, and is at rest ; THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON. 423 And the couch whereon he lieth Is the green earth's quiet breast: But weep for him who pineth On a far land's hateful shore, Who wearily declineth Where you see his face no more ! II. Weep not for him that dieth, For friends are round his bed, And many a young lipsighelh When they name the early dead : But weep for him that liveth Where none will know or care. When the groan his faint heart giveth Is the last sigh of despair. III. Weep not for him that dieth, For his struggling soul is free. And the world from which it flietli Is a world of misery ; But weep for him that weareth The captive's galling chain : To the agony he bearelh, Death were but little pain. Weep not for him that dieth, For he hath ceased from tears, And a voice to his replieth Which he hath not heard for years ; But weep for him who weepeth On that cold land's cruel shore — Blest, blest is he that sleepeth, — Weep for the dead no more ! 424 L^TITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. LtETITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. This remarkable writer, better known perhaps as Miss Landon, or L. E. L., may, I think, be considered the Byron of our poet- esses. In character, history, and genius, there are not a few striking points of similitude between her and the great bard referred to : both acquired a world-wide fame in youth ; both were shamefully maligned and misrepresented ; both became gloomy and misanthropical under the falsehoods asserted of them ; both died young, and abroad. Mrs. Maclean's history is perhaps the more tragic of the two. Early deprived of parental care and assistance, she had almost from childhood to struggle with the worst difficulties of life ; and none but those who have experienced similar endurances can understand how much a young warm heart can be chilled by them, and changed for the worse. When her circumstances became ameliorated by her success in literature, she had to con- tend against the worst evils of over-praise, unjust censure, and infamous slander. Can we wonder that she acquired unhealthy views of life ? Ought we not rather to wonder that her senti- ments are on the whole as sound as we find them ? Oh, the world is a hard task-master. It first spoils its pupil, and then complains of his deficiencies ! Finally, in the zenith of her fame, Mrs. Maclean, formed, more than most beings, for social inter- course, quits her country and her friends, for a solitary home on the coast of Africa : there to pine in loneliness for a month or two, and then to die. Yes ! it is a very mournful story. Of Mrs. Maclean's genius there can be but one opinion. It is distinguished by very great intellectutal power, a highly sensi- tive and ardent imagination, an intense fervour of passionate emotion, and almost unequalled eloquence and fluency. Of mere art she displays but little. Her style is irregular and careless, and her painting sketchy and rough : but there is genius in every line she has wriiten. Mrs. Maclean has herself given us a just portraiture of her peculiar powers. In the concluding lines of her fine poem entitled The Golden Violet, she says " If that I knovt^ myself what keys Yield to my hand their sympathies, I should say 'tis those whose tone Is TVoinan's Love and Sorrow's 01071.'^ No writer certainly has written more of Love and Sorrow than Mrs. Maclean, She touches scarcely any other strings. I called her the female Byron : in this respect she is particularly so. Passion and Sadness are the idols of her pen. She herself says " Sad were my shades : methinks they had Almost a tone of prophecy — I ever had, from earliest youth, A feeling what my fate would be." Her love-passages are certainly not inferior to Byron's. I would cite the following lines from The Improvisatrice in proof: I lov'd him as a young Genius loves. When its own mild and radiant heaven Of starry thought burns with the light. The love, the life, by passion given. I loved him, too, as woman loves — Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn : Life had no evil destiny That, with him, I could not have borne ! I had been nurs'd in palaces ; Yet earth had not a spot so drear, That I should not have thought a home In paradise, had he been near! How sweet it would have been to dwell, Apart from all, in some green dell 54 MM* Of sunny beauty, leaves and flowers ; And nestling birds to sing the hours ! Our home, beneath some chestnut's shade But of the woven branches made : Our vesper hymn, the low lone wail The rose hears from the nightingale ; And waked at morning by the call Of music from a waterfall. But not alone in dreams like this, Breathed in the very hope of bliss, I loved : my love had been the same In hush'd despair, in open shame. I would have rather been a slave, In tears, in bondage by his side, Than shared in all, if wanting him. This world had power to give beside ! My heart was wither'd — and ray heart Had ever been the world to me : And love had been the first fond dream, Whose life was in reality. I had sprung from my solitude, Lilce a young bird upon the wing, To meet the arrow : so I met My poison'd shaft of suffering. And as that bird with drooping crest And broken wing, will seek his nest, But seek in vain : so vain I sought My pleasant home of song and thought. There was one spell upon my brain. Upon my pencil, on my strain; But one face to my colours came ; My chords replied to but one name — Lorenzo ! — all seem'd vow'd to thee. To passion, and to misery ! That Mrs. Maclean could paint Sorrow as well as she could delineate Love wc have plenty of proof. Sorrow seems indeed an essential part of her nature. Persons who knew her intimately LiETITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. 427 say that she was 7iot naturally sad: that she was all gaiety and cheerfulness : hut there is a mournfulness of soul which is never to be seen on the cheek or in the eye : and this I believe to have dwelt in Mrs. Maclean's breast more than in most people's. How otherwise are we to understand her poetry ? We cannot believe her sadness to have been put on like a player's garb : to have been an affectation, an unreality : it is too earnest for that. We must suppose that she felt what she wrote : and if so, her written sad- ness was seal sadness. Take the following lines from TTie Golden Violet : no one can believe that the sentiment they con- tain is unreal. SONG. My heart is like the failing hearth Now by my side; One by one its bursts of flame Have burnt and died. There are none to watch the sinking blaze, And none to care Or if it kindle into strength, Or waste in air. My fate is as yon faded wreath Of summer flowers : They've spent their store of fragrant health On sunny hours, Which reck'd them not, which heeded not When they were dead ; Other flowers, unwarn'd by them Will spring instead. And my own heart is as the lute I now am waking : Wound to too fine and high a pitch, They both are breaking. And of their song what memory Will stay behind ? An echo, like a passing thought Upon the wind. 428 LiETITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. Silence, forgetfulness and rust. Lute, are for thee ; And such ray lot ; neglect, the grave, These are for me ! The same sad desolate tone pervades nearly all her composi- tions : but it invariably becomes intensest when she speaks of herself. We always see a shadow on her heart. The following lines beautifully illustrate this tendency : Silent and dark is the source of yon river, Whose birth-place we know not, and seek not to know. Though mild as the flight of the shaft from yon quiver, Is the course of its waves as in music they flow. Oh, my heart, and my song, which is as my heart's flowing. Read thy fate in yon river, for such is thine own ! 'Mid those the chief praise on thy music bestowing. Who cares for the lips from whence issue the tone ? Dark as its birth-place, so dark is my spirit, Whence yet the sweet waters of melody come : 'T is the long after-course, not the source, will inherit The beauty and glory of sunshine and fame. And nothing seems able to " make a sunshine in this shady place." No burst of cheerfulness ever displays relief. Amidst every kind of scenery and circumstance the darkness is the same. Her pensiveness is her familiar spirit. She delights in it: " Call it madness, call it folly. You cannot drive her gloom away. There 's such a charm in melanclioly. She would not if she could be gay." Sorrow must have been at the core of her heart, or she never could have written like this : L^TITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. 429 Farewell, farewell ! I 'U dream no more, 'Tis misery to be dreaming: Farewell, farewell ; and I will be At least like thee in seeming. I will go forth to the green vale, Where the sweet wild flowers are dwelling, Where the leaves and the birds together sing, And the woodland fount is welling. Not there, not there, too much of bloom Has Spring flung o'er each blossom ; The tranquil place too much contrasts The unrest of my bosom. I will go to the lighted halls. Where midnight passes fleetest ; Oh, memory there too much recalls Of saddest and of sweetest, I '11 turn me to the gifted page, Where the bard his soul is flinging ; Too well it echoes mine own heart Breaking e'en while singing. I must have rest ! Oh, heart of mine, When wilt thou lose thy sorrow ? Never, till in the quiet grave : — Would I slept there to-morrow ! This strong tendency towards melancholy frequently led Mrs. Maclean into most erroneous views and sentiments ; which, though we may make what excuses we will for them out of con- sideration for the author, should be heartily and honestly con- demned for the sake of moral truth. For instance, when we find her saying — Oh, when the grave shall open for me, — (I care not how soon that time may be, — ^ Never a rose shall groio on that tomb. It breathes too much of hope and bloom ; 430 LiETITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. But there be that flower's meek regret, The bending and dark blue Violet — when we read such passages as this, it is our duty to speak in terms of rebuke and repudiation. There is an evil spirit in such sentiments which should be bidden behind us. Why should we reject the blooming and beautiful, and cling after this poor fashion to the sad and sorrowful ? It is false philosophy, we may be sure. Violets, indeed ! Why, what were roses made for ? To be slighted and contemned and despised, as it were, like this ? Oh, no, no ! Roses were made to gladden and delight us, and give us ideas of beauty and hope : nay, more than this, to make us grateful to the Giver of all good besides. Here is another instance of our fair author's tendency to look upon the dark side of life. In a little poem entitled Change she thus writes : And this is what is left of youth ! There were two boys, who were bred up together. Shared the same bed, and fed at the same board. • Each tried the other's sport, from their first chase, Young hunters of the butterfly and bee. To when they followed the fleet hare, and tried The swiftness of the bird. They lay beside The silver trout stream, watching as the sun Play'-d on the bubbles : Shared each in the store Of cither's garden ; and together read Of him, the master of the desert isle, Till a low hut, a gun and a canoe Bounded their wishes. Or if ever came A thought of future days, 't was but to say That they would share each other's lot, and do Wonders, no doubt. But this was vain ; they parted With promises of long remembrance, words Whose kindness was the heart's, and those warm tears. Hidden hke shame by the young eyes that shed them. But which are thought upon in after years As what we would give worlds to shed once more. L.'ETITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. 431 They met again, — but different from themselves, — At least what each remembered of themselves : The one proud as a soldier of his rank, And of his many battles : and the other Proud of his Indian wealtli, and of the skill And toil which gather'd it : each with a brow And heart alike darken'd by years and care. They met with cold words and yet colder looks ; Each was chang'd in himself, and yet each thought The other only chang'd, himself the same. And coldness bred dislike ; and rivalry Came like the pestdence o'er some sweet thoughts That linger'd yet, healthy and beautiful. Amid dark and unkindly ones. And they Whose boyhood had not known one jarring word, Were strangers in their age : if their eyes met, 'T was but to look contempt, and when they spoke, Their speech was wormwood! — And this, this is life ! No ! with all due respect to our fair poetess, this is not life. Doubtless there have been, and are, and long will be instances of brethren who have loved each other in childhood becoming strangers, almost haters, in manhood : but to assert that life is composed of such cases is to libel Providence and to dishearten man. Let the melancholy say what they will, enduring affection is not a fable, not a poet's dream : it is a high and a holy reality, one of the least deniable truths existing in the world : and oidy an erring or bewildered soul can doubt it. Life ! — No ! Doubt and distrust, change and coldness, these are not Life — they form but the merest fraction of life. Life ! — a never-ending rush of varied, new-ci-eated, unsoiled moments, every one of which bears its freight of happiness, every one of which may be turned to our enjoyment if we please ; countless bright fountains around us, from which pleasure never ceases to flow; friends to cheer, — kindred to bless, — flowers of beauty and sounds of infinite music to soothe and to charm — high hopes 432 L^TITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. and glorious aspirations — the proud consciousness of Being and Thiinking — and above all, the irrepressible expectation of a still brighter, more beautiful, more high and noble world ; — this, though a poor and feeble picture, is at least more like life than the other. O, a glorious heritage Life is ! To live ! — what ineffable meaning there is in that short expression ! — to live ! To be a part of never-ending Life ! To be more immortal than worlds, — more eternal than the stars, — more indestructible than Na- ture, — more strong than Death : — to be a part of — to be joined to — the one great Everlasting Principle of Being : — what power, what glory, what majesty there is in the thought ! Pain, sorrow, sin, evil, are these man's heritage and lot, then ? No ! Joy, Friendship, Affection, Hope — "this, this is Life;" — and that soul is not a true poet's soul which would seek to persuade us to the contrary. Few writers are so picturesque as Mrs. Maclean. Her descrip- tions are perfect paintings, and often indeed give us a better idea of a scene than an actual representation of it. Some of her poetical illustrations of the pictures in Msher^s Drawing-Room Scrap-Book are as superior in intelligence to the plates as a living being is to a marble statue. The following poem will give a good general idea of Mrs. Maclean's picturesque manner. THE SOLDIER S FUNERAL. And the muffled drum roll'd on the air, Warriors with stately step were there ; On every arm was the black crape bound, Every carbine was turn'd to the ground: Solemn the sound of their measur'd tread. As silent and slow they folio w'd the dead. The riderless horse was led in the rear. There were white plumes waving over the biei. Helmet and sword were laid on the pall. For it was a Soldier's Funeral. L.ETITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. 433 That soldier hath stood on the battle plain, Where every step was over the slain ; But the brand and the ball had pass'd him by, And he came to his native land to die. 'T was hard to come to that native land And not clasp one familiar hand ! 'Twas hard to be number'd amid the dead, Or ere he could hear his welcome said ! But 'twas something to see its cliffs once more, And to lay his bones on his own lov'd shore ; To thiuk that the friends of his youth might weep O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep. The bugles ceased their wailing sound As the coffin was lower'd into the ground : A volley was fired, a blessing said, One moment's pause — and they left the dead ! — I saw a poor and an aged man. His step was feeble, his lip was wan ; He knelt him down on the new rais'd mound, His face was bow'd on the cold damp ground, He rais'd his head, his tears were done. The Father had pray'd o'er his only Son ! As a further specimen of Mrs. Maclean's descriptive power I present the following truly fine poem. Campbell would hardly have written better. THE GRASP OF THE DEAD. 'T was in the battle-field, and the cold pale moon Look'd down on the dead and dying ; And the wind passed o'er with a dirge and a wail Where the young and brave were lying. With his father's sword in his red right hand. And the hostile dead around him. Lay a youthful chief: but his bed was the ground, And the grave's icy sleep had bound him. 55 ^N 434 L^TITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom, Pass'd a soldier, his plunder seeking; Careless he slept, where friend and foe Lay alike in their life-blood reeking. Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword, The soldier paus'd beside it ; He wrench'd the hand with a giant's strength, — But the grasp of the dead defied it. He loos'd his hold, and his English heart Took part with the dead before him ; And he honour'd the brave who died sword in hand, As with soften'd brow he leant o'er him. " A soldier's death thou hast boldly died, A soldier's grave won by it : Before I would take that sword from thine hand. My own life's blood should dye it, " Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow, Or the wolf to batten o'er thee ; Or the coward insult the gallant dead. Who in life had trembled before thee." Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth. Where his warrior foe was sleeping ; And he laid him there in honour and rest. With his sword in his own brave keeping ! There is far down in woman's heart a beautiful tenaency and love towards the heroic, which does more to cultivate and extend that sentiment than the much fiercer but less pure passion for it which nerves the arm and fires the words of man. A noble deed always receives its best response of approbation from woman. Woman sees the signs of true greatness far more readily than man. Mark how Mrs. Maclean celebrates a hero ! L^TITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN, 435 CRESCENTIUS. I look'd upon his brow — no sign Of guilt or fear was there ; He stood as proud by that death-shrine As even o'er despair He had a power; in his eye There was a quenchless energy, A spirit that could dare The deadliest form that death could take, And dare it for the daring's sake. He stood — the fetters on his hand : He raised them haughtily ; And had that grasp been on the brand. It could not wave on high With freer pride than it waved now ; Around he look'd with changeless brow On many a torture nigh : The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, And, worst of all, his own red steel. I saw him once before ; he rode Upon a coal-black steed ; And tens of thousands throng'd the road. And bade their warrior speed ; His helm, his breastplate, were of gold. And graved with many a dent, that told Of many a soldier's deed ; The sun shone on his sparkling mail. And danced his snow-plume on the gale. But now he stood chain'd and alone, The headsman by his side, The plume, the helm, the charger gone ; The sword which had defied The mightiest lay broken near ; And yet no sign or sound of fear Came from that lip of pride ; 43J LiETITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. And never king or conqueror's brow Wore higher look than his did now. He bent beneath the headsman's stroke With an uncover'd eye ; A wild shout from the numbers broke Who throng'd to see him die. It was a people's loud acclaim, The voice of anger and of shame, A nation's funeral cry ; Rome's wail above her only son, Her patriot and her latest one. With one more extract I conclude. It is a Ballad called SIR WALTER MANNY AT HIS FATHKu's TOSIB. "Oh, show me the grave where my father is laid. Show his lowly grave to me ; A hundred pieces of broad red gold, Old man, shall thy guerdon be." With torch in hand, and bared head, The old man led the way : And cold and shrill pass'd the midnight wind Through his hair of silvery grey. A stately knight foUow'd his steps. And his form was tall and proud ; And his step fell soft, and his helm was off, And his head on his bosom bow'd. They pass'd through the cathedral aisles, "Whose sculptur'd walls declare The deeds of many a noble knight, De Manny's name was not there. L.ETITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. 437 They pass'd next a low and humble church, Scarce seen amid the gloom ; There was many a grave, yet not even there Had his father found a tomb. They travers'd a bleak and barren heath. Till they came to a gloomy wood ; Where the dark trees droop'd, and the dark grass grew, As curs'd with the sight of blood. There stood a lorn and blasted tree. As heaven and earth were its foes, And beneath was a piled-up mound of stones, Where a rude grey cross arose. " And lo !" said the ancient servitor, " It is here thy father is laid ; No mass has bless'd the lowly grave. Which his humblest follower made. " I would have wander'd through every land Where his gallant name was known, To have pray'd a mass for the soul of the dead, And a monumental stone. " But I knew thy father had a son. To whom the task would be dear ; Young knight, I kept the warrior's grave For thee, and thou art here." Sir Walter grasped the old man's hand, But spoke he never a word ; — So still it was that the fall of tears On his mailed vest was heard. Oh, the heart has all too many tears : But none are like those that wait On the blighted love, the loneliness Of the young orphan's fate. NN* 438 L^TITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. He call'd to niiiifl when for knighthood's badge He knelt at Edward's tlirone, How many stood by a parent's side, But he stood there alone ! He thought how often his heart had pined, When his was the victor's name, Thrice desolate, strangers might give. But could not share his fame. Down he knelt in silent prayer On the grave where his father slept ; And many the tears, and bitter the thoughts As the warrior his vigil kept. And he built a little chapel there. And bade the deathbell toll, And prayers be said, and mass he sung, For the weal of the warrior's soul. Years pass'd, and ever Sir Walter was first Where warlike deeds were done ; But who would not look for the gallant knight In the leal and loyal son ? THE AWAKENING OF ENDYMION. Lone upon the mountain, the pine-trees wailing round him. Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid ; Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him, Yet his beauty, like a statue's pale and fair, is undecay'd. When will he awaken ? When will he awaken ? a loud voice hath been crying Night after night, and the cry has been in vain ; L.¥.TITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. 439 Winds, woods, and waves, found echoes for replying, But the tones of the beloved one were never heard again. When will he awaken ? Ask'd the midnight's silver queen. Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping ; Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourned for him as dead ; By day the gathered clouds have had him in their keeping. And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are shed. When will he awaken ? Long has been the cry of faithful Love's imploring. Long has Hope been watching with soft eyes fixed above ; When will the Fates, the life of life restoring. Own themselves vanquished by mnch-enduring love ? When will he awaken ? Asks the midnight's weary queen. Beautiful the sleep that she has watch'd untiring, Lighted up with visions from yonder radiant sky. Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring. Softened by the woman's meek and loving sigh, When will he awaken ? He has been dreaming of old heroic stories, The poet's passionate world has entered in his soul ; He has grown conscious of life's ancestral glories. When sages and when Kings first upheld the mind's control. When will he awaken ? Ask'd the midnight's stately queen. Lo! the appointed midnight! the present hour is fated; It is Endymion's planet that rises on the air ; How long, how tenderly his goddess love has waited, Waited with a love too mighty for despair. Soon he will awaken ! Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of singing, Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing flowers depart, Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos, but is bringing Music that is murmur'd from nature's inmost heart. Soon he will awaken, To his and midnight's queen ! Lovely is the green earth — she knows the hour is holy ; Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal joy ; Light like their own is dawning sweet and slowly O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that yet dreaming boy. Soon he will awaken ! Red as the red rose towards the morning turning, Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's near his own, While the dark eyes open, bright, intense, and burning With a life more glorious than ere they closed was known. Yes, he has awakened For the midnight's happy queen ! What is this old history but a lesson given, How true love still conquers by the deep strength of truth, How all the impulses, whose native home is heaven. Sanctify the visions of hope, faith, and youth. 'T is for such they waken ! When every worldly thought is utterly forsaken. Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's gifted few ; Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep awaken To a being more intense, more spiritual and true. So doth the soul awaken. Like that youth to night's fair queen ! WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN ! We might have been ! — these are but common words, And yet they make the sum of life's bewailing ; They are the echo of those finer chords, Whose music life deplores when unavailing. We might have been ! We might have been so happy ! says the child. Pent in the weary school-room during summer, When the green rushes 'mid the marshes wild, And rosy fruits, attend the radiant comer. We might have been ! L^TITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. 441 It is the thought that darkens on our youth, When first experience — sad experience — teaches What fallacies we have believed for truth, And what few truths endeavour ever reaches. We might have been ! Alas ! how different from what we are Had we but known the bitter path before us ; But feelings, hopes, and fancies left afar. What in the wide bleak world can e'er restore us ? We might have been ! It is the motto of all human things, The end of all that waits on mortal seeking ; The weary weight upon Hope's flagging wings. It is the cry of the worn heart while breaking — We might have been ! And when, warm with the heaven that gave it birth, Dawns on our world-worn way Love's hour Elysian, The last fair angel lingering on our earth. The shadow of what thought obscures the vision ? We might have been ! A cold fatality attends on love, Too soon or else too late the heart-beat quickens ; The star which is our fate springs up above, And we but say — while round the vapour thickens - We might have been ! Life knoweth no like misery ; the rest Are single sorrows, — but in this are blended All sweet emotions that disturb the breast ; The light that was our loveliest is ended. We might have been ! Henceforth, how much of the full heart must be A sealed book at whose contents we tremble ? 56 442 L^TITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. A still voice mutters 'mid our misery, The worst to hear, because it must dissemble — We might have been ! Life is made up of miserable hours, And all of which we craved a brief possessing. For which we wasted Avishes, hopes, and powers, Comes with some fatal drawback on the blessing. We might have been ! The future never renders to the past The young beliefs intrusted to its keeping ; Inscribe one sentence — life's first truth and last — On the pale marble where our dust is sleeping — We miffht have been. STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF MRS. HEMANS. « The rose — the glorious rose is gone."' — Lays of Many Landt Bring flowers to crown the cup and lute, — Bring flowers, — the bride is near ; Bring flowers to soothe the captive's cell. Bring flowers to strew the bier ! Bring flowers ! thus said the lovely song ; And shall they not be brought To her who linked the offering With feeling and with thought ? Bring flowers, — the perfumed and the pure, — Those with the morning dew, A sigh in every fragrant leaf, A tear on every hue. So pure, so sweet thy life has been, So filling earth and air With odours and with loveliness. Till common scenes grew fair LiETITiA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. 443 Thy song around our daily path Flung beauty born of dreams, And scattered o'er the actual world The spirit's sunny gleams. Mysterious influence, that to earth Brings down the heaven above, And fills the universal heart With universal love. Such gifts were thine, — as from the block The unformed and the cold, The sculptor calls to breathing life Some shape of perfect mould. So thou from common thoughts and things Didst call a charmed song. Which on a sweet and swelling tide Bore the full soul along. And thou from far and foreign lands Didst bring back many a tone. And giving such new music still, A music of thine own. A lofty strain of generous thoughts, And yet subdued and sweet, — An angel's song, who sings of earth, Whose cares are at his feet. And yet thy song is sorrowful, Its beauty is not bloom' ; The hopes of which it breathes, are hopes That look beyond the tomb. Thy song is sorrowful as winds That wander o'er the plain, And ask for summer's vanish'd flowers, And ask for them in vain. Ah ! dearly purchased is the gift, The gift of song like thine ; 444 LiETITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN. A fated doom is her's who stands The priestess of the shrine. The crowd — they only see the crown, They only hear the hymn ; They mark not that the cheek is pale, And that the eye is dim. Wound to a pitch too exquisite, The soul's fine chords are wrung ; With misery and melody They are too highly strung. The heart is made too sensitive Life's daily pain to bear ; It beats in music, but it beats Beneath a deep despair. It never meets the love it paints, The love for which it pines ; Too much of Heaven is in the faith That such a heart enshrines. The meteor-wreath the poet wears Must make a lonely lot ; It dazzles, only to divide From those who wear it not. Didst thou not tremble at thy fame. And loathe its bitter prize, While what to others triumph seemed. To thee was sacrifice ? Oh, Flower brought from Paradise, To this cold world of ours, Shadows of beauty such as thine Recall thy native bowers. Let others thank thee — 'twas for them Thy soft leaves thou didst wreathe ; The red rose wastes itself in sighs Whose sweetness others breathe ! And they have thanked thee — many a lip Has asked of thine for words, When thoughts, life's finer thoughts, have touched The spirit's inmost chords. How many loved and honoured thee Who only knew thy name ; Which o'er tlie weary working worM Like starry music came ! With what still hours of calm delight Thy songs and image blend ; I cannot choose but think thou wert An old familiar friend. The charm that dwelt in songs of thine My inmost spirit moved ; And yet I feel as thou hadst been Not half enough beloved. They say that thou wert f\iint, and worn With suffering and with care ; What music must have filled the soul That had so much to spare ! Oh, weary One ! since thou art laid Within thy mother's breast — The green, the quiet mother-earth — Thrice blessed be thy rest ! Thy heart is left within our hearts. Although life's pang is o'er ; But the quick tears are in my eyes. And I can write no more. 00 446 MRS. ABDY. MRS. ABDY Is a well-known and very able contributor to many of our Annuals and Magazines. She has published a Volume of Poems, for pri- vate circulation, many of the pieces in which are distinguished by a purity of diction and loftiness of sentiment, which leave her little, if at all, behind the best writers among her sex. Mrs. Abdy is one of the many female poets who, like Mrs. Hemans, have consecrated their spiritual gifts to the service of religion. Her piety is fervent, without a tinge of bigotry ; and her verse is full of that serenity and cheerfulness which only a warm faith can inspire. THE DESTINY OF GENIUS. "How often I have exclaimed, — ' I am not beloved as I love !' " Miss Landox. Daughter of song ! how truly hast thou spoken ! Yet deem not that to thee alone belong Sad merrtories of idols crush'd and broken, Of wounding falsehood, and of bitter wrong : Oh ! in thy cares, thy trials, I can trace The lot appointed for thy gifted race. Genius is all too lavish of its feelings. It gives its tenderness of heavenly birth. To waste its brignt and beautiful revealings On the dull common natures of the earih, Casting the flowers of a celestial land, To droop and wither upon barren sand. And earth's cold children cherish not the treasure, The pure and blessed offering they repel, Busied in worldly toil, or worldly pleasure, Their souls respond not to the hidden spell MRS. ABDY. 447 Touch'd by a hand whose skilful power was given As the peculiar" boon of favouring Heaven. And must it then be so ? — must cold rejection Still mock the heart where Genius warmly glows ? No ! there is One on whom its deep aflfection In fearless trusting ardour may repose ; Exhausting all the riches of its store, Yet ever in return receiving more. Yes : let it safely guard its true devotion From the low commerce of the worthless sod, Laying each fond and rapturous emotion A tribute at the holy shrine of God : Oh ! where can gifted spirits wisely love. Save when they fix their hopes on One above ? THE CHILD IN A GARDEN. Child of the flaxen locks, and laughing eye, Culling with hasty glee the flowerets gay, Or chasing with light foot the butterfly, I love to mark thee at thy frolic play. Near thee I see thy tender father stand, His anxious eye pursues thy roving track ; And oft with warning voice and beckoning hand. He cnecks thy speed, and gently draws thee back. Why dost thou meekly yield to his decree ? Fair boy, his fond regard to thee is known ; He does not check thy joys from tyranny — Thou art his lov'd, his cherish'd, and his own. When worldly lures, in manhood's coming hours. Tempt thee to wander from discretion's way; Oh ! grasp not eagerly the offer'd flowers, Pause if thy Heavenly Father bid thee stay. Pause, and in Him revere a friend and guide, Who does not willingly thy faults reprove> But ever, when thou rovest from his side, Watches to win thee back with pitying love WHERE SHALL I DIE Where shall I die ? — Shall Death's cold hand Arrest my breath while dear ones stand In silent watchful love, to shed Their tears around my quiet bed ? Or, shall I meet my final doom Far from my country and my home ? Lord, to Thy will I bend the knee ; Thou evermore hast cared for me. How shall I die ? — Shall Death's harsh yoke Subdue me by a single stroke ? Or shall my fainting frame sustain The tedious languishing of pain. Sinking in weariness away. Slowly and sadly, day by day ? Lord, I repose my cares on Thee ; Thou evermore hast cared for me. When shall I die ? — Shall Death's stern calJ Soon come, my spirit to appal ? Or shall I live through circling years, A pilgrim in this vale of tears ; Surviving those I loved the best. Who in the peaceful church-yard rest? Lord ! I await Thy wise decree ; Thou evermore hast cared for me. Yet, oh, sustain me by Thy power ! Be with me in Life's parting hour: MRS. ABDY. 449 Tell me of peace and pardon won Through the dear mercies of Thy Son : Then shall I feel resign'd to go From Life's brief joy and fleeting woe, If I in death the Saviour see, Who evermore hath cared for me. The subjoined lines on the death of Mrs. Hemans contain so fine an appreciation of that gifted lady's genius, and furnish so noble a lesson to our Poetesses from one of their own number, that I am sure I shall be cheerfully pardoned for transcribing it. LINES WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF MRS. HEMANS. Yes, she has left us. She, whose gifted lays So nobly earned a nation's love and praise, Entranced the high and lofty ones of earth, — And shed a radiance o'er the peasant's hearth. She from the world is taken. Her sweet lute Hangs on the willow desolate and mute ; And while we half unconsciously repeat Strains we have learned as household words to greet. How mournful is the thought, that she can pour Songs of such touching melody no more ! Oh ! what a range of mind was hers, how bright Her pages seemed with Inspiration's light ; And yet, though skilled to dazzle and o'erwlielm, Queen of Imagination's fairy realm, Her highest excellence appeared to be In the calm region of reality. In Nature's wondrous workings lay her art. From that exhausdess mine, the human heart. She brought her gems. 'T was hers, with gentle skill The slumbering feelings to arouse and thrill ; 57 oo* 450 JVIRS. ABDY. With colours not more beautiful than true The modest virtues of her sex she drew. " Records of Woman." At that name arise Fair shapes of truth and goodness to our eyes: Not the gay phantoms seen in Fancy's trance, Not the bright paragons of old romance, Nor yet the wonders of a later age, The heroines of Reason's formal page, Full of cold, calculating, worldly sense. And self-elate in moral excellence ! No — at Religion's pure and sacred flame Her torch she kindled — 't was her wish and aim That in her female portraits we should see The blest effects of humble piety, Proving that, in this world of sin and strife. None could fulfil the charities of life, Or bear its trials, save the path they trod Were hallowed by the guiding grace of God. And well her spirit in her life was shown. No character more lovely than her own Fell from her gifted pen — though numbers breathed Her name, though laurel bands her brow enwreathed. She sought not in the world's vain scenes to roam. Her duties were her joys, her sphere her home: And Memory still a pensive pleasure blends AVith the affliction of her weeping friends. When they recall the meek calm lowliness With which she bore the blaze of her success : But trials soon as well as triumphs came. Sickness subdued her weak and languid frame. Then was she patient, tranquil, and resigned, Religion soothed and fortified her mind ; She knew that for the blessed Saviour's sake, In whom she trusted, she should sleep to wake In glory, and she yielded up her breath. Feeling she won eternity by death. MRS. ABDY. 451 Oh ! may her holy principles impress The soul of each surviving poetess ; No trivial charge is to her care consigned, Who gives to public view her stores of mind : Even though her sum of treasures may be small, Good can be worked, if Heaven permit, by all : She who a single talent holds in store, By patient zeal may make that little more ; And though but few, alas ! can boast the powers Of her now lost, the gift may still be ours Humbly to imitate her better part ; And strive to elevate each reader's heart To themes of purer and of holier birth Than the low pleasures and vain pomps of earth. Never may Woman's lays their service lend Vice to encourage, soften, or defend. Nor may we in our own conceit be wise, Weaving frail webs of mere moralities : No, may we ever on His grace reflect, To whom we owe our cherished intellect. Deem that such powers in trust to us Avere given To serve and glorify our Lord in heaven. And place, amid the highest joys of fame. Our best distinction in a Christian's name. Mrs. Abdy's verses have invariably this great merit — that they are written with a purpose. She never fails to urge a truth, or enforce a duty, in her writings. The subjoined poems are good illustrations of this assertion. THE BUILDERS OF THE ARK. The ark is on the waters, and one family alone. Amid a lost and guilty race, its saving succour own ; Why are so few a number to the sacred shelter brought ? Where are the many builders who the wondrous structure wrought? 452 MRS. ABDY. Alas ! they laboured at their task with cold mechanic skill ; They had no hope of future grace, no fear of future ill ; Vainly the holy ark they view, vainly its refuge crave — Others are by their efforts saved, themselves they cannot save. May not the record of their fate a warning truth convey, To some who in religion's cause unwearied zeal display ? Our anxious cares extend to all, our active works abound. But say, within our secret hearts is true devotion found ? We send the blessed Book of Life to cheer the heathen's night, But do we duly read and prize its words of hope and light? Where bands of pious Christians meet we eagerly repair, Do we with equal fervour breathe our solitary prayer ? The sinful we reclaim and warn, the ignorant we teach. We place them in the narrow road, a land of joy to reach ; How dire the thought, that, while they bless their firm and friendly guide, They may attain the gates of heaven, and miss us from their side ! Our prompt and ready labours may the praise of man demand ; Man judges of the spirit by the workings of the hand : But God's unfailing wisdom seeks religion's hidden part. And marks if true and vital faith be cherished in the heart. Yet let us not unmindful of our erring brethren prove ; No, let increasing energy inspire our deeds of love, But while to save another's soul our ardent zeal is shown, O, let us watch with ceaseless care the welfare of our own I THE DARKNESS OF EGYPT. But all the children of Israel had light in their dwellings." (Exodus, x. 23.^ Lo ! Moses stretcheth forth at God's command His hand to heaven, and at the mystic sign Thick darkness gathers over Egypt's land ; The glorious lights above no longer shine ; MRS. ABDY. 453 None knows another — each one rooted stays By his sad hearth through these appalling days. And do their captives share their mournful doom ? Must Israel's wretched children gaze in fear On the dark horrors of surrounding gloom, Making imprisonment's long hours more drear ? The judgment to redress their wrongs was sent, And must they then partake the punishment ? They do not share it : favoured is the race Of injured Israel, and the mists of night Invade them not ; each sees his dwelling-place Cheered and illumed by its accustomed light : Dim shadows the oppressor's home molest. Yet reach not the abode of the opprest. And thus, when darkness wraps the worldly crowd. Sad aliens from the brightness of the word Its sullen influence shall never shroud The true and faithful servants of the Lord ; Without them is the dreary gloom of sin. But rays from heaven shall comfort them within. False accusation, poverty, reproach. Loss of loved friends, oppression, slavery, pain, These darkening clouds their dwellings may approach, Yet strive to quench its holy light in vain : The flame shall brightly and securely shine, Kindled and cherished by a hand divine. And when, amid the gloomy vale of death. Conscience the sinner's terrors shall enhance, The firm believer shall, in steadfast faith. Walk in the light of God's own countenance, Cast oflf his bondage, and amid the blest. Enjoy eternal light — eternal rest! 454 MRS. ABDY. THE WHITE POPPY. Thou hast no power to charm our eye, Or aid us in our need, Disdainfully we pass thee by. Thou pale and worthless weed ! Bright flowers are near thy dwelling-place. And corn is waving round. Thou dost but sadden and deface This gay and fertile ground. Yet hold — my censure I repress — Thy wondrous juice contains A spell to soothe in drowsiness. The weary sufferer's pains ; He sighs for sleep — in thought he shrinks From night's long train of woes, Till of thy lulling draught he drinks. And sinks to soft repose. What were to him the fragrant flowers That lavish Nature yields, What the rich vineyard's purple stores. The harvest of the fields? Scarce fruits improved by careful art, Fair buds of varied dyes. How would they mock his throbbing heart. How cheat his aching eyes ! Let me no more with erring sense God's mystic works arraign. The mighty hand of Providence Hath nothing made in vain ; Nor need I quit this lonely mead His gracious love to scan, Since even in a simple weed I trace his care for man. MRS. ABDY. 455 THE LANGUAGE. OF FLOWERS. The mystic science is not mine That Eastern records teach ; I cannot to each bud assign A sentiment and speech ; Yet, when in yonder blossom'd dell I pass my lonely hours, Methinks my heart interprets well The eloquence of flowers. Of life's first thoughtless years they tell, When half my joy and grief Dwelt in a lily's opening bell, A rosebud's drooping leaf — I watched for them the sun's bright rays, And feared the driving showers. Types of my girlhood's radiant days Were ye, sweet transient flowers. And sadder scenes ye bring to mind. The moments ye renew "When first the woodbine's wreaths I twined, A loved one's grave to strew ; On the cold turf I weeping spread My offering from the bowers, Ye seemed meet tribute to the dead, Pale, perishable flowers. Yet speak ye not alone, fair band, Of changefulness and gloom, Ye tell me of God's gracious hand. That clothes you thus in bloom. And sends to soften and to calm A sinful world like ours. Gifts of such purity and balm As ye, fresh dewy flowers. 456 MRS. ABDY. And while your smiling ranks I view, In vivid colours drest, My heart, with faith confirmed and true, Learns on the Lord to rest : If He the lilies of the field With lavish glory dowers. Will he not greater bounties yield To me, than to the flowers ? Still, still they speak — around my track Some faded blossoms lie, Another spring shall bring them back, Yet bring them, but to die : But we forsake this world of strife, To rise to nobler powers. And share those gifts of endless life. Withheld from earth's frail flowers. may I bear your lessons hence. Fair children of the sod. Yours is the calm mute eloquence. That leads the thoughts to God : And oft amid the great and wise. My heart shall seek these bowers, And turn from man's proud colloquies, To commune with the flowers. MRS. SARAH ELLIS. 457 MRS. SARAH ELLIS. Miss Sarah Stickney, now Mrs. Ellis, is best known as a writer of prose, though entitled to no mean reputation as a Poet. Her Pictures of Private Life, Hints to make Home Happy, Women of England, Sons of the Soil, Poetry of Life, &c., have been extremely popular. The only volume of her Poems that has fallen under our notice, is The Wild Irish Girl, and other Poems, published in London and in New York, in 1844. Mrs. Ellis resides at Pentonville. THE pilgrim's REST. Pilgrim, why thy course prolong ? Here are birds of ceaseless song. Here are flowers of fadeless bloom. Here. are woods of deepest gloom, Cooling waters for thy feet : Pilgrim, rest ; repose is sweet. Tempt me not with thoughts of rest. Woods in richest verdure dressed, Scented flowers and murmuring streams, Lull the soul to fruitless dreams. I would seek some holy fane, Pure and free from earthly stain. Based upon the eternal rock. Braving time and tempest's shock ; Seest thou not yon temple grey ? There thy weary steps may stay. There thy lowly knees may bend, There thy fervent tears descend. 58 pp Has that temple stood the storm ? Could no touch of time deform ? Was the altar there so pure, That its worship must endure ? Whence those noble ruins then ? Why the wondering gaze of men ? No. The Sybil's power is gone. Hushed is each mysterious tone. Closed the eye, whose upward gaze Read the length of human days ; Blindly darkened to her own, Shrine and goddess both are gone. Onward, then, my feet must roam ; Not for me the marble dome. Not the sculptured column high. Pointing to yon azure sky. Let the Heathen worship there, Not for me that place of prayer. Pilgrim, enter. Awe profound Waits thee on this hallowed ground. Here no mouldering columns fall, Here no ruin marks the wall ; Marble pure, and gilding gay. Woo thy sight, and win thy stay. Here the priest, in sacred stole Welcomes every weary soul. Here what suppliant knees are bending ! Here what holy incense lending Perfume to the ambient air ! Ecstacy to praise and prayer! Pilgrim, pause ; and view this pile. Leave not yet the vaulted aisle. See what sculptured forms are here ! See what gorgeous groups appear ! MRS. SARAH ELLIS. ^ 459 Tints that glow, and shapes that live, All that art or power can give ! Hark, the solemn organ sounds ! How each echoing note rebounds ! Now along the arches high. Far away it seems to die. Now it thunders, deep and low, Surely thou mayst worship now. Tempt me not. The scene is fair, Music floats upon the air. Clouds of perfume round me roll ; Thoughts of rapture fill my soul. Tempt me not, I must away. Here I may not — dare not stay. Here amazed — entranced I stand, Human power on every hand Charms my senses — meets my gaze, Wraps me in a wildering maze. But the place of prayer for me. Purer still than this must be. From the light of southern skies. Where the stately columns rise — Wanderer from the valleys green. Wherefore seek this wintry scene ? Here no stranger steps may stay. Turn thee, pilgrim — haste away. Here, what horrors meet thy sight ! Mountain-wastes, of trackless lieight ; Where the eternal snows are sleeping. Where the wolf his watch is keeping, While in sunless depths below, See the abodes of want and wo ! 460 MRS. SARAH ELLIS. Here what comfort for thy soul ! Storm and tempest o'er thee roll, Spectral forms around thee rise, In thy pathway famine lies ; All is darkness, doubt, and fear, Man is scarce thy brother here. Tempter — cease. Thy words are vain. 'T is no dream of worldly gain, 'T is no hope in luxury dressed, 'T is no thought of earthly rest, Earthly comfort, or repose, Lures me to these Alpine snows. I would seek, amid this wild. Fervent faith's devoted child. Holy light is on his brow, From his lips are words that glow, In his bosom depths of love Filled from heaven's pure fount above. I would follow, where his feet Mountain-rocks and dangers meet. I would join his simple band. Linked together, heart and hand ; There I fain would bend my knee, 'T is the place of prayer for me ! LOVE S EARLY DREAM. Love's early dream has music In the tale it loves to tell ; Love's early dream has roses Where it delights to dwell ; I MRS. SARAH ELLIS. 461 It has beauty in its landscape, And verdure in its trees, Unshadowed by a passing cloud, Unruffled by a breeze. Love's early dream has moonlight Upon its crystal lake, Where stormy tempest never blows Nor angry billows break ; It has splendour in its sunshine. And freshness in its dew, And all its scenes of happiness Are beautiful, and — true ? Love's early dream has kindness In every look and tone ; Love's early dream has tenderness For one, and one alone. It has melody of language, And harmony of thought, And knows no sound of dissonance By ruder science taught. Oh ! early dream of happiness. Where is thy waking bliss ? What brings thy golden promises To such a world as this ? Perchance thou art some shadow Of that which is to come — The fluttering of an angel's wings. To lead the wanderer home, pp* 462 MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. MARIA. JANE JEWSBURY.— (MRS. FLETCHER.) The late Mrs. Fletcher, better known by her maiden name of Maria Jane Jevvsbury, was born in Warwickshire, and wrote at an early age, Phantasmagoria, or Essays of Life and Litera- ture, which was followed by Letters to the Young, L^ays for Leisure Hours, and Her Three Histories. She died in Bombay, in 1833, having left England for that country soon after her marriage, with her husband, who was an officer of the East India Company. THE LOST SPIRIT. « No man cared for my soul." — Psalm cxlii. 4. Weep, Sire, with shame and ruin, Weep for thy child's undoing ! For the days when I was young. And no prayer was taught my tongue; Nor the record from on high, Of the life that cannot die : Wiles of the world and men — Of their threescore years and ten; Earthly profit — human praise, Thou didst set before my gaze, As the guiding stars of life. As the meed of toil and strife ; I ran the world's race well. And find my guerdon — Hell ! Weep, Mother, weep — yet know 'T will not shorten endless wo. Nor thy prayer unbind my chain, Thy repentance soften pain, MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 403 Nor the life-blood of thy frame, For one moment quencli this flame ! Weep not beside my tomb, That is gentle, painless gloom ; Let the worm and darkness prey On ray senseless slumbering clay ; Weep for the priceless gem That may not hide with them ; Weep the lost spirit's fate, Yet know thy tears too late : — Had they sooner fallen — well, / had not wept in Hell ! Physician, canst thou weep ? Then let tears thy pillow steep : Couldst thou view Time's nearing wave, Doomed to whelm me in its grave ; The last and lessening space, My life's brief hour of grace, Yet with gay, unfaltering tongue. Promise health and sojourn long? On the brink of that profound Without measure, depth, or bound, View me busied with the toys Of a world of shadowy joys ? Oh, had look, or sign, or breath, Then whispered aught of death ; Though nature in tlie strife. Had loosed her hold on life, And the worm received its prey Perchance an earlier day — This — this — and who can tell That I had dwelt in Hell ! False Prophet, faltering Priest, Full fraught with mirth and feast ! Thy weeping should not fail But with life's dark-ended tale ! 464 MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. For the living — for the dead — There is guilt upon thy head ! Thou didst make the " narrow way," As the broad one, smooth and gay ; So speak in accents bland Of the bright and better land. That the soul unchanged within, The sinner in his sin, Of God and Christ unshriven, Lay down with dreams of heaven ! False Priest, thy labours tell, I dreamed — and woke in Hell ! THE DYING GIRL TO HER MOTHER. My mother ! look not on me now With that sad earnest eye ; Blame me not, mother, blame not thou My heart's last wish — to die ! I cannot wrestle with the strife I once had heart to bear ; And if I yield a youthful life. Full hath it been of care. Nay, weep not ! on my brow is set The age of grief — not years ; Its furrows thou may'st wildly wet. But ne'er wash out with tears. And couldst thou see my weary heart. Too weary e'en to sigh. Oh ! mother, mother ! thou wouldst start, And say, " 'T were best to die !" I know 't is summer on the earth — I hear a pleasant tune J MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 465 Of waters in their chiming mirth — I feel the breath of June : The roses through my lattice look, The bee goes singing by, The peasant takes his harvest-hook,— Yet, mother, let me die ! There's nothing in this time of flowers That hath a voice for me : The whispering leaves, the sunny hours, The bright, the glad, the free ! There 's nothing but thy own deep love, And that will live on high ! Then, mother, when my heart's above, Kind mother, let me die ! A DREAM OF THE FUTURE. A new age expands Its white and holy wings, above the peaceful lands. — Bryant. It was not in a curtained bed. When winter storms were howling dread, This pleasant dream I knew ; — But in the golden month of June, Beneath the bright and placid moon, In slumber soft as dew Alone, in a green and woody dell. Where the lovely light of the moonbeams fell, With soft sheen on tlie grass ; Still, except when a wandering breeze Stirring the boughs of the beechen trees, Made shadows come and pass. 59 Silent — but for the midnight bird That makes the spot where'er 't is heard With spell and sorcery fraught ; Filling the mind with imaged things Of dreams, and melodies, and wings, The faery-land of thought. The flowers had folded up their hues, But their odours mixed with air and dews Made it a bliss to breathe ; How could I choose but dream that night, With a bower above of bloom and light, A mossy couch beneath ? I dreamt — and of this world of woe, This very world of gloom and show, Where love and beauty cease ; This world wherein all fair is frail, And but wrong and sorrow never fail, Changed to a world of peace. And yet remained it as of old. Peopled by men of human mould, To human feelings wed ; Yet, was their traffic in the town, Yet, wore the king his glittering crown, And peasants earned their bread. And day and night were then as now, And the stars on heaven's mighty brow, Twinkled their sleepless eyes ; Like watchers sent by the absent sun, To look on all things said and done, 'Till he again arise. Spring with its promise went and came, And Summer with its breath of flame, Flushing the earth with flowers ; MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 467 And Autumn like a sorcerer bold, Transmuting by his touch to gold, The fruitage of the bowers. Earth still but knew an earthly lot ; Yet 'twas a changed and charmed spot, Where'er the free foot trod ; For now no longer crime and sin. Like cratered fires its breast wilhin. Flamed forth against its God. The curse that chained its strength was gone, And pleasantly in order shone The seasons into life, With only Winter plucked away. And heat and cold in tempered sway, Nature no more at strife. The pole had Eden-wealth of flowers. The tropic — noons of breezy hours, The seamen feared no storm ; The traveller far from haunts of men. Slept dreadless near the lion's den ; Nor did the serpent's form With its splendid coat of many dyes. Bid hate and fear alternate rise. For in the peace prepared,— The holy peace that upward ran, From man to God, from beast to man, Even the serpent shared. No clarion stirred the quiet air. No banner with its meteor-glare The playful breezes saw ; Unknown the warrior's battle-blade, And judge in gloomy pomp arrayed. For love alone was law. 468 MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. There might be tears on childhood's cheek, But few, and passionless, and meek. For strife of soul was dead ; And every smile with love Avas fraught, And glance of eye, spoke glance of thought. Far off deceit and dread. Shrined in the bosom of the seas Like gardens of Hesperides, Lay each beloved land. Inhabited by peaceful men. Each happy in his calling then. In city, vale, or strand. For poverty and greatness knew Their brotherhood — and service true Each from the other won ; The slave looked on his broken chain, And with a spirit freed from pain, Smiled upward on the sun. It was a holy, holy time ! The soul like nature reached its prime, And grew an angel-thing: A paradise of blissful thought — A fountain never-fearing drought, A palace — God its King. It was a holy time ; no sight But wore an aspect of delight, Peace was in every sound ; Peace in the song for the blissful wed. Peace in the chaunt for the tranquil dead. The buried and the crowned. And ever rose on the swelling breeze, From hamlets poor and palaces. Cities and lonely ways, MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. 469 Pealing through all earth's pulses strong, Like the roar of ocean turned to song, A hymn of lofty praise. And Death, with light and loving hand, Marshalled with smiles his radiant band Into a higher sphere. Even as a shepherd kind and old Calleth at night his flock to fold, With strains of music clear. Thus dreamt I through the live-long night. Till the freshened breeze of morning bright. Sleep from my eyelids shook ; And then with thoughts where joy held sway. And longings bright — my musing way Back to the world I took. 470 LADY FLORA HASTINGS. LADY FLORA HASTINGS. This accomplished woman was the eldest daughter of Francis, Marquis of Hastings, and was born in February, 1806. Her learning and abilities made her a favourite in the most intellec- tual society of Great Britain and the continent, and, with the advantages of her birth, secured for her the appointment of Lady of the Bed-chamber to the Duchess of Kent. While she was in this position, a disease, (enlargement of the liver,) caused her death, on the 5th of July, 1839. A collection of her Poems was published soon after, by her sister. THE CROSS OF VASCO DA GAMA. We have breasted the surge, we have furrow'd the wave, We have spread the white sail to the favouring breeze ; We have sped from the land of the fair and the brave, Widely to wander o'er untried seas. There is hope in our hearts, there is joy on our brow, For the bright cross is beaming before us now ! Sadly we swept through the sounding deep. Sadly we thought of our distant home — Of the land where our fathers' aslies sleep, Of the land where our fairy children roam. Brothers ! our sad tears must cease to flow. For the bright cross is beaming before us now ! Spread we the sail to the winged wind — Hail to the waves of the southern sea ! Deep is the furrow we leave behind. As we dash through the waters merrily ; LADY FLORA HASTINGS. 471 And snowy the spray round our lofty prow, For the bright cross is beaming before us now ! Cross of the south, in the deep blue heaven — Herald of mercy, thy form hath shone ! Gladly we welcome the presage given — The land, the fair land of the south is our own ; And mildly the light of true faith shall glow, For the bright cross is beaming before us now ! THE SWAN SONG. Grieve not that I die young. — Is it not well To pass away ere life hath lost its brightness ? Bind me no longer, sisters, with the spell Of love and your kind words. List ye to me : Here I am bless'd — but I would be more free; I would go forth in all my spirit's lightness. Let me depart ! Ah ! who would linger till bright eyes grow dim, Kind voices mute, and faithful bosoms cold ? Till carking care, and coil, and anguish grim. Cast their dark shadows o' er this faery world; Till fancy's many-colour'd wings are furl'd. And all, save the proud spirit, waxeth old ? I would depart ! Thus would I pass away — yielding my soul A joyous thank-offering to Him who gave That soul to be, those starry orbs to roll. Thus — thus exullingly would I depart, Song on my lips, ecstacy in my heart. Sisters — sweet sisters, bear me to my grave — Let me depart ! 472 MARY ANNE BROWNE. MARY ANNE BROWNE, (MRS. GRAY.) Mary Anne Browne was born in Maiden Head, Berkshire, in 1812. In 1827 she published Mont Blanc, in 1828 Ma: in 1829 Repentance; in 1834 77/6 Coronal; in 1836 The Birth Day Gift; and in 1839 Ignatia ; and she was a frequent con- tributor to the Dublin University Magazine, and other British Periodicals, and to The Lady's Companion, and The Knicker- bocker Magazine in the United States. From 1830 to 1842 she resided most of her time in Liverpool, to which city her father removed in the former year. In 1842 she was married to Mr. James Gray, a Scottish gentleman, and she died in Cork in 1844. Her poems are distinguished for grace and tenderness, a ready command of poetical imagery, and a taste delicately skilled in the harmonies of language. THE EMBROIDERESS AT MIDNIGHT. She plies her needle till the lamp Is waxing pale and dim; She hears the watchman's heavy tramp, And she must watch like him : — Her hands are dry, her forehead damp. Her dark eyes faintly swim. Look on her work ! — here blossom flowers, The lily and the rose, Bright as the gems of summer hours. But not to die like those ; Here, fadeless as in Eden's bowers, For ever they repose. MARY ANNE BROWNE. 473 Once, maiden, thou wast fresh and fair As those sweet flowers of thine ; Now, shut from sunny light and air, How canst thou choose but pine ? Neglected flows thy raven hair, Like the uncultured vine. Look on her work ! — no common mind Arranged that glowing group — Wild wreaths the stately roses bind. Sweet bells above them droop — Ye almost see the sportive wind Parting the graceful troop ! Look on her work ! — but look the more On her unwearied heart, And put aside the chamber-door That doth the daughter part From that dear mother, who before Taught her this cunning art. She sleeps — that mother, sick and pale — She sleeps — and little deems That she, who doth her features veil, All day, in flitting gleams Of anxious hope, this hour doth hail, But not for happy dreams. God bless her in her lone employ, And fill those earnest eyes With visions of the coming joy. Waiting her sacrifice, When they, who give her this employ, Pay her its stinted price ! Think how her trembling hand will clasp The treasure it will hold, 60 <*