superstition, and all that rose, by the force of native endowments, above the general level of degradation, were more solicitous to take advantage of their condition for selfish purposes, than to enlighten the mass that heaved dimly and heavily below them!

In France, the drama remained without form and void till Corneille and Racine rose to illumine their age. Between these master spirits and the great Greeks, Sophocles and Euripides, a comparison might be instituted, by no means unapt, and followed out successfully. Sophocles was distinguished by his power-so was Corneille. Euripides melted by his pathos-so did Racine. Each saw his leading trait in his mighty prototype. Yet the shape which the drama assumed under the magical genius of even such men, was so decidedly national as to forbid any recognition of it as the drama of Greece in her glory. The French drama, it is well known, is the drama of criticism. The character of the people formed an everlasting barrier to the progress of the true dramatic spirit among them. Its fervour degenerated to coldness; impassioned action was sacrificed to the passion of etiquette; and France and her poetic champions saw nothing of the Greek drama, on the theatres, but the model. Corneille lived too late for his age; and though it was not till the noon of his fame-we think it was in Cinna-that he condescended to respect the unities, yet the great influence of the court and of popular character were at work before him, and though he might for ever have spurned or worshipped the technical rules of the art which he adorned, yet, in either case, he would have struggled unavailingly against the indomitable spirit of his time. Voltaire has somewhere said that the French were the least poetical people in the world; and offered it as a reason why no epic poem had been produced among them. It may with equal truth, perhaps, be said that legitimate pathos and a tragic sense are matters too incomprehensible with that people, ever to allow a hope for the success of genuine tragedy among them.

But it is not our object to discuss the subject of poetry under its dramatic development in France, or indeed to review its history under any presentation in that country. We are rather desirous of examining its claims to consideration in instances of commanding popularity in our own language, and of contemporaneous celebrity; contenting ourselves with the above cursory observations, which were naturally suggested from a glance at the art, as it exhibited itself in the different periods and lands to which we have adverted in our progress from the past to the present.

It may be thought that we have too long neglected the writer and works, to which reference is had at the head of this article;

and we accordingly proceed to some remarks of a more particular bearing.

We have no hesitation in placing Mrs. Hemans in the highest rank of those who profess her beautiful art. Her productions have been long before the public; and it is not by any means our intention, at this time, to go into a grave review of her works, for they have been subjected to the full ordeal of criticism; but to refer to them more particularly in connection with the sentiments we entertain relating to the drama, and as exemplifying any notions we may hold upon the general subject of poetry. Still we cannot let this lady pass without offering here something of our testimony.

For a considerable period she appeared only through the medium of periodicals; and that, oftentimes, under a disguise, which, though it could not screen her from regard among the numberless masks that are accustomed to figure in those literary drawing-rooms, somewhat retarded the unequivocal and general tribute of admiration that is now rendered to her on both sides of the Atlantic. Her verse, it seems to us, is distinguished by those properties which we have mentioned as characteristic of the true poetry of our time; of that poetry, moreover, which the age appears to demand; and we know not that we could point to a higher sample of that pure and powerful writing which we hold to be the most captivating species in this department of literature. Endowed with a vivid imagination, she has a ready faculty of investing with a rich and harmonious colouring every object in nature or art, of mind or matter, upon which she exercises the spell of her fancy. She grasps the prominent points of her subject with a bold hand; and, under the rapid and beautiful analysis of genius, unfolds its various combinations, that rise like lights upon her march of inspiration. She delights in the simple but energetic emotions; in the deep but strong movements of pure hearts and great spirits; in the joy of happy memories, and the contemplation of high and invigorating realities. Her visions are generally distinct, and the picture which she draws in her glowing but delicate colours, is one that attracts us from the magic by which it brings back some of the dearest dreams of our other years, and some of the holiest feelings which we have been accustomed to cherish. Her pathos and strength are uncommon, and her taste, on almost all occasions, faultless. She rather prefers, in bold, vigorous outline, to bare the soul in some one absorbing excitement, to indulging in refined speculations upon its nature, its mysterious movements, its subtle affections. She avoids swelling into bombast, or sinking into the commonplace of mere sentiment. depicts strongly, but with truth. Her pathos is not the pathos of a heart surrendered to its desolate feelings, but of one still

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VOL. XXI.-NO. 4

With

left to the persuasion and guidance of its better ones.
many, nothing constitutes this quality, but a sort of restless,
talkative, and consequential melancholy. With others, the
colouring of the picture must be of that mellow, tearful cha-
racter which the mere gazing at makes us sad. Now, true
pathos is something far better and greater than this; something
distinct and deterniined; our feelings are awakened under it,
as under the fine flow of music, swelling on us like an organ at
that low chant in which we can hear our hearts throb to the
intonations. This is the effect of true genius. It is the true
melancholy. There is another that is easily inspired. It is
drawn from common objects by common powers. But it
requires more than common powers to stir the fathomless places
of our nature, until they heave in sympathetic commotion with
the spirit that rules them, even as deep answers unto deep.
To return. Our writer is not apt to forget the majesty of her
art. She presents us a fine statue in the full grace of its propor-
tions; but she remembers the drapery, and arranges it with the
ease and taste of one whose genius is true to its work. Her
fervour is that of a mind impressed with the importance of
things higher and better than those of earth; and it ever
burns upward, like the flame from the holy altar. It comes to
sanctify the kindest and best of the affections, and delights in
the grand and deep revelations of those principles that honour
and elevate man. Her strength lies mainly in an excellent
fitness of language to express the lofty and brilliant conceptions
with which her imagination seems to abound. It is the com-
bined strength of words and thoughts. Her simplicity is not
that of a person striving to be simple. It is not the simplicity
of Wordsworth. It is not the simplicity of a heart unacquainted
with the world and its trials. It is the expressive singleness of
a mind accustomed to linger with the grandeur and power of
the natural and intellectual worlds, and using its experience of
the sorrows that lie beneath them, to regulate its emotions, or to
"point the moral" it would enforce. It is to the exhibition of
this delicate endowment to an unusual degree, that one great
charm of her poetry is to be attributed. It influences her, not
only in the choice of thought, but in the choice of language-
in the happy perception of which, as appropriate to sentiment,
we may observe, lies the grand secret of much, very much, that
is graceful and admirable in poetry. It is a commanding
quality; and, we apprehend, not fully appreciated. It is the
only redeeming quality of that work which is exceptionable in
its spirit, and the beauty and enchantment of that which is
honourable to the artist. It is next to genius; and, on every
occasion, its most effective minister. In short, it is in compo-
VOL. XXI.-No. 42.
36

sition what conscience is in morals-keeping the writer ever within the bounds of propriety, or at least of good taste; and operating as a continual rebuke whenever he is inclined to swerve from purity and harmony of expression. It was a taste in execution, rarely at fault, that gave to Byron much of his superiority in the higher strains of his verse; and it is no less the ruling spirit of Mrs. Hemans, in her extremest abandonment to the stormy passions she sometimes chooses to portray. She seems to be governed by a sense of purity throughout-imparting to the most rigorous portraits of her fancy a chasteness equal to their power.

Classical ornament still holds its place as an important property of poetical composition. Antiquity has long afforded a principal fountain whence poetry draws many of her choicest associations, and much of that material with which she illustrates and adorns her conceptions. This is a familiar truth. But though such embellishment, under the direction of a good taste, undoubtedly has its value, at the present day we are disposed to believe that it does not retain its early importance as a literary ingredient. We are not aware that the writer of whom we are speaking was ever, by any means, wanting in classical resources; but it is evident that her poetry does not recommend itself, eminently, by classical allusion. It has-we say it freely-something of a nature full as valuable, and full as commanding, to bring it home to the bosom of the enthusiast― and why not of the scholar?-even its favourite and frequent allusions to those animating everlasting principles that actuate us in the sublimest and best of causes, and its intimacy with the fadeless features of nature in her alternate moods of loveliness and magnificence.

That the sphere of tragedy should be admirably suited to the high conceptions and vigorous versification of Mrs. Hemans, is readily presumed. It was a natural anticipation. Nor have we been disappointed in the result. With the exception of some of those short pieces that are so eminently beautiful and spirited, the Siege of Valencia and the Vespers of Palermo stand unrivalled among her productions. They must also rank, we think, among the best portions of English literature in this department. Meanwhile the minor poems, to which we have just adverted, will be considered, we suspect, as betraying all the prominent properties, powers and graces that distinguish her works. Such detached portions of inspiration-full, as they sometimes are, of exquisite beauty, it is ever pleasant to dwell upon, when one is content to turn to them even from the most diffusive productions of the writer. It is like passing from a wide field, waving, indeed, in the luxury of bloom, and where a thousand sweets are scattered on the atmosphere, to the garden

where the perfume is concentrated, and where nothing but odour is breathed.

On the whole, view her in whatever light we may, as a poetical writer, we hold Mrs. Hemans to be second to none of her contemporaries. Her lyrical genius has proved itself of high order, and it must be admitted that her enthusiasm was ever regulated by a moral sense, that operates, eminently and ever, with all the influence of a governing principle. It may be observed that she never allows that enthusiasm to compromise the melody of her verse. Hence she is rarely abruptand on few occasions, save in the necessary breaks of the dialogue, meets us with those chromatics of poetry, in which some writers are apt to indulge, and which, fantastic as they are, are frequently cited as indications of genius. Still there is such a thing as an extreme in harmony. We like not this continuous music; and, though it may deliver itself in rich and lofty chords, it is kept up at the hazard of monotony. Even Milton or Ossian will not answer by the hour or the quantity. We would have Scylla and Charybdis equally avoided by the writer. It should be remembered-unfortunate fact or notthat the human heart is apt to tire of the same bright waters, flowing to the same dream-inspiring cadences. We weary of the garden of flowers and perfume, and pant to spring forth upon the hills, to the greeting of the rude healthy winds of heaven. The writer under our notice allows not her imagination to carry us thither at a bound. We must be led forththrough a pleasant pathway, it is certain, but still at a measured step to the music of her own heart, which she cannot escape from, but which she forgets that we can dispense with.

We repeat, then, that we consider her poetry as well exemplifying what we believe to be the best properties of this material, and well adapted for the delight and instruction of the age. The chasteness and unity of its fervour are calculated to do good continually. It is the spirit of her muse that we honour; and we always conceived, that, with such a spirit to animate her, she was on her successful way to the best eminence to which she or her art could attain.

It is no part of our intention to illustrate the sentiments or doctrines we have advanced upon the subject of poetry; or to prove their soundness by a series of extracts from the writer whose name we have set at the commencement of our article. We deem a resort to this exhibition of specimens needless, while the works of the author afford them so freely to the most casual reader. Besides this indisposition to bear about the brick in our palm, we would observe-though, in doing it, we repeat what we suggested in a previous paragraph-that a review of the works of Mrs. Hemans was not so much our