forty years hence ? The engrossing interest of any period is naturally excited by the passing events and productions of that period; and doubtless the men of future generations will fancy their own bards and battles far mightier, and more honourable, than those in which we now exult. It is scarcely to be expected that our voluminous poets will find a place in the libraries of that period. But their lyrics cannot so glide into oblivion ; independently of the living beauty with which hosts of them are invested, too many duplicates are extant ;-here, and there, and every where, will they be found like the poet's daisies In shoals and bands a morrice train. But it is time Mrs. Hemans' poetry were allowed to speak for itself; in making our extracts from it, we have really been as much puzzled as a child gathering flowers in a lovely garden-now attracted by a rosestraightway allured by a lily-now tempted by a stately tulip-and again unsettled by a breathing violet, or well-attired woodbine.' We do think, however, that the Voice of Spring' is the pride of Mrs. H.'s parterre; the rose of her poetry. THE VOICE OF SPRING. I COME, I come! ye have called me long, I have breathed on the south, and the chesnut flowers And the ancient groves, and the fallen fanes, I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy north, And the rein-deer bounds o'er the pasture free, And the moss looks bright, where my foot has been. I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain, Away from the dwellings of care-worn men But ye!-ye are changed since ye met me last! Ye are changed, ye are changed!-and I see not here There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head, There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky, Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains passed? I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now, They have gone from amongst you, the young and fair, -But I know of a land where there falls no blight, Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may dwell The summer is coming, on soft winds borne, For me, I depart to a brighter shore, Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more. I go where the loved who have left you dwell, And the flowers are not Death's-farewell, farewell! THE LOST PLEIAD. And is there glory from the heavens departed? Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, Hath the Night lost a gem, the regal Night? No desert seems to part those orbs of light, They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning! To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning; -Unchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee! Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, When from its height afar, A world sinks thus! and yon majestic Heaven This and the following poem exhibit Mrs. Hemans' keen perception of the picturesque, whether in thought, feeling, or incident. They also display her great power of illustrating and varying a single idea-' drawing all things to one.'-In her best pieces, it is very interesting to watch the progress of the thought or feeling in all its stages; from the germ in the first verse, to the climax in the last. BRING FLOWERS. BRING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, And a dream of his youth.-Bring him flowers, wild flowers. They were born to blush in her shining hair. Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young Bride! For this through its leaves hath the white-rose burst, Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, They speak of hope to the fainting heart, With a voice of promise they come and part, They break forth in glory-Bring flowers, bright flowers! The Siege of Valencia' abounds with admirable, but it contains few quotable passages. As a dramatic poem the interest of parts must in great measure depend on their reference to the whole, and to detach a number of beauties from their context, is as unfair and unsatisfactory, as to cut the flowers from a piece of embroidery, or the figures out of a picture. There is however one passage complete in itself, which we shall give. It occurs in the scene where Gonzalez, the governor, announces to his wife that their two sons can only be rescued from impending death by an immediate surrender of the city. The whole scene is wrought up with extraordinary power; and the way in which Elmina pleads with her husband, forgetful of every character but the mother-every consideration but her ' pretty little ones,'-pierces to the heart. A MOTHER'S LOVE. LOVE! love!-There are soft smiles and gentle words, The look we trust in-and 'tis mockery all! A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat The thirst that semblance kindled !-There is none, In all this cold and hollow world-no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within While to the fulness of your heart's glad heavings Waved softly to your breath!-You ne'er kept watch Caught his least whisper, when his voice from your's No! these are woman's tasks!-In these her youth Could any but a woman, a true woman, have written the last passage? And is not one such appeal to the deepest, because the holiest feelings of our nature, feelings founded, sanctioned, and upheld by God himself, far better worth, than the ravings of love-lorn maidens, and desperate cavaliers ? Passion is a poetical cant word of the day; it is something worse unfortunately—a kind of literary demon, upon whose shrine good sense, good feeling, and good taste, are to be recklessly immolated. Nothing is supposed to be said strongly that is said simply; every line must produce ་ an effect;' every word must tell;'-in fact, what Goldsmith said truly in one sense, is now equally true in another— Who peppers the highest is surest to please. The human heart is to be treated like Lord Peter's coat in the Tale of a Tub-authors need mind nothing, so they do but tear away.' Powerful is another cant word, which palms off every delineation that is monstrous and absurd. Language is powerful, when epithets succeed each other as fast and heavily as the strokes of a blacksmith's hammer ;-ideas are powerful, when they cannot be defined; but, like Ossian's ghosts, reveal themselves in mist and shadow ;-and characters and incidents are powerful, when they make us wonder what is to follow after! Those who catered for the Nursery in the olden times, had very correct notions on these points. Jack the Giant Killer is truly powerful! Blue Beard is fraught with passion! Mrs. Hemans' admirable taste completely guards her from these, the besetting sins of our lighter literature; and yet, when she unreservedly surrenders the pencil to the guidance of her own heart and fancy, her pictures are as beautiful for their fervid colouring, as they invariably are for their correct and vigorous outlines. But it is a remarkable circumstance, that Mrs Hemans has so rarely, that we might also say, has never, made personal feeling the subject of her poetry. This unusual reserve has proceeded from delicacy of taste, but it has, we think, diminished the interest of her works, because the reader could never, so to speak, individualize the poet. Young, and mediocre authors, generally injure themselves by a contrary line of conduct; they absolutely wear out a reader's patience by the continual recurrence of Stanzas to -,' and 'Stanzas on But with an author of acknowledged genius, and established fame, the case is different. We are not satisfied with seeing them in character, we wish to be admitted behind the scenes;-having bowed before them as enchanters, we long to associate with them as friends-to hear them with their own voices tell us of their own feelings, or at least their opinions on subjects common to all. It is this, even more than their beauty, which renders the private sonnets of Milton and Shakespeare so intensely interesting; it was well-managed egotism that first made Lord Byron the idol of the public ;nay, we do not scruple to assert, that the most generally popular productions of our modern poets are those which have had a reference to private feeling. It is Wordsworth's She was a Phantom'-and Coleridge's Genevieve'-and Scott's Introductions to Marmion'-and Burns' To Mary in Heaven'-and Leigh Hunt's Lines to his Child'-and Shelley's 'Stanzas written in the Bay of Naples'—and a host of other pieces we could name, that have excited the deepest interest. It is a high, but it is also a deserved compliment, that we mean to pay Mrs. Hemans, when we express a wish that she would oftener be to us an unveiled prophetess; and without the intervention of history, ancient or modern-classical or romantic-impart to us her own impressions on subjects that come more immediately home to the human heart, and are more intimately connected with the course of human life. In The Sceptic' she has done this in a most interesting as well as masterly style. We shall indulge in a pretty long extract from this poem. |