females are, in general, so worthily devoted. Mrs Barbauld may be in Icluded, whose excellent education, and whose leisure, uninterrupted by maternal duties, placed her nearly in the same predicament. Mrs Hemans is one of those who actually do require an apology for coming before the public, because she is young, married, and the mother of a fast increasing family. We dare not, unpermitted, admit the reader into the sacred privacy of that domestic circle of which this admirable person forms the centre and the ornament. Generally speaking, the duties of a mother are such as to require undivided attention; yet there may be circumstances in which every power and talent is called forth and stimulated by the best affections of the heart. Without farther penetrating into the quiet seclusion of a family every way respectable, where talents of the highest order are made subservient to virtues still more to be valued, it is enough to add, that her motive for appearing before the public is so praiseworthy, that the sternest critic, however accustomed to contemn the productions of female genius, must regard her Muse with sympathy and indulgence. For the volume itself, however, we claim no indulgence, and are most willing to let it stand or fall by its own merits. We are well aware, that, in reading poetry, the public judges it from the merit it possesses, and the pleasure it gives, little, if at all, biassed by the motives or circumstances of the author. The first historical fact which Mrs Hemans has selected as the subject of a poetical narrative is the treacherous murder of Crescentius by Otho the third Emperor of Germany, when the former made a bold attempt to shake off the Saxon yoke, and the still heavier one of the Popes, then peculiarly tyrannical and flagitious. The consul (for such Crescentius was) defended the Mole of Hadrian as long as possible, till at length Otho, almost despairing of success, entered into a treaty, in which he pledged his word to respect the rights of the Roman citizens and the life of their consul. Immediately on the surrender of the fortress, he beheaded the unhappy patriot, with many of his adherents. The emperor endeavoured, by a pilgrimage soon after, to appease the horrors of his conscience. On his return, Stephania, the widow of Crescentius, concealing her affliction and resentment, found means to be introduced to the tyrant, and avenged her wrongs by administering poison to him. We extract, as a specimen of the author's powers, the following description of the scene of action, and the crisis of time, when the deluded patriots rejoiced in the amnesty acceded to them by the tyrant. 'Tis morn, and Nature's richest dyes Are floating o'er Italian skies: Tints of transparent lustre shine Along the snow-clad Apennine; The clouds have left Soracte's height, And yellow Tiber winds in light, Where tombs and fallen fanes have strew'd The wide Campagna's solitude. "Tis sad amidst that scene to trace Those relics of a vanish'd race; Yet o'er the ravaged path of time, Such glory sheds that brilliant clime, Where Nature still, though empires fall, Holds her triumphant festival; E'en Desolation wears a smile, Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while; And Heaven's own light, Earth's richest bloom, Array the ruin and the tomb. His faithful few Crescentius led; The story, very little deviating from the historic narrative, is carried on with great force and pathos, and with the same beauty of diction and loftiness of sentiment. The Abencerrage is a romance, the scene of which is appropriately laid in a most romantic period, and in the country of all others in which the spirit of romance was most powerful, and lingered longest-in the kingdom of Grenada, where the power of the Moors was first established, and had the greatest continuance the time that during which Ferdinand and Isa-, bella succeeded in conquering the last Moorish king, and expelling the disciples of Mahomet from that beautiful region, which their industry had cultivated to the highest perfection, and their arts adorned with the utmost magnificence. The fall of their empire in the west appears to have been hastened by the tyranny of the monarch, and the fierce hostility of contending factions. The resentment of a gallant and deeply-injured chief, for the wrongs sustained by his family, forms the basis of this narrative, the materials of which are to be found scattered in the heroic ballads referring to this period, which are so frequent in Spain. Hamet, the hero of the tale, is another Coriolanus, whose deep resentment of the injuries his family had sustained from the adverse faction leads him to turn his arms against his ungrateful and degraded country-that country which was still dear to him, and the more endeared for containing one fond and faithful heart, which neither his errors or his misfortunes could alienate. His beloved Zayda, the daughter of a Zegris chief, (the enemy of the Abencerrages,) is a lofty and pure-minded heroine, who unites with the tenderness of her sex the firmness of the most exalted masculine character. Devoted in heart to her lover, she is still faithful to her country and to her filial duties. The leading events of the narrative are strictly historical, and with these the fate and sufferings of the unfortunate lovers are very naturally interwoven. The beauty of the descriptions here is exquisite. Indeed, the common accounts of the Alhambra, given by mere matter-of-fact travellers, seem to have acquired from the nature of the subject a high poetic colouring. What a field, then, must such a scene, in the height of its pristine glory, present to a young and exuberant imagination! We cannot affirm that our author has been able to proceed with the chastened calmness of mature taste through the enchantments of this Arabic Elysium. While she is tempted to luxuriate in this wilderness of poetic sweets, the interest of the story is sometimes suspended. The parts, each distinctly considered, are beautiful in the extreme; but a more subdued fancy would have produced a more distinct and connected story at the expence of sacrificing some luxuriant graces of description. It is somewhat singular that simplicity, the first charm which poetry possesses in its infancy, is one of the last it attains in its more advanced state, the early productions of all modern poets being deficient in this particular. We do not include the studied simplicity which has been cultivated as an art, and carried to excess by some persons of great and real genius. Choice is bewildered among the many fine passages we are tempted to extract from the Abencerrage; we shall not, then, interrupt its entireness, but content ourselves with what we hope will not content the reader, namely, the introductory verses, which follow: Lonely and still are now thy marble halls, Thou fair Alhambra! there the feast is o'er: And with the murmur of thy fountain falls, Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more. Hush'd are the voices that, in years gone by, Have mourn'd, exulted, menaced, thro thy towers; Within thy pillar'd courts the grass waves high, And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers. Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows, And beam smiles, many a tint of soften'd brilliance throws O'er fretted walls, and shining peristyles. 1819. bold! Peopling once more each fair, forsaken hall, With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old. pp. 55, 56. Each of the single events which form the subject of the succeeding poems derives fresh interest from the vivid colours with which it is adorned, and has an ease, and clearness, which can scarce be expected from an unpractised writer, in more lengthened and intricate narratives. Alaric in Italy is written with great spirit, and there is in the style a degree of solemnity suited to the subject, one, indeed, that impresses strongly on every thinking mind the awful retribution by which the accumulated crimes of an ambitious people have in so many instances been visited. The following extract describes the entrance of the Goths into Rome. Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast? Bursting in that terrific hour pp. 178, 179. The Death of Conradin, like that of our own Arthur of Bretagne, (to whose fate and character that of the Swabian prince bore much resemblance,) is an historical fact, melancholy and atrocious in itself, and British poetry has now given in addition, in both instances, a degree of beauty and tenderness to their story that will for ever shed lustre on the memory of those early victims of ambition. Charles of Anjou, who usurped the dominion of Naples, to which Conradin was heir, seeing him greatly beloved by the people, condemned him to death, without any the least pretext to colour the crime. The ap proach of the youthful prince to the scaffold is thus described: But thou, fair boy! the beautiful, the brave, Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, While all is yet around thee which can give A charm to earth, and make it bliss tø Dead silence all the peopled shore along, While the strange light of flames, that gave As on the captive moves the only sound, A ruddy glow to Tyber's wave, To break that calm so fearfully profound, The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave, Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave; While on that shore, his own fair herit age, The youthful martyr to a tyrant's rage He mounts the scaffold-doth his footstep fail? Doth his lip quiver? doth his cheek turn pale ? Oh! it may be forgiven him, if a thought Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught, To all the hopes that promised Glory's meed, And all th' affections that with him shall bleed! If, in his life's young day-spring, while the rose Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows, One human fear convulse his parting breath, And shrink from all the bitterness of say, the Banks of Carron, where, by the power of poetical magic, she has conjured up two stalwart and majestic spirits, holding high converse on themes of deep import. These are no other than Wallace and the Bruce. The tradition which records the generous effort of the truest of patriots, and most disinterested of heroes, to win back the descendant of our ancient monarchs, to assert his claims, and liberate his country, is one, we are all willing to credit; a true Scot would scarce listen to historical doubts on the subject. The period of that noble struggle for national liberty was heartfelt strains of Blind Harry and dear to the Scottish Muse; and the the Archdeacon of Aberdeen still gleam through the rust of antiquity to illustrate those gloomy but honourable days when the national spirit rose high against oppression-when eleven lost battles, far from breaking that unconquered spirit, proved only so many preludes to the twelfth, that gave freedom to the country, and unfading, as unsullied, glory to its beroic monarch. This is a theme on which a genuine Scot delights to luxuriate. It has so far kindled the spirit of one of our expatriated countrymen, that it has induced him to offer a prize to any one who should write the best poem on this heroic interview, where Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn, awaked that fire in the mind of the Bruce that afterwards blazed out in such a glorious flame. Mrs Hemans has been the successful competitor. A lady who knows and admires her, not satisfied with the advantage she, Mrs Hemans, has derived from the prize already mentioned, has ordered 500 copies to be printed at her own expence, and sold for the author's benefit. The booksellers, with the most generous spirit, refuse the wonted emoluments of the trade, whether from mere amor patriæ, or from a courteous as well as chivalrous respect to the fair author; and it is to be supposed that a Scottish public, at least, will be emulous of all this li berality. There is a suggestion in this poem with regard to a monument commemorating those worthies, and our countryman before mentioned pro poses leaving a sum towards that national and very desirable object. We live now in very cordial union with our south country friends, and the benefits of that union which we so much detested, and they so much despised, at the time it took place, are now found to be mutual and important. One peculiar benefit is only of late occurrence, yet, perhaps, full as much valued as any of the others; it is, that our southern neighbours have learned (though late) to appreciate the Scottish character, and to discern and taste Scottish genius even in the disguise of our national language,— a language most peculiarly fitted for the vehicle of simple pathos and strong sarcastic, or even gaily playful humour. Allan Ramsay proved little more than an avant courier; but Burns entered their confines with a monarch's voice, and cried havoc to vulgar prejudice. He, like Wallace, enacted wonders, but, like him, did not live to complete his conquest. His successor, like Bruce, has established the Scottish sway in the domain native to Scottish genius, and in these wondrous fictions, which possess so much truth of painting and character, has established a monument to the national language and national manners that must be perpetual. They have, I trust, had the effect of rekindling that enthusiasm for the land of our nativity, and the memory of our forefathers, which travel and a mixture with strangers was in danger of diminishing. Let us then cherish this peculiar character, and the honourable remembrance that we were once an independent people. If we cannot, like those ornaments of our country, embalm our language in immortal verse, or in those more familiar images of Scottish life which are alike imperishable, we can at least bring a stone to the cairn of Wallace, to whose memory we owe so much. A pittance of little more value than this figurative tribute from every Scot to whom that name is dear, would furnish such an addition to the proposed legacy as would raise a monument worthy of the hero, and of the nation by whom his memory is revered. VOL. V. VERSES SENT WITH SOME FAVOURITE On a Sprig of Heath. FLOWER of the waste! the heath-fowl For thee the brake and tangled wood,- tear, How must his aching heart deplore, The Passion Flower. |