# Characteristics of the Genius and Writings of L. E. L./Analysis of L. E. L.’s Poetry

Analysis of L. E. L.'s Poetry.
Miss Landon's longer poems consist of the volumes entitled "The Improvvisatrice," "the Troubadour," "The Golden Violet," "The Venetian Bracelet," and "The Vow of the Peacock." To these may be added, as longer than her general miscellaneous pieces, "The Zenana," contained in the "Drawing room Scrap Book for 1834," "Erinna," in the volume of "The Golden Violet," "The History of the Lyre," and the dramatic sketch of "The Ancestors," in the volume of "The Venetian Bracelet;" together with a small volume of Sacred Poetry, "The Easter Offering." Many pages also are bright with the beauty of her minor poems; minor only on account of their comparative shortness.
We do not intend now to analyze each of these poems separately, or to compare their respective merits, but to give the result of our own analysis of the whole; and by some illustrative quotations to establish the truth of an estimate which assigns to L. E. L. the essential characteristics of genius.
The component elements of poetical genius are many and various. Its very soul is the power of invention,—a power resulting from that combination of the pre-existing faculties of imagination, memory ​and judgment, assisted by the laws of suggestion,— by which are originated the beings of the mind. This attribute is developed in the works before us, primarily, in the conception of their subjects, but not less essentially in their mode of treatment,—in the forming and tracing out of scenes, circumstances and characters, and then in their keeping,—the consistency that is observed in their individual and relative adaptations. Diversity of subjects, richness of descriptions, variety of characters, with their appropriate qualities and sentiments, and a beauty of imagery, may be adduced as illustrative of the exercise of invention.
The facility with which so wide a diversity of subjects is successfully treated by L. E. L. evinces great vigour as well as versatility of imagination. Not only is this apparent in themes chosen by the poet's own sweet will, but in those involuntary tasks imposed on her in her literary vocation of illustrating pictures, and (if we may here use the phrase) of "working to order." There is no constraint, no laboured effort apparent; but so completely does genius overcome obstacles which to ordinary minds would seem insurmountable, that, in looking over the volumes of the "Drawing-room Scrap Book," for instance, one would suppose that the pictures had been subsequently introduced to illustrate the poems, instead of the poems being arbitrarily required at the convenience or will of the publisher. Especially is this the case with the Indian tale of "The Zenana." It is a long poem, written apparently without constraint; and yet the various accompanying pictures are all introduced into the body of the poem with so much tact, that one might fancy an artist had been employed to depict the most striking passages after they were written.
​ What heterogeneous topics have been illustrated by L. E. L. what uninteresting and barren subjects have been made to pass before her fancy! and in that transit how have they gained in interest! Ay, subjects apparently as unpromising as the unchiselled marble in the studio of a Chantrey, as the newly-stretched canvas on the easel of a Fielding, or as intractable as the single string on the instrument of a Paganini;—yet soon like these to be animated with a living spirit! The genius that kindles the marble into the glorious shapes, that transforms the canvas into isles of fairy beauty and summer magnificence, and that wakes the soul of music sleeping in the string into thrilling power, also infuses into the poet's tasks the principle of a beauteous vitality.
Swift has defined "Sight" as "the art of seeing things invisible;" there is much truth and philosophy in this seeming paradox, while it admits of special application to the mental vision of genius. In scenes and objects that to common eyes appear just what they are, and nothing beyond—common minds wondering what can be said of them—the gifted intellect discerns a charm they cannot see, and hears a voice they cannot hear. These objects the while acquire a grace and interest from the light of talent, like Memnon's statue imbibing harmony from the morning sunbeams. Thus, from ruined tower and olden castle, from Indian temple or Roman palace, from English landscape or foreign scenery, from portrait, or pictured group,—in a word, from the simplest to the most elaborate subject, there rise tones of music fraught with tender and sublime feeling, with moral or intellectual truth, with historical or otherwise interesting associations. We are ​thus compelled to acknowledge that it is the poet's privilege to shed a charm
"Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,
Binding all things with beauty;"
—we are made to feel the truth of L. E. L.'s own beautiful language, and its exquisite classical allusions:—
"It is the minstrel's part to fling
 Around the present's common cope
The solemn hues on memory's wing
 The spiritual light of hope.
The scene that to a careless eye
 Seems nothing but itself to be,
Hath charmed earth and haunted sky
 Soon as a minstrel's eye can see.
Without such lovely light the while,
 Dark, silent, strange, all things would be,
And Ithaca were but an isle
 Unknown upon a nameless sea;
But now a thousand years come back,
 The gift of one immortal line,—
Each with new splendour on its track
 As stars upon the midnight shine.
I ask of every pictured scene,
 What human hearts have beaten there,—
What sorrow on their soil has been,—
 What hope has blighted human care?"
Drawing-room Scrap Book, 1837.
Yes; and the lessons deduced from every pictured scene are not merely adventitious; they appeal to the general principles of human nature. This is one of the most prominent characteristics of L. E. L.’s ​writings. Her prefatory remark to "The Zenana," will equally apply to all her poems: "While I have adhered as accurately as possible to character, costume and scenery, it is on the expression of universal feelings that I rely for sympathy."
Miss Landon's works, as tales, will probably disappoint the reader; for in almost every instance the narrative is subordinate to the sentiments; it is like a silver thread, almost hidden by the rich pearls strung thereon. This is true also in a great measure of her prose works. Her style is very episodical; hence the beautiful lyrics interspersing her longer poems, and the truthful and brilliant isolated passages so often introduced among her tales; so that what is defective in the story, as such, is compensated by development of character, by richness of description, by the portraits and pictures that surround us with living beauty, by the thoughts that are bright with immortal truth.
That most essential and remarkable characteristic of genius, the powerful life-giving imagination by which, at will, the poet identifies himself with his creations, no writer, perhaps, has more displayed than L. E. L. Whatever circumstance or scene she wishes to evoke is called up before her mind and that of her reader; not by a mere laboured description, but by a vivid representation, as if she were an actual spectator, and wished you to become one also. This is the case throughout her works. Take up "The Improvvisatrice," and, in its opening burst of genuine poetic inspiration, you can scarcely withhold the conviction that the poet is speaking of herself:—
"I am the daughter of that land,
Where the poet's lip and the painter's hand
Are most divine; where the earth and sky
Are picture both and poetry."
"Pouring her full and burning heart
In song, or on the canvas making
Her charms of beauty visible;"
and you gaze on her in the excitement of emerging from her solitude,—
"When first upon the gallery's wall
Picture of hers is placed, to share
Wonder and praise from each one there;"
while your spirit listens to her future songs, as to the audible voice of a living presence.
Turn now to the tales of old romance and glorious chivalry:—
"Lo! the past yields up an hour
To the painter’s magic power;
Mastered into life and light,
Breathing, beautiful and bright,
One bright hour in glory dyed
Of the old chivalric pride,
With war-music round them poured,
With the sunshine on the sword,
Girdled by their southern clime,
Stand a group of olden time."
Would you look on the warriors of that chivalric day? Come then with Count Leoni, to see his band—
"With helm on head and spear in hand,
Proud as he marks the sunbeams shine
Over the long embattled line,
And says, exulting, "They are mine!"
No chief were he who could have eyed
Such soldiers without chieftain’s pride:
Plumed, and full armed, from head to heel,
They sat like statues carved in steel;
He of that body was the soul
To lead, to curb, inspire, control."
The poet of chivalry himself might be justly proud of this spirited description, and even more so of the following battle-scenes:—
"The ranks are set, the hosts are met,
 The morning sun-beams shine
O'er tents with dews of night-fall wet,
 O'er the long warrior line.
By heaven! it is a glorious thing
Upon the gallant steed to spring,
With white plume dancing o'er the crest,
With spur on heel, and spear in rest,
And sword impatient of its night;
A sun that reddens into light;
To feel the energy of strife;
The life that is so much of life;
The pulse's quickened beat, the eye
Whose dark light kindles to defy.
By heaven! it is a glorious pride
To lead the stormy battle-tide.
Ay! let the crimson banner spread,
So soon to wear a darker red;
Let the proud trumpet wake the air,
As Victory's sounding wing were there.
It is in Death's and Danger's hour
That most existence feels its power!"
Hear you not, in the energy of these noble lines, the spirit-stirring voice of the clarion sounding to the charge?
But, look again, and see the end of the strife:—
"And is this all?—the flush and glow
When war's wild waves at morning flow?
Ah, no! night cometh, and she flings
The weight and darkness of her wings;
The tide has ebbed, the beach is left,
Of its bright panoply bereft;
The glittering waves that caught the sun,
Their light is past, their course is done:
The field is fought!—who walketh there? The shadow Victory casts—Despair!
For the proud chief, in shining mail,
Comes the young orphan, mute and pale;
For the red banner's radiant fold
Some maiden rends her locks of gold;
For the war-steed, with bit of foam,
The image of a desolate home;
While, wandering o'er the ghastly plain,
Some mother seeks her child in vain."
Vow of the Peacock, pp. 7. 36. 42. 77-80.
This finely-drawn contrast, with its vivid, picturesque and mournful scenes, cannot need, even for the superficial, any assistance to point out its merits.
Do you wish to visit distant climes, and breathe beneath summer skies?—the magic of our poet will bear you at once far away, and lead you through the glorious land of Italy, as through familiar haunts, spreading before you its chief wonders of art; or waft you to the gorgeous scenery of the eastern world, and set you amid the "giant temples where fable had its birth;" or land you on the green isles of the southern seas, where breathe around you balmy gales and spicy odours; or, when wearied with change, will conduct you home again, and show you
"How much our England doth outweigh the world!"
Wish you for society?—our poet will introduce you to the sons and daughters of Genius, with whom you may enjoy "the feast of reason and the flow of soul;" or will lead you amid the gay throngs of lighted halls; or, with equal ease, make you feel at home among the green pastures and beside the still waters of domestic life; while, in each of these varied scenes, may you fancy yourself an actual participator, so completely will you seem surrounded with realities.
Would you come into yet closer contact with the spirit of humanity, and learn more of your fellow creatures, with their joys and sorrows, than a ​general survey will afford? Listen to the earnest and soul-fraught tones of "The Improvvisatrice," and the varying minstrelsy of "The Troubadour;" or go to "The Provençal Festival," and hear the songs of the Bards—the competitors for "The Golden Violet,"—as they pour forth many a true and touching strain of the mind's loftiest thoughts,—the heart's deepest emotions. We will not presume to choose for you, where all are beautiful, but leave you to enter on the themes most accordant with your own mood.
Ah! young poet! well may your dreaming eye glisten! your ear hath caught the echo of your own soul's long-treasured aspirations! Know you not the portraiture;—feel you not its truth?—
"Oh! glorious is the gifted poet's lot,
And touching more than glorious; ’tis to be
Companion of the heart's least earthly hour;
The voice of love and sadness, calling forth
Tears from their silent fountain; 'tis to have
Share in all nature's loveliness; giving flowers
A life as sweet, more lasting than their own;
And catching from green wood and lofty pine
Language mysterious as musical;
Making the thoughts, which else had only been
Like colours on the morning's earliest hour,
Immortal, and worth immortality;
Yielding the hero that eternal name
For which he fought; making the patriot's deed
A stirring record for long after-time;
Cherishing tender thoughts, which else had passed
Away like tears; and saving the loved dead
From Death's worst part, its deep forgetfulness!"
Golden Violet. Erinna.
"Young poet, if thy dreams have not the hope
To purify, refine, exalt, subdue,
To touch the selfish, and to shame the vain
Out of themselves, by gentle mournfulness;
Or chords that rouse some aim of enterprise,
Lofty and pure, and meant for general good;
If thou hast not some power that may direct
The mind from the mean round of daily life;
Waking affections that might else have slept;
Or high resolves, though petrified before;
Or rousing in that mind a finer sense
Of inward and external loveliness,
Making imagination serve as guide
To all of heaven that yet remains on earth,
Thine is an useless lute;-break it, and die!"
Summer Evening's Tale. Venetian Bracelet.
And thou with those strangely mingled gifts of woman's clinging home-bound affections, and the restless wings of genius; thou who, perhaps, hast made
"Thy heart too like a temple for a home,"
yet whose spirit-music echoes the words,
"I am a woman, tell me not of fame!
The eagle's wing may sweep the stormy path,
And fling back arrows, where the dove would die. The lily of the valley—mark how pure
The snowy blossoms, and how soft a breath
Is almost hidden by the large dark leaves!
Not only have those delicate flowers a gift
Of sweetness and of beauty, but the root–
A healing power dwells there—fragrant and fair,
But dwelling still in some beloved shade.
Is not this woman's emblem? she whose smile
Should only make the loveliness of home—
Who seeks support and shelter from man's heart,
And pays it with affection quiet, deep,
And in his sickness, sorrow, with an aid,
He did not deem in aught so fragile dwelt."
History of the Lyre.
Ay, do thou, fair enthusiast, look on thy prototypes, and read thy life's history in the fates of the glorious, the intellectual Erinna, of the gentle yet impassioned Eulalie.
​ We might go on forming other classifications and adducing other specimens to illustrate the power of L. E. L.'s imagination, especially in that form of it which philosophers so much value, when its operations correspond with its name, and become an actual imaging forth, or picturing of its intended representations. It is to such manifestation of her genius that Miss Landon is indebted for the prevalent opinion which has attached to herself all the varied modifications of feeling that are to be found in her poems, and which supposes herself to be the chief subject of her writings.
The mental powers requisite for describing any emotions as intellectual creations, are perfectly distinct from the moral susceptibilities which they call into action when received as vital feelings and as governing principles. The same truth is, of course, general in its application; for, unless we admit this obvious fact, what absurd inferences may be deduced from similar premises, what unfounded hypotheses to which reality would refuse its demonstration!
"In considering the author and his works as one, a sufficient distinction is not drawn between the ideal and the real; the last is only given by being passed through the crucible of the first. He does not give the events of his life, but the deductions that have been drawn from events. It is not that he has been placed in the circumstances that he paints, but a quick intuition born of quick feeling, and that power of observation which is the first requisite in a poet, enable him to bestow actual life on his breathing pictures." *
In conversation L. E. L. would often playfully sketch ideal scenes and situations, filling them with ​their appropriate accessories, till you suddenly found yourself transported to fantastic regions wild and gorgeous as any which have delighted the readers of the Arabian Tales, or you were introduced to associations correct and tasteful as reality in its most graceful aspects could supply.
In social life Miss Landon's refined and picturesque taste was manifested in detecting the slightest incongruity, and in admiring to the least minutia any arrangements accordant with the laws of beauty.
No illustration need be given of her vivid sketches from imagination; her works abound with beautiful subjects for pictures, displaying exquisite taste in their skilful grouping, their rich colouring, and the introduction of those most striking points on which an artist delights to dwell.
The same power by which L. E. L. so individualizes her creations makes her likewise appear an actual spectator of scenes and circumstances which she so graphically describes. An Indian lady, after reading "The Zenana," observed to us, "Miss Landon, I suppose, has passed a considerable time in India; her descriptions are so oriental, that they must have been written either on the spot or from memory." A similar idea might be also applied to her descriptions of Italian and other scenery.
This highest development of the imagination, the throwing itself out of itself, whereby an author, through a kind of intellectual transmigration, identifies himself with the beings of his mind, transforming the ideal into realities, is perhaps of all faculties the least understood, abstractedly, although the most striking in its effects. It was by this power that Shakspeare breathed into his creations a living soul, by virtue of which those creations have reflected on himself their merits, and crowned him not only ​as their king, but as a mighty sovereign in the universal empire of mind.
And wherever this power displays itself, there is shadowed forth the spiritual presence and operations of genius; therefore, since this power is so strikingly evinced in the writings of L. E. L., and since it cannot exist apart from that mental constitution, which, for its superior endowments and capabilities, we denominate genius, it follows that genius must be attributed to L. E. L.
This Genius may be further illustrated by examining the Descriptions and Imagery of its productions.
In attempting to select any specimens of Miss Landon's descriptions, we feel bewildered, where all are so varied and beautiful. We will, however, quote two as illustrating her descriptive powers and her peculiar faculty of associating moral sentiments with natural objects:—
"The present! it is but a drop from the sea,
In the mighty depths of eternity.
I love it not, it taketh its birth
Too near to the dull and the common earth;
It is worn with our wants and steeped with our cares,
The dreariest aspect of life it wears;
Its griefs are so fresh, its wrongs are so near,
That its evils of giant shape appear;
The curse of the serpent, the sweat of the brow,
Lie heavy on all things surrounding us now.
The actual! it is as clay to the soul,
The working-day portion of life's wondrous whole.
How much it needeth the light and the air
To breathe their own being—the beautiful there!
Like the soil that asks for the rain from the sky,
And the soft west wind that goes wandering by,
So the wonderful world within will arise,
And rejoice in the smile of the summer's soft eyes.
The present, the actual, were they our all,
Too heavy our burden, too hopeless our thrall;
But Heaven, that spreadeth o'er all its blue cope,
Hath given us memory, hath given us hope!
And redeemeth the lot which the present hath cast,
By the fame of the future, the dream of the past.
The future! ah there hath the spirit its home!
In its distance is written the glorious to come.
The great ones of earth lived but half for their way,
The grave was their altar, the far-off their way.
Step by step hath the mind its high empire won;
We live in the sunshine of what it hath done.
Such music hope brings from the future to still
Humanity vexed with the presence of ill.
The past! ah, we owe it a tenderer debt!
Heaven's own sweetest mercy is not to forget;
Its influence softens the present, and flings
A grace like the ivy, wherever it clings.
Sad thoughts are its ministers—angels that keep
Their beauty to hallow the sorrows they weep.
The wrong, that seemed harsh to our earlier mood,
By long years with somewhat of love is subdued;
The grief that at first had no hope in its gloom,—
Ah, flowers have at length sprung up over the tomb!
The heart hath its twilight, which softens the scene,
While memory recalls where the lovely hath been.
It bends by the red rose, and thinketh old songs;
That leaf to the heart of the lover belongs;
It clothes the green tree with the leaves of its spring,
And brings back the music the lark used to sing.
But spirits yet dearer attend on the past,
When alone 'mid the shadows the dim hearth has cast;
Then feelings come back that had long lost their tone,
And echo the music that once was their own.
Then friends, whose sweet friendship the world could divide,
Come back with kind greetings, and cling to our side.
The book which we loved when our young love was strong;
An old tree long cherished; a nursery song;
A walk slow and pleasant by field and by wood;
The winding 'mid water-plants of that clear flood,
Where lilies, like water-queens, looked on their glass,
That stream we so loved in our childhood to pass.
Oh! world of sweet phantoms, how precious thou art! The past is perpetual youth to the heart.
The past is the poet's,—that world is his own;
Thence hath his music its truth and its tone.
He calls up the shadows of ages long fled,
And light as life lovely illumines the dead;
And the beauty of time, with wild flowers and green,
Shades and softens the world-worn, the harsh and the mean."
Vow of the Peacock, pp. 1-6.
Mary Howitt is deservedly a favourite with many, for her sweet pictures of natural objects; yet where even in her works can be found aught more exquisitely true to nature than in L. E. L.'s poem, "The Old Times"? Take one verse,—
"Ah! little recked we then of those sick fancies
 To which in after-life the spirit yields;
Our world was of the fairies and romances
 With which we wandered o'er the summer fields;
Then did we question of the downballs blowing
 To know if some slight wish would come to pass;
And if we feared a shower, we sought where growing,
 Some weather-flower, which was our weather-glass
In the old old times,
The dear old times."
These are not solitary passages; similar ones abound in her pages equally beautiful, as descriptions of the outward world, and all fraught with suggestions of truth to the inner world of the heart. We would just observe here in passing, that some of the most lovely and touching reminiscences of childhood ever written, are sufficient of themselves to prove that there is no deficiency of natural truth in the productions of this fascinating writer.
It is true that L. E. L. does not so frequently as Mrs. Hemans devote whole poems to studies from nature; her descriptive passages are rather wrought in as illustrative of subjects immediately associated with the spirit of humanity.
Hence springs up likewise the felicitous Imagery which adorns her poems. Original and varied, this imagery is always in correct taste. Here again is difficulty in selection; but we will venture to pick up a few gems while hastily passing over this rich mine of poetic thought and feeling. Like precious stones, to judges, they will attest their own value:—
"The stormy sky with its clouds,—
Like a death-black ocean, where billows lie
Dreaming dark dreams of storm in their sleep,
When the wings of the tempest shall over them sweep."
"He wished his lot
Had been cast in that humbler life
Over whose peace the hour of strife
Passes, but, like the storm at sea,
That wakes not earth's tranquillity."
"Flowers, like hopes, that spring and fade,
As only for a mockery made;
And shadows of the boughs that fall
Like sorrow drooping over all."
"There spread
A wide heath covered with thick furze, whose flowers
So bright, are like the pleasures of the world,
Beautiful in the distance; but once gained,
Little worth, piercing thro' the thorns which grow
Around them ever."   I can pass days
Stretched in the shade of those old cedar trees,
Watching the sunshine like a blessing fall,
The breeze, like music, wandering o'er the boughs;
Each tree a natural harp, each different leaf
A different note, blent in one vast thanksgiving."
Referring to a sun-dial in the garden of her childhood's home:—
"Ah! was it omen of life's after-time
That even then the hours were told in shade?"
A description of early morning :—
"The hours of the night were yet cold on the air."
We are almost ashamed of the injustice of giving so few of the metaphors which sparkle on every page; but even these will show the beauty of the imagery in itself, and also its relative value as linked with all the deep and pure sympathies of humanity.
This leads us to another characteristic of L. E. L.'s Poetry. Its frequent Philosophical spirit, both of an Intellectual and Moral nature. The first is evidenced in the Manner of treating her subjects. Many passages might be adduced which would illustrate the soundest principles of intellectual and technical criticism, and peculiarly exemplify those primary laws in the philosophy of human nature, association and generalization. In the Subjects themselves is this philosophical spirit yet more developed; especially in setting forth the powers and susceptibilities of the mind; most of all, of the Poetical mind. Passages might be selected which would form a history of a Poet’s soul, with revealings of his inner life, with manifestations of the spiritual genius that sometimes consecrates the frail shrine of human nature. Passages where the young and eager, and gifted might look on his probable future destiny, might see the vast disproportion between the fond fancies of his early dreams and the sternness of reality; might behold his lofty hopes, his noble intentions, his high aspirations glittering in the sunlight of his youthful imagination, contrasted with the shadows and darkness gathering in the distance over his exhausted energies. He might foresee the disappointments from the world's neglect or from the cold cautiousness of unappreciating friends, from the malevolence of envious foes, and, above all, from the withholden, ​draught of fame, offered at length a vain oblation upon his early grave. To such passages we can only refer as admirably illustrative of the peculiar glories and sorrows of Genius—of the dignified, yet dangerous lot of the Poet. Had we room for citation here, we would select pp. 15. 153. 162. of "The Golden Violet;" pp. 10. 12. of "The Troubadour;" pp. 55. 256. of "The Venetian Bracelet." Many passages from "The Improvvisatrice" and from "Miscellaneous Pieces," and the entire poems of "Erinna" and "The History of the Lyre."
Subjects intimately connected with Moral Philosophy have also a home in L. E. L.'s just portraitures of various characters and their appropriate conduct; in her delineations of social life; and especially in the eloquent and truthful sentiments which abound in her papers. Strange it is that an author, whose writings are replete with wisdom and with truth, illustrative of human nature, should ever be considered a frivolous, or at best a fanciful writer!*
​ At present our quotations must be few and brief; yet we trust they will be sufficient to prove the intrinsic excellence of the volumes from which they have been selected. The Pilgrim's Tale, in "The Troubadour," a record of life's experience, is too long for these pages; as also are many other passages we would fain quote. The following lines will read us a true lesson on the heartlessness and selfishness of the world:—
"We judge
Of others but by outward show, and that
Is falser than the actor's studied part.
We dress our words and looks in borrowed robes;
The mind is as the face, for who goes forth
In public walks without a veil, at least?
'Tis this constraint makes half life's misery.
'Tis a false rule, we do too much regard
Other's opinions, but neglect their feelings;
Thrice happy if such order were reversed.
Oh! why do we make sorrow for ourselves?"
And not content with the great wretchedness
Which is our native heritage,—those ills
We have no mastery over-sickness, toil,
Death, and the natural grief which comrades death;
Are not all these enough, that we must add
Mutual and moral torment, and inflict
Ingenious tortures we must first contrive?"
The following lines contain a fine burst of moral indignation against one of the greatest evils with which the spirit of man can be cursed,—the love of money. The poem itself is in the "Drawing-room Scrap Book," for 1834, and seems to have been called forth by the picture of a lonely burying-ground in India:—
"'Tis the worst curse on this our social world,
Fortune's perpetual presence; wealth which now
Is like life's paramount necessity:
For this the household band is broken up,
The hearth made desolate, and sundered hearts
Left to forget or break. For this the earth
Is covered with a thousand English graves,
By whose side none remain to weep or pray.
Alas! we do mistake, and vainly buy
Our golden idols at too great a price.
I'd rather share the lowest destiny,
That dares not look beyond the present day,
But treads on native ground, breathes native air,
Than win the wealth of worlds beyond the waves,
And pine and perish 'neath a foreign sky."
Another poem in the same spirit, yet even more touching in its associations, is "The Factory." We cannot refrain from giving one or two verses:—
"We read of Moloch's sacrifice,
 We sicken at the name,
And seem to hear the infant cries,—
 And yet we do the same;
Yea, worse,—’twas but a moment's pain
 The heathen altar gave;
But we give years—our idol, Gain,
 Demands a living grave.
How precious is the little one
 Before his mother's sight,
With bright hair dancing in the sun,
 And eyes of azure light.
"And such should childhood ever be,
 The fairy well; to bring
To life's worn, weary memory
 The freshness of its spring.
But here the order is reversed,
 And infancy, like age,
Knows of existence but its worst,
 One dull and darkened page;
Written with tears and stamped with toil,
 Crushed from the earliest hour,
Weeds darkling on the bitter soil
 That never knew a flower.
Look on yon child, it droops the head,
 Its knees are bowed with pain;
It mutters from its wretched bed,
 'Oh I let me sleep again!'
Alas! 'tis time, the mother's eyes
 Turn mournfully away;
Alas! 'tis time, the child must rise,
 And yet it is not day.
"Good God! to think upon a child
 That has no childish days,
No careless play, no frolics wild,
 No words of prayer and praise!
Man from the cradle,—’tis too soon
 To earn their daily bread,
And heap the heat and toil of noon
 Upon an infant's head.
"Oh England though thy tribute waves
 Proclaim thee great and free;
While those small children pine like slaves,
 There is a curse on thee!"
The "Spirit and the Angel of Death" is equally beautiful and impressive, and contains a lofty lesson on important subjects; but we must leave it, with many others, to those who shall search for themselves among these rich embodyings of truth and wisdom. The purest and most valuable feelings of our nature are often appealed to. The writer's address to her own dead father, at the conclusion of "The Troubadour," is exquisitely beautiful, but it should be read in its own connection with the sweet thoughts that precede its introduction. We therefore give a few ​lines from another poem, fraught with reflections most dear to the heart:—
"It is a beautiful, a bless'd belief
That the beloved dead, grown angels, watch
The dear ones left behind; and that my prayers
Are welcome to my mother's ears, as when
I knelt a lisping infant at her knee;
And that her pure and holy spirit now
Doth intercede at the eternal throne;
And thus religion, in its love and hope,
Unites us still,—the mother and her child!
"Thy childhood was thrice blessed,
Thy young mind sanctified, and after life
Made holy by the memory of the past.
I knew no mother's cares to teach my lips
Those prayers that like good angels keep the heart
From uncurb’d passions that lay waste and curse."
Ancestress.
Beautiful and graceful as are L. E. L.'s earlier poems, yet within the last four or five years her mind seems to have made an onward and widening progress; to have grown stronger beneath its own efforts, and to have added wealth, brilliant and precious, to her previous accumulations. The effect has been evinced in the increased vigor, in the higher aim, in the deeper beauty of her productions, wherein are manifested a yet more striking originality of style, a fuller earnestness of tone, a more valuable vein of truthful thought, and a more radiant glow of poetic imagery. Poems crowd upon the memory which we would fain quote in proof of these assertions. How eloquently wise, how truly patriotic are the "Birthday Verses to the Princess Victoria." The "Drawing-room Scrap Books" would of themselves afford ​a sufficient study of the great characteristics of genius in their most lovely display. The lines on some of our poets are especially deserving of notice. The poem to Wordsworth is worthy even of his own calm, lofty and truthful philosophy. The stanzas to the memory of Mrs. Hemans are, in their high souled and noble thoughts, what only a poet could have addressed to another; ay, more, in their deep yet gentle and appreciating feelings, what only a woman could or would have expressed towards a sister spirit.
How much, too, of the Poet's inner life is embodied in the stanzas on visiting Newstead Abbey.
As these poems will verify many of the previous remarks, we give them each entire.
Lines suggested on visiting Newstead Abbey.
What makes the Poet? Nothing but to feel
 More keenly than the common sense of feeling;
To have the soul attuned to the appeal
 Of the dim music thro' all nature stealing.
Ah! Poetry is like love, its own avenger,
 Sweet thoughts, fine fancies by its footsteps roam;
It wanders thro’ the world a lovely stranger,
 To find this weary world is not its home.
Cares, envyings, blame, disturb its bright dominion,
 Fretted, it labours of its own unrest;
The wounded dove folds up its drooping pinion,
 And pines and fevers on its lonely nest.
Or rather say it is the falcon, scorning
 The shaft by which he met his mortal blow;
Stately he rose to meet the golden morning,
 Ere noontide came, the gallant bird lay low.
Ah! who may know what gloomy guests unbidden,
 Await such spirits in their unstrung hours;
Thoughts by the better nature vainly chidden,
 Forcing allegiance to the darker powers.
And who may know how sad and how subdued,
 When with its own o'ertasking, faint and weary,
The mind sinks down into that gloomy mood,
 To which all future hours seem dark and dreary.
The soul is out of tune—its sweet notes scattered,
 Vexed, irritable, harsh, its power is flown;
Like some fine lute, whose higher chords are shattered,
 By forcing too much music from their tone.
But few can pity such a mood as this,
 Because they know it not,—calm is their sadness;
Tranquil their joy, they dream not how it is,
 Genius is feverish in its grief and gladness.
It has no quiet, for it could not live
 In the far sunlight of some placid ocean;
It asks the warring winds and waves that give
 Need for its strength, and life to its emotion.
And then it suffers bitterly, consuming
 With the fierce struggle which itself hath sought;
While fame, the future's mighty world illuming,
 Is never wholly by the present bought.
Fame is a noble vision, fixed for ever;
 Praise is its mockery; for one word of praise
A thousand come, of blame for each endeavour
 That turns the mind's pure light on coming days.
All daily ills beset its daily path,
 Poverty, toil, neglect, dislike, and sorrow;
The many visit it with scorn and wrath,
 Its hopes come never nearer than the morrow.
Vainly did he resist, half mirth, half rage,
 The weight with which the world on genius presses;
What bitter truths are flung upon his page,
 Truths which the lip denies, the heart confesses.
Life is a fable, with its lesson last,
 Genius too has its fable and its moral;
Of all the trees that down their shadows cast,
 Choose you a wreath from any but the laurel.
Rydal Mount, Westmoreland.
(The Residence of Wordsworth.)
The influence of a moral spell
 Is found around this scene,
Giving new shadows to the dell,
 New verdure to the green.
With every mountain-top is wrought
The presence of associate thought,
 A music that has been;
Calling that loneliness to life
With which the inward world is rife.
His home—our English Poet's home—
 Amid these hills is made;
Here with the morning hath he come,
 Here with the night delay'd.
On all things is his memory cast,
For every place wherein he past,
 Is with his mind arrayed,
That wandering in a summer bower,
Asked wisdom of the leaf and flower.
Great Poet, if I dare to throw
 My homage at thy feet;
'Tis thankfulness for hours which thou
 Hast made serene and sweet;
As wayfarers have incense thrown
Upon some mighty altar-stone,
 Unworthy, and yet meet,
The human spirit longs to prove
The truth of its uplooking love.
Until thy hand unlocked its store,
 What glorious music slept!
Music that can be hushed no more,
 Was from our knowledge kept.
But the great mother gave to thee
The poet's universal key,
 And forth the fountains swept—
A gushing melody for ever,
The witness of thy high endeavour.
Rough is the road which we are sent,
 Rough with long toil and pain;
And when upon the steep ascent,
 A little way we gain,
Vexed with our own perpetual care,
Little we heed what sweet things are
 Around our pathway blent;
With anxious steps we hurry on,
The very sense of pleasure gone,
But thou dost in this feverish dream
 Awake a better mood,
With voices from the mountain stream,
 With voices from the wood.
And with their music dost impart
Their freshness to the world-worn heart,
 Whose fever is subdued
By memories sweet with other years,
By gentle hopes and soothing tears.
A solemn creed is thine and high,
 Yet simple as a child,
Who looketh hopeful to yon sky,
 With eyes yet undefiled
By all the glitter and the glare,
This life's deceits and follies wear,
 Exalted and yet mild;
Conscious of those diviner powers,
Brought from a better world than ours.
Thou hast not chosen to rehearse
 The old heroic themes;
Thou hast not given to thy verse
 The hour's impassioned dreams.
Forth flows thy song, as waters flow,
So bright above, so calm below,
 Wherein the heaven seems
Eternal as the golden shade,
The sunshine on the stream hath laid.
The glory which thy spirit hath,
 Is round life's common things,
And flingeth round our common path,
 As from an angel's wings,
A light that is not of our sphere,
Yet lovelier for being here;
 Beneath whose presence springs
A beauty never marked before,
Yet, once known, vanishing no more.
How often, with the present sad,
 And weary with the past,
A seeming respite have we had,
 By but a chance look cast
Upon some word of thine that made
The sullenness forsake the shade,
 Till shade itself was past;
For hope divine, serene and strong,
Perpetual lives within thy song.
Eternal as the hills thy name,
 Eternal as thy strain;
So long as ministers of Fame,
 Shall Love and Hope remain.
The crowded city in its streets,
The valley in its green retreats,
 Alike thy words retain.
What need hast thou of sculptured stone?
Thy temple is thy Name alone.
Drawing-room Scrap Book, 1838.
Who but a gifted and generous-minded woman could have so touchingly and truly pourtrayed the life's history of a sister genius, as L. E. L. has done in the following beautiful lines to the justly appreciated memory of—
Felicia Hemans.
No more, no more, oh! never more returning
 Will thy beloved presence gladden earth;
No more wilt thou with sad yet anxious yearning
 Cling to those hopes which have no mortal birth.
Thou art gone from us, and with thee departed,
 How many lovely things have vanished too;
Deep thoughts that at thy will to being started,
 And feelings, teaching us our own were true.
Thou hast been round us like a viewless spirit,
 Known only by the music on the air;
The leaf or flowers which thou hast named, inherit
 A beauty known but from thy breathing there;
For thou didst on them fling thy strong emotion,
 The likeness from itself the fond heart gave;
As planets from afar look down on ocean,
 And give their own sweet image to the wave.
And thou didst bring from foreign lands their treasures;
 As floats thy various melody along,
We know the softness of Italian measures,
 And the grave cadence of Castilian song.
A general bond of union is the poet,
 By its immortal verse is language known,
And for the sake of song do others know it—
 One glorious poet makes the world his own.
And thou—how far thy gentle sway extended!
 The heart's sweet empire over land and sea;
Many a stranger and far flower was blended
 In the soft wreath that glory bound for thee.
The echoes of the Susquehanna's waters
 Paused in the pine-woods, words of thine to hear;
And to the wide Atlantic's younger daughters
 Thy name was lovely, and thy song was dear.
Was not this purchased all too dearly?—never
 Can fame atone for all that fame hath cost.
We see the goal, but know not the endeavour,
 Nor what fond hopes have on the way been lost.
What do we know of the unquiet pillow,
 By the worn cheek and tearful eyelids prest,
When thoughts chase thoughts, like the tumultuous billow,
 Whose very light and foam reveal unrest?
We say the song is sorrowful, but know not
 What may have left that sorrow on the song;
However mournful words may be, they show not
 The whole extent of wretchedness and wrong.
They cannot paint the long sad hours passed only
 In vain regrets o'er what we feel we are.
Alas! the kingdom of the lute is lonely
 Cold is the worship coming from afar.
Yet what is mind in woman but revealing
 In sweet clear light the hidden world below,
By quicker fancies and a keener feeling
 Than those around, the cold and careless know?
What is to feed such feeling, but to culture
 A soil whence pain will never more depart?
The fable of Prometheus and the Vulture
 Reveals the poet's and the woman's heart.
Unkindly are they judged, unkindly treated,
 By careless tongues and by ungenerous words;
While cruel sneer, and hard reproach repeated,
 Jar the fine music of the spirit's chords.
Wert thou not weary, thou whose soothing numbers
 Gave other lips the joy thine own had not?
Didst thou not welcome thankfully thy slumbers
 Which closed around thy mourning human lot?
What on this earth could answer thy requiring,
 For earnest faith—for love the deep and true,
The beautiful, which was thy soul's desiring,
 But only from thyself its being drew!
How is the warm and loving heart requited
 In this harsh world, where it awhile must dwell,
Its best affections wronged, betrayed and slighted—
 Such is the doom of those who love too well.
Better the weary dove should close its pinion,
 Fold up its golden wings, and be at peace,
Enter, Oh, Ladye! that serene dominion,
 Where earthly cares and earthly sorrows cease.
Fame's troubled hour has cleared, and now replying,
 A thousand hearts their music ask of thine.
Sleep with a light, the lovely and undying,
 Around thy grave—a grave which is a shrine.
Drawing-room Scrap Book, 1838.
Intellectual strength, moral truth, and classical taste are strikingly exemplified in a series of poems lately published in the New Monthly Magazine, entitled "Subjects for Pictures;" where from historical or local circumstances, in themselves beautifully described, are also deduced, by the masterly use of the philosophical principle of generalization, sentiments universally applicable in their truth to the characteristics of human nature in all ages. Perhaps ​the "Death of Camoëns" is the most interesting and beautiful of these pictures; but we quote a few lines from the subject of "Alexander on the Banks of the Hyphasis," chiefly as an instance of philosophical deduction of general inferences from individual facts. After a splendid picture of the conqueror weeping as he kept his midnight watch, the poem thus concludes:—
"In those mighty tears o'erflowing
 Found the full heart scope,
For the bitter overthrowing
 Of its noblest hope.
So will many weep again;
 Our aspirings have arisen
To another world—
 Life is but the spirit's prison,
Where its wings are furled,
 Stretching to their flight in vain,
Seeking that eternal home
Which is in a world to come.
Like earth's proudest conqueror turning
 From his proudest field,
Is the human heart still yearning
 For what it must yield
Of dreams unfulfilled, and powers.
 Like the great yet guided ocean
ls our mortal mind,
 Stirred by many a high emotion,
Yet subdued, confined.
 Such are shadows of the hours,
Glorious in the far-off gloom,
But whose altar is the tomb."
The headings of the chapters in Ethel Churchill, which, with one or two exceptions, were written expressly for that work, are gems of thought and feeling, frequently reminding us, in their richness, power and concentration, of some of the finest passages in the olden dramatists.
We give the following gently satirical lines, as ​something different from the general style of former quotations:-
"Vanity! guiding power, 'tis thine to rule
Statesman and vestryman—the knave or fool.
The Macedonian crossed Hydaspes wave,
Fierce as the storm, and gloomy as the grave.
Urged by the thought, what would Athenians say,
When next they gathered on a market-day?
And the same spirit that induced his toil,
Leads on the cook to stew, to roast, to boil:
Whether the spice be mixed, the flag unfurled,
Each deems his task the glory of the world."
Who has not experienced the truth of the following remark from the page of experience?—
"What mockeries are our most firm resolves!
To will is ours, but not to execute.
We map our future like some unknown coast,
And say, ‘There is an harbour, here a rock;
The one we will attain, the other shun;'
And we do neither. Some chance gale springs up,
And bears us far o'er some unfathomed sea.
Our efforts all are vain; at length we yield
To winds and waves that laugh at man's control."
And again:—
"Ah! there are memories that will not vanish;
Thoughts of the past we have no power to banish;
To show the heart how powerless mere will,
For we may suffer, and yet struggle still.
It is not at our choice that we forget,
That is a power no science teaches yet;
The heart may be a dark and closed-up tomb,
But memory stands a ghost amid the gloom."
The next extract embodies in few words the essence of Bishop Butler's argument for a future life:—
"If I could doubt the heaven in which I hope,
The doubt would vanish, gazing upon life,
And seeing what it needs of peace and rest;
Life is but like a journey during night.
We toil thro’ gloomy paths of the unknown;
Heavy the footsteps are with pitfalls round;
And few and faint the stars that guide our way;
But at the last comes morning; glorious
Shines forth the light of day, and so will shine
The heaven which is our future, and our home."
Many thoughts of lofty enterprise and glowing patriotism are embodied in the "Birth-day Tribute to the Princess Victoria." As this fine poem is comparatively little known, we shall quote a few verses, valuable alike for the moral feeling and patriotic interest with which they invest our Country and its Sovereign:—
"’Twas in a Woman's reign uprose
 That soul of enterprise
Which since has borne our English flag
 Thro' foreign seas and skies.
"And more than glory, or than gold,
 May British merchants say,
Look on what blessings infinite
 Have followed on our way.
To civilize and to redeem
 Has been our generous toil;
To sow the seeds of future good
 In many a thankful soil.
Where'er to dark and pagan lands
 Our path has been decreed;
Have we not brought the Christian's hope,
 The Christian's holy creed?
'Tis from a woman's glorious reign
 Our English isles may date
The honours of their after-hours,
 The triumphs of their state.
And yet how much remains to do,
 How much is left behind;
Young Daughter of a line of kings,
 Much is to thee assigned.
Great changes have been wrought since first
 The Roman legions stood
Beneath the ancient oaks that formed
 The Druid's mystic wood.
Men crowded round the victim pyre,
 In worship vile as vain;
And God's own precious gift of life
 Was flung to him again.
We were the savages, of whom
 We now can only hear;
The change has been the mighty work
 Of many a patient year.
The progress of our race is marked,
 Wherever we can turn;
No more the gloomy woods extend,
 No more the death-fires burn.
The village rises where once spread
 The inhabitable moor;
And Sabbath-bells sweep on the wind
 The music of the poor.
The sun sinks down o'er myriad spires,
 That glisten in the ray;
As almost portions of that heaven
 To which they point the way."
How eloquently does the poet speak of the monarch's responsibilities:—
"Farewell unto thy childhood and for ever;
 Youth's careless hours dwell not around a throne;
The hallowed purpose and the high endeavour,
 The onward-looking thought must be thine own
An hour of moral contest is before thee,
 Not the old combat of the shield and spear,
But to the azure heaven arching o'er thee
 Rises a nobler hope, a loftier fear.
Low in decay lies many an aged error;
 From dust of mouldering falsehood springeth truth;
The past is to the present as a mirror,
 And hope to mankind has eternal youth.
Vast is the charge entrusted by high Heaven—
 Heavy the weight upon that delicate hand;
Into thy keeping is the balance given,
 Wherein is weighed the future of our land.
From glowing Ind to Huron's waters spreading
 Extends the empire that our sword hath won;
There have our sails been, peace and knowledge spreading;
 Upon thy sceptre never sets the sun.
A nobler temple still awaits thy winning,
 ‘The mind's ethereal war' is in its birth;
The cross of Christ is on its way beginning
 Its glorious triumph o'er the darkened earth.
God's blessing be upon thee, Royal Maiden!
 And be thy throne heaven's altar here below,
With sweet thanksgivings and with honours laden,
 Of moral victories o'er want and woe."
With one short miscellaneous poem we must close. If it be a mournful one, yet how accordant with the sentiments and feelings of many a mind and heart, which will earnestly respond to its deep tones of regret.
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!
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!
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;
A still voice mutters 'mid our misery,
 The worse to bear because it must dissemble,
We might have been!
Life is made up of miserable hours,
 And all of which we crave a brief possessing,
For which we wasted wishes, hopes and powers,
 Comes with some fatal drawback on the blessing.
We might have been!
* ↑ * Ethel Churchill, vol. ii.
* ↑ * Not long since, in the course of conversation, happening to quote the lines of L. E. L., not less morally true than poetically beautiful,—   "Alas! we make A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step, But sleep ourselves at the foot;—our high resolves Look down upon our slumbering acts,"— a friend who was present (a decided enemy, by the by, to what was termed "all such poetry as Miss Landon’s"), exclaimed, "Ah! that is something like poetry; none of your modern versifiers will ever equal the olden poets; I always do so admire Young." The most effective way of silencing such cavils would be to make a collection of quotations, arranged under different heads, from L. E. L.'s works; thus might be best proved how much of thought, of correct sentiment and true feeling, these works contain.