V. Mont Blanc yet gleams on high :-the power is there, And many sounds, and much of life and death. Or the star-beams dart through them :-winds contend Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome And what wert thou, and earth, and stars, and sea, Silence and solitude were vacancy ?1 STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, I see the deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown: I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: I sit upon the sands alone, The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion. How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within, nor calm around, 1 Compare the dead philosophy of Shelley's contemplations of this scene with the religious life of those of Coleridge, p. 413. And walked with inward glory crowned— Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ;— Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Some might lament that I were cold, They might lament-for I am one Whom men love not-and yet regret,1 Unlike this day, which, when the sun Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. TO A SKY-LARK. Hail to thee, blithe spirit! In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher, From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The world has been true to this expectation of the poet, though not probably in the sense in which he meant it. These stanzas present a too true reflection of Shelley's state of mind over a great portion of his short life. The pale purple even In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud; The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. THE PLAIN OF LOMBARDY. Beneath is spread, like a green sea, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair; And before that chasm of light, As within a furnace bright, Column, tower, and dome, and spire, Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies: From the marble shrines did rise, Noon descends around me now; Or an air-dissolvéd star, Mingling light and fragrance, far Darkened this swift stream of song, By the glory of the sky; Be it love, light, harmony, Odour, or the soul of all, Which from heaven like dew doth fall, FELICIA HEMANS. (1793-1835.) FEMALE authorship in England is of comparatively modern date. After the period when the maiden queen condescended to figure as a little occidental luminary in poetry,3 a single star or two glitters in the sky of the 17th century; they begin to assemble in greater numbers in the 18th, and in the conclusion of that century and the commencement of the present, the literature of England presents the names of many females in all departments of knowledge, of pre-eminent or of respectable merit. We regret that we are 1 The zenith. 2 These lines exemplify the felt relation of Shelley's mind towards external nature, when "his spirit did not darken the stream of his verse:" they contain all things that are beautiful, but the God of nature is not there. 3 See Dyce's Specimens; Rowton's Female Poets of Great Britain; and Leigh Hunt's "Men, Women, and Books." Not even excluding pure science, witness the works of Mrs Sommerville. The tone of forced to confine our selection to the name that has been universally acknowledged to stand at the head of our English poetesses.' Mrs Hemans, originally Miss Felicia Dorothea Browne, was the daughter of a merchant, a native of Ireland, and born in Liverpool in September 1793. The failure of her father in trade caused the retirement of the family into Wales, and the childhood of the poetess was spent among the inspiring scenery of Denbighshire. From a child she was a versifier, and produced her first publication at the age of fifteen. At that of eighteen, she was married to Captain Hemans. The union was unhappy; her husband six years afterwards, for his health, went to Italy, and, without any formal deed of separation, "they never met again." Mrs Hemans continued in her Welsh seclusion, the exertions of her pen, the education of her children, and the duties of religion and benevolence, furnishing her with ample employment. She died in Dublin, during a visit to her brother, Major Browne, in 1835. Her deathbed was an affecting scene of Christian fortitude, resignation, and hope Mrs Hemans, like several modern writers, is most popular in her minor poems. Delicacy of feeling, warmth of affection and devotion, depth of sympathy with nature, and harmony and brilliancy of language, are the features of these charming little pieces. Her larger works have the same characteristics, but become languid and fatiguing from their very uniformity of sweetness. Her translations from modern languages, and her chivalric poems, exhibit great spirit and splendour of association and imagery. Over her whole poetry, in the phrase of Sir W. Scott, there is too much flower for the fruit. Her style has been peculiarly popular in America, and much of the later American poetry is moulded on it. The larger works of Mrs Hemans are "The Sceptic ;""The Vespers of Palermo" (a tragedy) ; “ The Forest Sanctuary ;""Records of Woman." The voices of my home!-I hear them still ! My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight! I hear them still, unchanged:-though some from earth Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright! Singing of boyhood back—the voices of my home! They call me through this hush of woods reposing, the literature of the females of Britain is invariab'y wholesome, and contrasts with much of that of France. It is pleasing to reflect that a great portion of the literary industry of our authoresses have been devoted to education, the most important of a mother's duties. Besides direct works on this subject, and books compiled for school purposes, the most charming tictions have been made subsidiary to the same object by Mrs Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth. &c. We mean in present popularity, for in some others of var female writers there is nerve more intellectually powerful than in Mrs Hemans. |