Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 64, No. 398, December 1848
The opinion we have ventured to express on the inevitable decease of the acting drama – of tragic representations – as a general amusement of an age increasing in refinement, will probably subject us, in certain quarters, to an indignant reproof. Shakspeare, and the legitimate drama! seems, with some, to have all the sacredness of a national cause. Shakspeare, by all means – Shakspeare for ever! eternally! – only we would rather read him – if we could creep up there – with little Felicia Browne, in the apple-tree. Shakspeare supports the stage – so far as it remains supported – not the stage Shakspeare. And can he support it long? Consider what sort of amusement it is which tragic representation affords – for of comedy we say nothing – consider that it must either thrill us with emotions of a most violent order, (which the civilised man in general avoids), or it becomes one of the saddest platitudes in the world. Your savage can support prolonged ennui, and delights in excitement approaching to madness; your civilised man can tolerate neither one nor the other. Now your tragedy deals largely in both. It knows no medium. Every body has felt that, whether owing to the actor or the poet, the moment the interest of the piece is no longer at its height, it becomes intolerable. You are to be either moved beyond all self-control, which is not very desirable, or you are to sit in lamentable sufferance. In short, you are to be driven out of your senses, one way or the other. Depend upon it, it is a species of amusement which, however associated with great names – though Garrick acted, and Dr Johnson looked on – is destined, like the bull-fights of Spain, or the gladiatorial combats of old Rome, to fall before the advancing spirit of civilisation.
But to Mrs Hemans' Vespers of Palermo. It was not the natural bent of genius which led her to the selection of the dramatic form; and when we become thoroughly acquainted with her temperament, and the feelings she loved to indulge, we are rather surprised that she performed the task she undertook with so much spirit, and so large a measure of success, than that she falls short in some parts of her performance. Nothing can be better conceived, or more admirably sustained, than the character of Raimond de Procida. The elder Procida, and the dark revengeful Montalba, are not so successfully treated. We feel that she has designed these figures with sufficient propriety, but she has not animated them; she could not draw from within those fierce emotions which were to infuse life into them. The effort to sympathise, even in imagination, with such characters, was a violence to her nature. The noble and virtuous heroism of the younger Procida was, on the contrary, no other than the overflow of her own genuine feeling. Few modern dramas present more spirit-stirring scenes, than those in which Raimond takes the leading part. Two of those we would particularly mention – one when, on joining the patriot-conspirators, and learning the mode in which they intended to free their country, he refuses, even for so great an object, to stain his soul with assassination and murder; and the other, where, towards the close of the piece, he is imprisoned by the more successful conspirators – is condemned to die for imputed treachery to their cause, and hears that the battle for his country, for which his spirit had so longed, is going forward. We cannot refrain from making a quotation from both these parts of the drama. We shall take the liberty of omitting some lines, in order to compress our extracts.
The conspirators have met, and proclaimed their intended scheme —
Sicilians. Be it so!
If one amongst us stay the avenging steel
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs!
Pledge we our faith to this.
Raim. (rushing forward indignantly.) Our faith to this!
No! I but dreamt I heard it: Can it be?
My countrymen, my father! – Is it thus
That freedom should be won? – Awake! – awake
To loftier thoughts! – Lift up, exultingly,
On the crowned heights, and to the sweeping winds,
Your glorious banner! – Let your trumpet's blast
Make the tombs thrill with echoes! Call aloud,
Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear
The stranger's yoke no longer! – What is he
Who carries on his practised lip a smile,
Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits
Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings?
That which our nature's instinct doth recoil from,
And our blood curdle at – ay, yours and mine —
A murderer! Heard ye? – Shall that name with ours
Go down to after days?
Mont. I tell thee, youth,
Our souls are parched with agonising thirst,
Which must be quenched though death were in the draught:
We must have vengeance, for our foes have left
No other joy unblighted.
Pro. O, my son!
The time has passed for such high dreams as thine:
Thou knowest not whom we deal with. We must meet
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge.
And, for our names – whate'er the deeds by which
We burst our bondage – is it not enough
That, in the chronicle of days to come,
We, through a bright "For ever," shall be called
The men who saved their country.
Raim. Many a land
Hath bowed beneath the yoke, and then arisen,
As a strong lion rending silken bonds,
And on the open field, before high heaven,
Won such majestic vengeance as hath made
Its name a power on earth.
Mon. Away! when thou dost stand
On this fair earth as doth a blasted tree,
Which the warm sun revives not, then return
Strong in thy desolation; but till then,
Thou art not for our purpose; – we have need
Of more unshrinking hearts.
Raim. Montalba! know,
I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice
Might yet have power among you, I would say,
Associates, leaders, be avenged! but yet
As knights, as warriors!
Mon. Peace! Have we not borne
Th'indelible taint of contumely and chains?
We are not knights and warriors: Our bright crests
Have been defiled and trampled to the earth.
Boy! we are slaves – and our revenge shall be
Deep as a slave's disgrace.
Raim. Why, then, farewell:
I leave you to your counsels. What proud hopes
This hour hath blighted! – yet, whate'er betide,
It is a noble privilege to look up
Fearless in heaven's bright face – and this is mine,
And shall be still. [Exit.
Our other extract is from a later scene in the drama, which we think very happily conceived. Raimond, accused of treachery, and condemned to die by his own father, is in chains and in prison. The day of his execution has arrived, but the Sicilians are called on to give battle before their gates; he is left alone, respited, or rather forgotten, for the present. His alternation of feeling, as he at first attempts to respond to the consolations of the priest Anselmo, and then, on hearing of the battle that is being fought for his country, breaks out into all that ardent love of glory, which was the main passion of his soul, is very admirably expressed.
Ans. But thou, my son!
Is thy young spirit mastered, and prepared
For nature's fearful and mysterious change?
Raim. Ay, father! of my brief remaining task
The least part is to die! And yet the cup
Of life still mantled brightly to my lips,
Crowned with that sparkling bubble, whose proud name
Is – glory! Oh! my soul from boyhood's morn
Hath nursed such mighty dreams! It was my hope
To leave a name, whose echo from the abyss
Of time should rise, and float upon the winds
Into the far hereafter; there to be
A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb,
Murmuring – Awake, Arise! But this is past!
Erewhile, and it had seemed enough of shame
To sleep forgotten in the dust; but now,
Oh God! the undying record of my grave
Will be – Here sleeps a traitor! One whose crime
Was – to deem brave men might find nobler weapons
Than the cold murderer's dagger!
Ans. O my son!
Subdue these troubled thoughts! Thou wouldst not change
Thy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark dreams will hang
The avenging shadows, which the blood-stained soul
Doth conjure from the dead!
Raim. Thou'rt right. I would not.
Yet 'tis a weary task to school the heart,
Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit
Into that still and passive fortitude
Which is but learned from suffering. Would the hour
To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand!
Ans. It will not be to-day. The foe hath reached
Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all
Her warrior men, are marshalled and gone forth.
Thy father leads them on.
Raim. (starting up.) They are gone forth!
my father leads them on!
All – all Palermo's youth! No! one is left,
Shut out from glory's race! They are gone forth!
Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad —
It burns upon the air! The joyous winds
Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam
Of battle's roaring billows! On my sight
The vision bursts – it maddens! 'tis the flash,
The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud
Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze
Of helmets in the sun! Such things are
Even now – and I am here!
Ans. Alas, be calm!
To the same grave ye press – thou that dost pine
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule
The fortunes of the fight.
Raim. Ay, thou canst feel
The calm thou wouldst impart, for unto thee
All men alike, the warrior and the slave,
Seem, as thou say'st, but pilgrims, pressing on
To the same bourne.
Vittoria, who had taken a leading part in the conspiracy, now rushes in, bringing the intelligence that the Sicilians are worsted – are in flight. Procida still strives —
But all in vain! The few that breast the storm,
With Guido and Montalba, by his side,
Fight but for graves upon the battle-field.
Raim. And I am here! Shall there be power, O God!
In the roused energies of fierce despair.
To burst my heart – and not to rend my chains?
Vittoria, however, gives orders for his release, and he rushes forth to the field, where he turns the tide of battle, and earns that glorious death he sighed for.
The failure of the play at Covent Garden theatre was attributed, amongst the friends of the authoress, to the indifferent acting of the lady who performed the part of Constance. In justice to the actress, we must confess she had a most difficult part to deal with. There is not a single speech set down for Constance, which, we think, the most skilful recitation could make effective. The failure of Mrs Hemans, in this part of the drama, is not very easily accounted for. Constance is a gentle, affectionate spirit, in love with the younger Procida, and the unfortunate cause of the suspicion that falls upon him of being a traitor. It is a character which, in her lyrical effusions, she would have beautifully portrayed. But we suppose that the exclusion from her favourite haunts of nature – the inability of investing the grief of her heroine in her accustomed associations of woods, and fields, and flowers – the confinement of her imagination to what would be suitable to the boards of a theatre – embarrassed and cramped her powers. Certain it is, she seems quite at a loss here to express a strain of feeling which, on other occasions, she has poured out with singular fluency and force. Constance has no other manner of exhibiting her distress but swooning or dreaming, or thinking she must have been dreaming, and recovering herself to the remembrance of what no mortal so situated could ever have forgotten – the most common, and, to our taste, one of the most unfortunate expedients that dramatists and novelists have recourse to. We are loath to quote any thing half so uninteresting as instances of this practice; we shall content ourselves with giving, in a note below, two brief passages to exemplify what we mean.1
It ought to be borne in remembrance, however, that the Vespers of Palermo, although not the "first" with respect to publication, was the first written of Mrs Hemans' dramatic works. It was produced in solitude, and away from the bustle of theatres, and, be it also confessed, probably with a very scanty knowledge of what stage-representation required. Indeed, the result proved this to be the case. The Siege of Valencia, written on a different principle, although probably even less adapted for stage representation, possesses loftier claims as a composition, and, as a poem, is decidedly superior. Its pervading fault consists in its being pitched on too high a key. All the characters talk in heroics – every sentiment is strained to the utmost; and the prevailing tone of the author's mind characterises the whole. We do not say that it is deficient in nature – it overflows alike with power and tenderness; but its nature is too high for the common purposes of humanity. The wild, stern enthusiasm of the priest – the inflexibility of the father – the wavering of the mother between duty and affection – the heroic devotion of the gentle Ximena, are all well brought out; but there is a want of individuality – the want of that, without which elaboration for the theatre is vain, and with which, compositions of very inferior merit often attract attention, and secure it.
Passing over Sebastian of Portugal, and the two or three sketches in the Scenes and Hymns of Life, as of minor importance, De Chatillon is the only other regular drama that Mrs Hemans subsequently attempted. Unfortunately for her, the Vespers, although long prior in point of composition, had not been brought out when the Siege of Valencia was written; and, consequently, she could not benefit by the fate and failure which was destined for that drama. This is much to be lamented, for De Chatillon, as a play, far exceeds either in power and interest. The redundancies in imagery and description, the painting instead of acting, which were the weaker side of its precursors, were here corrected. It is unfortunate that it wanted the benefit of her last corrections, as it was not published till some years after her death, and from the first rough draft – the amended one, which had been made from it, having been unfortunately lost. But, imperfect in many respects as it may be found to be, it is beyond compare the best and most successful composition of the author in this department. Without stripping her language of that richness and poetic grace which characterises her genius, or condescending to a single passage of mean baldness, so commonly mistaken by many modern dramatists as essentially necessary to the truth of dialogue, she has in this attempt preserved adherence to reality, amid scenes allied to romance; brevity and effect, in situations strongly alluring to amplification; and, in her delineation of some of the strongest as well as the finest emotions of the heart, she has exhibited a knowledge of nature's workings, remarkable alike for minuteness and truth.
When we consider the doubtful success which attended the only drama of Mrs Hemans which was brought out, we cannot wonder that she latterly abandoned this species of writing, and confined herself to what she must have felt as much more accordant with her own impulses. The most laboured of all her writings was The Forest Sanctuary, and it would appear that, in her own estimation, it was considered her best. Not so we. It has many passages of exquisite description, and it breathes throughout an exalted spirit; but withal it is monotonous in sentiment, and possesses not the human interest which ought to have attached to it, as a tale of suffering. To us The Last Constantine, which appears to have attracted much less attention, is in many respects a finer and better poem. Few things, indeed, in our literature, can be quoted as more perfect than the picture of heroic and Christian courage, which, amid the ruins of his empire, sustained the last of the Cæsars. The weight of the argument is sustained throughout. The reader feels as if breathing a finer and purer atmosphere, above the low mists and vapours of common humanity; and he rises from the perusal of the poem alike with an admiration of its hero and its author.
The Last Constantine may be considered as the concluding great effort of Mrs Hemans, in what of her writings may be said to belong to the classical school. She seems here first to have felt her own power, and, leaving precept and example, and the leading-strings of her predecessors, to have allowed her muse to soar adventurously forth. The Tales and Historic Scenes, the Sceptic, Dartmoor, and Modern Greece, are all shaped according to the same model – the classical. The study of modern German poetry, and of Wordsworth, changed, while it expanded, her views; and the Forest Sanctuary seems to have been composed with great elaboration, doubtless, while in this transition state. In matter it is too flimsy and etherial for a tale of life; it has too much sentiment and too little action. But some things in it it would be difficult to rival. The scenery of Southern America is painted with a gorgeousness which reminds us of the Isle of Palms and its fairy bowers; and the death and burial at sea is imbued with a serene and soul-subduing beauty.
Diminishing space warns us to betake ourselves again to the lyrics and shorter pieces, where so much poetry "of purest ray serene" lies scattered. Of these we prefer such as are apparently the expressions of spontaneous feelings of her own to those which are built upon some tale or legend. It happens too, unfortunately, that in the latter case we have first to read the legend or fable in prose, and then to read it again in verse. This gives something of weariness to the Lays of Many Lands. Still less fortunate, we think, is the practice Mrs Hemans indulges in of ushering in a poem of her own by a long quotation – a favourite stanza, perhaps – of some celebrated poet. We may possibly read the favourite stanza twice, and feel reluctant to proceed further. For instance, she quotes the beautiful and well-known passage from Childe Harold upon the spring, ending with —
I turned from all she brought to all she could not bring;
and on another occasion, that general favourite, beginning —
And slight, withal, may be the things which bring;
and then proceeds to enlarge upon the same sentiments. Her own strain that follows is good – but not so good. Is it wise to provoke the comparison? – and does it not give a certain frivolity, and the air of a mere exercise, to the verse which only repeats, and modifies, and varies, so to speak, the melody that has been already given? Or if the quotation set out with is looked on as a mere prelude, is it good policy to run the risk of the prelude being more interesting than the strain itself? The beautiful passage from Southey —
They sin who tell us love can die, &c.,
is too long to be quoted as merely a key-note to what is to follow, and is too good to be easily surpassed.
But this is a trifling remark, and hardly deserving of even the little space we have given to it. It is more worthy of observation, that Mrs Hemans, a reader and admirer of German poetry, contrived to draw a deep inspiration from this noble literature, without any disturbance to her principles of taste. A careful perusal of her works, by one acquainted with the lyrical poetry of Germany, will prove how well and how wisely she had studied that poetry – drawing from it just that deeper spirit of reflection which would harmonise with her own mind, without being tempted to imitate what, either in thought or in manner, would have been foreign to her nature.
We fancy we trace something of this Teutonic inspiration in the poem, amongst others, that follows: —
THE SILENT MULTITUDE
A mighty and a mingled throng
Were gathered in one spot;
The dweller, of a thousand homes —
Yet midst them voice was not.
The soldier and his chief were there —
The mother and her child:
The friends, the sisters of one hearth —
None spoke – none moved – none smiled.
There lovers met, between whose lives
Years had swept darkly by;
After that heart-sick hope deferred,
They met – but silently.
You might have heard the rustling leaf,
The breeze's faintest sound,
The shiver of an insect's wing,
On that thick-peopled ground.
Your voice to whispers would have died
For the deep quiet's sake;
Your tread the softest moss have sought,
Such stillness not to break.
What held the countless multitude
Bound in that spell of peace?
How could the ever-sounding life
Amid so many cease?
Was it some pageant of the air,
Some glory high above,
That linked and hushed those human souls
In reverential love?
Or did some burdening passion's weight
Hang on their indrawn breath?
Awe – the pale awe that freezes words?
Fear – the strong fear of death?
A mightier thing – Death, Death himself,
Lay on each lonely heart!
Kindred were there – yet hermits all,
Thousands – but each apart.
In any notice of Mrs Hemans' works, not to mention The Records of Woman would seem an unaccountable omission. Both the subject, and the manner in which it is treated especially characterise our poetess. Of all these Records there is not one where the picture is not more or less pleasing, or drawn with more or less power and fidelity. Estimated according to sheer literary merit, it would perhaps be impossible to give the preference to any one of them. Judging by the peculiar pleasure which its perusal gave us, we should select, for our favourite, The Switzer's Wife. Werner Stauffacher was one of the three confederates of the field of Grutli. He had been marked out by the Austrian bailiff as a fit subject for pillage; but it was to the noble spirit of his wife that he owed the final resolution he took to resist the oppressor of his country. The whole scene is brought before us with singular distinctness. It is a beautiful evening in the Alpine valley, —
For Werner sat beneath the linden tree,
That sent its lulling whispers through his door,
Even as man sits, whose heart alone would be
With some deep care, and thus can find no more
Th' accustomed joy in all which evening brings
Gathering a household with her quiet wings.
His wife stood hushed before him, sad, yet mild
In her beseeching mien, – he marked it not.
The silvery laughter of his bright-haired child
Rang from the greensward round the sheltered spot,
But seemed unheard; until at last the boy
Raised from his heaped up flowers a glance of joy,
And met his father's face; but then a change
Passed swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee,
And a quiet sense of something dimly strange
Brought him from play to stand beside the knee
So often climbed, and lift his loving eyes,
That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise.
Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook;
But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look
Through tears half-quivering, o'er him bent and said,
"What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its prey,
That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away?
"It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend!
Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow,
Missing the smile from thine? Oh, cheer thee! bend
To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now!
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share
Of tried affection in thy secret care."
He looked up into that sweet earnest face,
But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band
Was loosened from his soul.
He then tells how the oppressor's envious eye "had been upon his heritage," and to-morrow eve might find him in chains. The blood leaves her cheek, and she leans back on the linden stem, but only for a moment; the free Alpine spirit wakes within her —
And she that ever through her home had moved
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile
Of woman, calmly loving and beloved
And timid in her happiness the while,
Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour —
Her clear glance kindling into sudden power.
Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light,
And took her fair child to her holy breast,
And lifted her soft voice, that gathered might
As it found language: – "Are we thus oppressed?
Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod,
And man must arm, and woman call on God!
"I know what thou wouldst do; – and be it done!
Thy soul is darkened with its fears for me.
Trust me to heaven, my husband; this, thy son,
The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free!
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth
May well give strength – if aught be strong on earth.
"Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread
Of my desponding tears; now lift once more,
My hunter of the hills, thy stately head,
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore!
I can bear all but seeing thee subdued —
Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood.
"Go forth beside the waters, and along
The chamois' paths, and through the forests go;
And tell in burning words thy tale of wrong
To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow,
God shall be with thee, my beloved! – away!
Bless but thy child and leave me – I can pray!"
It is ever thus with all her women, – gentle, courageous, full of self-devotion, and, alas! of sorrow and suffering. This is her ideal of woman, from which she rarely departs – a heart, overflowing with tenderest affection – ill-requited – yet refusing to receive any earthly boon as a substitute for the returned affection it seeks. Fame is no compensation —
Away! to me, a woman, bring
Sweet waters from affection's spring.
Genius when she sings to Love is made to say —
They crown me with the glistening crown,
Borne from a deathless tree;
I hear the pealing music of renown —
O Love, forsake me not!
Mine were a lone dark lot,
Bereft of thee!
They tell me that my soul can throw
A glory o'er the earth;
From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow!
Shed by thy gentle eyes,
It gives to flower and skies
A bright new birth!
Genius singing to Love.
It is not often we find the superstitions of dark and ignorant ages dealt with in so gentle and agreeable a manner as by Mrs Hemans. She seizes, in common with others, the poetic aspect these present, but diffuses over them, at the same time, a refinement of sentiment gathered entirely from her own feelings. A subject which from another pencil would have been disagreeable and offensive to us, is made by her graceful touches to win upon our imagination. Witness the poem called The Wood Walk and Hymn; we will quote the commencement of it.
WOOD WALK AND HYMN
"Move along these shades
In gentleness of heart – with gentle hand
Touch – for there is a spirit in the woods."
Wordsworth
FATHER – CHILD
Child.– There are the aspens with their silvery leaves
Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime
And chestnut boughs, and these long arching sprays
Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood
Were all one picture!
Father.– Hast thou heard, my boy,
The peasant's legend of that quivering tree?
Child.– No, father; doth he say the fairies dance
Amidst the branches?
Father.– Oh! a cause more deep,
More solemn far, the rustic doth assign
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves!
The cross, he deems, the blessed cross, whereon
The meek Redeemer bow'd his head to death,
Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze
Disturbs the airy thistle down, or shakes
The light lines of the shining gossamer.
An eminent critic in the Edinburgh Review has spoken of the neatness and perfect finish which characterise female writers in general, and Mrs Hemans in particular. Now, these qualities imply a certain terseness and concentration of style, which is no more a peculiarity of all authoresses than of all authors, and which we should not pronounce to be peculiarly characteristic of Mrs Hemans' poetry. To us it often appears wanting in this very conciseness; we occasionally wish that some lines and verses were excluded – not because they are faulty in themselves, but because they weaken the effect, and detract from the vigour of the whole: we wish the verses, in short, were more closely packed together, so that the commencement and the close, which are generally both good, could be brought a little nearer to each other. It is not so much a redundancy of expression, as of images and illustrations, that we have sometimes to complain of in Mrs Hemans. She uses two of these where one would not only suffice, but do the work much better. There is a very pleasing little poem, called The Wandering Wind: we will quote – first, because it is thus pleasing; and, secondly, because we think it would have been rendered still more so had there been somewhat more of concentration and terseness in the style. The lines which we have printed in italics, and which contain the pith and marrow of the whole, would then have struck upon the ear with more distinctness and prominence.
THE WANDERING WIND
The wind, the wandering wind
Of the golden summer eves —
Whence is the thrilling magic
Of its tones amongst the leaves?
Oh! is it from the waters,
Or from the long tall grass?
Or is it from the hollow rocks
Through which its breathings pass?
Or is it from the voices
Of all in one combined,
That it wins the tone of mastery?
The wind, the wandering wind!
No, no! the strange, sweet accents
That with it come and go,
They are not from the osiers,
Nor the fir trees whispering low.
They are not of the waters,
Nor of the cavern'd hill,
'Tis the human love within us
that gives the power to thrill.
They touch the links of memory
Around our spirits twined,
And we start, and weep, and tremble,
To the wind, the wandering wind!
The verses beginning "I dream of all things free" might also be cited as an instance of this tendency to over-amplify – a tendency which seems the result of a great affluence of poetical imagery. This would be a more powerful poem merely by being made shorter. We wait too long, and the imagination roves too far, before we arrive at the concluding lines, which contain all the point and significance of the piece: —
"My heart in chains is bleeding,
And I dream of all things free."
Of the measures and the melody of a lyrical poet something is expected to be said. But what we feel we have chiefly to thank Mrs Hemans for here is, that, in the search after novelty and variety of metre, she has made so few experiments upon our ear, and that she has not disdained to write with correctness and regularity. She has not apparently laboured after novelties of this kind, but has adopted that verse into which her thoughts spontaneously ran. An author who does this is not very likely to select a rhythm, or measure, which is incongruous with the subject-matter of his poem; nor, do we think, could many instances of such a fault be detected in Mrs Hemans.