CONTEMPORARY POETS, AND WRITERS OF FICTION.
No. IX.-MRS. HEMANS.

The Crusader, and many others, are in this respect equally effective.

WE closed our last paper somewhat abruptly, after various extracts from "The Forest Sanctuary." In fact, we had The first of Mrs. Hemans's productions found it impossible then to proceed with with which we are acquainted, are Tales our strictures on the character of Mrs. and Historic Poems, published in the year Hemans's productions. In her delightful 1819. Others, however, have emanated world of poesy, with all its grand, and from her pen :-The Restoration of Works lovely, and ever-varying features, we seemof Art io Italy ;-Modern Greece ;—Transed to behold, as in a mirror, the image of lations from Camoens, and other Poets ;all things we had ever felt or fancied, || Wallace's Invocation to Bruce, &c. In 1820 loved or lamented, suffered or enjoyed. she published The Sceptic, a poem, from And then, to leave such a world for the which, as a brief specimen of style, inpurpose of analyzing, coldly analyzing, that volving a tribute to the memory of the which had stirred up our deeper thoughts Princess Charlotte of Wales, we select the —the proudest, the purest, the fondest, the following passage:— saddest feelings of our nature-appeared to be an effort as vain as that of dissecting a sun-beam, that sheds warmth and brightness on our path. There are, we are ready to admit, poems which, by gigantic powers of mind, arouse more astonishment in the perusal; but this lay, this transcript of the purest, the holiest heart, speaks to the soul a language it knows, it loves, and replies to from its inmost recesses; for not a thought, a feeling, a hope, a recollection is there depicted, that is not, in beauty, in pathos, or in power, familiar to us all.

Even

now, we shrink from the thought of disturbing, by any affectation of criticism, the lovely impression which " The Forest Sanctuary" has left upon our minds.

In the accompanying assemblage of minor poems, we could have wished to see, collected from various sources, several special favourites of the public-Aymer's Tomb, The Child's Last Sleep, Evening Prayer at School, &c.

In almost the whole of Mrs. Hemans's short pieces, it may be remarked that the terminating point is remarkably good: it comes like the impressive close of the ancient Greek epigram, one of the most elegant of all poetical compositions. The Suliote Mother fully illustrates our meaning:

And from the arrowy peak she sprung,

And fast the fair child bore:

A veil upon the wind was flung

A cry-and all was o'er.

No. 19.-Vol. IV.

And say, cold Sophist! if by thee bereft
Of that high hope, to misery what were left?
But for the vision of the days to be,
But for the Comforter, despis'd by thee,
Should we not wither at the Chastener's look,
Should we not sink beneath our God's rebuke,
When o'er our heads the desolating blast,
Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath pass'd,
And the stern power who seeks the noblest prey
Hath called our fairest and our best away?
Should we not madden, when our eyes behold
All that we lov'd in marble stillness cold,
No more responsive to our smile or sigh,
Fix'd-frozen-silent-all mortality?
But for the promise, all shall yet be well,
Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel,
Beneath such clouds as darken'd, when the hand
Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land,
And thou, just lent thy gladden'd isles to bless,
Then snatch'd from earth with all thy loveliness,
With all a nation's blessings on thy head,
O England's flower! wert gather'd to the dead?
But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart
Faith's lofty lesson didst thyself impart !
When fled the hope thro' all thy pangs which smil'd,
When thy young bosom, o'er thy lifeless child,
Yearn'd with vain longing-still thy patient eye,
To its last light, beam'd holy constancy !
Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast,
Amidst those agonies-thy first and last,
Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes,
Breath'd not a plaint-and settled in repose;
While bow'd thy royal head to Him, whose power
Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour;
Who from the brightest vision of a throne,
Love, glory, empire, claim'd thee for his own,
And spread such terror o'er the sea-girt coast,
As blasted Israel, when her ark was lost!
"It is the will of God !"-Yet, yet we hear
The words which closed thy beautiful career;
Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode,
But for that thought-" It is the will of God!"
Who shall arraign th' Eternal's dark decree.
If not one murmur then escaped from thee?
Oh! still, tho', vanishing without a trace,
Thou hast not left one scion of thy race,
Still may thy memory bloom our vales among,
Hallow'd by freedom, and enshrin'd in song!

B

Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell,

Bright on the isles which lov'd thy name so well;
E'en as an angel, with presiding care,

To wake and guard thine own high virtues there.

The concluding lines of the poem are also very pleasing :—

Still, where thy hamlet-vales, O chosen isle!
In the soft beauty of their verdure smile,
Where yew and elm o'ershade the lowly fanes
That guard the peasant's records and remains,
May the blest echoes of the sabbath-bell
Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell,
And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades,
When starlight glimmers through the deepening shades,

Devotion's voice in choral hymns arise,

And bear the land's warm incense to the skies.
There may the mother, as, with anxious joy,
To heaven her lessons consecrate her boy,
Teach his young accents still th' immortal lays
Of Zion's bards, in inspiration's days,
When angels, whispering thro' the cedar's shade,
Prophetic tones to Judah's harp conveyed;
And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes,
She bids the prayer of infancy arise,
Tell of His name, who left his throne on high,
Earth's lowliest lot to bear, and sanctify
His love divine, by keenest anguish tried,
And fondly say "My child, for thee He died !"

Mrs. Hemans's next succeeding volume embraced her poem entitled The Last Constantine, The Siege of Valencia, and several pieces, comparatively short, but of a degree of excellence equal to any that she has written. From The Last Constantine we quote the two following stanzas, not as some of the best or of the most beautiful, but for the striking picture, the deep contrast which they display: they are descrip- || tive of Constantine's marching forth by torch-light :

Still, as the monarch and his chieftains pass
Through those pale throngs, the streaming torchlight
throws

On some wild form, amidst the living mass,
Hues, deeply red, like lava's, which disclose
What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes!
Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasp'd in prayer,
Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears; all outward shows
Betokening inward agonies, were there:

to the Cid ought to be read as illustrations of the Siege of Valencia.

On Mrs. Hemans's dramatic talent-her dramatic poetry-as displayed in The Siege of Valencia, and subsequently on the stage, in The Vespers of Palermo, we are desirous of offering a few remarks.

The subject of The Siege of Valencia, arising out of one of the numerous courses of reading through which she has advantageously passed, is peculiarly well suited to the turn of her mind and to the nature of her powers. Her mind is full of history-richly imbued with the high feelings of ancient Spanish romance. Her subject is, but her poem is not, in the comprehensive meaning of the word, dramatic. Strictly speaking, a poem, to be dramatic, should not only present well-arranged colloquies, but its respective characters, with the manners of those characters, and of the times and countries in which they are supposed to have lived, should be as distinctly marked as though they were the portraits

of so many individuals. Independently,

however, of its want of action, or rather of stage effect, which was not within the aim of the writer, The Siege of Valencia is not dramatic. It is a picture of high-minded sentiments and feelings rather than of men and manners. But, if not dramatic, it is highly poetic: the pathos of this poem has been rarely surpassed. The passions or affections displayed are-in Gonzalez, paternal love, conjugal love, and patriotism, the last of which triumphs. In Elmina, on the other hand, though patriotism is strong, and conjugal love still stronger, maternal love, exciting a physical as well as a moral courage, capable of braving every ill, is the

-Greeks! Romans! all but such as image brave despair! || ruling passion. It is, indeed, in the dis

play of a mother's feelings that Mrs. Hemans uniformly and pre-eminently excels. The anguish, the maddening agony of soul in which Elmina parts from Gonzalez, when, after the most powerful, the most eloquent of maternal appeals, she had found the father's patriot-shielded heart invulnerable, could only have been painted by a woman-perhaps only by a mother.

But high above that scene, in bright repose, And beauty borrowing from the torches' gleams A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows, But all instinct with loftier being seems, Pale, grand, colossal; lo! th' embodied dreams Of yore!-Gods, heroes, bards, in marble wrought, Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes Of mortal passion !-Yet 'twas man that caught, And in each glorious form enshrined immortal thought! Our chief favourites of the shorter pieces in this volume are, we think, The Urn and Sword, The Cid's Funeral Pro- Were we to quote the beauties of this cession, The Chieftain's Son, The Funeral poem we should more than fill the space Genius, England's Dead, and The Voice of allotted for our remarks. Indeed we rather Spring; all of which are too well known abstain from quotation; for no isolated to require citation. The poems relating ||passage can satisfy the reader, or render

justice to the author. The succeeding lines,
spoken by Elmina, on her departure from
Gonzalez, after her unsuccessful appeal,
are all that we can venture to extract :-
thy heart!-Away! it feels not now!
But an hour comes to tame the mighty man
Unto the infant's weakness; nor shall heaven
Spare you that bitter chastening!-May you live
To be alone, when loneliness doth seem
Most heavy to sustain !-For me, my voice
Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon
With all forgotten sounds; my quiet place
Low with my lovely ones, and we shall sleep,
Tho' kings lead armies o'er us, we shall sleep,
Wrapt in earth's covering mantle !-You the while
Shall sit within your vast, forsaken halls,
And hear the wild and melancholy winds
Moan thro' their drooping banners, never more
To wave above your race. Aye, then call up
Shadows-dim phantoms from ancestral tombs,
But all-all glorious-conquerors, chieftains, kings-
To people that cold void!—And when the strength
From your right arm hath melted, when the blast
Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more
A fiery wakening; if at last you pine

For the glad voices, and the bounding steps,
Once thro' your dome re-echoing, and the clasp

Of twining arms, and all the joyous light

Of eyes that laugh'd with youth, and made your board
A place of sunshine;---When those days are come,
Then, in your utter desolation, turn

To the cold world, the smiling, faithless world,
Which hath swept past you long, and bid it quench
Your soul's deep thirst with fame! immortal fame!
Fame to the sick of heart!—a gorgeous robe,
A crown of victory, unto him that dies,
I' th' burning waste, for water?

If, in the deep workings of maternal affection, Elmina stands almost unrivalled, Ximena, in the development of the tender passion-in the sentiment of love, that pure sentiment which animates the female breast, and elevates it to the proudest patriotism, the most heroic daring-occupies | a station at least equally sublime. Thus the maid of Saragoza in Childe Harold's Pilgrimage:

Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,
Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower,
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power,
Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower
Beheld her smile in danger's gorgon face,

possible to be sustained throughout the work. But we were mistaken: it is not only sustained, but surpassed. The death of Alphonso, the eldest born, is managed with a force of dramatic effect not easy to be equalled. Yet the supposed audience is spared all offensive sights.

It is worthy of remark, that, in the description of the battle on the outside of the walls, Mrs. Hemans has resorted to the expedient for which, in Ivanhoe, the author of the Scotch novels has been so much lauded. The same successful expedient, however, had been adopted in Sheridan's version of Pizarro, whence it has been traced to one of Goethe's tragedies, the title of which, at this moment, eludes our recollection. Goethe's works, let us observe en passant, constitute an exhaustless store which the all-glorified Scotchman has plundered without mercy and without remorse.

With reference to the effect of The Siege of Valencia upon the mind of the reader, it seems to us one of the most affecting, most agonizing poems ever writ

ten.

It is well that it is not adapted for stage representation-that it is not acted; for it has passages-whole scenes—which it is hardly possible to bear, even in the closet.

The Vespers of Palermo, written expressly for the stage, and produced at Covent Garden theatre at the close of the year 1823, is a far less successful effort. It is, in the construction of its plot, and in the conception and execution of some of its characters, extremely defective. Generally speaking, the latter are not sufficiently marked or distinct. Montalba is a very incomplete sketch, and the emotions by which his conduct is influenced are offensive. The mind of the reader or spectator revolts from the ease with which the high-minded Vittoria falls into the views of the conspirators, by consenting to meet the man she abhors at the altar, and by allowing the vesper-bell to be the signal of indiscriminate massacre. Constance, indeed, is clothed in all the tenderness and loveliness of woman. The great defect of the piece, however, is that all the grand business is over at the end of the third In the early scene between Elmina and act. In the fourth act, the scene where Gonzalez, such a depth of feeling and of Raimond di Procida is brought before the interest is excited, that we thought it im-tribunal at which his father presides, is

Thin the clos'd ranks, and lead in glory's fearful chase.
Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-tim'd tear;
Her chief is slain-she fills his fatal post;
Her fellows flee-she checks their base career:
The foe retires-she heads the sallying host.

We cannot but feel, however, that there is a superhuman grandeur-a halo of spiritual glory-investing the character of Ximena, which is not attendant on that of Lord Byron's heroine.

||

managed with great spirit and great dra-
matic effect. Constance, falling at the feet
of Di Procida, the father, is excellent.
The latter part of the fourth act is good;
but the interest is new, and consequently
unable to excite with sufficient intenseness
the attention of the spectator. The re-
deeming merits of the play must be sought
in the beauty of its poetry, in the justness,
purity, and elevation of its sentiments. Of
these a few lines will suffice to convey a
general idea :-

Look round thee !-All is sunshine-is not this
A smiling world?

Is not the life of woman all bound up
In her affections :-what hath she to do
In this bleak world alone?-It may be well
For man on his triumphal course to move,
Uncumbered by soft bonds; but we were born
For love and grief.

The following is of a different charac

ter:

There is no joy!

Who shall look through the dark futurity,
And, as the shadowy visions of events
Develope on his gaze, 'midst their dim throng,
Dare, with oracular mien, to point and say,
This will bring happiness?-Who shall do this?
-Why, thou, and I, and all !—There's one who sits
In his own bright tranquillity enthroned,

High o'er all storms; but we, from whose dull eyes,
A grain of dust hides the great sun, e'en we
Usurp his attributes, and talk as seers,
Of future joy and grief.

From perusing The Vespers of Palermo, we revert with increase of appetite to The Siege of Valencia. That is one of the rare productions which impel the offering of man's proud homage at the shrine of woman's towering and angelic mind. Mrs. Hemans may, without profanation, be designated-one of heaven's glorious creatures. H.

THE SMUGGLER'S DAUGHTER.

A FEW weeks since business caused my attendance at the Admiralty. While waiting in one of the anti-rooms, I heard myself accosted by name by a tall and elegant looking man standing near me. My eye rested on his figure, but memory refusing recognition in the gaze, I inquired his identity. My surprise was great at finding he was one of my dearest, and earliest friends; and the start of astonishment, almost of pain, which his revelation elicited from me, must I fear have communicated to him the knowledge of the withering havoc which sorrow had made on his person. Only five years had elapsed since our last meeting, and that period, when unmarked by mental suffering or sickness, may pass over man while in his prime-and Captain Tancred was now only thirty-five -without leaving a record of its flight.

I had known him in boyhood: he had been the wildest, but the truest and most generous of my school companions. His presence had ever been the signal for some thoughtless freak or hazardous adventure. With a spirit fresh and buoyant as moun

|| tain air, exuberant health, and exhaustless vivacity, he was formed to be the idol of his associates. He seemed destined for happiness; he had every element of it in himself; and, utterly exempt from that contracting selfishness which binds up the sympathies of too many natures, he revelled in the joy of dispensing it to others.

Left to the choice of a profession, he selected that of the sea: it assimilated best with his taste, for it afforded indulgence to his peculiar temperament, which, always seeking after strong excitements, would even court danger in all its varieties. The very character of the element had charms for him: he loved its false unsubstantial surface, its engulphing depths, its perilous quicksands, the warfare of its waves, whose wild hoarse murmurs seem to warn man from their territories: they had terror in their sound, and that sound was music to his ears. Often, when the tempest from above had lashed the ocean into fury, and it boiled forth its wrath in billows which threatened destruction to aught of human power that dared its ire, I have