V.

CONTINUATION OF ORESTES’ SOLILOQUY.

Hark! in the trembling leaves Mysterious whispers: hark! a rushing sound Sweeps through yon twilight depth!--e’en now they come, They throng to greet their guest! And who are they Rejoicing each with each in stately joy, As a king’s children gather’d for the hour Of some high festival! Exultingly, And kindred-like, and godlike, on they pass-- The glorious, wandering shapes! aged and young, Proud men and royal women! Lo! my race-- My sire’s ancestral race!

RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.

[These sonnets, written in the months of April, May, and June, were intended, together with the Records of the Autumn of 1834, to form a continuation of the series entitled “Sonnets, Devotional and Memorial.”]

A VERNAL THOUGHT.

O festal Spring! midst thy victorious glow, Far-spreading o’er the kindled woods and plains, And streams, that bound to meet thee from their chains, Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe For human hearts, and in the exulting flow Of thy rich songs a melancholy tone, Were we of mould all earthly--_we_ alone, Sever’d from thy great spell, and doom’d to go Farther, still farther, from our sunny time, Never to feel the breathings of our prime, Never to flower again! But we, O Spring! Cheer’d by deep spirit-whispers not of earth, Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth, As here thy flowers and birds press on to bloom and sing.

TO THE SKY.

Far from the rustlings of the poplar-bough, Which o’er my opening life wild music made, Far from the green hills with their heathery glow And flashing streams whereby my childhood play’d; In the dim city, midst the sounding flow Of restless life, to thee in love I turn O thou rich Sky! and from thy splendours learn How song-birds come and part, flowers wane and blow. With thee all shapes of glory find their home, And thou hast taught me well, majestic dome! By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rove Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest, That Nature’s God hath left _no_ spot unbless’d With founts of beauty for the eye of love.

ON RECORDS OF IMMATURE GENIUS.[432]

Oh! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those Who, richly dower’d for life, are call’d to die Ere the soul’s flame, through storms, hath won repose In truth’s divinest ether, still and high! Let their mind’s riches claim a trustful sigh! Deem them but sad, sweet fragments of a strain, First notes of some yet struggling harmony, By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain Of many inspirations met, and held From its true sphere,--oh! soon it might have swell’d Majestically forth! Nor doubt that He, Whose touch mysterious may on earth dissolve Those links of music, elsewhere will evolve Their grand consummate hymn, from passion-gusts made free!

[432] Written after reading some of the earlier poems of the late Mrs Tighe, which had been lent her in manuscript.

ON WATCHING THE FLIGHT OF A SKYLARK.

Upward and upward still!--in pearly light The clouds are steep’d! the vernal spirit sighs With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies Woo thee, O bird! to thy celestial height. Bird, piercing heaven with music! thy free flight Hath meaning for all bosoms; most of all For those wherein the rapture and the might Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn, For their high place. O heirs of genius! learn From the sky’s bird your way! No joy may fill Your hearts, no gift of holy strength be won To bless your songs, ye children of the sun! Save by the unswerving flight, upward and upward still!

A THOUGHT OF THE SEA.

My earliest memories to thy shores are bound, Thy solemn shores, thou ever-chanting main! The first rich sunsets, kindling thought profound In my lone being, made thy restless plain As the vast, shining floor of some dread fane, All paved with glass and fire. Yet, O blue deep! Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep, Never to thee did love with silvery chain Draw my soul’s dream, which through all nature sought What waves deny,--some bower of _steadfast_ bliss, A _home_ to twine with fancy, feeling, thought, As with sweet flowers. But chasten’d hope for this Now turns from earth’s green valleys, as from thee, To that sole changeless world, where “there is no more sea.”[433]

[433] [The sight and sound of the sea were always connected in her mind with melancholy associations; with

“Doubt, and something dark. Of the old sea some reverential fear;”

with images of storm and desolation, of shipwreck and sea-burial: the last, indeed, was so often present to her imagination, and has so frequently been introduced into her poetry, that any one inclined to superstitious presentiments might almost have been disposed to fancy it a foreshadowing of some such dark fate in store either for herself or for some one dear to her. These associations, like those awakened by the wind, were perfectly distinct from any thing of personal timidity, and were the more indefinable, as she had never suffered any calamity at all connected with the sea: none of those she loved had been consigned to its reckless waters, nor had she ever seen it in all its terrors, for the coast on which her early years were passed is by no means a rugged or dangerous one, and is seldom visited by disaster.

“Are all these notes in thee, wild wind! these many notes in thee? Far in our own unfathom’d souls their fount must surely be; Yes! buried, but unsleeping there, thought watches, memory lies, From whose deep urn the tones are poured through all earth’s harmonies.”

In one of her later sonnets on this subject, a chord is struck which may perhaps find an echo in other bosoms:--

----“Yet, O blue deep!” etc.

The same feeling is expressed in one of her letters:--“Did you ever observe how strangely sounds and images of waters--rushing torrents, and troubled ocean-waves, are mingled with the visionary distresses of dreams and delirium? To me there is no more perfect emblem of peace than that expressed by the Scriptural phrase, ‘There shall be no more sea.’”

How forcible is the contrast between the essential womanliness of these associations, so full of “the still, sad music of humanity,” and the “stern delight” with which Lord Byron, in his magnificent apostrophe to the Sea, exults in its ministry of wrath, and recounts, as with a fierce joy, its dealings with its victim, man!

----“The vile strength he wields For earth’s destruction, thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray, And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth--there let them lay.” Childe Harold.]

DISTANT SOUND OF THE SEA AT EVENING.

Yet, rolling far up some green mountain-dale, Oft let me hear, as ofttimes I have heard, Thy swell, thou deep! when evening calls the bird And bee to rest; when summer-tints grow pale, Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil; And peasant-steps are hastening to repose, And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower-cups close To the last whisper of the falling gale. Then midst the dying of all other sound, When the soul hears thy distant voice profound, Lone worshipping, and knows that through the night ’Twill worship still, then most its anthem-tone Speaks to our being of the Eternal One, Who girds tired nature with unslumbering might.

THE RIVER CLWYD IN NORTH WALES.

O Cambrian river! with slow music gliding By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin’d towers; Now midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding, Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of flowers; Long flow’d the current of my life’s clear hours Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my dream, Tho’ time and change, and other mightier powers, Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, smooth stream! Art winding still thy sunny meads along, Murmuring to cottage and gray hall thy song, Low, sweet, unchanged. _My_ being’s tide hath pass’d Through rocks and storms; yet will I not complain, If, thus wrought free and pure from earthly stain, Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep at last.

ORCHARD-BLOSSOMS.

Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight Of orchard-blooms upon the mossy bough? Doth their sweet household-smile waft back the glow Of childhood’s morn--the wondering, fresh delight In earth’s new colouring, then all strangely bright, A joy of fairyland? Doth some old nook, Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book, Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak’d blossoms white Shower’d o’er the turf, and the lone primrose-knot, And robin’s nest, still faithful to the spot, And the bee’s dreary chime? O gentle friend! The world’s cold breath, not _Time’s_, this life bereaves Of vernal gifts: time hallows what he leaves, And will for us endear spring-memories to the end. 8th May.

TO A DISTANT SCENE.

Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, O far-off, grassy dell?--and dost thou see, When southern winds first wake their vernal singing, The star-gleam of the wood anemone? Doth the shy ringdove haunt thee yet? the bee Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell To their wild blooms? and, round my beechen tree, Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell? Oh, strange illusion! by the fond heart wrought, Whose own warm life suffuses nature’s face! _My_ being’s tide of many-colour’d thought Hath pass’d from thee; and now, rich, leafy place! I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene, Silent, forsaken, dim, shadow’d by what hath been.

A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE.[434]

O vale and lake, within your mountain-urn Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep! Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return, Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep With light Elysian; for the hues that steep Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote, Isles of the blest; and in our memory keep Their place with holiest harmonies. Fair scene, Most loved by evening and her dewy star! Oh! ne’er may man, with touch unhallow’d, jar The perfect music of thy charm serene! Still, still unchanged, may _one_ sweet region wear Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayer.

[434] It would have been very dear to her, could she have foreseen the delicate and appropriate commemoration awarded to her by Mr Wordsworth, in the elegiac stanzas which record the high names of some of his most distinguished contemporaries, (Scott, Coleridge, Lamb, Crabbe, and Hogg,) summoned in quick succession “to the land whence none return:”--

“Mourn rather for that holy spirit, Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep, For her who, ere her summer faded, Has sunk into a breathless sleep.”

THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES.

Trees, gracious trees!--how rich a gift ye are, Crown of the earth! to human hearts and eyes! How doth the thought of home, in lands afar, Link’d with your forms and kindly whisperings rise! How the whole picture of a childhood lies Oft midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep! Till, gazing through them up the summer skies, As hush’d we stand, a breeze perchance may creep, And old, sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world Where memory coils--and lo! at once unfurl’d, The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight Spreads clear; while, gushing from their long-seal’d urn, Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers return, And a lost mother’s eye gives back its holy light.

THE SAME.

And ye are strong to shelter!--all meek things, All that need home and covert, love your shade! Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs, And nun-like violets, by the winds betray’d. Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath play’d With his first primrose-wreath: there love hath sought A veiling gloom for his unutter’d thought; And silent grief, of day’s keen glare afraid, A refuge for her tears; and ofttimes there Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer, A native temple, solemn, hush’d, and dim; For wheresoe’er your murmuring tremours thrill The woody twilight, there man’s heart hath still Confess’d a spirit’s breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn.

ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN CHILDHOOD.

O gentle story of the Indian isle! I loved thee in my lonely childhood well On the sea-shore, when day’s last, purple smile Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell And dying cadence lent a deeper spell Unto thine ocean-pictures. Midst thy palms And strange bright birds, my fancy joy’d to dwell, And watch the southern cross through midnight calms, And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless’d Thy vision of sweet love--kind, trustful, true, Lighting the citron groves, a heavenly guest, With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew. Even then my young heart wept o’er this world’s power To reach with blight that holiest Eden-flower.

A THOUGHT AT SUNSET.

Still that last look is solemn! though thy rays, O sun! to-morrow will give back, we know, The joy to nature’s heart. Yet through the glow Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze Tracks thee with love half-fearful: and in days When earth too much adored thee, what a swell Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays, Told how the dying bade thy light farewell, O sun of Greece! O glorious, festal sun! Lost, lost!--for them thy golden hours were done, And darkness lay before them! Happier far Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchain’d, Not thus for thy last parting unsustain’d-- Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star.

IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE.

Calm scenes of patriarch life! how long a power Your unworn pastoral images retain O’er the true heart, which in its childhood’s hour Drank their pure freshness deep! The camels’ train Winding in patience o’er the desert plain-- The tent, the palm-tree, the reposing flock, The gleaming fount, the shadow of the rock-- Oh! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain, And in the influence of its touch how bless’d, Are these things link’d, in many a thoughtful breast, To household-memories, thro’ all change endear’d! --The matin bird, the ripple of a stream Beside our native porch, the hearth-light’s gleam, The voices, earliest by the soul revered!

ATTRACTION OF THE EAST.

What secret current of man’s nature turns Unto the golden East with ceaseless flow? Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns, The pilgrim-spirit would adore and glow; Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint, and slow, Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind, Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know Where pass’d the shepherd-fathers of mankind. Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far Still points to where our alienated home Lay in bright peace? O thou true Eastern star! Saviour! atoning Lord! where’er we roam, Draw still our hearts to thee, else, else how vain Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain!

TO AN AGED FRIEND.[435]

Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard, Servant of God!--thy day is almost done; The charm now lingering in thy look and word Is that which hangs about thy setting sun-- That which the meekness of decay hath won Still from revering love. Yet doth the sense Of life immortal--progress but begun-- Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence, That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline; And the loved flowers which round thee smile farewell Of more than vernal glory seem to tell, By thy pure spirit touch’d with light divine; While we, to whom its parting gleams are given, Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven.

[435] The sonnet “To an aged Friend,” first published in Mrs Hemans’s _Poetical Remains_, was addressed to Dr Perceval of Dublin. The sonnet “To the Datura Arborea,” in the same volume, was written after seeing a superb specimen of that striking plant in Dr Perceval’s beautiful greenhouse at Annefield.

Dr Perceval died 3d March 1839, equally respected for his talents and virtues.

A HAPPY HOUR.

[“The ‘Thoughts’ were published in the _New Monthly Magazine_ for March 1835. They are intensely individual. One of them, on Retzsch’s design of the Angel of Death, was suggested by an impressive description in Mrs Jameson’s ‘Visits and Sketches.’ In another, she speculates earnestly and reverently upon the direction of the flight of the spirit when the soul and body shall part; in others again, she recurs tenderly to the haunts and pleasures of childhood, which had of late been present to her memory with more than usual force and freshness. To these the following sonnet refers, dated 21st May 1834, which, as far as I am aware, has not hitherto been published.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 339-40.]

Oh! what a joy to feel that, in my breast, The founts of childhood’s vernal fancies lay Still pure, though heavily and long repress’d By early-blighted leaves, which o’er their way Dark summer-storms had heaped. But free, glad play Once more was given them: to the sunshine’s glow, And the sweet wood-song’s penetrating flow, And to the wandering primrose-breath of May, And the rich hawthorn-odours, forth they sprung. Oh! not less freshly bright, that now a thought Of spiritual presence o’er them hung, And of immortal life! a germ, unwrought In childhood’s soul to power--now strong, serene, And full of love and light, colouring the whole blest scene.

FOLIAGE.

Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive The joy of verdure! See! the honey’d lime Showers cool green light o’er banks where wild-flowers weave Thick tapestry, and woodbine-tendrils climb Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme. The rich deep masses of the sycamore Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime; And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar, Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each gale That sweeps the boughs: the chestnut-flowers are past, The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail, But arches of sweet eglantine are cast From every hedge. Oh! never may we lose, Dear friend! our fresh delight in simplest nature’s hues!

2d June.

A PRAYER.

Father in heaven! from whom the simplest flower, On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown, Draws not sweet odour or young life alone, But the deep virtue of an inborn power, To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour With thoughts of Thee--to strengthen, to infuse Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues That speak thy presence! oh, with such a dower Grace thou my song!--the precious gift bestow From thy pure Spirit’s treasury divine, To wake one tear of purifying flow, To soften one wrung heart for thee and thine; So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain Be as the meek wild-flower’s--if transient, yet not vain.

PRAYER CONTINUED.

“What in me is dark, Illumine; what is low, raise and support.”--Milton. Far are the wings of intellect astray That strive not, Father! to thy heavenly seat; They rove, but mount not, and the tempests beat Still on their plumes. O Source of mental day! Chase from before my spirit’s track the array Of mists and shadows, raised by earthly care, In troubled hosts that cross the purer air, And veil the opening of the starry way, Which brightens on to thee! Oh, guide thou right My thought’s weak pinion; clear my inward sight, The eternal springs of beauty to discern, Welling beside thy throne; unseal mine ear, Nature’s true oracles in joy to hear; Keep my soul wakeful still to listen and to learn.

MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION.

Yes! all things tell us of a birthright lost-- A brightness from our nature pass’d away! Wanderers we seem that from an alien coast Would turn to where their Father’s mansion lay; And but by some lone flower, that midst decay Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone, Revealing dimly, with gray moss o’ergrown, The faint, worn impress of its glory’s day, Can trace their once-free heritage, though dreams, Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams Flash o’er their souls. But One, oh! _One_ alone, For us the ruin’d fabric may rebuild, And bid the wilderness again be fill’d With Eden-flowers--One mighty to atone!

27th June.[436]

[436] [For this corrected chronology of these sonnets, we are indebted to the Rev. R. P. Graves, Bowness; as also for some improved readings, and the MS. of “A Happy Hour.”]

RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.

THE RETURN TO POETRY.

Once more the eternal melodies from far Woo me like songs of home: once more discerning, Through fitful clouds, the pure majestic star Above the poet’s world serenely burning, Thither my soul, fresh-wing’d by love, is turning, As o’er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest, For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning, Whence glorious minds o’erlook this earth’s unrest. Now be the Spirit of heaven’s truth my guide Through the bright land!--that no brief gladness, found In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound, May lure my footsteps from their aim aside: Their true, high quest--to seek, if ne’er to gain, The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain.

9th September.

TO SILVIO PELLICO, ON READING HIS “PRIGIONE.”

There are who climb the mountain’s heathery side, Or, in life’s vernal strength triumphant, urge The bark’s fleet rushing through the crested surge, Or spur the courser’s fiery race of pride Over the green savannahs, gleaming wide By some vast lake; yet thus, on foaming sea, Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free Than _thou_, in that lone dungeon, glorified By thy brave suffering. Thou from its dark cell Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude, Filling the dedicated solitude With God; and where _His_ Spirit deigns to dwell, Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie, There throned in _peace_ divine is liberty!

TO THE SAME, RELEASED.[437]

How flows thy being now?--like some glad hymn One strain of solemn rapture?--doth thine eye Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim O’er the crown’d Alps, that, midst the upper sky, Sleep in the sunlight of thine Italy? Or is thy gaze of reverent love profound Unto these dear, parental faces bound, Which, with their silvery hair, so oft glanced by, Haunting thy prison-dreams? Where’er thou art, Blessings be shed upon thine inmost heart! Joy, from kind looks, blue skies, and flowery sod, For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God!

[437] In reference to these two sonnets, Mrs Hemans thus remarks in a letter to a friend;--“I wrote them only a few days ago (almost the first awakening of my spirit, indeed, after a long silence and darkness,) upon reading that delightful book of Pellico’s,[438] which I borrowed in consequence of what you had told me of it. I know not when I have read any thing which has so deeply impressed me: the gradual brightening of heart and soul into ‘the perfect day’ of Christian excellence through all those fiery trials, presents, I think, one of the most touching, as well as instructing pictures ever contemplated. How beautiful is the scene between him and Oroboni, in which they mutually engage to shrink not from the avowal of their faith, should they ever return into the world! But I could say so much on this subject, which has quite taken hold of my thoughts, that it would lead me to fill up my whole letter.”

In another letter she spoke further of this book, as a “work with which I have been both impressed and delighted, and one which I strongly recommend you to procure. It is the _Prigioni_ of Silvio Pellico, a distinguished young Italian poet, who incurred the suspicions of the Austrian government, and was condemned to the penalty of the _carcere duro_ during ten years, of which this most interesting work contains the narrative. It is deeply affecting, from the heart-springing eloquence with which he details his varied sufferings. What forms, however, the great charm of the work, is the gradual and almost unconsciously-revealed exaltation of the sufferer’s character, spiritualised through suffering, into the purest Christian excellence. It is beautiful to see the lessons of trust in God, and love to mankind, brought out more and more into shining light from the depth of the dungeon-gloom; and all this crowned at last by the release of the noble, all-forgiving captive, and his restoration to his aged father and mother, whose venerable faces seem perpetually to have haunted the solitude of his cell. The book is written in the most classic Italian, and will, I am sure, be one to afford you lasting delight.”

[438] “Le mie Prigioni.”

ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE.[439]

’Twas a bright moment of my life when first, O thou pure stream through rocky portals flowing! That temple-chamber of thy glory burst On my glad sight! Thy pebbly couch lay glowing With deep mosaic hues; and, richly throwing O’er thy cliff-walls a tinge of autumn’s vest, High bloom’d the heath-flowers, and the wild wood’s crest Was touch’d with gold. Flow ever thus, bestowing Gifts of delight, sweet stream! on all who move Gently along thy shores; and oh! if love-- True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow fraught-- Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to thee, _Then_ full of kindness let thy music be, Singing repose to every troubled thought!

[439] A beautiful valley in the county of Wicklow.

ON THE DATURA ARBOREA.

Majestic plant! such fairy dreams as lie, Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip’s bell, Are not _thy_ train. Those flowers of vase-like swell, Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill’d from high, And in their monumental purity Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw Visions link’d strangely with that silent awe Which broods o’er sculpture’s works. A meet ally For those heroic forms, the simply grand Art thou: and worthy, carved by plastic hand, Above some kingly poet’s tomb to shine In spotless marble; honouring one whose strain Soar’d, upon wings of thought that knew no stain, Free through the starry heavens of truth divine.

ON READING COLERIDGE’S EPITAPH,

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.

“Stop, Christian passer-by! stop, child of God! And read with gentle breast:--Beneath this sod A Poet lies, or that which once seem’d he: Oh! lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.! That he, who once in vain, with toil of breath, Found death in life, may here find life in death: Mercy, for praise--to be forgiven, for fame-- He ask’d and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same.”

Spirit! so oft in radiant freedom soaring High through seraphic mysteries unconfined, And oft, a diver through the deep of mind, Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring; And oft such strains of breezy music pouring, As, with the floating sweetness of their sighs, Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring Awhile that freshness left in Paradise; Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal? What the rich fruitage to man’s kindred soul From wealth of thine bequeathed? O strong and high, And sceptred intellect! thy goal confess’d Was the Redeemer’s Cross--thy last bequest _One_ lesson breathing thence profound humility!

DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE.

They float before my soul, the fair designs Which I would body forth to life and power, Like clouds, that with their wavering hues and lines Portray majestic buildings:--dome and tower, Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the shower Points to th’ unchanging stars; and high arcade, Far-sweeping to some glorious altar, made For holiest rites. Meanwhile the waning hour Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o’erwrought, I sink. O friend! O link’d with each high thought! Aid me, of those rich visions to detain All I may grasp; until thou see’st fulfill’d, While time and strength allow, my hope to build For lowly hearts devout, but _one_ enduring fane!

18th October.

HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH NATURE.

If e’er again my spirit be allow’d Converse with Nature in her chambers deep, Where lone, and mantled with the rolling cloud, She broods o’er new-born waters, as they leap In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep From caves of mystery;--if I roam once more Where dark pines quiver to the torrent’s roar, And voiceful oaks respond;--may I not reap A more ennobling joy, a loftier power, Than e’er was shed on life’s more vernal hour From such communion? Yes! I then shall know That not in vain have sorrow, love, and thought Their long, still work of preparation wrought, For that more perfect sense of God reveal’d below.

DREAMS OF THE DEAD.

Oft in still night-dreams a departed face Bends o’er me with sweet earnestness of eye, Wearing no more of earthly pains a trace, But all the tender pity that may lie On the clear brow of Immortality, Calm, yet profound. Soft rays illume that mien; Th’ unshadow’d moonlight of some far-off sky Around it floats transparently serene As a pure veil of waters. O rich Sleep! The spells are mighty in thy regions deep, To glorify with reconciling breath, Effacing, brightening, giving forth to shine Beauty’s high truth; and how much more divine Thy power when link’d, in this, with thy strong brother--Death!

THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS.

Nobly thy song, O minstrel! rush’d to meet Th’ Eternal on the pathway of the blast, With darkness round him as a mantle cast, And cherubim to waft his flying seat. Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet, With trumpet-voice thy spirit call’d aloud, And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat, And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud. But far more gloriously to earth made known By that high strain, than by the thunder’s tone, The flashing torrents, or the ocean’s roll, Jehovah spake, through thee imbreathing fire, Nature’s vast realms for ever to inspire With the deep worship of a living soul.

DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION.

“Par correr miglior acqua alza le vele, Omai la navicella del mio Intelletto.”--Dante.

My soul was mantled with dark shadows, born Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain; Its phantoms hung around the star of morn, A cloud-like, weeping train: Thro’ the long day they dimm’d the autumn gold On all the glistening leaves, and wildly roll’d, When the last farewell flush of light was glowing Across the sunset sky, O’er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing One melancholy dye.

And when the solemn night Came rushing with her might Of stormy oracles from caves unknown, Then with each fitful blast Prophetic murmurs pass’d, Wakening or answering some deep Sybil-tone Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise With every gusty wail that o’er the wind-harp flies.

“Fold, fold thy wings,” they cried, “and strive no more-- Faint spirit! strive no more: for thee too strong Are outward ill and wrong, And inward wasting fires! Thou canst not soar Free on a starry way, Beyond their blighting sway, At heaven’s high gate serenely to adore! How shouldst _thou_ hope earth’s fetters to unbind! O passionate, yet weak! O trembler to the wind!

“Never shall aught but broken music flow From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe-- Such homeless notes as through the forest sigh, From the reeds’ hollow shaken, When sudden breezes waken Their vague, wild symphony. No power is theirs, and no abiding-place In human hearts; their sweetness leaves no trace-- Born only so to die!

“Never shall aught but perfume, faint and vain, On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour, From thy bruised life again A moment’s essence breathe; Thy life, whose trampled flower Into the blessed wreath Of household-charities no longer bound, Lies pale and withering on the barren ground.

“So fade, fade on! Thy gift of love shall cling A coiling sadness round thy heart and brain-- A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing, All sensitive to pain! And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall O’er thy mind’s world, a daily darkening pall. Fold, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued In cold and unrepining quietude!”

Then my soul yielded: spells of numbing breath Crept o’er it heavy with a dew of death-- Its powers, like leaves before the night-rain, closing; And, as by conflict of wild sea-waves toss’d On the chill bosom of some desert coast, Mutely and hopelessly I lay reposing.

When silently it seem’d As if a soft mist gleam’d Before my passive sight, and, slowly curling, To many a shape and hue Of vision’d beauty grew, Like a wrought banner, fold by fold unfurling. Oh! the rich scenes that o’er mine inward eye Unrolling then swept by With dreamy motion! Silvery seas were there, Lit by large dazzling stars, and arch’d by skies Of southern midnight’s most transparent dyes; And gemm’d with many an island, wildly fair, Which floated past me into orient day, Still gathering lustre on th’ illumin’d way, Till its high groves of wondrous flowering-trees Colour’d the silvery seas.

And then a glorious mountain-chain uprose, Height above spiry height! A soaring solitude of woods and snows, All steep’d in golden light! While as it pass’d, those regal peaks unveiling, I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings, And mighty sounds, as if the vision hailing, From lyres that quiver’d through ten thousand strings-- Or as if waters, forth to music leaping From many a cave, the Alpine Echo’s hall, On their bold way victoriously were sweeping, Link’d in majestic anthems!--while through all That billowy swell and fall, Voices, like ringing crystal, fill’d the air With inarticulate melody, that stirr’d My being’s core; then, moulding into word Their piercing sweetness, bade me rise, and bear In that great choral strain my trembling part, Of tones by love and faith struck from a human heart.

Return no more, vain bodings of the night! A happier oracle within my soul Hath swell’d to power; a clear, unwavering light Mounts through the battling clouds that round me roll; And to a new control Nature’s full harp gives forth rejoicing tones, Wherein my glad sense owns The accordant rush of elemental sound To one consummate harmony profound-- One grand Creation-Hymn, Whose notes the seraphim Lift to the glorious height of music wing’d and crown’d.

Shall not those notes find echoes in my lyre, Faithful though faint? Shall not my spirit’s fire, If slowly, yet unswervingly, ascend Now to its fount and end? Shall not my earthly love, all purified, Shine forth a heavenward guide, An angel of bright power--and strongly bear My being upward into holier air, Where fiery passion-clouds have no abode, And the sky’s temple-arch o’erflows with God?

The radiant hope new-born Expands like rising morn In my life’s life: and as a ripening rose The crimson shadow of its glory throws More vivid, hour by hour, on some pure stream; So from that hope are spreading Rich hues, o’er nature shedding Each day a clearer, spiritual gleam.

Let not those rays fade from me!--once enjoy’d, Father of Spirits! let them not depart-- Leaving the chill’d earth, without form and void, Darken’d by mine own heart! Lift, aid, sustain me! Thou, by whom alone All lovely gifts and pure In the soul’s grasp endure; Thou, to the steps of whose eternal throne All knowledge flows--a sea for evermore Breaking its crested waves on that sole shore-- Oh, consecrate my life! that I may sing Of thee with joy that hath a living spring, In a full heart of music! Let my lays Through the resounding mountains waft thy praise, And with that theme the wood’s green cloisters fill. And make their quivering, leafy dimness thrill To the rich breeze of song! Oh! let me wake The deep religion, which hath dwelt from yore Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake, And wildest river-shore! And let me summon all the voices dwelling Where eagles build, and cavern’d rills are welling, And where the cataract’s organ-peal is swelling, In that one spirit gather’d to adore!

Forgive, O Father! if presumptuous thought Too daringly in aspiration rise! Let not thy child all vainly have been taught By weakness, and by wanderings, and by sighs Of sad confession! Lowly be my heart, And on its penitential altar spread The offerings worthless, till thy grace impart The fire from heaven, whose touch alone can shed Life, radiance, virtue!--let that vital spark Pierce my whole being, wilder’d else and dark!

Thine are all holy things--oh, make _me_ thine! So shall I, too, be pure--a living shrine Unto that Spirit which goes forth from thee, Strong and divinely free, Bearing thy gifts of wisdom on its flight, And brooding o’er them with a dove-like wing, Till thought, word, song, to thee in worship spring, Immortally endow’d for liberty and light.

[This exquisite poem was composed during the Author’s last illness; and the following account of her situation at the time, from the pen of her sister, cannot fail to be read with a deep and painful interest. It is another forcible, visible illustration of “the ruling passion strong in death.” Happy, as in her case, when the direction of the mind is towards all that is high, pure, and excellent!

“A shuddering thrill pervaded her whole frame, and she felt, as she often afterwards declared, a presentiment that from that moment her hours were numbered. The same evening she was attacked by a fit of ague; and this insidious and harassing complaint continued its visitations for several weeks, reducing her poor, wasted form to the most lamentable state of debility, and at length retiring only to make way for a train of symptoms still more fatal and distressing. Yet, while the work of decay was going on thus surely and progressively upon the earthly tabernacle, the bright flame within continued to burn with a pure and holy light, and, at times, even to flash forth with more than wonted brightness. The lyric of ‘Despondency and Aspiration,’ which may be considered as her noblest and highest effort, and in which, from a feeling that it might be her last work, she felt anxious to concentrate all her powers, was written during the few intervals accorded her from acute suffering or powerless languor. And in the same circumstances she wrote, or rather dictated, the series of sonnets called _Thoughts during Sickness_, which present so interesting a picture of the calm, submissive tone of her mind, whether engaged in tender remembrances of the past, or in solemn and reverential speculations on the future. The one entitled ‘Sickness like Night’ discloses a view, no less affecting than consolatory, of the sweet and blessed peace which hovered round the couch where

‘Mutely and hopelessly she lay reposing.’

“The last sonnet of the series, entitled ‘Recovery,’ was written under temporary appearances of convalescence, which proved as fugitive as they were fallacious.”

THE HUGUENOT’S FAREWELL.

I stand upon the threshold stone Of mine ancestral hall; I hear my native river moan; I see the night o’er my old forests fall.

I look round on the darkening vale That saw my childhood’s plays; The low wind in its rising wail Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days.

But I must rule my swelling breast: A sign is in the sky! Bright o’er yon gray rock’s eagle-nest Shines forth a warning star--it bids me fly.

My father’s sword is in my hand, His deep voice haunts mine ear; He tells me of the noble band Whose lives have left a brooding glory here.

He bids their offspring guard from stain Their pure and lofty faith; And yield up all things, to maintain The cause for which they girt themselves to death.

And I obey. I leave their towers Unto the stranger’s tread, Unto the creeping grass and flowers, Unto the fading pictures of the dead.

I leave their shields to slow decay, Their banners to the dust: I go, and only bear away Their old majestic name--a solemn trust!

I go up to the ancient hills. Where chains may never be, Where leap in joy the torrent-rills, Where man may worship God, alone and free.

There shall an altar and a camp Impregnably arise; There shall be lit a quenchless lamp, To shine, unwavering, through the open skies.

And song shall midst the rocks be heard, And fearless prayer ascend; While, thrilling to God’s holy word, The mountain-pines in adoration bend.

And there the burning heart no more Its deep thought shall suppress, But the long-buried truth shall pour Free currents thence, amidst the wilderness.

Then fare thee well, my mother’s bower! Farewell, my father’s hearth!-- Perish my home! where lawless power Hath rent the tie of love to native earth.

Perish! let deathlike silence fall Upon the lone abode; Spread fast, dark ivy! spread thy pall;-- I go up to the mountains with my God.

ANTIQUE GREEK LAMENT.[440]

By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

I pine for thee through all the joyless day-- Through the long night I pine: the golden sun Looks dim since thou hast left me, and the spring Seems but to weep. Where art thou, my beloved? Night after night, in fond hope vigilant, By the old temple on the breezy cliff, These hands have heap’d the watch-fire, till it stream’d Red o’er the shining columns--darkly red Along the crested billows!--but in vain: Thy white sail comes not from the distant isles-- Yet thou wert faithful ever. Oh! the deep Hath shut above thy head--that graceful head; The sea-weed mingles with thy clustering locks; The white sail never will bring back the loved!

By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

Where art thou?--where? Had I but lingering press’d On thy cold lips the last long kiss--but smooth’d The parted ringlets of thy shining hair With love’s fond touch, my heart’s cry had been still’d Into a voiceless grief: I would have strew’d With all the pale flowers of the vernal woods-- White violets, and the mournful hyacinth, And frail anemone, thy marble brow, In slumber beautiful! I would have heap’d Sweet boughs and precious odours on thy pyre, And with mine own shorn tresses hung thine urn, And many a garland of the pallid rose: But thou liest far away! No funeral chant, Save the wild moaning of the wave, is thine: No pyre--save, haply, some long-buried wreck; Thou that wert fairest--thou that wert most loved!

By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

Come, in the dreamy shadow of the night, And speak to me! E’en though thy voice be changed, My heart would know it still. Oh, speak to me! And say if yet, in some dim, far-off world, Which knows not how the festal sunshine burns, If yet, in some pale mead of asphodel, We two shall meet again! Oh, I would quit The day rejoicingly--the rosy light-- All the rich flowers and fountains musical, And sweet, familiar melodies of earth, To dwell with thee below! Thou answerest not! The powers whom I have call’d upon are mute: The voices buried in old whispery caves, And by lone river-sources, and amidst The gloom and mystery of dark prophet-oaks, The wood-gods’ haunt--they give me no reply! All silent--heaven and earth! For evermore From the deserted mountains thou art gone-- For ever from the melancholy groves, Whose laurels wail thee with a shivering sound! And I--I pine through all the joyous day, Through the long night I pine--as fondly pines The night’s own bird, dissolving her lorn life To song in moonlight woods. Thou hear’st me not! The heavens are pitiless of human tears: The deep sea-darkness is about thy head; The white sail never will bring back the loved!

By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

[440] The original title given to this poem was The Lament of Alcyone, which was altered to its present one, on the suggestion of a friend. It was written in November 1834.

THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS.

INTELLECTUAL POWERS.

O Thought! O Memory! gems for ever heaping High in the illumined chambers of the mind-- And thou, divine Imagination! keeping Thy lamp’s lone star mid shadowy hosts enshrined; How in one moment rent and disentwined, At Fever’s fiery touch, apart they fall, Your glorious combinations! broken all, As the sand-pillars by the desert’s wind Scatter’d to whirling dust! Oh, soon uncrown’d! Well may your parting swift, your strange return, Subdue the soul to lowliness profound, Guiding its chasten’d vision to discern How by meek Faith heaven’s portals must be pass’d, Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast.

SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT.

Thou art like Night, O Sickness! deeply stilling Within my heart the world’s disturbing sound, And the dim quiet of my chamber filling With low, sweet voices by Life’s tumult drown’d. Thou art like awful Night! thou gatherest round The things that are unseen--though close they lie; And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound, Giv’st their dread presence to our mental eye. Thou art like starry, spiritual Night! High and immortal thoughts attend thy way, And revelations, which the common light Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray All outward life:--Be welcome, then, thy rod, Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God.

ON RETZSCH’S DESIGN OF THE ANGEL OF DEATH.[441]

Well might thine awful image thus arise With that high calm upon thy regal brow, And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes, Unto the glorious artist! Who but thou The fleeting forms of beauty can endow For him with permanence? who make those gleams Of brighter life, that colour his lone dreams, Immortal things? Let others _trembling_ bow, Angel of Death! before thee;--not to those Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose, Art thou a fearful shape! And oh! for me, How full of welcome would thine aspect shine, Did not the cords of strong affection twine So fast around my soul, it _cannot_ spring to thee!

[441] This sonnet was suggested by the following passage out of Mrs Jameson’s _Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad_, in a description she gives of a visit paid to the artist Retzsch, near Dresden:--“Afterwards he placed upon his easel a wondrous face which made me shrink back--not with terror, for it was perfectly beautiful,--but with awe, for it was unspeakably fearful: the hair streamed back from the pale brow--the orbs of sight appeared at first two dark, hollow, unfathomable spaces, like those in a skull; but when I drew nearer and looked attentively, two lovely living eyes looked at me again out of the depth of the shadow, as if from the bottom of an abyss. The mouth was divinely sweet, but sad, and the softest repose rested on every feature. This, he told me, was the Angel of Death.”

REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE.

O Nature! thou didst rear me for thine own, With thy free singing-birds and mountain-brooks; Feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted nooks, With fairy fantasies and wood-dreams lone; And thou didst teach me every wandering tone Drawn from thy many-whispering trees and waves, And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves, And where bright mosses wove thee a rich throne Midst the green hills: and now that, far estranged From all sweet sounds and odours of thy breath, Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged, So glows the love of thee, that not for death Seems that pure passion’s fervour--but ordain’d To meet on brighter shores thy majesty unstain’d.

FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT.

Whither, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way? What solemn region first upon thy sight Shall break, unveil’d for terror or delight? What hosts, magnificent in dread array, My spirit! when thy prison-house of clay, After long strife is rent? Fond, fruitless quest! The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest, Sees but a few green branches o’er him play, And through their parting leaves, by fits reveal’d, A glimpse of summer sky; nor knows the field Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried. Thou art that bird!--of what beyond thee lies Far in the untrack’d, immeasurable skies, Knowing but this--that thou shalt find thy Guide?

FLOWERS.

Welcome, O pure and lovely forms! again Unto the shadowy stillness of my room! For not alone ye bring a joyous train Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom-- Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom, Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells, Of stars that look down on your folded bells Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove Like sudden music: more than this ye bring-- Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing Broods o’er the sufferer drawing fever’d breath, Whether the couch be that of life or death.

RECOVERY.[442]

Back, then, once more to breast the waves of life, To battle on against the unceasing spray, To sink o’erwearied in the stormy strife, And rise to strive again; yet on my way, Oh! linger still, thou light of better day! Born in the hours of loneliness: and you, Ye childlike thoughts! the holy and the true-- Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay, The faith, the insight of life’s vernal morn Back on my soul, a clear, bright sense, new-born, Now leave me not! but as, profoundly pure, A blue stream rushes through a darker lake Unchanged, e’en thus with me your journey take, Wafting sweet airs of heaven thro’ this low world obscure.

[442] Written under the false impression occasioned by a temporary improvement in strength.

SABBATH SONNET.[443]

COMPOSED BY MRS HEMANS A FEW DAYS BEFORE HER DEATH, AND DICTATED TO HER BROTHER.

How many blessed groups this hour are bending, Thro’ England’s primrose meadow-paths, their way Towards spire and tower, midst shadowy elms ascending, Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow’d day! The halls from old heroic ages gray Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow, Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways--to the feverish bed Of sickness bound; yet, O my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath-peace hath fill’d My chasten’d heart, and all its throbbings still’d To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness!

26th April 1835.

[443] After the exhausting vicissitudes of days when it seemed that the night of death was indeed at hand--of nights when it was thought that she could never see the light of morning--wonderful even to those who had witnessed, throughout her illness, the clearness and brightness of the never-dying principle, amidst the desolation and decay of its earthly companion, was the consecrated power and facility with which, on Sunday, the 26th of April, she dictated to her brother the “Sabbath Sonnet,” the last strain of the “sweet singer,” whose harp was henceforth to be hung upon the willows.

Amongst the many tributes of interest and admiration elicited by a poem, so remarkable to all readers--so precious to many hearts--the following expressions, contained in a letter from the late venerable Bishop of Salisbury to Mrs Joanna Baillie, and already published by the latter, are too pleasingly applicable not to be inserted here. “There is something peculiarly touching in the time, the subject, and the occasion of this deathbed sonnet, and in the affecting contrast between the ‘blessed groups’ she describes, and her own (humanly speaking) helpless state of sickness; and that again contrasted with the hopeful state of mind with which the sonnet concludes, expressive both of the quiet comforts of a Christian Sabbath, and the blessed fruits of profitable application. Her ‘Sweet Chimes’ on ‘Sabbath-peace,’ appear to me very characteristic of the writer.”--_Memoir_, p. 311-12.

APPENDIX

CRITICISMS ON MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

DELTA.

“We cannot allow these verses[444] to adorn, with a sad beauty, the pages of this Magazine--more especially as they are the last composed by their distinguished writer, and that only a few days before her death--without at least a passing tribute of regret for an event which has cast a shadow of gloom through the sunshiny fields of contemporary literature. But two months ago, the beautiful lyric entitled ‘Despondency and Aspiration,’ appeared in these pages, and now the sweet fountain of music from which that prophetic strain gushed has ceased to flow. The highly gifted and accomplished, the patient, the meek, and long-suffering Felicia Hemans, is no more. She died on the night of Saturday, the 16th of May 1835, at Dublin, and met her fate with all the calm resignation of a Christian, conscious that her spirit was winging its flight to another and a better world, where ‘the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.’

“Without disparagement of the living, we scarcely hesitate to say, that in Mrs Hemans our female literature has lost perhaps its brightest ornament. To Joanna Baillie she might be inferior, not only in vigour of conception, but in the power of metaphysically analysing those sentiments and feelings which constitute the basis of human

## actions,--to Mrs Jameson in the critical perception which, from

detached fragments of spoken thought, can discriminate the links which bind all into a distinctive character,--to Miss Landon in eloquent facility,--to Caroline Bowles in simple pathos,--and to Mary Mitford in power of thought; but as a female writer, influencing the female mind, she has undoubtedly stood, for some bypast years, the very first in the first rank; and this pre-eminence has been acknowledged, not only in her own land, but wherever the English tongue is spoken, whether on the banks of the eastern Ganges or the western Mississippi. Her path was her own; and shoals of imitators have arisen, alike at home and on the other side of the Atlantic, who, destitute of her animating genius, have mimicked her themes, and parodied her sentiments and language, without being able to reach its height. In her poetry, religious truth and intellectual beauty meet together; and assuredly it is not the less calculated to refine the taste and exalt the imagination, because it addresses itself almost exclusively to the better feelings of our nature alone. Over all her pictures of humanity are spread the glory and the grace reflected from purity of morals, delicacy of perception and conception, sublimity of religious faith, and warmth of patriotism; and, turning from the dark and degraded, whether in subject or sentiment, she seeks out those verdant oases in the desert of human life on which the affections may most pleasantly rest. Her poetry is intensely and entirely feminine--and, in our estimation, this is the highest praise which could be awarded it,--it could have been written by a woman only; for although, in the ‘Records’ of her sex, we have the female character delineated in all the varied phases of baffled passion and of ill-requited affection; of heroical self-denial, and of withering hope deferred; of devotedness tried in the furnace of affliction, and of

‘Gentle feelings long subdued, Subdued and cherish’d long;’

yet its energy resembles that of the dove, ‘pecking the hand that hovers o’er its mate,’ and its exaltation of thought is not of the daring kind, which doubts and derides, or even questions, but which clings to the anchor of hope, and looks forward with faith and reverential fear.

“Mrs Hemans has written much, and, as with all authors in like predicament, her strains are of various degrees of excellence. Independently of this, her different works will be differently estimated, as to their relative value, by different minds; but among the lyrics of the English language which can scarcely die, we hesitate not to assign places to ‘The Hebrew Mother’--‘The Treasures of the Deep’--‘The Spirit’s Return’--‘The Homes of England’--‘The Better Land’--‘The Hour of Death’--‘The Trumpet’--and ‘The Graves of a Household.’ In these ‘gems of purest ray serene,’ the peculiar genius of Mrs Hemans breathes, and burns, and shines pre-eminent; for her forte lay in depicting whatever tends to beautify and embellish domestic life--the gentle overflowings of love and friendship--‘homebred delights and heartfelt happiness’--the associations of local attachment--and the influences of religious feelings over the soul, whether arising from the varied circumstances and situations of man, or from the aspects of external nature. We would only here add, by way of remark, that the writings of Mrs Hemans seem to divide themselves into two pretty distinct portions--the first comprehending her ‘Modern Greece,’ ‘Wallace,’ ‘Dartmoor,’ ‘Sceptic,’ ‘Historic Scenes,’ and other productions, up to the publication of ‘The Forest Sanctuary;’ and the latter comprehending that volume, ‘The Records of Woman,’ ‘The Scenes and Hymns of Life,’ and all her subsequent productions. In her earlier works, she follows the classic model, as contradistinguished from the romantic, and they are inferior in that polish of style, and almost gorgeous richness of language, in which her maturer compositions are set. It is evident that new stores of thought were latterly opened up to her, in a more extended acquaintance with the literature of Spain and Germany, as well as by a profounder study of the writings of our great poetical regenerator--Wordsworth.”--_Blackwood’s Magazine, July 1835._

[444] “Sabbath Sonnet.”

MISS LANDON.

“Did we not know this world to be but a place of trial--our bitter probation for another and for a better--how strange in its severity would seem the lot of genius in a woman! The keen feeling--the generous enthusiasm--the lofty aspiration and the delicate perception--are given but to make the possessor unfitted for her actual position. It is well!--such gifts, in their very contrast to the selfishness and the evil with which they are surrounded, inform us of another world--they breathe of their home, which is heaven; the spiritual and the inspired in this life but fit us to believe in that which is to come. With what a sublime faith is this divine reliance expressed in all Mrs Hemans’s later writings! As the clouds towards nightfall melt away on a fine summer evening into the clear amber of the west, leaving a soft and unbroken azure whereon the stars may shine; so the troubles of life, its vain regrets and vainer desires, vanished before the calm close of existence--the hopes of heaven rose steadfast at last--the light shone from the windows of her home, as she approached unto it.

‘No tears for thee!--though light be from us gone With thy soul’s radiance, bright and restless one! No tears for thee! They that have loved an exile must not mourn To see him parting for his native bourne, O’er the dark sea.’

“We have noticed this yearning for affection--unsatisfied, but still unsubdued--as one characteristic of Mrs Hemans’s poetry: the rich picturesque was another. Highly accomplished, the varied stores that she possessed were all subservient to one master science. Mistress both of German and Spanish, the latter country appears to have peculiarly captivated her imagination. At that period when the fancy is peculiarly alive to impression--when girlhood is so new, that the eagerness of childhood is still in its delights--Spain was, of all others, the country on which public attention was fixed--victory after victory carried the British flag from the ocean to the Pyrenees; but, with that craving for the ideal which is so great a feature in her writings, the present was insufficient, and she went back upon the past;--the romantic history of the Moors was like a storehouse, with treasures gorgeous like those of its own Alhambra.

“It is observable in her minor poems, that they turn upon an incident rather than a feeling. Feelings, true and deep, are developed; but one single emotion is never the original subject. Some graceful or touching anecdote or situation catches her attention, and its poetry is developed in a strain of mourning melody, and in a vein of gentle moralising. I always wish, in reading my favourite poets, to know what first suggested my favourite poems. Few things would be more interesting than to know under what circumstances they were composed--how much of individual sentiment there was in each, or how, on some incident seemingly even opposed, they had contrived to ingraft their own associations. What a history of the heart would such annals reveal! Every poem is in itself an impulse.

“Besides the ideal and the picturesque, Mrs Hemans is distinguished by her harmony. I use the word harmony advisedly, in contradistinction to melody. Melody implies something more careless, more simple, than belongs to her style; it is song by snatches; our English ballads are remarkable for it. To quote an instance or two: there is a verse in that of _Yarrow Water_--

‘O wind that wandereth from the south! Seek where my love repaireth, And blow a kiss to his dear mouth. And tell me how he fareth.’

Nothing can exceed the tender sweetness of these lines; but there is no skill. Again, in _Faire Rosamonde_, the verse that describes the cruelty of Eleanor--

‘With that she struck her on the mouth, So dyed double red; Hard was the heart that gave the blow, Soft were the lips that bled.’

How musical is the alliteration! but it is music which, like that of the singing brook, has sprung up of itself. Now, Mrs Hemans has the most perfect skill in her science; nothing can be more polished than her versification. Every poem is like a piece of music, with its eloquent pauses, its rich combinations, and its swelling chords. Who that has ever heard, can forget the exquisite flow of ‘The Voice of Spring?’--

‘I come! I come!--ye have call’d me long: I come o’er the mountains with light and song! Ye may trace my step o’er the wakening earth, By the winds that tell of the violet’s birth, By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass.’

It is like the finest order of Italian singing--pure, high, and scientific.

“I can never sufficiently regret that it was not my good fortune to know Mrs Hemans personally: it was an honour I should have estimated so highly--a happiness that I should have enjoyed so keenly. I never even met with an acquaintance of hers but once; that once, however, was much. I knew Miss Jewsbury, the late lamented Mrs Fletcher. She delighted in speaking of Mrs Hemans; she spoke of her with the appreciation of one fine mind comprehending another, and with the earnest affection of a woman and a friend. She described her conversation as singularly fascinating--full of poetry, very felicitous in illustration by anecdote--happy, too, in quotation, and very rich in imagery; ‘in short, her own poem on “The Treasures of the Deep” would best describe it.’ She mentioned a very striking simile to which a conversation on Mrs Hemans’s own poem of ‘The Sceptic’ had led;--‘Like Sinbad the sailor, we are often shipwrecked on a strange shore. We despair; but hope comes when least expected. We pass through the gloomy caverns of doubt into the free air and blessed sunshine of conviction and belief.’ I asked her if she thought Mrs Hemans a happy person, and she said, ‘No; her enjoyment is feverish, and she desponds. She is like a lamp whose oil is consumed by the very light which it yields.’ What a cruel thing is the weakness of memory! How little can its utmost efforts recall of conversation that was once an instruction and a delight!

“To the three characteristics of Mrs Hemans’ poetry which have already been mentioned--viz. the ideal, the picturesque, and the harmonious--a fourth must be added,--the moral. Nothing can be more pure, more feminine and exalted, than the spirit which pervades the whole; it is the intuitive sense of right, elevated and strengthened into a principle. It is a glorious and a beautiful memory to bequeath; but she who left it is little to be envied. Open the volumes which she has left, legacies from many various hours, and what a record of wasted feelings and disappointed hopes may be traced in their sad and sweet complainings! Yet Mrs Hemans was spared some of the keenest mortifications of a literary career. She knew nothing of it as a profession which has to make its way through poverty, neglect, and obstacles: she lived apart in a small, affectionate circle of friends. The high-road of life, with its crowds and contention--its heat, its noise, and its dust that rests on all--was for her happily at a distance; yet even in such green nest, the bird could not fold its wings, and sleep to its own music. There came the aspiring, the unrest, the aching sense of being misunderstood, the consciousness that those a thousand times inferior were yet more beloved. Genius places a woman in an unnatural position; notoriety frightens away affection; and superiority has for its attendant fear, not love. Its pleasantest emotions are too vivid to be lasting: hope may sometimes,

‘Raising its bright face, With a free gush of sunny tears, erase The characters of anguish:’

but, like the azure glimpses between thunder-showers, the clouds gather more darkly around for the passing sunshine. The heart sinks back on its solitary desolation. In every page of Mrs Hemans’ writings is this sentiment impressed. What is the conclusion of ‘Corinne crowned at the Capitol?’

‘Radiant daughter of the sun! Now thy living wreath is won. Crown’d of Rome!--oh, art thou not Happy in that glorious lot? Happier, happier far than thou With the laurel on thy brow, She that makes the humblest hearth Lovely but to one on earth.’

“What is poetry, and what is a poetical career? The first is to have an organisation of extreme sensibility, which the second exposes bareheaded to the rudest weather. The original impulse is irresistible--all professions are engrossing when once begun; and,

## acting with perpetual stimulus, nothing takes more complete possession

of its follower than literature. But never can success repay its cost. The work appears--it lives in the light of popular applause; but truly might the writer exclaim,--

‘It is my youth--it is my bloom--it is my glad free heart I cast away for thee--for thee--ill-fated as thou art.’

If this be true even of one sex, how much more true of the other! Ah! Fame to a woman is indeed but a royal mourning in purple for happiness.”--_New Monthly Magazine_ for August 1835.

H. F. CHORLEY.

“Though respect for the memory of the dead, and delicacy towards the living, enjoin us to be brief in alluding to the events of her life, we may speak freely, and at length, of the history of her mind, and the circumstances of her literary career, in the course of which she deserved and acquired a European reputation as the first of our poetesses living, and still before the public. Few have written so much, or written so well, as Mrs Hemans; few have entwined the genuine fresh thoughts and impressions of their own minds so intimately, with their poetical fancies, as she did; few have undergone more arduous and reverential preparation for the service of song--for, from childhood, her thirst for knowledge was extreme, and her reading great and varied. Those who, while admitting the high-toned beauty of her poetry, accused it of monotony of style and subject, (they could not deny to it the praise of originality, seeing that it founded a school of imitators in England, and a yet larger in America,) little knew to what historical research she had applied herself--how far and wide she had sought for food with which to fill her eager mind. It is true that she used only a part of the mass of information which she had collected--(for she never wrote on calculation, but from the strong impulse of the moment; and it was her nature intimately to take home to herself, and appropriate only what was high-hearted, imaginative, and refined;)--but the writer of this notice has seen manuscript collections of extracts made in the course of these youthful studies, sufficient of themselves to justify his assertion, if her poems (like those of every genuine poet) did not contain a still better record of the progress of her mind. Her knowledge of classic literature may be distinctly traced in her ‘Sceptic,’ her ‘Modern Greece,’ and a hundred later lyrics based upon what Bulwer so happily calls ‘the Graceful Superstition.’ Her study and admiration of the works of ancient Greek and Roman art, strengthened into an abiding love of the beautiful, which breathes both in the sentiment and in the structure of every line she wrote, (for there are few of our poets more faultlessly musical in their versification;) and when, subsequently, she opened for herself the treasuries of Spanish and German legend and literature, how thoroughly she had imbued herself with their spirit may be seen in her ‘Siege of Valencia,’ in her glorious and chivalresque ‘Songs of the Cid,’ and in her ‘Lays of Many Lands,’ the idea of which was suggested by Herder’s ‘Stimmen der Völker in Liedern.’

“But though her mind was enriched by her wide acquaintance with the poetical and historical literature of other countries, it possessed a strong and decidedly marked character of its own, which coloured all her productions--a character which, though any thing but feeble or sentimental, was essentially feminine. An eloquent modern critic (Mrs Jameson) has rightly said, ‘that Mrs Hemans’ poems could not have been written by a man;’ their love is without selfishness, their passion without a stain of this world’s coarseness, their high heroism (and to illustrate this assertion we would mention ‘Clotilda,’ ‘the Lady of Provence,’ and the ‘Switzer’s Wife,’) unsullied by any grosser alloy of mean ambition. Her religion, too, is essentially womanly--fervent, clinging to belief, and ‘hoping on, hoping ever,’ in spite of the peculiar trials appointed to her sex, so exquisitely described in the ‘Evening Prayer in a Girls’ School’--

‘Silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering’s hour, And sumless riches from affection’s deep! To pour on broken reeds--a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship.’

“If such was the _mind_ of her works, the manner in which she wrought out her conceptions was equally individual and excellent. Her imagination was rich, chaste, and glowing: those who saw only its published fruits little guessed at the extent of its variety.

“It is difficult to enumerate the titles of her principal works. Her first childish efforts were published when she was only thirteen, and we can speak of her subsequent poems, ‘Wallace,’ ‘Dartmoor,’ ‘The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,’ and her ‘Dramatic Scenes,’ only from memory. These were probably written in the happiest period of her life, when her mind was rapidly developing itself, and its progress was aided by judicious and intelligent counsellors, among whom may be mentioned Bishop Heber. A favourable notice of one of these poems will be found in Lord Byron’s letters; and the fame of her opening talent had reached Shelley, who addressed a very singular correspondence to her. With respect to the world in general, her name began to be known by the publication of her ‘Welsh Melodies,’ her ‘Siege of Valencia,’ and the scattered lyrics which appeared in the _New Monthly Magazine_, then under the direction of Campbell. She had previously contributed a series of prose papers, on Foreign Literature, to _Constable’s Edinburgh Magazine_, which, with little exception, are the only specimens of that style of writing ever attempted by her. To the ‘Siege of Valencia’ succeeded rapidly her ‘Forest Sanctuary,’ her ‘Records of Woman,’ (the most successful of her works,) her ‘Songs of the Affections,’ (containing, perhaps, her finest poem, ‘The Spirit’s Return,’) her ‘National Lyrics and Songs for Music,’ (most of which have been set to music by her sister, and become popular,) and her ‘Scenes and Hymns of Life.’ A few words with respect to the direction of her powers in later days may be worthily extracted from a letter of hers which lies now before us. She had been urged by a friend to undertake a prose work, and a series of ‘Artistic Novels,’ something after the manner of Tieck, and Goethe’s Kunst-Romanen, as likely to be congenial to her own tastes and habits of mind, and to prove most acceptable to the public.

“‘I have now,’ she says, ‘passed through the feverish and somewhat _visionary_ state of mind often connected with the passionate study of art in early life; deep affections and deep sorrows seem to have solemnised my whole being, and I now feel as if bound to higher and holier tasks, which, though I may occasionally lay aside, I could not long wander from without some sense of dereliction. I hope it is no self-delusion, but I cannot help sometimes feeling as if it were my true task to enlarge the sphere of sacred poetry, and extend its influence. When you receive my volume of ‘Scenes and Hymns,’ you will see what I mean by enlarging its sphere, though my plan as yet is very imperfectly developed.’

“Besides the works here enumerated, we should mention her tragedy, ‘The Vespers of Palermo,’ which, though containing many fine thoughts and magnificent bursts of poetry, was hardly fitted for the stage, and the songs which she contributed to Colonel Hodges’ ‘Peninsular Melodies;’ and we cannot but once more call the attention of our readers to her last lyric, ‘Despondency and Aspiration,’ published in _Blackwood’s Magazine_ for May 1835. It is the song of the swan--its sweetest and its last!”[445]--_Athenæum_, No. 395.

* * * * *

“An elaborate summary of the principal features of Mrs Hemans’ character, or of the general and individual merits of her poems, can hardly be necessary, if the foregoing memorials have fulfilled the design of their editor. The woman and the poetess were in her too inseparably united to admit of their being considered apart from each other. In her private letters, as in her published works, she shows herself high-minded, affectionate, grateful--wayward in her self-neglect, delicate to fastidiousness in her tastes--in her religion fervent without intolerance--eager to acquire knowledge, as eager to impart it to others--earnestly devoted to her art, and in that art to the service of all things beautiful, and noble, and holy. She may have fallen short of some of her predecessors in vigour of mind--of some of her contemporaries in variety of fancy; but she surpassed them all in the use of language, in the employment of a rich, chaste, and glowing imagery, and in the perfect music of her versification. It will be long before the chasm left in our female literature by her death will be worthily filled: she will be long remembered--long spoken of by those who know her works--yet longer by those who knew herself,--

‘Kindly and gently, but as of one For whom ’tis well to be fled and gone-- As of a bird from a chain unbound, As of the wanderer whose home is found, So let it be!’”

_Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 354-6.

[445] It has already been shown that this was not the case.

ECLECTIC REVIEW.

“Mrs Hemans, if not in all respects the most gifted of the female writers who form so bright a constellation in the sphere of our contemporary literature, surpassed them all in those attributes of genius which characterise the lyric poets. Without possessing the dramatic conception of Joanna Baillie or Mary Mitford--the masculine vigour and depth of thought displayed by the late Mrs Fletcher, (better known as Miss Jewsbury,) or the fertile imagination of others of our delightful female prose writers--she outshone them all in her peculiar orbit; and though she wrote too much, and often too carelessly, to sustain, in all her compositions, the high standard of poetic excellence to which she often attained, her best productions, in her own rich and peculiar vein, rival those of the mightiest masters of English song; while their exquisitely feminine character justify the remark, that ‘the poetry of Mrs Hemans could have been written only by a woman.’”--_E. R._, 1836.

PROFESSOR NORTON.

“We have now received the last of the imperishable gifts of Mrs Hemans’ genius. The period of her spirit’s trials and sufferings, and its glorious course on earth, has been completed. She has left an unclouded fame; and we may say, in her own words:--

‘No tears for thee!--though light be from us gone With thy soul’s radiance:... No tears for thee! They that have loved an exile must not mourn To see him parting for his native bourne O’er the dark sea.’

“As this, therefore, will be the last time that we shall review any production of Mrs Hemans, we may be permitted to recall, with a melancholy pleasure, the admiration and delight with which we have followed the progress of her genius. The feelings with which her works are now generally regarded have been expressed in no publication earlier, more frequently, or more warmly, than in our own. Without repeating what we have already said, we shall now endeavour to point out some of their features, considered in relation to that moral culture in which alone such writings can exist.

“Mrs Hemans may be considered as the representative of a new school of poetry, or, to speak more precisely, her poetry discovers characteristics of the highest kind, which belong almost exclusively to that of later times, and have been the result of the gradual advancement, and especially the moral progress, of mankind. It is only when man, under the influence of true religion, feels himself connected with whatever is infinite, that his affections and powers are fully developed. The poetry of an immortal being must be of a different character from that of an earthly being. But, in recurring to the classic poets of antiquity, we find that, in their conceptions, the element of religious faith was wanting. Their mythology was to them no object of sober belief; and, had it been so, was adapted not to produce but to annihilate devotion. They had no thought of regarding the universe as created, animated, and ruled by God’s all-powerful and omniscient goodness. To them it was a world of matter,--

‘The fair humanities of old religion, The power, the beauty, and the majesty That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain, Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, Or chasms and watery depths,’

never existed except in the imagination of modern poets. The beings intended were the ‘fair humanities’ of Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_, whose attributes, derived from the baser parts of our nature, were human passions lawlessly indulged, accompanied with more than mortal power. Gibbon, who was any thing rather than what he affected to be--a philosopher--speaks of ‘the elegant mythology of the Greeks.’ The great fountains of their popular and poetical mythology were Homer and Hesiod. Hesiod does not surpass Homer in the agreeable or moral character of his fictions; and, as regards the elegance of the mythology found in the great epic poet, a single passage, if we had no other means of judging, might settle the question, the address of Jupiter to Juno at the commencement of the Fifteenth Book of the _Iliad_:--

‘Oh, versed in wiles, Juno! thy mischief-teeming mind perverse Hath plotted this; thou hast contrived the hurt Of Hector, and hast driven his host to flight. I know not but thyself mayst chance to reap The first fruits of thy cunning, scourged by me. Hast thou forgotten how I hung thee once On high, with two huge anvils at thy feet, And bound with force-defying cord of gold Thy wrists together? In the heights of heaven Did I suspend thee. With compassion moved, The assembled gods thy painful sufferings saw, But help could yield thee none; for whom I seized, Hurl’d through the portal of the skies, he reach’d The distant earth, and scarce survived the fall.’

* * * * *

I thus remind thee now, that thou may’st cease Henceforth from artifice, and mayst be taught How little all the dalliance and the love, Which, stealing down from heaven, thou hast by fraud Obtain’d from me shall favour thy designs.’

“It may be incidentally remarked, that these lines illustrate not merely the features of the ancient mythology, but also the condition of woman as treated by the heroes of Homer and by his contemporaries. We happen just to have opened upon another striking example of the _elegance_ of the ancient mythology during the Augustan age. It is a passage of Ovid, almost too indecent and silly to be alluded to, though Addison was not ashamed to translate it, beginning--

‘Forte Jovem memorant, diffusum nectare, curas Seposuisse graves, vacuaque agitasse remissos Cum Junone jocos.’[446]

“From the passage referred to, we may judge something of the convivial manners of the Romans, and of the habits of intercourse between the sexes.

“It is remarkable that, in all religious and moral conceptions, the noblest materials of poetry, the philosophers were very far in advance of the poets. ‘The Fables of Hesiod and Homer,’ says Plato, ‘are especially to be censured. They have uttered the greatest falsehoods concerning the greatest beings.’ Referring to the loathsome and abominable fables about Cœlus, Saturn, and Jupiter, he says--‘We must not tell our youth that he who commits the greatest iniquity does nothing strange, nor he who inflicts the most cruel punishment upon his father when injured by him; but that he is only doing what was done by the first and greatest of the gods.’ A little after he subjoins:--‘The chaining of Juno by her son, the throwing of Vulcan from heaven by his father, because he attempted to defend his mother from being beaten, and the battles of the gods described by Homer, are not fictions to be allowed in our city, whether explained allegorically or not.’ ‘Though we praise many things in Homer,’ he says, ‘we shall not praise him when he represents Jupiter as sending a lying dream to Agamemnon, nor Æschylus when he makes Thetis complain of having been deceived by Apollo.’ ‘When any one thus speaks of the gods, we are indignant; we grant no permission for such writings, nor shall we suffer teachers to use them in the instruction of youth.’[447]

“The poets of this nation did not, in Plato’s opinion, represent their heroes as more amiable or respectable than their gods. ‘We shall not,’ he says, ‘suffer those of whom we have the charge to believe that Achilles, the son of a goddess, was so full of evil passions as to unite in himself two opposite vices--avaricious meanness, and insolence towards gods and men. Nor shall we allow it to be said that Theseus, the son of Neptune, and Perithöus, the son of Jove, rushed forth to the commission of such abominable robberies, or that any son of a god or any hero committed those abominable and impious acts which are now imputed to them in the fictions of the poets.’ ‘Such fictions are pernicious to those who hear them; for every bad man finds a license for himself, in the belief that those nearly related to the gods do and have done such deeds. They are, then, to be suppressed, lest they produce a strong tendency to wickedness in our youth.’[448]

“Such were the sentiments of the most poetical of Grecian philosophers concerning the religious and moral character of the poets of his nation; and he remarks in addition upon the gloomy fancies of Homer concerning the state of departed souls, as neither true nor useful, but adapted to produce unmanly fears, and therefore not to be listened to by those who, as freemen, should dread slavery more than death. During the period between Homer and Virgil, a misty brightness had spread over the poetic ideas of the future abodes of the blessed; but the Elysium and Tartarus of poetry were but fictions, awakening no serious hopes nor fears, and having no power over the heart. These imaginations of a future life were connected with no just and ennobling conceptions of the purposes of our existence, of the spiritual nature of man, or of that endless progress to which we may look forward. The heroes of Elysium found their delight in the meaner pleasures of this life,--

‘Quæ gratia currum Armorumque fuit vivis, quæ cura nitentes Pascere equos, eadem sequitur tellure repostos. Conspicit, ecce, alios dextra lævaque per herbam Vescentes, lætumque chora pæana canentes.’[449]

“Thus the ancient poets were shut out from the whole sphere of religious sentiment; and all those numberless conceptions and feelings that spring from our knowledge of God and the sense of our own immortality, are absent from their writings, while this whole exhaustless domain has been laid open to the poets of later times. A single example may illustrate what has been said. Let us take the concluding verses of Mrs Hemans’s ‘Fountain of Oblivion:’--

‘Fill with forgetfulness!--there are, there are Voices whose music I have loved too well; Eyes of deep gentleness--but they are far-- Never! oh! never, in my home to dwell! Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul-- Fill high th’ oblivious bowl!

‘Yet pause again!--with memory wilt thou cast The undying hope away, of memory born? Hope of reunion, heart to heart at last; No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn? Wouldst thou erase all records of delight That make such visions bright?

Fill with forgetfulness, fill high!----yet stay-- ’Tis from the past we shadow forth the land Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, And the soul’s friends be wreathed in one bright band. Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill: I must remember still.

‘For their sake, for the dead--whose image naught May dim within the temple of my breast-- For their love’s sake, which now no earthly thought May shake or trouble with its own unrest, Though the past haunt me as a spirit--yet I ask not to forget.’

“The whole train of emotion and thought in these verses is of a character wholly unknown to the classic days of Greece and Rome. To imagine any thing corresponding to it in the work of an ancient poet, is to bring together conceptions the most incongruous.

“Here it may be worth while, in order to prevent ourselves from being misunderstood, to observe, that we do not mean to depreciate the value of the study of the ancient poets. After those inquiries by which the truths of religion are established, there are none of more interest or importance than such as relate to the mind and heart of man, and open to us a knowledge of what he has been, and what he may be on earth. But, to attain this knowledge, we must acquaint ourselves with the moral and intellectual character of our race, as it has existed, and exists, under influences and forms of society very unlike each other. In this research, no period can be compared in interest with a few centuries in the history of Athens and Rome, which have left traces still so deeply impressed upon the civilised world. Thus, in studying the history of human nature, the Grecian and Roman poets furnish some of our most important materials. We may discover in them a source of sentiments and opinions that still affect men’s minds. Homer carries us back to remote Pagan antiquity, on which his writings shed a light afforded by no other; and, at the same time, having been regarded as the undisputed master-poet by his countrymen, (for this Plato himself does not question,) he shows us what were the topics by which their imaginations were most affected during the period of their greatest civilisation. The dramatic poets of Athens reflect the Athenian character; and in Virgil, Horace, and Ovid, we find the lineaments of the Augustan age. But the value which thus attaches to their works is not to be confounded with the absolute value of those works as poems adapted through their intrinsic beauties to give delight at the present day. In estimating their naked worth, we must likewise separate from them the interest connected with their antiquity, and all those accidental associations that have been gathering round them for many centuries. We must even put out of view the native genius of the writer, if this genius have been exerted under circumstances so unfavourable as to render it ineffectual to produce what may give pleasure to a pure and highly-cultivated mind. Not-withstanding the traditionary enthusiasm that has existed on the subject, it may well be doubted whether their power of giving vivid pleasure merely as poetical compositions, forms a principal recommendation of the study of the ancient poets. They were not acquainted with the richest realms of mind. It is a mistake to address them as ‘bards illustrious, _born in happier days_.’ But, to return to our immediate subject.

“After the revival of letters, the forms of what was called Christianity, both among Catholics and Protestants, were in many respects so abhorrent to reason, or feeling, or both, that they could combine in no intimate union with our higher nature, however they might operate on men’s passions or fears. Religious truth was, however, sometimes contemplated in greater purity by minds of the better class; and we early begin to find in poetry some expressions of true religious sentiment. But what advance had been actually made even in the seventeenth century, we may learn from the great work of Milton. It is based on a system of mythology more sublime than the Pagan, and less adapted to degrade the moral feelings, but scarcely less offensive to reason, and spreading all but a Manichæan gloom and blight over the creation of God. Putting forth his vast genius, he struggles with it as he can, moulding it into colossal forms that repel our human sympathies, and lavishing upon it gorgeous treasures of imagination; but even his powers yield and sink at times before its intrinsic incongruity and essential falsehood. Whoever rightly apprehends the character of God, or contemplates as he ought the invisible world, will turn to but few pages of the _Paradise Lost_, with the hope of finding expressions correspondent to his thoughts and emotions. We feel with pain the inappreciable contrast between the genius displayed in the poetical execution of the work, and the absurdity of its prose story. It is the opposition which this story presents to the most ennobling truths, even more than ‘the want of human interest,’ on which Johnson remarks, that gives to the poem the unattractive character of which he speaks, and which we believe is felt by almost all its readers.

“Doubtless pure religious sentiment breaks out in this and in the other poems of Milton. The concluding line of his Sonnet on his Blindness--

‘They also serve who only stand and wait,’

and numerous other passages of similar beauty, have, we may believe, found an answering feeling in many hearts. But in speaking of those causes which have given a new character to the poetry of later times, it is not our purpose to trace their influence historically. Going back to the days of Grecian and Roman civilisation, we shall take only a few illustrations that may serve to show more clearly the contrast produced by their absence on one hand, or their operation on the other.

“In proportion as we contemplate the world from the height to which true religion conducts us, we perceive the circle of moral action widening indefinitely. Our duties toward the inferior animals are few and low, compared with those which we lie under to our fellow-men; and our duties toward our fellow-men become far more extensive, and assume a more solemn character, when we regard them not as born to perish upon earth, but as commencing here an unending existence. Our obligations to others correspond to our means of serving them; and we are introduced to a higher class of virtues, as soon as we recognise in those around us beings forming characters for a different mode of existence, to whom the highest service that can be rendered is to assist their progress in virtue, and to whom some influence, good or evil, is continually flowing out from us, and diverging into channels of which we cannot see the termination. All interest in the spiritual and imperishable good of our fellow-men must depend upon our regarding them as spiritual and imperishable. It is only under a sense of our true nature, that man is capable of reaching the sublime thought of assimilating himself to God, by devoting his powers to the moral welfare of his fellow-men.

‘Yet, yet sustain me, Holiest!--I am vow’d To solemn service high; And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow’d, Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary, Fainting beneath the burden of the day, Because no human tone Unto the altar-stone Of that pure spousal fane inviolate, Where it should make eternal truth its mate, May cheer the sacred solitary way?

‘Oh! be the whisper of thy voice within Enough to strengthen! Be the hope to win A more deep-seeing homage for thy name Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame! Make me thine only! Let me add but one To those refulgent steps all undefiled, Which glorious minds have piled Through bright self-offering, earnest, child-like, lone, For mounting to thy throne; And let my soul, upborne On wings of inner morn, Find, in illumined secresy, the sense Of that blest work, its own high recompense.’

“But there is more to be considered. The conduct which would be wise and right for man if immortal, would not be wise and right for him if viewed as a perishing animal. It is true that moral good is always good, and moral evil always evil; but with an essential change in our nature and relations, there must likewise be an essential change in what is morally good or evil. If all human hopes were limited to this world, it would be folly for any one to act as if he and others were to exist for ever. The whole plan of life and of its duties formed by a wise man, would be quite different in the one case from what it would be in the other; and the course of life actually pursued by the generality, if destitute of all religious belief, would be still more unlike that of men under its influence.

‘Sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi Spem longam reseces.’[450]

‘Quid brevi fortes jaculamur ævc Multa?’[451]

‘Lætus in præsens, animus quod ultra est Oderit curare, et amara lento Temperet risu.’[452]

In the absence of religious faith, this is true philosophy. If this life were the limit of our being, its pleasures and pains would be the only objects of our concern. Nothing would be virtuous which tended not to the attainment and communication of those limited and perishing pleasures we might here partake; nothing morally evil, but what lessened our own capacity for enjoying them, or tended to prevent others from sharing them with us. There would be no sphere for the exercise of those powers, no object for those capacities of happiness, that belong to the imperishable part of our nature. There would be nothing to prompt one to great sacrifices or acts of moral heroism; for these have their source in the consciousness of immortality, in a sense of our connexion with the infinite, our look forward to good for ourselves and others beyond the limits of life. Earthly motives afford no soil in which the nobler virtues can strike their roots. It is true that the ancients, particularly the ancient philosophers, were not without the influence of truly religious conceptions; and, under almost any forms of opinion, the better nature of man will of itself occasionally break out into exhibitions of excellence. But the religious sentiment being so weak and perverted among the ancient poets, we find little in their works that can be regarded as morally noble, and scarcely an indistinct recognition of those deep feelings and unearthly virtues which have their source in our spiritual nature. The same remark is almost equally applicable to a large proportion of the modern poets: for true religion has been little understood or felt by them. Where, in any age preceding our own, may we hope to find such expressions of sentiment as in the following verses from Mrs Hemans’ ‘Vaudois Wife?’[453]

‘But calm thee! Let the thought of death A solemn peace restore; The voice that must be silent soon, Would speak to thee once more: That thou may’st bear its blessing on Through years of after life,-- A token of consoling love, Even from this hour of strife.

‘I bless thee for the noble heart, The tender, and the true, Where mine hath found the happiest rest That e’er fond woman’s knew; I bless thee, faithful friend and guide! For my own, my treasured share In the mournful secrets of thy soul, In thy sorrow, in thy prayer.

* * * * *

‘I bless thee for the last rich boon Won from affection tried-- The right to gaze on death with thee, To perish by thy side! And yet more for the glorious hope Even to these moments given-- Did not thy spirit ever lift The trust of mine to heaven?

‘Now be thou strong! Oh! knew we not Our path must lead to this? A shadow and a trembling still Were mingled with our bliss! We plighted our young hearts when storms Were dark upon the sky, In full, deep knowledge of their task-- To suffer and to die!

‘Be strong! I leave the living voice Of this, my martyr’d blood, With the thousand echoes of the hills, With the torrent’s foaming flood,-- A spirit midst the caves to dwell, A token on the air, To route the valiant from repose, The fainting from despair.

‘Hear it, and bear thou on, my love! Ay, joyously endure! Our mountains must be altars yet, Inviolate and pure; Where must our God be worshipp’d still With the worship of the free;-- Farewell! there’s but one pang in death, One only,--leaving thee!’

“With this, may be compared the speech of Alcestis in Euripides, when dying in the presence of her husband, under circumstances adapted to call forth all that power of expressing the tender emotions, for which Euripides has been thought to be distinguished.

“Under the influence of religion, we are acted upon by new motives, through the sense created within us, of the worth of our fellow-men. Religion invests them with a new character, strips off the disguise with which the accidents of mortality, imperfections, weaknesses, follies, miseries, and crimes hide their essential nature from our view, and presents them before us with all the interests and capacities of immortal beings. They who are dear to us are worthy of all love and self-devotion, worthy of affections unlimited by death or time. They are members with us of the imperishable family of God, in whose company we are to exist for ever, and with whom our union will become more entire, as we grow purer and more disinterested.

“Thus in later days there has been a growth of sentiments and affections, almost unknown before. Our better feelings toward our fellow-men have acquired far more strength, and assumed new forms. In other times, man has been comparatively an insulated being. Domestic life--that life in which now almost all our joys or sorrows are centred--was scarcely known to the ancients; and it has had but a sickly and artificial existence even in modern ages, through the operation of false notions of domestic government and discipline, and of the mutual relations of husband and wife, parents and children. Religion, by teaching us justly to estimate what is truly excellent in our nature, what is intellectual, moral, and ever-enduring, has given to woman the rank to which she is entitled. It has made her the friend of man; and our feelings are in harmony with the poet when he speaks of--

‘A perfect woman, nobly plann’d To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still and bright, With something of an angel light.’

But man has never regarded woman with respect and true love, except so far as he has regarded her as a spiritual and immortal being. Without this, no conception can exist of that inseparable union which blends all the interests and affections of one being with those of another. The poetry of the ancients that expresses any sentiments toward the female sex is, with rare exceptions, of the grossest kind, sensual, coarse, indecent, brutal. We can pick out only a few passages from the mass, which shadow forth anything like real affection. The same character has continued to cleave to much of our modern poetry, rendering it at once pernicious and disgusting. But wherever the power of true religion has been felt, there woman, more disinterested, more pure, and more moral than man, has exerted a constant influence to raise the character of society. Where it has not been felt, woman has been treated as a mere creature of this earth, an object only of sensual passion, courted, wronged, and insulted; her character has sunk, and the infection of the evil has spread itself every where. It would be difficult, in as few words, to suggest to a reflecting mind a more melancholy picture of the state of society at Athens, than that of which Aristotle affords us a glimpse in a short passage of his ‘Art of Poetry,’ where he remarks, with his usual brevity and dryness, that ‘the manners (character) of a woman or slave may be good; though in general, perhaps, women are rather bad than good, and slaves altogether bad.’[454] Where women are thus estimated, the domestic charities, our best school of virtue, cannot exist; those affections which are at once the gentlest and the strongest have no place; nor will there be any true refinement, nor quick and generous feeling in the intercourse between man and man: the first and strongest link in the chain of human sympathy is wanting.

“When Jesus Christ pronounced these words, ‘_What God has joined together, let not man put asunder_,’ he laid down the fundamental law of human civilisation. But it would have been impossible to render marriage the most solemn and indissoluble of connexions if his religion had not at the same time restored to woman the character designed for her by nature, and raised her to that place she now holds, wherever the truths he taught have had somewhat of their proper influence.

“When the feelings that give sanctity to marriage are wanting, the parental affections operate but feebly. The new-born child, instead of being regarded as a gift and a trust from God, a new creature with whom we have become for ever connected, and a living bond of common interest to strengthen the union of its parents, is either looked at, on the one hand, as a present incumbrance, or, on the other, as a probable future support. The whole history of the domestic relations of the ancients establishes this truth. What must have been the state of parental affection among those who practised and tolerated the destruction of infants as a common custom? The absence of such affection is not to be estimated by the number of victims to that custom, but by the fact of its being generally viewed without horror or reprobation. It was a shocking trait of barbarity in the character of the elder Cato, that he recommended that worn-out and disabled slaves should be exposed to perish; but an exposure more inhuman, which showed that man had lost even the feelings of the lower animals, was constantly going on, and was enjoined, under certain circumstances, both by Plato and Aristotle, as a law of their imagined republics. There is a famous saying in one of the comedies of Terence, which has been often quoted as a fine expression of philanthropy: _Homo sum--humani nihil a me alienum puto_.[455] It is put into the mouth of a man whose wife is afterwards represented as in fear before him, because she had not destroyed her female infant as he had commanded, but given it a chance for preservation by causing it to be exposed alive. Maternal love cannot be wholly extinguished; but it is the glow of modern feeling only which pours its beauty over the following lines, to which nothing parallel can be found in the poets of Greece or Rome, though Mrs Hemans apostrophises the Elysium of their imagining:--

‘Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, Unlike a gift of nature to decay, Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, The child at rest before the mother lay, E’en so to pass away, With its bright smile. Elysium! what wert thou To her who wept o’er that young slumberer’s brow?

‘Thou hadst no home, green land! For the fair creature from her bosom gone, With life’s fresh flowers just opening in its hand, And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, Which in its clear eye shone Like spring’s first wakening! But that light was past;-- Where went the dew-drop swept before the blast?’

“The ancient popular faith was indeed destitute of consolation; but in the absence of those associations which shed a holy light round an infant, such consolation is less needed. Even the fountain of maternal affection flows with but a scanty and interrupted stream.

“Thus religion, by making man of more worth to man, and by strengthening our assurance in each other’s sympathy and virtue, has called forth affections which lay folded up in our nature, or had put forth only a stinted growth. The finer productions of modern poetry are coloured throughout with expressions of their beauty and strength. Moral qualities, good or bad, as they exist in men, unformed directly or indirectly by religion, owe their strength principally to impulse and passion, or depend, like the inconsistent hospitality of the Arab, or the pride of the Roman, on what he thought the glory of his country, upon prejudices which spring partly from generous feelings and

## partly from selfish regards, and are made strong and binding upon the

individual by universal consent. It is only when quickened by religious sentiment, that the human character displays all its complicated variety of feelings. Then affections, which had before seemed almost powerless, become essential elements of our being. Associations, till then unknown, link together their invisible chains; and the feeling with which they thrill us when touched, presents a new phenomenon in our nature. The love of our youthful home may seem to us an universal sentiment, likely to appear in the poetry of all times; yet how little reference to it do we find in any poetry before our own age, and especially how little reference, like the following, to its moral power!

‘“Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood back, The free, the pure, the kind?” --So murmur’d the trees in my homeward track, As they play’d to the mountain-wind.

“Hath thy soul been true to its early love?” Whisper’d my native streams; “Hath the spirit, nursed amidst hill and grove, Still revered its first high dreams?”’ etc.

“It is under the continued influence of Christianity, however imperfect that influence may have been, that the human character, which had before manifested itself partially and irregularly in the rudeness and inconsistency of its elementary passions, has begun to struggle toward its full development. It has become alive to feelings, and is putting forth powers, which belong to its immortal nature. We may perceive this unfolding of man in the very structure of language, which, enlarged as it has been with new terms, yet presents so imperfect a means for expressing the different qualities and shades of character, and the modes and combinations of feeling. The study of human nature has thus become a science of far more interest and complexity. Many forms of character now appear, that belong to no period in the progress of the human race preceding that at which we have arrived. To the eye of the poet, man presents himself in new aspects of strength and weakness in multiform relations to the finite and the infinite, and with all the variety of sentiments resulting from the change in his prospects and hopes. He is now ‘a traveller between life and death;’ his highest interests connect him with the boundless, the unearthly, and the mysterious; with all that has most power to affect the imagination, and excite the strongest and deepest feelings. It is only through his relations to God and eternity that man becomes an exhaustless subject of high poetry. When thus viewed, his ruined home may be repeopled with thoughts and images such as these:--

‘Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth, Deserted now by all! Voices at eve here met in mirth, Which eve may ne’er recall. Youth’s buoyant step, and woman’s tone, And childhood’s laughing glee, And song and prayer have all been known, Hearth of the dead! to thee.

‘Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour’d Upon the infant head, As if in every fervent word The living soul were shed: Thou hast seen partings,--such as bear The bloom from life away,-- Alas! for love in changeful air, Where naught beloved can stay!’ etc.

“The recognition of the higher relations of man has given a characteristic to modern poetry, particularly English poetry, through which it has peculiar power over the heart. Expressions and descriptions of human suffering, instead of depressing us with melancholy, become sublime or touching, when that suffering is brought into direct or indirect contrast with man’s nature and hopes as an immortal being, or is represented as calling into exercise those virtues which can exist in such a being alone. There is no pathos in the mere lamentations of an individual over his own particular lot, or over the condition of a race to which he feels it an unhappiness to belong. There is nothing that excites any tender or elevating feeling in such verses as the following from an ancient poet:--

‘Is there a man just, honest, nobly born? Malice shall hunt him down. Does wealth attend him? Trouble is heard behind. Conscience direct? Beggary is at his heels.... ... Account that day Which brings no new mischance, a day of rest. For what is man? What matter is he made of? How born? What is he, and what shall he be? What an unnatural parent is this world, To foster none but villains, and destroy All who are benefactors to mankind!’

“The sufferings to which we are here exposed cease to be a subject that leads to any grateful or ennobling state of mind, when man regards the pleasures of this life as his only good. Among the ancient poets, the contemplation of its evils, when viewed at a distance, is associated with sentiments simply disheartening, or altogether superficial and trifling. Let us take for example a famous ode of Horace. It begins:--

‘Eheu! fugaces, Postume, Postume, Labuntur anni; nec pietas moram Rugis et instanti senectæ Afferet, indomitæque morti.’

“It ends:--

‘Absumet hæres Cæcuba dignior, Servata centum clavibus; et mero Tinget pavimentum superbo Pontificum potiore cœnis.’

“No modern poet would, or rather could, construct verses after this fashion.

“It is in representations of the triumph of our immortal nature over the ills of mortality, of the patience with which they are borne, of the power by which they are overcome--in one word, of the moral qualities which suffering alone brings into action, and in those touches that awaken our best and tenderest affections for the sufferings of others, especially the innocent and helpless, that the sources of the highest pathos are to be found. All that is morally sublime springs upward from our severer trials; and then, only when man feels the nobleness of his nature. Present the calamity nakedly to our view, and its contemplation is merely distressing; picture it in connexion with some effort of virtue, and a glory is spread over the whole. In the Fall of D’Assas by Mrs Hemans, (not one of the most remarkable of her productions,) a young officer, full of the thoughts of his home and the scenes of his earlier years, is represented as surprised and massacred by his enemies. The simple narrative of such a death naturally excites painful emotion, but this emotion is so wholly overborne, as but to give additional strength to the exaltation of feeling produced by the concluding verses:--

‘“Silence!” in under-tones they cry,’ etc.

“We may compare the poem just quoted with a passage from Virgil, which refers to circumstances somewhat similar, and has been praised as very pathetic, in the episode of Nisus and Euryalus, where Nisus perceives that Euryalus has fallen into the hands of his foes, and is just about to be slain.

‘Tum vero, exterritus, amens, Conclamat Nisus: nec se celare tenebris Amplius, aut tantum potuit perferre dolorem: “Me, me, adsum qui feci, in me convertite ferrum, O Rutuli! mea fraus omnis; nihil iste nec ausus, Nec potuit; cœlum hoc et conscia sidera testor.” Tantum infelicem nimium dilexit amicum. Talia dicta dabat; sed viribus ensis adactus Transabiit costas.’

“However conspicuous such a passage may be in an ancient poet, it would not, we believe, be regarded with great admiration in a modern.

“In one of Miss Edgeworth’s little stories for children, which are far better worth reading than most books for grown people, she says of the cottage of some poor woman that _it was as clean as misery could make it_. There is a pathos in these few words, not unusual in her writings, but such as we can find in but a scanty number of writers before our own age. It has not been well understood, that the indirect expressions of suffering are far more powerful than the direct, and that we are much more affected by suppressed, than by unrestrained emotion. In but little of the poetry of past times is there any trace of quickness or delicacy of perception in regard to the modes or expressions of human feeling and passion; for man himself had not become sufficiently refined for the exercise of such observation. Plato objects to Homer, and the tragic poets of Greece, that they degraded men’s minds by representing their heroes, when suffering, as pouring forth long lamentations, singing their sorrows, and beating their breasts. So far as they did so, there was nothing pathetic in their writings. Who, indeed, in modern times, was ever able to imagine himself affected by the sorrows of Achilles for the death of Patroclus, or those of his mother, Thetis, in consequence?

“From the want of sentiment and of moral associations, the descriptive language of the ancient poets is, in general, scanty and poor. It is for the most part drawn immediately from the perceptions of the senses, and has little to do with the invisible feelings and images, of which outward things become the symbols to a reflecting mind. It rarely gives them a moral being; its epithets are seldom imaginative; it paints to the eye; it calls up recollections of bodily rest and pleasure; but it does not often address the heart.

“Horace begins one of his odes thus:--

‘Vides, ut ulta stet nive candidum Soracte; nec jam sustineant onus Sylvæ laborantes, geluque Flumina constiterint acuto?’

“The epithets _white_ mountain, _deep_ snow, _sharp_ frost, are all taken without addition immediately from the perception of the senses; nor, considering the common prosaic use of _laboro_, in a similar sense, is the epithet _labouring_ much more poetical; yet the passage is as striking of its kind as most that may be found in Latin poetry. The lines are thus rendered by Dryden,--

‘Behold yon mountain’s hoary height Made higher with new mounts of snow; Again behold the winter’s weight Oppress the labouring woods below; And streams, with icy fetters bound, Benumb’d and cramp’d to solid ground.’

“Dryden was not eminent for his love of nature, or power of describing its beauties; and a poet of livelier perceptions would hardly have changed the name of Soracte for the faint generalisation, ‘yon mountain;’ yet something of the difference which we wish to point out between ancient and modern poetry is here perceptible. Let us take from Mrs Hemans an example of the richly imaginative character of that of later times. We will give the beginning of the verses in which she describes herself as reading, in an arbour, ‘The Talisman’ of Scott. A particular interest attaches to them from the circumstance that, in the best portrait of her, she is represented in this real or imaginary situation.

‘There were thick leaves above me and around,’ etc.

“Every subject becomes rich in proportion to the wealth of the mind by which it is contemplated. The intellectual light that shines upon it gives it its colours. Deficient as the ancient poets were in so many sources of thought and feeling that exist in modern times, they discover as imperfect a sensibility to most of the other pleasures of a refined taste, as to those derived from the objects of nature. There is to be found, for instance, in their works, scarcely a single passage, perhaps not one, in which the power of music, as blending in intimate union sensible and intellectual pleasures, is described with strong expression; yet what a treasury of glowing images and solemn thoughts this subject has opened to modern poets. We need not quote for illustration Mrs Hemans’s ‘Triumphant Music.’

“Through our strong sympathy with our fellow-men, we are deeply interested in the remains of antiquity, in the ruins that recall it to our thoughts, and in the histories which have come down to us--or rather in those histories as fashioned anew by our imagination, effacing and softening, filling up the rude outline, and colouring and embellishing at pleasure. In proportion as we have a more vivid conception of the virtues and excellences of which man is capable, so man, as such, becomes more an object of our regard. In looking back through the obscurity of time, the depravity that would have shocked us, if forced upon our observation, is partially lost in the darkness, and the bright traits of character shine out more distinctly. The dead of past ages are regarded with something of the same tenderness that we feel toward the dead whom we have known: at least we consent for a time to sacrifice our philosophy to an illusion, and, instead of the Richard Cœur-de-Lion of history, whose only marked characteristics were bodily strength and brutal hardihood, with those few gleams of goodness which nothing but the grossest sensuality can utterly extinguish, we consent for a time to take the Richard of Scott’s _Ivanhoe_; or, in fancying the Augustan age, are willing to forget that it took its name from

‘him who murder’d Tully, That cold villain, Octavius’

“Conformably to the laws of our better nature, our imagination is most readily attracted by what is most excellent in man. While viewing a beautiful tract of country with which we are not familiar, we can hardly refrain from idealising its supposed inhabitants, and giving them somewhat of a poetical character, or, in other words, a character agreeable to our best feelings. So it is in casting our view over past ages. Our sympathies are excited for the hopes, and fears, and the virtues, such as they were, of those who have lost all power to injure; and we may even fashion dim images of what they now are, as existing somewhere in the creation of God, divested, perhaps, of the evil that clung to them on earth. The idea of that moral purification and development, which, we believe, is continually going on in the universe, may thus mingle with the contemplation of the past. It is in transferring us into a world in which grateful imaginations are blended with truth, and the harshness of present reality is shut out, that the poetic interest of antiquity principally consists.

“Of this, modern poetry and fiction have abundantly availed themselves. But though a shadowy antiquity lay as a background to Greek and Roman civilisation, yet it was rarely resorted to by the ancient poets as a source of pleasing or solemn emotions. To them the remoter ages were little more than a desert abounding with monstrous fictions, with licentious and savage divinities, half-brutal demigods, and heroes, and chiefs hardly human, whose fabulous deeds and sufferings present nothing to recommend them to our sense of beauty. In the period following, history assumed at least an air of truth, and men appeared on the stage with human feelings, passions, and virtues. But, in looking back upon their earlier history, the ancients seem to have felt but slightly those peculiar sentiments and trains of feeling, which the contemplation of antiquity now awakens in our breasts. In no ancient poet is there a celebration of a hero of his country to be compared with Mrs Hemans’ lines on the Scottish patriot, Wallace, beginning

‘Rest with the brave, whose names belong To the high sanctity of song.’

There is no appeal to the deeds of their fathers equal to her Spanish war-song--

‘Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again; Let the high word “Castile” go resounding through Spain.’

No poetic conception of antiquity is to be found resembling the introduction of her ‘Cathedral Hymn’--

‘A dim and mighty minster of old time, A temple, shadowy with remembrances Of the majestic past!’

And above all, there is nothing so morally ennobling, so adapted to raise the character of a people, as the verses by which she has conferred a great obligation on our country--her ‘Pilgrim Fathers.’

“But, beside the advantages afforded to a modern poet by the religious and moral improvement of our race, which it has been principally our object to point out, there are others at which we may glance. He may look back over many ages, and around upon all countries, and acquaint himself with man, as he has existed and exists under circumstances the most dissimilar. He may possess himself of all that knowledge of human nature, which has been gathered from long experience, and wide observation, and multiplied opportunities of comparison. He may, like Southey, construct poems, as wild and wondrous, and as morally beautiful, as ‘Thalaba,’ or as rich with barbaric splendour as ‘The Curse of Kehama,’ from the rude materials of Arabian fiction or Hindoo mythology. The treasures of learning and science, so poor in ancient times, have, through succeeding ages, been accumulating to furnish him with thoughts, illustrations, and images. Our conceptions are enlarged, our views raised, the physical as well as the moral universe has been continually opening to the view of man, and knowledge unfolding her ever-lengthening scroll, of which the ancients had scarcely read the first lines. It was a dream, ridiculed by Plato,[456] of the extravagant admirers of Homer, that all human and divine learning was to be found in his writings.

“In the nature of things, art is progressive; its theory and practice are gradually better understood, errors are discovered and corrected, new objects of attainment proposed, and visions of higher excellence revealed to the mind; and thus we may believe, that the character, principles, purposes, and means of poetry are now comprehended more justly than they were in former times.

“But it may be said that, in perfection of language at least, the poets of Greece and Rome must remain unsurpassed. It may be doubted, however, whether we are qualified to pronounce this judgment in their favour. The harmonious flow of articulate sounds in the Greek and Latin languages, particularly in the Latin, is not to be readily attained in some of the principal languages of literary Europe. But if we speak of poetical beauty of expression and harmony of thought, we must recollect that it is necessary to be acquainted with the train of shadowy associations which follow the direct meaning of a poetical word, before we can determine that word to be well chosen. But such acquaintance implies an intimate knowledge of the use of language and of the state of mind in those addressed, which, as regards the poetry of the ancients, it is very difficult to acquire, and, in many

## particulars, impossible, yet without which we are liable to fall into

great mistakes, and may often be left in much uncertainty. Take, for example, the line--

‘Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum.’

It has been admired from the consonance of the sound with the sense. We understand the epithet _putris_ to mean _dusty_, the dusty plain; but this epithet is elsewhere applied to a rich, mellow soil, easily broken up, or to a sandy plain. According to either of these uses, it is apparently an epithet unsuitable, from its associations, to be given to a field described as shaken and resounding with the trampling of a body of horse. As respects, likewise, the epithet _quadrupedans_, we may doubt whether any modern critic can explain why _quadrupedante sonitu_ is more poetical in Virgil than its equivalent, ‘the sound of quadrupeds,’ would be in a modern poet, if used to express the sound of horses.

“Let us take another example:

‘Pastor cum traheret per freta navibus Idæis Helenam perfidus hospitam.’

Why is the word _traheret_ used, which, as employed elsewhere, would imply the taking away of Helen against her will? Does it refer to one version of the story according to which Paris did bear her away by force? Were this the case, one would naturally expect, considering the reproachful and denunciatory character of the ode, to find that idea brought out more distinctly. Is it intended to express the reluctance with which, though yielding to her love for Paris, she left her husband and her home? This conception is too refined for an ancient poet to trust to its being made apparent by so light a touch, if indeed we may suppose it to have entered his mind. Was _traheret_ then intended, by its associations with an act of violence, to denote the rapidity and fear of the flight of Paris? or was it merely employed _abusively_, to use a technical term--only with reference to a part of its signification, as words are not unfrequently used in poetry, though it is always an imperfection?

“Such cases are very numerous, in which no modern reader can pronounce with just confidence upon the character of the poetical language of the ancients. Instances are frequently occurring in which, if we admire at all, we must admire at second-hand, upon trust. The meaning and effect of words have undergone changes which it is often not easy, and often not possible, to ascertain with precision. Even in our own language this is the case. Shakspeare says--

‘Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry. Hold! Hold!’

“Here Johnson understands him as presenting the ludicrous conception of ‘the ministers of vengeance peeping through a blanket;’ and Coleridge, as we see by his _Table-Talk_, conjectured that instead of ‘blanket,’ ‘blank height’ was perhaps written by Shakspeare. But by ‘Heaven’ we conceive to be meant not the ministers of vengeance, but the lights of heaven; and it is not unpoetical to speak of the moon and stars as peeping through clouds. With the word ‘blanket,’ our associations are trivial and low; but understand it merely as denoting a thick covering of darkness which closely enwraps the lights of heaven, and it suits well to its place. But our associations with the word are accidental: there is nothing intrinsically more mean in a blanket than a sheet, yet none would object to the expression of ‘a sheet of light.’ The fortunes of the words only have been different, and that, in all probability, since the time of Shakspeare, considering his use of this word, and the corresponding use of the word _rug_ by Drayton.[457]

“If such be the character of poetical language, it is clear that, to judge with critical accuracy of that of a distant age or even a foreign Land, requires uncommon knowledge and discrimination, as well as an accurate taste; while unfortunately, profound scholarship and cultivated and elegant habits of mind have very rarely been united in the study of the ancient poets. The supposition of a peculiar felicity of expression in their writings is to be judged of, in most cases, rather by extrinsic probabilities, which do not favour it, than by any direct and clear evidence of it that can be produced. We are very liable in this particular to be biassed by prepossession and authority; our imaginations often deceive us; we create the beauty which we fancy that we find.

“There is perhaps no poet, in whose productions the characteristics of which we have spoken as giving a superiority to the poetry of later times over that which has preceded, appear more strikingly than in those of Mrs Hemans. When, after reading such works as she has written, we turn over the volumes of a collection of English poetry, like that of Chalmers, we cannot but perceive that the greater part of it appears more worthless and distasteful than before. Much is evidently the work of barren and unformed, vulgar and vicious minds, of individuals without any conception of poetry as the glowing expression of what is most noble in our nature, and often with no title to the name of poet, but from having put into metre thoughts too mean for prose. Such writings as those of Mrs Hemans at once afford evidence of the advance of our race, and are among the most important means of its further purification and progress. The minds, which go forth from their privacy to act with strong moral power upon thousands and ten thousands of other minds, are the real agents in advancing the character of man, and improving his condition. They are instruments of the invisible operations of the Spirit of God.”--_Christian Examiner_, Jan. 1836.

[446] “It is related that Jove chanced, being exhilarated by nectar, to lay aside his weighty cares, and interchange pleasant jokes with idle Juno.”

[447] See “De Republica,” lib. ii., pp. 373-383.

[448] See “De Republica,” lib. iii. p. 391.

[449]

“The love of horses which they had alive, And care of chariots, after death survive. In bands reclining on the grassy plain, They feasted and pour’d forth a joyful strain.” See Dryden’s “Virgil.”

[450] Be wise, pour out your wine, and contract your hopes within life’s narrow compass.

[451] Why, in so short a life, do we, in our bravery, aim at so much?

[452] Joyous during the present hour, the mind should reject all care for what is beyond, and temper what is bitter with a gentle smile.

[453] ‘The wife of a Vaudois leader, in one of the attacks made on the Protestant hamlets, received a mortal wound, and died in her husband’s arms, exhorting him to courage and endurance.’

[454] “What Aristotle says,” observes his able translator, Mr Twining, “is, I fear, but too conformable to the manner in which the ancients usually speak of the sex in general. At least he is certainly consistent with himself; witness the following very curious character of women in his ‘History of Animals,’ which I give the reader by no means for his assent, but for his wonder or his diversion.” Mr Twining’s remarks sufficiently imply of what nature this character, and we forbear to quote it.

[455] I am a man; whatever concerns other men, I think my concern.

[456] “De Republica,” lib. x. p. 598, seq.

[457] See examples, in the notes to Shakspeare.

INDEX

Aaron’s Rod, 495

Abbotsford, farewell to, 508

Abencerrage, the, 67

Aber church, sonnet on, 603

Address to the Deity, 1

Adopted child, the, 423

Affection, prayer of, 596

Aged friend, to an, 620

Aged Indian, the, 56

“Ah cease!” from Metastasio, 49

Alaric in Italy, 95

Album at Rosanna, lines written for the, 510

-- of Miss F. A. L., lines written in the, 295

Alcestis, death-song of, 502

-- of Alfieri, the, 121

Alfieri, the Alcestis of, 121

Alhambra, the, 79 notes

Alp-horn song, 294

Alpine horn, the, 545

Alps, league of the, 234

-- the shepherd-poet of the, 512

American forest girl, the, 406

“Amidst the bitter tears,” from Camoens, 46

Ancestral song, the, 467

Ancient battle-song, 539

-- Greek chant of victory, 536

-- -- song of exile, 349

And I too in Arcadia, 541

Anemone, the blue, to, 610

Angel visits, 354

Angel’s greeting, the, 499

Angler, the, 489

Annunciation, the, 598

Anthony and Cleopatra, last banquet of, 93

Antique Greek lament, 627

-- sepulchre, the, 493

Arabella Stuart, 385

Arnold de Brescia, 86 note

Ascending a hill leading to a convent, on, 49

Asdrubal, the wife of, 97

Assas, the fall of, 537

Attendant, to his, from Horace, 298

Autumn of 1834, records of the, 622

Baillie, Joanna, 187

Bandusia, to the fountain of, from Horace, 299

Barb, jeu-d’esprit on the word, 139

Bards, chant of the, 151

-- meeting of the, 246

Barton, Bernard, to the daughter of, 485

Basvigliana of Monti, the, 118

Battle, the call to, 547

Battle of Maclodio, the, an ode, 128

Battlefield, the, 605

Bed of heath, the, 562

Beings of the mind, the, 477

Bell at sea, the, 492

Belshazzar’s feast, 219

Bembo, translation from, 51

Bended bow, the, 345

Bentivoglio, sonnet from, 50

Bernardo del Carpio, 456

Bethany, the sisters of, 599

Better land, the, 479

“Bird that art singing,” 540

-- at sea, the, 556

Bird’s release, the, 338

Birds, the, 531

-- of passage, 434

-- of the air, the, 602

Blackwood’s Magazine, 42, 66

Blondel the Troubadour, 101

Blue Anemone, to the, 610

Books and flowers, 504

Boon of memory, the, 382

Bowl of liberty, the, 242

Brandenburg harvest-song, from La Motte Fouqué, 348

Breathings of spring, 432

Breeze from shore, the, 378

Bridal-day, the, 466

Bride of the Greek isle, the, 388

Brigand leader and his wife, the, 506

“Brightly hast thou fled,” 562

“Bring flowers,” 362

Broken chain, the, 491

-- flower, the, 505

-- lute, the, 515

Brother and sister in the country, to my, 2

Brother’s dirge, the, 545

Bruce at the source of the Nile, 368

Burial in the desert, the, 516

-- of an emigrant’s child in the forest, the, 579

-- of William the Conqueror, the, 537

Butler, William Archer, 293 note

Butterfly resting on a skull, lines to a, 491

“By a mountain-stream at rest,” 566

Caius Gracchus of Monti, translations from the, 133

Call to battle, the, 547

Cambrian in America, the, 148

Camoens, translations from, 43

Camoens’ Lusiad, translation from, 297

Captivity, songs of, 545

Caravan in the desert, the, 210

Carolan’s prophecy, 414

Caroline, to, 524

Carpio, Bernardo del, 456

Carthage, Marius among the ruins of, 212

Casabianca, 369

Castri, the view from, 251

Caswallon’s triumph, 150

Cathedral hymn, 574

Cavern of the three Tells, the, 341

Chamois hunter’s love, the, 450

Chant of the bards before their massacre, 151

Charlotte, the princess, stanzas on the death of, 59

Charmed picture, the, 458

Chatillon, de, a tragedy, 300

Chaulieu, translation from, 52

Chieftain’s son, the, 245

Child and dove, the, 357

-- dirge of a, 54

-- of the forests, the, 359

-- reading the Bible, the, 583

-- to a, on his birthday, 355

Child’s first grief, the, 502

-- last sleep, the, 431

-- morning and evening hymns, 532

-- return from the woodlands, the, 506

Children whom Jesus blessed, the, 601

Chorley, Mr, criticisms by, 292, 337, 445, 466, 517, 632

Christ, on a remembered picture of, 601

-- bearing his cross, on a picture of, 607

-- Infant, with flowers, picture of the, 601

-- stilling the tempest, 355

Christian Examiner, the, 336

Christmas carol, 14, 437

Church, old, in an English park, 603

-- in North Wales, a, 603

Cicero, death of, 89 note

Cid, songs of the, 238

Cid’s deathbed, the, 238

-- departure into exile, the, 238

-- funeral procession, the, 239

-- rising, the, 241

Clanronald, death of, 58

Cleopatra and Anthony, last banquet of, 93

Cliffs of Dover, the, 376

Clwyd river, the, 618

Cœur-de-Lion at the bier of his father, 346

Coleridge’s epitaph, on reading, 623

“Come away,” 560

“ -- home,” 465

“ -- to me, dreams of heaven,” 564

“ -- -- gentle sleep,” 567

“Common sense,” the satire of, 66

Communings with thought, 607

Conqueror’s sleep, the, 365

Conradin, the death of, 103

Constantine, the last, 221

Contadina, the, 361

Conversation, memorial of a, 622

Conway, residence at, 19

Corinne at the Capitol, 469

Coronation of Inez de Castro, the, 448

Costanza, 407

Cottage girl, the, 604

Covent Garden, the Vespers of Palermo at, 186

Crescentius, the widow of, 85

Cross in the wilderness, the, 371

-- of the South, the, 294

Crusader’s return, the, 363

-- war-song, the, 58

Curfew-song of England, the, 553

Daily paths, our, 370

Dalecarlian mine, scene in a, 357

Dargle, on a scene in the, 623

Darkness of the crucifixion, the, 602

Dartmoor, 141

Datura Arborea, on the, 623

Daughter of Bernard Barton, to the, 485

Day of flowers, the, 592

Death and the warrior, 490

-- the welcome to, 509

-- of Clanronald, the, 58

-- of Conradin, the, 103

-- of the Princess Charlotte, on the, 59

Death-day of Körner, the, 425

Death-song of Alcestis, the, 502

De Chatillon, or the Crusaders, 300

Deity, address to the, 1

Delius, to, from Horace, 299

Della Casa, sonnet from, 50

Delos, song of, 535

Delphi, the storm of, 241

Delta, criticisms by, 315, 630

Departed, the, 430

-- spirit, to a, 449

Desert, the burial in the, 516

-- flower, the, 524

Deserted house, the, 463

Design and performance, 623

Despondency and aspiration, 624

Dial of flowers, the, 369

Dirge, “Calm on the bosom,” 357

-- “Weep for the early lost,” 298

-- “Where shall we make,” 549

-- at sea, 559

-- of a child, 54

-- of the Highland chief in Waverley, 57

Distant scene, to a, 619

-- ship, the, 434

-- sound of the sea, on the, 618

Diver, the, 481

Domestic affections, the, 15

Dover cliffs, 376

Dramatic scene between Bronwylfa and Rhyllon, 383

Dreamer, the, 380

Dreaming child, the, 458

Dreams of heaven, 518

-- the dead, 624

Druid chorus, &c., 145

Dying bard’s prophecy, the, 152

-- girl and flowers, 556

-- Improvisatore, the, 379

East, attraction of the, 620

Easter-day in a mountain-churchyard, 581

Echo song, 551

Eclectic review, 633

Eclogue from Camoens, 44

Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, 106, 107, 253, 292

-- -- Review, 43, 66, 106, 113

-- Review, 440

Edith, 396

Edwards, Mr, lines to, 19

Effigies, the, 428

Eldest brother, to my, 12

Elgin marbles, the, 41

Ellis, Sir Henry, to the memory of, 56

Elysium, 249

Emigrant’s child, burial of a, 579

Emigration, song of, 451

England, the name of, 567

-- and Spain, 4

England’s dead, 246

English boy, the, 609

-- martyrs, the, 568

-- soldiers’ song of memory, 358

“Enjoy the sweets,” 52

Epitaph, “Farewell, beloved,” 520

-- on Mr W., 20

-- on his hammer, 20

-- over two brothers, 356

Eryri Wen, 151

Evening among the Alps, 57

-- prayer at a girls’ school, 374

Evening song of the Tyrolese peasants, 494

-- -- -- weary, 592

-- star, to the, 560

Exile’s dirge, the, 457

Eye, to the, 59

Fair Helen of Kirkconnel, 561

-- Isle, the, 152

Fairies’ recall, the, 565

Fairy favours, 439

-- song, 562

Faith of love, the, 507

Fall of d’Assas, the, 537

Fallen lime-tree, the, 555

Family Bible, to a, 600

Far away, 558

-- o’er the sea, 546

Farewell to Abbotsford, 508

-- the dead, 353

-- Wales, 499

Fata Morgana, the, 38

Father reading the Bible, a, 437

Fathers’ songs, our, 366

Faunus, to, from Horace, 299

Fawsley park, sonnet on a church in, 603

Festal hour, the, 252

Fever-dream, the, 139

Fidelity till death, 394

Fiesco, prologue to the tragedy of, 520

Filicaja, sonnets from, 49, 138

Flight of the spirit, the, 628

Flower, the shadow of a, 491

-- from the field of Grütli, on a, 244

-- of the desert, the, 524

Flowers, 628

-- and music in a room of sickness, 572

-- day of, 592

-- dial of, 369

Foliage, 621

Forest sanctuary, the, 316

Forsaken hearth, the, 380

“Fortune, why thus,” from Metastasio, 48

Fourteenth century, a tale of the, 213

Fountain of Bandusia, to the, 299

-- Marah, the, 496

-- Oblivion, the, 465

Fouqué, Brandenburg harvest-song, from, 348

Fragment, “Rest on your battle-fields,” 245

Freed bird, the, 521

Friend, to an aged, 620

Funeral-day of Sir Walter Scott, the, 585

-- genius, the, 250

-- hymn, 581

Future, a thought of the, 498

Gafran’s sea-song, 146

Garcilaso de la Vega, “Divine Eliza,” from, 296

Gargano, mount, 90

Genius singing to love, 554

Genoa, night-scene in, 99

George III., stanzas to the memory of, 187

German literature, 426

-- soldiers’ Rhine song, 534

-- song, 52

Gertrude, 394

Gesner, morning song from, 52

Gifford, Mr, 106

Giulio Regondi, to, 520

Goethe, Mignon’s song from, 547

Goethe’s Iphigenia, scenes from, 616

-- Tasso, -- -- 611

Good-night, 564

Granada, conquest of, 76, 77, notes

Grasmere, a remembrance of, 619

Grave of a poetess, the, 411

Graves of a household, the, 435

-- martyrs, 376

Greece, modern, 28

Greek chant of victory, 536

-- funeral chant, 349

Greek lament, 627

-- parting song, 351

-- song of exile, 349

-- songs, 241

Green isles of ocean, the, 146

Grufydd’s feast, 148

Grütli, on a flower from, 244

Guadalete, battle of, 77 note

Guardian spirit, songs of a, 538

Guerilla leader’s vow, the, 454

-- song, 56

Hall of Cynddylan, the, 147

Happy hour, a, 621

Harp of Wales, the, 145

Haunted ground, 358

-- house, the, 511

“He never smiled again,” 346

“He shall not dread,” 48

“He walk’d with God,” 495

Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey, the, 476

Hebe of Canova, on the, 53

Heber, bishop, 118, note

-- to the memory of, 423

Hebrew mother, the, 372

Helen of Kirkconnel, 561

Heliodorus in the temple, 98

Hermitage on the sea-shore, lines written in a, 54

Hero’s death, the, 59

Herrera, ode from, 254

Highland chief in Waverley, dirge of the, 57

Hirlas horn, the, 146

Hogg, James, 63 note

Holy Family, repose of a, 600

Home of love, the, 503

Homes of England, the, 412

Hope, the song of, 546

Horace, translations from, 298

Hour of death, the, 375

-- prayer, 377

-- romance, an, 427

“How can that love,” 565

“How strange a fate,” 45

Howel’s song, 150

Huguenot’s farewell, the, 626

Humboldt on the Southern cross, 332 note

Hymn by the sick-bed of a mother, 486

-- of the traveller’s household on his return, 594

-- of the Vaudois mountaineers, 588

Hymns for childhood, 528

“I dream of all things free,” 546

“I go, sweet friends,” 354

“I would we had not met again,” 565

“If thou hast crush’d a flower,” 562

“If thus thy fallen grandeur,” 49

“If to the sighing breeze,” 51

Il Conte di Carmagnola, the, 125

Illuminated city, the, 432

Image in lava, the, 436

-- in the heart, the, 461

Imelda, 394

Impromptu to Miss F. A. L., 499

“In tears the heart,” 47

Indian, the aged, 56

-- with his dead child, the, 450

-- city, the, 398

-- woman’s death-song, 402

Indian’s revenge, 590

Inez de Castro, coronation of, 448

Infant Christ with flowers, picture of the, 601

Intellectual powers, 627

Invocation, “And come ye faithful,” 597

-- “Answer me,” 424

-- “As the tired voyager,” 597

-- “Hush’d is the world,” 55

-- “Oh, art thou still,” 546

Iphigenia of Goethe, scenes from the, 616

“Is there some spirit,” 566

Isle of founts, the, 344

“Italia, O Italia,” 49

Italian girl’s hymn to the virgin, 449

-- literature, translations, &c. from, 118

-- poets, patriotic effusions from, 137

Italy, Alaric in, 95

-- restoration of the works of art to, 22

Ivan the Czar, 413

Ivy song, 354

-- 557

Jeffrey, Lord, 337, 440

Jeu-d’esprit on the word “barb,” 139

Jewsbury, Miss, 53, 422

Joan of Arc in Rheims, 403

Juan de Tarsis, sonnet from, 50

Juana, 405

Juvenile poems, 1

Kaiser’s feast, the, 419

Kamsin, the, 69 note

Keene, a, 558

Kindred hearts, 367

King of Arragon’s lament for his brother, the, 452

Körner and his sister, 424

-- the death-day of, 425

Lady of Provence, the, 446

-- of the castle, the, 416

Lament of an Irish mother, the, 558

-- of Llywarch Hen, the, 147

Land of dreams, the, 462

Landing of the pilgrim fathers in New England, the, 429

Landon, Miss, 631

Langhans, Madame, tomb of, 457

Last banquet of Anthony and Cleopatra, the, 93

-- Constantine, the, 221

-- rites, 372

-- song of Sappho, 549

-- tree of the forest, 473

-- wish, 438

-- words of the last wasp, 523

Lawrence, Mrs, 505 note

Lays of many lands, 338

Leaf from Virgil’s tomb, on a, 245

League of the Alps, the, 234

“Leave me not yet,” 543

“Let her depart,” 564

“Let the vain courtier,” 49

“Let us depart,” 606

Life, the prayer for, 509

Lights and shades, 501

Lilies of the field, the, 601

Lines on Elizabeth Smith, 12

Literary Magnet, the, 248, 373 notes

Lonely bird, the, 559

“Look on me thus no more,” 563

“Look on me with thy cloudless eyes,” 561

Lope de Vega, translations from, 49

Lorenzini, sonnet from, 51

Lorenzo de Medici, translation from, 53

Lost Pleiad, the, 375

Love, the faith of, 507

-- the home of, 503

Lyre and flower, the, 559

Lyre’s lament, the, 478

Lyrics and songs for music, 534

Maclodio, the battle of, 128

Madeline, 408

Madoc’s farewell, 149

Madonna, to a picture of the, 517

Maggi, sonnet from, 138

Magic glass, the, 468

Manuel, translation from, 49

Manzoni, Il Conte di Carmagnola from, 125

Marchetti, sonnet from, 138

Maremma, the, 191

Marguerite of France, 521

Maria di Conti, sonnet from, 138

Marius among the ruins of Carthage, 212

Martyrs, the English, 568

Mary at the feet of Christ, 599

-- the memorial of, 599

Mary Magdalene at the sepulchre, 600

-- -- bearing tidings of the resurrection, 600

Medici, Lorenzo de, sonnet from, 53

Meeting of the bards, the, 246

-- of the brothers, 437

-- of the ships, 560

Memorial of Mary, the, 599

-- pillar, the, 410

Memory of a sister-in-law, to the, 486

-- of Sir H. Ellis, to the, 56

-- of Lord Charles Murray, to the, 490

-- of Sir E. Pakenham, to the, 55

-- of the dead, 494

Message to the dead, the, 459

Messenger bird, the, 343

-- -- answer to, 343 note

Metastasio, translations from, 47

Mignon’s song, 547

Mina’s soldiers, song of, 541

Minster, the, 470

Miriam’s song, 598

Mirror in the deserted hall, the, 484

Miss F. A. L., to, on her birthday, 295

-- -- on her mother’s death, 296

Modern Greece, 28

Moir, D. M., 315, 630

Monarch’s death, a, 423

Montgomery, James, 362

Monthly Review, the, 3

Monti’s Basvigliana, translations from, 118

-- Caius Gracchus, 133

Monumental inscription, 356

Moorish bridal-song, 338

-- gathering-song, 540

More, Hannah, 107 note

Morehead, Dr, 253, 292 notes

Morgarten, song of the battle of, 253

Morning song, from Gesner, 52

“Mother! oh, sing me to rest,” 541

-- to my, 11

-- -- a sonnet, 2

-- hymn by the sick-bed of a, 487

Mother’s birthday, on my, 1

-- litany by the sick-bed of a child, 596

Mountain churchyard, Easter-day in a, 581

-- fires, the, 150

-- sanctuaries, 601

-- winds, to the, 514

Mourner for the Barmecides, the, 417

Mozart’s requiem, 435

Muffled drum, the, 552

Murray, Lord Charles, to the memory of, 490

Music, the voice of, 498

-- at a deathbed, 554

-- from shore, 561

-- of St Patrick’s, 557

-- of yesterday, 379

My own portrait, to, 487

Myrtle bough, the, 244

Naples, 536

National lyrics, 534

Nature, hope of future communion with, 623

-- remembrance of, 628

Nature’s farewell, 477

“Near thee, still near thee,” 538

New-born, to the, 502

Night, song of, 471

Night-blowing flowers, 551

Night-hymn at sea, 597

Night-scene in Genoa, 99

Nightingale, the, 532

Nightingale’s death-song, the, 481

No more, 488

“No searching eye,” 47

North American Review, the, 113, 293, 337, 528

Northern spring, the, 533

Norton, professor, 113, 186, 293, 336, 524, 633

Norwegian war-song, 567

“O thou breeze of spring,” 563

“O ye hours,” 520

“O ye voices gone,” 566

“O ye voices round,” 545

Ocean, the, 530

O’Connor’s child, 508

Ode on the defeat of Sebastian of Portugal, 254

“O’er the far blue mountains,” 563

“Oh! droop thou not,” 538

“Oh! skylark, for thy wing,” 544

“Oh! those alone,” 48

Old church in an English park, an, 603

Old Norway, 567

Olive tree, the, 602

Orange bough, the, 543

Orchard blossoms, 619

Orphan, to an, 486

Otho, the emperor, 85

Our daily paths, 370

-- Lady’s well, 365

Owen Glyndwr’s war-song, 149

Pæstan rose, the, 28 note

Painter’s last work, the, 595

Pakenham, Sir E., to the memory of, 55

Palm-tree, the, 430

Palmer, the, 501

Paradise, a thought of, 606

## Parting of summer, the, 366

-- ship, the, 473

-- song, a, 500

-- words, 459

Passing away, 489

Pastorini, sonnet from, 49

Patriarchal life, images of, 620

Patriotic effusions of the Italian poets, translations from, 137

Paul and Virginia, on reading, 620

Pauline, 434

Peasant girl of the Rhone, the, 401

Pegolotti, sonnet from, 138

Penitence, the song of, 609

Penitent anointing Christ’s feet, the, 599

Penitent’s offering, the, 496

-- return, the, 605

Petrarch, translations from, 51

Picture of the Madonna, to a, 517

Pilgrim fathers, landing of the, 429

Pilgrim’s song to the evening star, 560

Pindemonte, sonnet from, 53

Places of worship, 602

Platæa, the tombs of, 251

Poet’s dying hymn, a, 583

Poetry, the return to, 622

Portrait, to my own, 487

Prayer, a, “O God,” 1

-- “Father in heaven,” 621

-- at sea after victory, 589

-- for life, the, 509

-- in the wilderness, the, 586

-- of affection, 596

-- of the lonely student, 577

Prince Madoc’s farewell, 149

Prisoners’ evening service, the, 587

Procession, the, 515

Prologue to the Poor Gentleman, 21

--- Fiesco, 520

Properzia Rozzi, 392

Psalm cxlviii. paraphrase of, 533

Psalms, the poetry of the, 624

Psyche borne by zephyrs to the island of Pleasure, 382

Quarterly Review, the, 62, 105, 114

Quevedo, translation from, 50

Queen of Prussia’s tomb, the, 409

Rainbow, the, 529

Records of immature genius, on, 617

Records of the autumn of 1834, 622

-- of the spring of 1834, 617

-- of woman, 385

Recovery, 629

Regondi, Giulio, to, 520

Remembered picture, to a, 464

Requiem of genius, the, 482

Restoration of the works of art to Italy, 22

Return, the, 453

-- to poetry, the, 622

Retzsch’s angel of death, on, 628

Revellers, the, 364

Rhine song of the German soldiers, 534

Rhyllon, residence at, 384, note

Richard Cœur-de-Lion, 101

-- -- at the bier of his father, 346

Rio Verde song, the, 539

Rivers, the, 529

Rizpah, the vigil of, 598

Rock beside the sea, the, 566

-- of Cader Idris, the, 152

Rod of Aaron, the, 495

Roman girl’s song, 433

Rome, Alaric at, 95, note

-- buried in her own ruins, 50

Rose, a song of the, 550

-- a thought of the, 518

Ruin, the, 469

-- and its flowers, the, 13

Rural walks, 3

Ruth, 598

Sabbath sonnet, 629

Sacred harp, the, 600

Sadness and mirth, 480

St Cecilia, for a picture of, 505

St Patrick’s, music of, 557

Sannazaro, sonnet from, 296

Sappho, last song of, 549

## Scene in a Dalecarlian mine, 357

Scenes and hymns of life, 568

Sceptic, the, 106

Schepler, Louise, two sonnets to, 603

Schiller’s Wallenstein, 426

Schmidt, the Wanderer from, 523

Schwerin, marshal, grave of, 555

Scio, the voice of, 243

Scott, Sir Walter, 508, 534

-- -- funeral-day of, 585

Sculptured children, the, 496

Sea, distant sound of the, 618

-- night-hymn at, 597

-- prayer at, 589

-- sound of the, 356

-- thought of the, 618

Sea-bird flying inland, the, 484

Sea-song of Gafran, the, 146

Sebastian of Portugal, 256

-- -- -- ode on the defeat of, 254

Second-sight, 483

Secret tribunal, a tale of the, 194

“Seek by the silvery Darro,” 540

Shade of Theseus, the, 349

Shadow of a flower, the, 491

Shakspeare, 2

Shepherd-poet of the Alps, the, 512

Shore of Africa, the, 138

Shunamite woman, reply of the, 598

Sicilian captive, the, 412

Sickness, thoughts during, 627

-- like night, 628

Siege of Valencia, the, 262

Silent multitude, the, 493

Silver locks, the, 10

Silvio Pellico, to, 622

-- -- released, 622

“Sing to me, gondolier,” 563

“Sister! since I met thee last,” 559

Sister’s dream, the, 507

Sisters, the, 548

-- of Bethany, the, 599

-- of Scio, the, 455

Sister-in-law, to the memory of a, 486

Sky, to the, 617

Skylark, the, 532

Skylark, on watching the flight of a, 618

Sleeper, the, 484

-- of Marathon, the, 295

Smith, Elizabeth, lines on, 12

Soldier’s deathbed, the, 461

-- song of memory, the, 358

Song for air by Hummel, 490

-- founded on an Arabian anecdote, 293

-- of Delos, 535

-- of emigration, 451

-- of hope, the, 546

-- of Mina’s soldiers, 541

-- of night, the, 471

-- of penitence, the, 609

-- of the battle of Morgarten, the, 253

-- of the rose, a, 550

-- of the Spanish wanderer, 361

-- of the Virgin, 599

Songs for summer hours, 541

-- of a guardian spirit, 538

-- of captivity, 545

-- of our fathers, the, 366

-- of Spain, 539

-- of the affections, 442

-- of the Cid, 238

Sonnet, “A child midst ancient,” 601

-- “A fearless journeyer,” 603

-- “A song for Israel’s God,” 598

-- “All the bright hues,” 600

-- “Amidst these scenes,” 50

-- “And come, ye faithful,” 597

-- “And ye are strong,” 619

-- “As the tired voyager,” 597

-- “Back, then, once more,” 629

-- “Beside the streams,” 46

-- “Blessings be round,” 603

-- “Calm scenes,” 620

-- “Come forth,” 621

-- “Crowning a flowery slope,” 603

-- “Doth thy heart stir,” 619

-- “Exempt from every grief,” 47

-- “Fair Tajo, there,” 44

-- “Far are the wings,” 621

-- “Far from the rustlings,” 617

-- “Father in heaven,” 621

-- “Flowers! when the Saviour,” 601

-- “For there a holy,” 603

-- “Happy were they,” 601

-- “He that was dead,” 602

-- “He who proclaims,” 47

-- “High in the glowing,” 43

-- “How flows thy being,” 622

-- “How many blessed,” 629

-- “How shall the harp,” 600

-- “I cry aloud,” 138

-- “I dwell among,” 598

-- “I love to hail,” 3

-- “I met that image,” 601

-- “If e’er again,” 623

-- “If thus thy fallen,” 49

-- “If to the sighing,” 51

-- “Italia, O Italia,” 49

-- “Italia, oh! no more,” 138

-- “Like those pale stars,” 599

-- “Lowliest of women,” 598

-- “Majestic plant,” 623

-- “My earliest memories,” 618

-- “Nobly thy song,” 624

-- “Not long thy voice,” 620

-- “O Cambrian river,” 618

-- “O gentle story,” 620

-- “O festal spring,” 617

-- “O nature! there,” 628

-- “O thought, O memory,” 627

-- “O vale and lake,” 619

-- “Oft have I sung,” 45

-- “Oft in still night-dreams,” 624

-- “Oh! bless’d beyond,” 599

-- “Oh! judge in thoughtful,” 617

-- “Oh! what a joy,” 621

-- “On Judah’s hills,” 602

-- “Once more the eternal,” 622

-- “One grief, one faith,” 599

-- “Pause not,” 49

-- “Pilgrim, whose steps,” 138

-- “Poor insect, rash as rare,” 523

-- “Saved from the perils,” 46

-- “She that cast down,” 138

-- “Should love, the tyrant,” 45

-- “Soft skies of Italy,” 57

-- “Soothed by the strain,” 523

-- “Spirit beloved,” 45

-- “Spirit, so oft,” 623

-- “Spirit, whose life sustaining,” 602

-- “Still are the cowslips,” 619

-- “Still that last look,” 620

-- “Sylph of the breeze,” 51

-- “The palm, the vine,” 602

-- “The plume-like swaying,” 598

-- “The sainted spirit,” 50

-- “Then was a task,” 600

-- “There are who climb,” 622

-- “There blooms a plant,” 46

-- “There was a mournfulness,” 599

-- “These marble domes,” 50

-- “They float before my soul,” 623

-- “This green recess,” 51

-- “This mountain-scene,” 44

-- “Those eyes whence love,” 44

-- “Thou art like night,” 628

-- “Thou hast thy record,” 599

-- “Thou in thy morn,” 50

-- “Thou that wouldst mark,” 51

-- “Thou by whose power,” 45

-- “Thou who hast bled,” 50

-- “’Tis sweet to think,” 3

-- “To thee, maternal guardian,” 2

-- “Trees, gracious trees,” 619

-- “’Twas a bright moment,” 623

-- “Under a palm-tree,” 600

-- “Upward and upward,” 618

-- “Waves of Mondego,” 47

-- “We come not, fair one,” 53

-- “Weeper, to thee,” 600

-- “Welcome, O pure,” 628

-- “Well might thine awful,” 628

-- “What household thoughts,” 600

-- “What secret current,” 620

-- “When from the mountain,” 138

-- “Where shall I find,” 47

-- “Whither, celestial maid,” 53

-- “Whither, oh! whither,” 628

-- “Who watches,” 598

-- “Wrapt in sad musings,” 43

-- “Ye too, the free,” 602

-- “Yes! all things tell us,” 622

-- “Yet as a sunburst,” 599

-- “Yet rolling far,” 618

Sonnets, devotional and memorial, 600

Sound of the sea, the, 356

-- -- -- the distant, 618

Southern cross, the, 332 note

Spain, songs of, 539

Spanish chapel, the, 418

-- evening hymn, 540

-- wanderer, song of the, 361

Spartans’ march, the, 243

Spells of home, the, 433

Spirit, flight of the, 628

-- of the Cape, appearance of the, to Vasco de Gama, 297

Spirit’s mysteries, the, 429

-- return, a, 442

Spring of 1834, records of the, 617

-- the voice of, 247

Stanzas on the death of the Princess Charlotte, 59

-- to the memory of ----, 360

-- -- -- George III., 187

Star of the mine, the, 485

Stars, the, 530

Stewart, Dugald, 370 note

Storm of Delphi, the, 241

Storm-painter in his dungeon, the, 471

Stranger in Louisiana, the, 343

Stranger’s heart, the, 464

Stream set free, the, 543

Streams, the, 474

Student’s prayer, the, 577

Subterranean stream, the, 492

Suliote mother, the, 352

Summer hours, songs for, 541

Summer’s call, the, 543

-- parting, the, 366

Sun, the, 529

Sunbeam, the, 431

Sunset, a thought at, 620

Superstition and revelation, 114

Swan and the skylark, the, 552

“Sweet rose,” 48

Swiss song, 342

Switzer’s wife, the, 391

Sword of the tomb, the, 339

“Sylph of the breeze,” 51

Tale of the secret tribunal, a, 194

-- of the fourteenth century, a, 213

Tales and historic scenes, 67, 190

Taliesin’s prophecy, 148

Tarak, the Moorish conqueror, 77 notes

Tasso, Bernardo, sonnet from, 50

-- Torquato, sonnet from, 50

-- and his sister, 420

-- Goethe’s, scenes from, 611

Tasso’s coronation, 479--Release *421

Tempe, vale of, 31 note

Terrot, Rev. Mr, 66 note

“The sainted spirit,” 50

“The torrent-wave,” 48

Thekla at her lover’s grave, 455

Thekla’s song, 364

Themes of song, the, 534

“There are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles,” 541

“These marble domes,” 50

Theseus, the shade of, 349

“This green recess,” 51

“Thou grot, whence flows,” 52

“Thou, in thy morn,” 50

“Thou that wouldst mark,” 51

“Thou, the stern monarch,” 51

“Thou who hast bled,” 50

Thought from an Italian poet, 489

-- of home at sea, 486

-- of Paradise, a, 606

-- of the future, a, 498

-- of the rose, a, 518

-- of the sea, a, 618

Thunder-storm, the, 531

Tomb, written after visiting a, 519

-- of Madame Langhans, the, 457

Tombs of Platæa, the, 251

Translations from Camoens, 43

-- from Horace, 298

-- from the Italian, 118, 137

-- from the Tasso, &c. of Goethe, 611

Traveller at the source of the Nile, the, 368

Traveller’s evening song, the, 579

-- household, hymn of, on his return, 594

Treasures of the deep, the, 361

Trees, thoughts connected with, 619

Triumphant music, 483

Troubadour song, “The warrior cross’d,” 361

-- -- “They rear’d no trophy,” 609

-- and Richard Cœur-de-Lion, the, 101

Trumpet, the, 374

Two homes, the, 460

-- monuments, the, 604

-- voices, the, 472

Tyrolese peasants, evening song of the, 494

Ulla, 421

“Unbending midst the wintry skies,” 48

Urn and sword, the, 244

Valencia, the siege of, 262

Valkyriur song, 340

Vasco de Gama, appearance of the spirit of the Cape to, 297

Vassal’s lament for the fallen tree, the, 347

Vaudois mountaineers, hymn of the, 588

-- valleys, the, 360

-- wife, the, 453

Vega, Garcilaso de, translations from, 52, 296

-- Lope de, sonnet from, 49

Venus, to, from Horace, 298

Vernal thought, a, 617

Vespers of Palermo, the, 153

Victor, the, 510

Victory, prayer at sea after, 589

View from Castri, the, 251

Vigil of arms, the, 476

-- of Rizpah, the, 598

Violets, 53

Virgil’s tomb, on a leaf from, 245

Virgin, Italian girl’s hymn to the, 449

Virgin’s song, the, 599

Visiting a tomb, written after, 519

Voice of a spirit, the, 364

-- of God, the, 495

-- of home to the prodigal, the, 377

-- of music, the, 498

-- of Scio, the, 243

-- of spring, the, 247

-- of the waves, the, 511

-- of the wind, 475

Voyager’s dream of land, a, 427

Wakening, the, 378

Wales, farewell to, 499

Wallace’s invocation to Bruce, 63

Wanderer, the, 523

-- and the night-flowers, 551

Wandering female singer, to a, 501

-- wind, the, 542

Washington’s statue, 485

Wasp, sonnet to, and reply, 523

Water-lilies, 565

Water-lily, the, 608

Watts, A. A., 248 note

Waves, voice of the, 511

“We return no more,” 500

Weary, evening song of the, 592

Welcome to death, the, 509

Welsh melodies, 145

West, W. E., 488

“What woke the buried sound,” 563

“Where is the sea,” 487

Widow of Crescentius, the, 85

Widow’s son, raising of the, 602

Wife of Asdrubal, the, 97

Wild Huntsman, the, 348

Wilderness, prayer in the, 586

William the Conqueror, burial of, 375

Willow song, the, 542

Wilson, Professor, 456

Wind, voice of the, 475

Wings of the dove, the, 381

Wish, the, 519

Woman and fame, 497

-- on the field of battle, 462

Women of Jerusalem at the Cross, the 599

Wood walk and hymn, 576

Wordsworth, William, 568 note

-- -- to, 422

Works of art, restoration of the, 22

World in the open air, the, 367

“Wouldst thou to love,” 48

Wounded eagle, the, 480

Wreck, the, 373

“Ye are not miss’d, fair flowers,” 542

Younger brother, to my, 11

Zegri maid, the, 539

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A blessing on thy head, thou child of many hopes and fears, 502

A child beside a hamlet’s fount at play, 604

A child midst ancient mountains I have stood, 601

A deep-toned lyre hung murmuring, 478

A dim and mighty minster of old time, 574

A fearless journeyer o’er the mountain-snow, 603

A glorious voice hath ceased, 585

A lyre its plaintive sweetness pour’d, 559

A mighty and a mingled throng, 493

A monarch on his deathbed lay, 423

A mournful gift is mine, my friends, 483

A requiem, and for whom, 435

A song for Israel’s God! Spear, crest, and helm, 598

A song for the death-day of the brave, 425

A song was heard of old, a low sweet song, 535

A sound comes on the rising breeze, 561

A sound of music from amidst the hills, 415

A sound of woe in Salem! mournful cries, 98

A sounding step was heard by night, 476

A trumpet’s note is in the sky, in the glorious Roman sky, 479

A voice from Scio’s isle, 243

A voice from times departed yet floats thy hills among, 148

A voice of woe, a murmur of lament, 255

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young, 350

A youth rode forth from his childhood’s home, 477

A youth went forth to exile, from a home, 351

Again, oh send that anthem-peal again, 557

Ah cease! these fruitless tears restrain, 49

All night the booming minute-gun, 373

AU the bright hues from Eastern garlands glowing, 601

Alone through gloomy forest-shades, 537

Along the star-lit Seine went music swelling, 404

Amidst the bitter tears that fall, 46

Amidst the peopled and the regal isle, 141

Amidst the thrilling leaves, thy voice, 495

Amidst those scenes, O pilgrim I seek’st thou Rome, 50

And come, ye faithful! round Messiah seen, 597

And is there glory from the heaven departed, 375

And is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy, 458

And shrink ye from the way, 430

And there they sleep, the men who stood, 251

And was thy home, pale wither’d thing, 245

And ye are strong to shelter: all meek things, 619

Another warning sound! The funeral bell, 187

Answer me, burning stars of night, 424

Answer, ye chiming waves, 511

Apropos of your illness, pray give, if you please, 139

Are ye for ever to your skies departed, 354

Arise! old Norway sends the word, 567

Art thou come from the far-off land at last, 501

As the tired voyager on stormy seas, 597

Ask’st thou my home? my pathway wouldst thou know, 364

Ave! now let prayer and music, 540

Away! though still thy sword is red, 293

Ay, warrior, arm! and wear thy plume, 490

Back then, once more to breast the waves of life, 629

Banners hung drooping from on high, 604

Bear them not from grassy dells, 556

Before the fiery sun, 242

Beings of brighter worlds, that rise at times, 114

Beside the streams of Babylon, in tears, 46

Bird of the greenwood, 556

Bird, that art singing on Ebro’s side, 540

Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing, 434

Blessing and love be round thee still, fair boy, 520

Blessings be round it still, that gleaming fane, 603

Blessings, O Father! shower, 596

Brave spirit! mourn’d with fond regret, 55

Bride! upon thy marriage-day, 466

Brightly, brightly hast thou fled, 562

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, 362

Bring music! stir the brooding air, 554

Broods there some spirit here, 577

By a mountain-stream at rest, 566

By the blue waters, the restless ocean-waters, 627

By the dark stillness brooding in the sky, 607

By the dread and viewless powers, 145

By the mighty minster’s bell, 372

By the soft green light in the woody glade, 433

Call back your odours, lovely flowers, 551

Call it not loneliness to dwell, 210

Calm on the bosom of thy God, 357

Calm scenes of patriarch life! how long a power, 620

Chains on the cities, gloom in the air, 540

Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high, 58

Child! amidst the flowers at play, 377

Children of night, unfolding meekly, slowly, 551

Clad in all their brightest green, 1

Come away, elves! while the dew is sweet, 565

Come away! the child, where flowers are springing, 560

Come away! the sunny hours, 543

Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive, 621

Come from the woods with the citron flowers, 388

Come home! there is a sorrowing breath, 465

Come, let me make a sunny realm around thee, 504

Come near, ere yet the dust, 353

Come to me, dreams of heaven, 564

Come to me, gentle sleep, 567

Come to me, when my soul, 519

Come to me with your triumphs and your woes, 477

Come to the land of peace, 499

Come to the sunset tree, 494

Come to the woods, my boy, 592

Come, while in freshness and dew it lies, 367

Creature of air and light, 491

Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone, 603

Dark chieftain of the heath and height, 506

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on, 558

Darkly thou glidest onward, 492

Daughter of the Italian heaven, 469

Day is past, 564

Deep, fiery clouds o’ercast the sky, 531

Divine Eliza! since the sapphire sky, 296

Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight, 619

Down a broad river of the Western wilds, 402

Dreamer! and wouldst thou know, 498

Dream’st thou of heaven? What dreams are thine, 518

Droop not, my brothers! I hear a glad strain, 546

Eagle! this is not thy sphere, 480

Earth! guard what here we lay in holy trust, 356

Enjoy the sweets of life’s luxuriant May, 52

Exempt from every grief, ’twas mine to live, 47

Fair gratitude in strain sublime, 14

Fair images of sleep, 497

Fair Tajo, thou whose calmly-flowing tide, 44

Fair vision! thou’rt from sunny skies, 517

Fair wert thou in the dreams, 249

Fallen was the house of Giafar; and its name, 417

Far are the wings of intellect astray, 621

Far away! my home is far away, 558

Far from the rustlings of the poplar bough, 617

Far through the Delphian shades, 241

Farewell, beloved and mourn’d! we miss awhile, 520

Father! guide me; day declines, 579

Father in heaven, from whom the simplest flower, 621

Father of heaven and earth, 592

Father! that in the olive shade, 487

Faunus! who lov’st the flying nymphs to chase, 299

Fear was within the tossing bark, 355

Fearfully and mournfully, 382

Fill high the blue hirlas that shines like the wave, 146

Firm be thy soul, serene in power, 299

Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again, 539

Flow on! rejoice, make music, 543

Flow, Rio Verde, 539

Flower of starry clearness bright, 610

Flowers! when the Saviour’s calm benignant eye, 601

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 588

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind, 603

Forget them not, though now their name, 494

Fortune! why thus, where’er my footsteps tread, 48

Fount of the woods! thou art hid no more, 365

From a ruin thou art singing, 559

From the bright stars, or from the viewless air, 449

From the deep chambers of a mine, 485

From the glowing southern regions, 150

Gentle and lovely form, 462

Gloom is upon thy lonely hearth, 463

Go forth! for she is gone, 338

Go in thy glory o’er the ancient sea, 473

Go to the forest glade, 438

Go! trace th’ unnumber’d streams o’er earth, 529

Green spot of holy ground, 606

Green wave the oak for ever o’er thy rest, 424

Hail! morning sun, thus early bright, 52

Happy soon we’ll meet again, 2

Happy thou art, the child of one, 485

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight, 601

Hark! from the dim church-tower, 553

Hark! from the right bursts forth a trumpet’s sound, 128

Harp of the mountain-land! sound forth again, 145

Hast thou been in the woods with the honey-bee, 506

Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood back, 453

Haste with your torches, baste! make firelight round, 357

Hath the summer’s breath on the south wind borne, 484

Have ye left the greenwood lone, 562

He passed from earth, 609

He sat in silence on the ground, 414

He shall not dread misfortune’s angry mien, 48

He that in venturous barks hath been, 530

He that was dead rose up and spoke! He spoke, 602

He walk’d with God in holy joy, 495

He who proclaims that love is light and vain, 47

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast, 95

Heart! that didst press forward still, 476

Her hands were clasp’d, her dark brows raised, 394

Her home is far, oh! far away, 564

Here in the dust, its strange adventures o’er, 21

High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beams, 43

Hold me upon thy faithful heart, 561

Home of the gifted, fare thee well, 508

How can that eye, with inspiration beaming, 505

How can that love, so deep, so lone, 565

How flows thy being now? like some glad hymn, 622

How is it that before mine eyes, 487

How many a day, in various hues array’d, 12

How many blessed groups this hour are bending, 629

How many hopes were borne upon thy bier, 457

How many thousands are wakening now, 378

How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom, 518

How shall the harp of poesy regain, 600

How strange a fate in love is mine, 45

Hush! lightly tread! still tranquilly she sleeps, 572

Hush!’tis a holy hour. The quiet room, 374

Hush’d is the world in night and sleep, 55

I am free! I have burst through my galling chain, 491

I call thee bless’d, though now the voice be fled, 461

I come down from the hills alone, 523

I come, I come! ye have call’d me long, 247

I come to thee, O earth, 471

I cry aloud, and ye shall hear my call, 138

I dream of all things free, 546

I go, I go! and must mine image fade, 382

I go, sweet friends! yet think of me, 354

I go, sweet sister! yet my heart would linger with thee fain, 548

I hate the Persian’s costly pride, 298

I hear thee speak of the better land, 479

I heard a song upon the wandering wind, 554

I lay on that rock where the storms have their dwelling, 152

I lay upon the solemn plain, 295

I look’d on the field where the battle was spread, 605

I love to hear the mild and balmy hour, 3

I love to rove o’er history’s page, 2

I made a mountain-brook my guide, 418

I met that image on a mirthful day, 601

I saw him at his sport erewhile, 583

I stood upon the threshold-stone, 626

I stood beside thy lonely grave, 411

I stood where the lip of song lay low, 519

I would we had not met again, 565

If e’er again my spirit be allow’d, 623

If e’er from human bliss or woe, 11

If, in thy glorious home above, 44

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone, 423

If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold, 49

If thou hast crush’d a flower, 562

If to the sighing breeze of summer hours, 51

In Genoa, when the sunset gave, 99

In sunset’s light o’er Afric thrown, 368

In tears, the heart oppress’d with grief, 47

In the deep hour of dreams, 449

In the deep wilderness unseen she pray’d, 586

In the full tide of melody and mirth, 360

In the proud old fanes of England, 545

In the shadow of the Pyramid, 516

In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, 294

In the silence of the midnight, 450

In thy cavern-hall, 551

Io! they come, they come, 536

Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods, 359

Is there some spirit sighing, 566

It is the Rhine! our mountain-vineyards laving, 534

It is thy pity makes me weep, 563

It is written on the rose, 489

It stands where Northern willows weep, 409

It was an hour of fear and grief, 238

It was the time when children bound to meet, 391

It waved not through an Eastern sky, 430

Italia! O Italia! thou so graced, 49

Italia! oh! no more Italia now, 138

Joy is upon the lonely seas, 378

Joy! the lost one is restored, 594

Know ye not when our dead, 349

Know’st thou the land where bloom the citron bowers, 547

Land of departed fame, whose classic plains, 22

Leave me not yet, though rosy skies afar, 543

Leave me, oh! leave me! unto all below, 459

Leaves have their time to fall, 375

Let the vain courtier waste his days, 49

Let the yellow mead shine for the sons of the brave, 148

Life’s parting beams were in his eye, 59

Light the hills, till heaven is glowing, 150

Like thee to die, thou Sun! my boyhood’s dream, 461

Like those pale stars of tempest hours, whose gleam, 599

Listen, fair maid! my song shall tell, 52

Lonely and still are now thy marble halls, 67

Look from the ancient mountains down, 609

Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, 561

Look on the white Alps round, 342

Lowliest of women and most glorified, 598

Lowly and solemn be, 585

Lowly upon his bier, 537

Majestic plant! such fairy dreams as lie, 623

Mark’d ye the mingling of the city’s throng, 59

Midnight! and silence deep, 471

Midst the long reeds that o’er a Grecian stream, 552

Midst Tivoli’s luxuriant glades, 85

Mighty ones, Love and Death, 510

Minstrel, whose gifted hand can bring, 19

Morn once again! morn in the lone dim cell, 568

Mother and child, whose blending tears, 410

Mother! oh sing me to rest, 541

Mountain-winds! oh whither do ye call me, 514

Mournfully, sing mournfully, 481

My battle-vow! no minster walls, 454

My child, my child, thou leav’st me! I shall hear, 408

My earliest memories to thy shores are bound, 618

My father’s house once more! 605

My soul was mantled with dark shadows, born, 624

Near thee! still near thee! o’er thy pathway gliding, 538

Night, holy night! the time, 577

Night hung on Salem’s towers, 606

Night sinks on the wave, 597

Night veil’d the mountain of the vine, 194

No bitter tears for thee be shed, 54

No cloud obscures the summer sky, 530

No cloud to dim the splendours of the day, 103

No dower of storied song is thine, 469

No more! a harp-string’s deep and breaking tone, 488

No searching eye can pierce the veil, 47

No tears for thee! though light be from us gone, 482

Nobly thy song, O minstrel! rush’d to meet, 624

Not for the myrtle and not for the vine, 361

Not long thy voice among us may be heard, 620

O Cambrian river, with slow music gliding, 618

O dim forsaken mirror, 484

O ever joyous band, 493

O festal spring, midst thy victorious glow, 617

O gentle story of the Indian isle, 620

O God, my Father and my Friend, 1

O joy of the peasant, O stately lime, 555

O lonely voices of the sky, 437

O Nature, thou didst rear me for thine own, 628

O soft star of the west, 560

O Son of Man, 574

O spirit-land, thou land of dreams, 462

O sunshine and fair earth, 509

O thou breeze of spring, 563

O thou whose pure exalted mind, 12

O Thought! O Memory! gems for ever heaping, 627

O vale and Lake! within your mountain-urn, 619

O wanderer! would thy heart forget, 54

O ye hours, ye sunny hours, 520

O ye voices gone, 566

O ye voices round my own hearth singing, 545

O’er the far blue mountains, 563

Oft have I sung and mourn’d the bitter woes, 45

Oft in still night-dreams a departed face, 624

Oh! art thou still on earth, my love, 546

Oh! ask not, hope thou not too much, 367

Oh! beautiful thou art, 608

Oh! bless’d beyond all daughters of the earth, 599

Oh! blest art thou whose steps may rove, 528

Oh! bring me one sweet orange bough, 543

Oh! call my brother back to me, 502

Oh! droop thou not, mine early gentle love, 538

Oh! enter not yon shadowy cave, 341

Oh! for thy wings, thou dove, 381

Oh! forget not the hour when through forest and vale, 56

Oh! how could fancy crown with thee, 354, 557

Oh! if thou wilt not give thine heart, 490

Oh! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those, 617

Oh! leave thine own loved isle, 298

Oh! lightly, lightly tread, 484

Oh! lightly tread through these deep chestnut bowers, 510

Oh! many a voice is thine, thou wind! full many a voice, 475

Oh! may I ever pass my happy hours, 3

Oh! ne’er be Clanronald the valiant forgot, 58

Oh! pure and blessed soul, 296

Oh! skylark, for thy wing, 544

Oh! tell me not the woods are fair, 566

Oh! those alone whose severed hearts, 48

Oh! wear it on thy heart, my love, 565

Oh! what a joy to feel that, in my heart, 621

Oh! when wilt thou return, 377

Oh! who hath trod thy consecrated clime, 28

Oh! worthy fragrant gifts of flowers and wine, 299

On Judah’s hills a weight of darkness hung, 602

Once more the eternal melodies from far, 622

One draught, kind fairy! from that fountain deep, 465

One dream of passion and of beauty more, 392

One grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead, 599

One hour for distant homes to weep, 545

Pause not with lingering feet, O pilgrim! here, 49

Peace to thy dreams! thou art slumbering now, 380

Pilgrim! oh say, hath thy cheek been fann’d, 361

Pilgrim! whose steps these desert sands explore, 138

Poor insect, rash as rare! thy sovereign, sure, 523

Praise ye the Lord! on every height, 533

Press on, my steed! I hear the swell, 150

Propitious winds our daring bark impelled, 297

Raise ye the sword! let the death-stroke be given, 151

Rest on your battle-fields, ye brave, 245

Rest, pilgrim, rest! Thou’rt from the Syrian land, 363

Return my thoughts! come home, 607

Return, return, my bird, 521

Ring, joyous chords! ring out again, 364

Rise like an altar-fire, 575

Rocks of my country! let the cloud, 376

Rome! Rome! thou art no more, 433

Rose! what dost thou here, 550

Royal in splendour went down the day, 398

Saved from the perils of the stormy wave, 46

Saviour! that of woman born, 596

Saw ye the blazing star, 149

Say not ’tis fruitless--nature’s holy tear, 296

Seek by the silvery Darro, 540

See’st thou my home? ’Tis where yon woods are waving, 460

See’st thou yon gray gleaming hall, 511

She came forth in her bridal robes array’d, 502

She dwelt in proud Venetian halls, 515

She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell, 407

She sat, where on each wind that sigh’d, 420

She sleeps, but not the free and sunny sleep, 507

She stood upon the loftiest peak, 352

She that cast down the empires of the world, 138

Should love, the tyrant of my suffering heart, 45

Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief, 371

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, 358

Sing them upon the sunny hills, 366

Sing to me, Gondolier, 563

Singing of the free blue sky, 512

Sister! since I met thee last, 559

Sister, sweet sister! let me weep awhile, 455

Sleep midst thy banners furl’d, 365

Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes, 119

Sleep!--we give thee to the wave, 559

Soft falls the mild reviving shower, 529

Soft skies of Italy! how richly drest, 57

Soldier, awake! the night is past, 562

Son of the mighty and the free, 57

Son of the ocean isle, 246

Son of the stranger! wouldst thou take, 344

Sons of the fair isle! forget not the time, 152

Sooth’d by the strain, the wasp thus made reply, 523

Sound on! thou dark, unslumbering sea, 549

Speak low!--the place is holy to the breath, 470

Spirit beloved! whose wing so soon hath flown, 45

Spirit! so oft in radiant freedom soaring, 623

Spirit! whose life-sustaining presence fills, 602

Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, 619

Still green along our sunny shore, 244

Still is the Syren warbling on thy shore, 536

Still that last look is solemn! though thy rays, 620

Stop, passenger! a wondrous tale to list, 20

Surely ’tis all a dream, a fever-dream, 579

Sweet rose! whose tender foliage to expand, 48

Sweets of the wild, that breathe and bloom, 13

Sylph of the breeze, whose dewy pinions light, 51

That was a joyous day in Rheims of old, 403

The Alpine horn, the Alpine horn, 545

The bark that held a prince went down, 346

The blue, deep, glorious heavens! I lift mine eye, 583

The boy stood on the burning deck, 369

The breaking waves dash’d high, 429

The bright hours return, the blue sky is ringing, 147

The champions had come from their fields of war, 412

The chord, the harp’s full chord is hush’d, 379

The citron groves their fruits and flowers were strewing, 338

The corn in golden light, 348

The dead! the glorious dead! and shall they rise, 468

The fever’s hue hath left thy cheek, beloved, 595

The fires grew pale on Rome’s deserted shrines, 221

The gloomiest day hath gleams of light, 501

The hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, 147

The hall of harps is lone to-night, 152

The hearth, the hearth is desolate, the fire is quench’d, 380

The hills all glow’d with a festive light, 432

The hollow dash of waves, the ceaseless roar, 427

The infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire, 1

The Kaiser feasted in his hall, 419

The kings of old have shrine and tomb, 376

The moonbeam quivering o’er the wave, 213

The Moor had beleaguer’d Valencia’s walls, 239

The morn rose bright on scenes renown’d, 63

The Moslem spears were gleaming, 521

The muffled drum was heard, 552

The night-wind shook the tapestry round an ancient, 405

The palm, the vine, the cedar, each hath power, 602

The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn, 598

The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken, 429

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon’s plain, 372

The sainted spirit which from bliss on high, 50

The sea bird’s wing o’er ocean’s breast, 434

The sea-king woke from the troubled sleep, 340

The skylark, when the dews of morn, 532

The sleep of storms is dark upon the skies, 508

The sound of thy streams in my spirit I hear, 499

The spirit of my land, 379

The stately homes of England, 412

The stranger’s heart! oh! wound it not, 464

The summer leaves were sighing, 539

The sun comes forth: each mountain height, 529

The sun sets brightly: but a ruddier glow, 97

The torrent-wave, that breaks with force, 48

The troubadour o’er many a plain, 101

The trumpet of the battle, 567

The trumpet’s voice hath roused the land, 374

The vesper-bell from church and tower, 547

The voices of my home! I hear them still, 316

The voices of two forest boys, 437

The war-note of the Saracen, 446

The warrior bow’d his crested head, and tamed his heart, 456

The warrior cross’d the ocean’s foam, 361

The wind, the wandering wind, 542

The wine-month shone in its golden prime, 253

The woods! oh, solemn are the boundless woods, 396

Theirs was no dream, O monarch hill, 151

Then was a task of glory all thine own, 600

There are bright scenes beneath Italian skies, 191

There are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, 541

There are the aspens with their silvery hair, 576

There are who climb the mountain’s heathery side, 622

There blooms a plant, whose gaze from hour to hour, 46

There have been bright and glorious pageants here, 251

There is a wakening on the mighty hills, 581

There was a mournfulness in angel eyes, 599

There was heard a song on the chiming sea, 451

There was heard the sound of a coming foe, 345

There was music on the midnight, 448

There went a dirge through the forest’s gloom, 457

There went a warrior’s funeral through the night, 401

There were faint sounds of weeping; fear and gloom, 467

There were sights and sounds of revelry, 452

There were thick leaves above me and around, 427

There were trampling sounds of many feet, 515

There’s beauty all around our paths, if but our watchful eyes, 370

These marble domes, by wealth and genius graced, 50

They float before my soul, the fair designs, 623

They grew in beauty, side by side, 435

They haunt me still, these calm, pure, holy eyes, 464

They have wander’d in their glee, 541

They rear’d no trophy o’er his grave, 609

They sought for treasures in the tomb, 244

Thine eyes are charm’d, thine earnest eyes, 458

Thine is a strain to read among the hills, 422

This green recess, where through the bowery gloom, 51

This mountain scene with sylvan grandeur crown’d, 44

Those eyes whence love diffused her purest light, 44

Thou art a thing on our dreams to rise, 357

Thou art bearing hence thy roses, 366

Thou art come from the spirit’s land, thou bird, 343

Thou art gone, thou art slumbering low, 421

Thou art like night, O sickness! deeply stilling, 628

Thou art no lingerer in monarchs’ hall, 431

Thou art passing hence, my brother, 459

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea, 356

Thou art welcome, O thou warning voice, 509

Thou didst fall on the field with thy silver hair, 555

Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring, 52

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame, 497

Thou hast been rear’d too tenderly, 486

Thou hast been where the rocks of coral grow, 481

Thou hast loved and thou hast suffered, 501

Thou hast thy record in the monarch’s hall, 599

Thou hast watch’d beside the bed of death, 507

Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose, 50

Thou mov’st in visions, Love! around thy way, 503

Thou see’st her pictured with her sinning hair, 416

Thou shouldst be look’d on when the starlight falls, 250

Thou shouldst have slept beneath the stately pines, 490

Thou sleepest, but when wilt thou wake, fair child, 431

Thou that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy, 356

Thou that hast loved so long and well, 489

Thou that with pallid cheek, 496

Thou that wouldst mark in form of human birth, 51

Thou the stern monarch of dismay, 51

Thou thing of years departed, 436

Thou to whose power my hopes, my joys, I gave, 45

Thou wak’st from rosy sleep to play, 355

Thou who hast fled from life’s enchanted bowers, 50

Though dark are the prospects and heavy the hours, 11

Though youth may boast the curls that flow, 10

Throne of expression, whence the spirit’s ray, 59

Through evening’s bright repose, 589

Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array, 93

Thy heart is in the upper world, where fleet the chamois, 450

Thy rest was deep at the slumberer’s hour, 348

Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved, 453

Thy voice prevails! Dear friend, my gentle friend, 442

Thy voice was in my soul, it call’d me on, 455

’Tis lone on the waters, 486

’Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest, 3

To thee, maternal guardian of my youth, 2

To-night, kind friends, at your tribunal here, 21

Too long apart, a bright but sever’d band, 520

Too long have tyranny and power combined, 4

Torches were blazing clear, 346

Trees, gracious trees, how rich a gift ye are, 619

Tribes of the air, whose favour’d race, 531

’Twas a bright moment of my life, when first, 623

’Twas a dream of olden days, 491

’Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours, 369

’Twas but a dream! I saw the stag leap free, 385

’Twas early day, and sunlight stream’d, 437

’Twas morn upon the Grecian hills, 243

’Twas night in Babylon; yet many a beam, 219

Twas night upon the Alps, The Senn’s wild horn, 234

’Twas noon, and Afric’s dazzling sun on high, 212

’Twas the deep mid-watch of the silent night, 241

Two barks met on the deep mid-sea, 560

Two solemn voices in a funeral strain, 472

Unbending midst the watery skies, 48

Under a palm-tree, by the green old Nile, 600

Upward, and upward still! in pearly light, 618

Voice of the gifted elder time, 339

Warrior! whose image on thy tomb, 428

Warriors! my noon of life is past, 56

Was it the sigh of the southern gale, 495

Was that the light from some lone swift canoe, 590

Watch ye well! the moon is shrouded, 146

Waves of Mondego, brilliant and serene, 47

We come not, fair one! to thy hand of snow, 53

We have the myrtle’s breath around us here, 394

We heard thy name, O Mina, 541

We miss thy voice, while early flowers are blooming, 486

We return, we return, we return no more, 500

We saw thee, O stranger! and wept, 343

We see no more in thy pure skies, 588

Weep thou no more! O monarch! dry thy tears, 121

Weeper! to thee how bright a morn was given, 600

Weep’st thou for him whose doom was seal’d, 56

Welcome, O pure and lovely forms! again, 628

Well might thine awful image thus arise, 628

What are the lessons given, 252

What dost thou here, brave Swiss, 294

What first should consecrate as thine, 295

What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells, 361

What household thoughts around thee as their shrine, 600

What secret current of man’s nature turns, 620

What wak’st thou, spring? Sweet voices in the woods, 432

What was your doom, my father? In thine arms, 587

What wish can friendship form for thee, 295

What woke the buried sound that lay, 563

When from the mountain’s brow the gathering shade, 138

When the last blush of eve is dying, 148

When the soft breath of spring goes forth, 533

When the tide’s billowy swell, 492

When the young eagle with exulting eye, 106

When thy bounding step I hear, 524

When twilight’s gray and pensive hour, 532

When will ye think of me, my friends, 500

Whence are those tranquil joys in mercy given, 15

Whence art thou, flower? From holy ground, 244

Whence is the might of thy master-spell, 498

Where are the vintage-songs, 546

Where are they, those green fairy islands, reposing, 146

Where is the sea? I languish here, 487

Where is the summer with her golden sun, 349

Where is the tree the prophet threw, 496

Where met our bards of old? The glorious throng, 246

Where shall I find some desert scene so rude, 47

Where shall I find in all this fleeting earth, 489

Where shall the minstrel find a theme, 534

Where shall we make her grave, 549

Where sucks the bee now? Summer is flying, 355

Where the long reeds quiver, 581

Wherefore and whither bear’st thou up my spirit, 483

While the blue is richest, 565

Whisper, thou tree, thou lonely tree, 473

Whither, celestial maid, so fast away, 53

Whither, oh whither, wilt thou wing thy way, 628

Who watches on the mountains with the dead, 598

Why art thou thus in thy beauty cast, 524

Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day, 149

Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child, 423

Wildly and mournfully the Indian drum, 406

Willow! in thy breezy moan, 542

With sixty knights in his gallant train, 238

With what young life and vigour in its breath, 256

Wouldst thou to love of danger speak, 48

Wouldst thou wear the gift of immortal bloom, 439

Wrapt in sad musings, by Euphrates’ stream, 43

Ye are not miss’d, fair flowers, that late were spreading, 542

Ye have been holy, O founts and floods, 474

Ye met at the stately feasts of old, 480

Ye tell me not of birds and bees, 499

Ye too, the free and fearless birds of air, 602

Yes! all things tell us of a birthright lost, 622

Yes! I came from the spirit’s land, 343

Yes! I have seen the ancient oak, 347

Yes! it is haunted, this quiet scene, 358

Yes! it is ours: the field is won, 245

Yes! rear thy guardian hero’s form, 485

Yes! thou hast met the sun’s last smile, 360

Yet as a sun-burst flushing mountain-snow, 599

Yet, rolling far up some green mountain-dale, 618

You ugliest of fabrics! you horrible eyesore, 382

THE END.

A SELECTION

FROM

Catalogue of Popular and Standard Books

PUBLISHED BY

=WILLIAM P. NIMMO, EDINBURGH.=

⁂ Complete Catalogues of Mr. Nimmo’s Publications, choicely printed and elegantly bound, suitable for the Library, Presentation, and School Prizes, etc. etc., will be forwarded gratis, post free, on application.

‘_Mr. Nimmo’s Books are well known as marvels of cheapness, elegance, and sterling worth._’--Observer.

HUGH MILLER’S WORKS.

_CHEAP POPULAR EDITIONS_,

In crown 8vo, cloth extra, price 5s. each.

Twenty-Fourth Edition,

1. My Schools and Schoolmasters; or, The Story of my Education.

‘A story which we have read with pleasure, and shall treasure up in memory for the sake of the manly career narrated, and the glances at old-world manners and distant scenes afforded us by the way.’--_Athenæum._

Forty-Second Thousand,

2. The Testimony of the Rocks; or, Geology in its Bearings on the Two Theologies, Natural and Revealed. _Profusely Illustrated._

‘The most remarkable work of perhaps the most remarkable man of the age.... A magnificent epic, and the Principia of Geology.’--_British and Foreign Evangelical Review._

Eleventh Edition,

3. The Cruise of the Betsey; or, A Summer Ramble among the Fossiliferous Deposits of the Hebrides. With Rambles of a Geologist; or, Ten Thousand Miles over the Fossiliferous Deposits of Scotland.

Seventh Edition,

4. Sketch-Book of Popular Geology.

Fourteenth Edition,

5. First Impressions of England and its PEOPLE.

‘This is precisely the kind of book we should have looked for from the author of the “Old Red Sandstone.” Straightforward and earnest in style, rich and varied in matter, these “First Impressions” will add another laurel to the wreath which Mr. Miller has already won for himself.’--_Westminster Review._

Thirteenth Edition,

6. Scenes and Legends of the North of SCOTLAND; or, The Traditional History of Cromarty.

‘A very pleasing and interesting book. The style has a purity and elegance which remind one of Irving, or of Irving’s master, Goldsmith.’--_Spectator._

Twentieth Edition,

7. The Old Red Sandstone; or, New Walks in an Old Field. _Profusely Illustrated._

‘In Mr. Miller’s charming little work will be found a very graphic description of the Old Red Fishes. I know not a more fascinating volume on any branch of British Geology.’--_Mantell’s Medals of Creation._

Eighth Edition,

8. The Headship of Christ and the Rights of the Christian People. With Preface by Peter Bayne, A.M.

Seventeenth Edition,

9. Footprints of the Creator; or, The Asterolepis of Stromness. With Preface and Notes by Mrs. Miller, and a Biographical Sketch by Professor Agassiz. _Profusely Illustrated._

Seventh Edition,

10. Tales and Sketches. Edited, with a Preface, by Mrs. Miller.

Sixth Edition,

11. Essays: Historical and Biographical, Political and Social, Literary and Scientific.

Sixth Edition,

12. Edinburgh and its Neighbourhood, Geological and Historical. With the Geology of the Bass Rock.

Fifth Edition,

13. Leading Articles on Various Subjects. Edited by his Son-in-law, the Rev. John Davidson. With a Characteristic Portrait of the Author, fac-simile from a Photograph, by D. O. Hill, R.S.A.

⁂ _Hugh Miller’s Works may also be had in complete sets of 13 Volumes, bound in half-calf with extra bands, price_ £4, 17_s._ 6_d._, _or elegantly bound in roxburgh style, gilt top, price_ £3, 18_s._, _or in cloth extra, gold and black printing, new style, gilt top, price_ £3, 5_s._

HUGH MILLER’S WORKS.

_=NEW CHEAP RE-ISSUE.=_

In announcing a New Cheap Edition of the Works of Hugh Miller, the Publisher does not consider it necessary to add anything by way of commendation. The fame of Hugh Miller is securely established throughout the world, and his works, by universal consent, take rank among the highest in English Literature.

To the higher and more cultivated classes of society, he appeals by the purity and elegance of his style, as well as by his remarkable powers of description, and his profound knowledge of the marvels of nature. To the humbler classes and the working man, the story of his life--himself originally a working man in the strictest sense of the word, pushing his way upward to the distinguished position which he attained--must possess a peculiar charm, and to them his writings cannot fail to prove of special value.

At the present time, the works of Hugh Miller, one of the most gifted of our self-taught and self-made men, are peculiarly suited to exercise a most powerful influence in promoting the great cause of the progress of Education; and this new Edition, while elegant enough to command a place in the libraries of the rich, is cheap enough to be within the reach of the student and the working man.

Although many of his books have already attained an immense sale notwithstanding their high price, the Publisher feels assured that they only require to be offered to the general public at a moderate rate to ensure for them a very widely increased circulation.

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

‘This attempt to bring the works of so distinguished an author within the reach of all classes cannot fail to be universally appreciated.’--_Morning Star._

‘Hugh Miller’s writings have long passed the period of criticism, and taken rank among standard works. From the times of the British Essayists and Oliver Goldsmith, no literary man has shown a greater mastery of the English language than the author of _The Old Red Sandstone_. The size of the page and the letterpress are suitable for the library, while the price is a third less than the original edition.’--_Daily Review._

‘The moderate price at which the series is now offered, however, will enable thousands of readers to acquire for themselves those volumes which they have hitherto only found accessible by means of the circulating library. From the pure, manly, and instructive character of his writings--whether social, moral, or scientific--and from the fascinating attractions of his style, we do not know any works better deserving of a vast circulation than those of Hugh Miller. The edition is clearly printed, and altogether well got up.’--_Glasgow Herald._

‘This cheap re-issue by Mr. Nimmo will enable tens of thousands who have yet only heard of Hugh Miller soon to learn to appreciate and admire him.’--_Bell’s Messenger._

‘This cheap edition of Hugh Miller’s works deserves, and will doubtless secure, a very extended public support. No one knew better than Hugh Miller how to combine amusement with instruction; and all his works exhibit this most important combination.’--_Public Opinion._

‘The works of Hugh Miller cannot be too widely known or studied; and the publisher deserves our thanks for his cheap re-issue of them.’--_The Standard._

‘A new cheap issue of Hugh Miller’s admirable works will be hailed with pleasure by all who desire to possess a really valuable collection of books.’--_The Observer._

POPULAR WORKS BY ASCOTT R. HOPE.

_Second Edition, just published, in large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, price 3s. 6d._,

STORIES OF WHITMINSTER.

By ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of ‘A Book about Dominies,’ ‘A Book about Boys,’ ‘My Schoolboy Friends,’ ‘Stories of School Life,’ etc. etc. etc.

_Third Edition, just published, post 8vo, cloth extra, profusely Illustrated, gilt edges, price 5s._,

MY SCHOOLBOY FRIENDS: _A STORY OF WHITMINSTER GRAMMAR SCHOOL_.

By the Author of ‘A Book about Dominies,’ ‘Stories of School Life,’ etc.

‘Its fidelity to truth is the charm of the book; but the individuals introduced are so admirably described, that an excellent moral may be deduced from the attributes of the well-disposed and the vicious. The volume will be read with interest by those who have arrived at full age, and with much mental profit by those who are in their nonage.’--_The Lincoln Mercury._

_Just ready, crown 8vo, elegantly bound, cloth extra, gilt edges, and profusely Illustrated, price 3s. 6d._,

GEORGE’S ENEMIES: _A SEQUEL TO ‘MY SCHOOLBOY FRIENDS.’_

By ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of ‘A Book about Boys,’ etc. etc.

‘This is one of the best of Mr. Hope’s books about boys. There is no pretension about it, and no sentimentality.’--_The Spectator._

‘“George’s Enemies,” a sequel to “My Schoolboy Friends,” is, to say the least, too full of variety and of incident to weary the youthful reader, especially if that reader is a schoolboy.’--_Pall Mall Gazette._

_THIRD EDITION_,

_Crown 8vo, elegantly bound, cloth extra, gilt edges, and profusely Illustrated by_ Chas. Green, _price 3s. 6d._,

STORIES ABOUT BOYS.

By ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of ‘Stories of School Life,’ ‘My Schoolboy Friends,’ etc. etc.

‘A book for boys by Mr. Hope stands in no need of recommendation. His previous tales have proved such favourites, that the simple announcement of his name is sufficient to ensure for his new volume a wide circulation among the host of youths who are let loose from school about Christmas-time. These stories are admirably suited, in their subject and style, to excite and attract all juvenile readers. They have the rare advantage of really good illustrations, and the style of binding is the prettiest and most artistic we have yet come across.’--_The North British Mail._

‘Boys will find he has prepared a tempting dish, into which they may dip again and again with interest and with profit. The volume is handsomely got up.’--_The Scotsman._

_Fourth Edition, just published, in crown 8vo, elegantly bound and illustrated, gilt edges, 5s._,

STORIES OF SCHOOL LIFE.

By ASCOTT R. HOPE,

Author of ‘A Book about Boys,’ ‘A Book about Dominies,’ etc. etc.

‘Every one who had the good fortune to read those delightful books of Mr. Hope’s, “A Book about Dominies” and “A Book about Boys,” must have registered a hope that he would some day give us a collection of stories about school life; and here is the identical book. The stories are genial and refreshing, rich with the highest moral sentiments, never maudlin, and thoroughly natural. We trust to meet Mr. Hope again and again in similar works, for we can assure him that no sensational story that has ever been written ever possessed half the interest or enjoyment which these stories possess.’--_Public Opinion._

_In crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt edges, with numerous Illustrations, price 5s._,

STORIES OF FRENCH SCHOOL LIFE.

By ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of ‘A Book about Dominies,’ ‘Stories about Boys,’ ‘My Schoolboy Friends,’ etc.

_Fourth Edition, crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d._,

A BOOK ABOUT DOMINIES: BEING THE REFLECTIONS AND RECOLLECTIONS OF A MEMBER OF THE PROFESSION.

‘This is a manly, earnest book. The author describes in a series of essays the life and work of a schoolmaster; and as he has lived that life and done that work from deliberate choice, his story is worth hearing.’--_The Spectator._

_Fourth Edition, crown 8vo, cloth extra, price 3s. 6d._,

A BOOK ABOUT BOYS.

By ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of ‘A Book about Dominies,’ etc.

‘This volume is full of knowledge, both useful and entertaining, in the truest sense of the words, and it is impossible to put it down without a feeling of personal kindliness towards the author. If our readers think we have praised too much and criticised too little, we can only say there is something about the book which disarms one’s critical faculty, and appeals to them to judge for themselves. We should like to see it in the hands of every parent and schoolmaster in England.’--_Saturday Review._

_Second Edition, crown 8vo, cloth extra, price 3s. 6d._,

TEXTS FROM THE TIMES.

By ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of ‘A Book about Dominies,’ ‘A Book about Boys,’ etc. etc.

‘Mr. Hope is a very sensible man, and speaks what is well worth listening to for its good, practical common-sense.... This book is especially distinguished by its healthy tone, and should be put into the hands of all young people.’--_Westminster Review._

_Second and Cheaper Edition, just ready, crown 8vo, cloth extra, price 3s. 6d._,

MASTER JOHN BULL: A HOLIDAY BOOK FOR PARENTS AND SCHOOLMASTERS.

By ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of ‘A Book about Dominies,’ etc. etc.

‘It is a book well worth reading by all who have the care and control of boys; for though they may not, perhaps, correct their mistakes, still some gleam of light and feeling of sympathy must follow from reading it.’--_The Athenæum._

_In imperial 16mo, profusely Illustrated, cloth elegant, price 3s. 6d._,

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE HOLIDAYS.

By ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of ‘My Schoolboy Friends,’ etc.

New Work by ASCOTT R. HOPE,

Author of ‘George’s Enemies,’ ‘My Schoolboy Friends,’ etc. etc.

_Uniform in Size and Price with ‘The Night Before the Holidays,’_

THE DAY AFTER THE HOLIDAYS.

With Numerous Original Illustrations by PHIZ, jun.

‘_A marvel of cheapness and excellence, even in this age of cheap literature._’--Observer.

NIMMO’S

_Library Edition of Standard Works_.

_In large demy 8vo, with Steel Portrait and Vignette, handsomely bound, roxburgh style, gilt top, price_ =5s.= _each_.

1. Shakespeare’s Complete Works. With a Biographical Sketch by Mary Cowden Clarke, a Copious Glossary, and numerous Illustrations.

⁂ This Edition is based on the Text of Johnson, Steevens, and Reed, which is allowed to be one of the most accurate; and, so far as regards mechanical correctness, it will contrast favourably with many high-priced and ambitious editions.

2. Burns’ Complete Works. Containing also his Remarks on Scottish Song, General Correspondence, Letters to Clarinda, and Correspondence with George Thomson. With Life and Variorum Notes, and full-page Illustrations by eminent Artists.

3. Goldsmith’s Miscellaneous Works. Including ‘The Vicar of Wakefield,’ ‘Citizen of the World,’ ‘Polite Learning,’ Poems, Plays, Essays, etc. etc.

4. Lord Byron’s Poetical Works. With Life. Illustrated with full-page Engravings on Wood by eminent Artists.

5. Josephus: The Whole Works of Flavius Josephus, the Jewish Historian. Translated by William Whiston, A.M. With Life, Portrait, Notes, and Index, etc.

6. The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. Translated from the Arabic. An entirely New and Complete Edition. With upwards of a Hundred Illustrations on Wood, drawn by S. J. Groves.

7. The Works of Jonathan Swift, D.D. Carefully selected. Including ‘A Tale of a Tub,’ ‘Gulliver’s Travels,’ ‘Journal to Stella,’ ‘Captain Creichton,’ ‘Directions to Servants,’ Essays, Poems, etc. etc. With a Biography of the Author, and Original and Authentic Notes.

8. The Works of Daniel Defoe. Carefully selected from the most authentic sources. Including ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ ‘Colonel Jack,’ ‘Memoirs of a Cavalier,’ ‘Journal of the Plague in London,’ ‘Duncan Campbell,’ ‘Complete English Tradesman,’ etc. etc. With Life of the Author.

‘_We congratulate the lovers of good literature on having their tastes supplied at such a cheap rate._’--The City Press.

9. The Works of Tobias Smollett. Carefully selected from the most authentic sources. Including ‘Roderick Random,’ ‘Peregrine Pickle,’ ‘Humphry Clinker,’ Plays, Poems. With Life, etc.

10. The Canterbury Tales and Faerie QUEEN: With other Poems of Chaucer and Spenser. Edited for Popular Perusal, with current Illustrative and Explanatory Notes. With Lives of the Authors.

11. The Works of the British Dramatists. Carefully selected from the Original Editions. Including the best Plays of Ben Jonson, Christopher Marlowe, Beaumont and Fletcher, Philip Massinger, etc. etc. With copious Notes, Biographies, and a Historical Introduction.

12. The Scottish Minstrel: The Songs and Song Writers of Scotland subsequent to Burns. With Biographies, etc. etc. By the Rev. Charles Rogers, LL.D.

13. Moore: The Poetical Works of Thomas MOORE. New Edition, carefully Revised. With Life. Illustrated with full-page Engravings on Wood by eminent Artists.

14. Fielding: The Writings of Henry FIELDING. Comprising his Celebrated Works of Fiction. With Life, etc.

15. Sterne: The Works of Laurence STERNE. New and Complete Edition. Including ‘Tristram Shandy,’ ‘A Sentimental Journey,’ Sermons, Letters, etc. etc.

16. Boswell’s Johnson: The Life of Samuel JOHNSON, LL.D. By James Boswell. New and Complete Edition, carefully revised from the most authentic sources, with Notes, etc. etc.

17. Mrs. Hemans: The Poems of Felicia Hemans. Complete Copyright Edition. With Portrait, Notes, Appendix, Index, etc.

⁂ _This Series is also kept bound in cloth extra, full gilt side, back, and edges, price 6s. 6d. each; and in half-calf extra, marbled sides, edges, and end papers, price 8s. 6d. each._

_Just ready_,

ENTIRELY NEW CLOTH BINDING, WITH BEAUTIFULLY ILLUMINATED IMITATION IVORY TABLET ON SIDE, PRICE 3s. 6d.

ENTIRELY NEW MOROCCO BINDINGS, IN ANTIQUE, RAISED AND ILLUMINATED, WITH HIGH-CLASS MEDALLION PORTRAIT ON SIDE, PRICE 7s. 6d.

IN FINE MOROCCO, PLAIN, PRICE 7s. 6d.

AND IN FULL EXTRA, ILLUMINATED AND RAISED, ELABORATE NEW DESIGN, PRICE 8s. 6d.

ALSO IN CALEDONIAN WOOD, FERN PATTERN, WITH PHOTO, PORTRAIT, ETC., ON SIDE, MOROCCO EXTRA BACK, PRICE 10s.

NIMMO’S POPULAR EDITION OF THE WORKS OF THE POETS.

_In fcap. 8vo, printed on toned paper. Each volume contains a Memoir, and is illustrated with a Portrait of the Author engraved on Steel, and numerous full-page Illustrations on Wood, from designs by eminent Artists; also beautiful Illuminated Title-page._

1. Longfellow’s Poetical Works.

2. Scott’s Poetical Works.

3. Byron’s Poetical Works.

4. Moore’s Poetical Works.

5. Wordsworth’s Poetical Works.

6. Cowper’s Poetical Works.

7. Milton’s Poetical Works.

8. Thomson’s Poetical Works.

9. Goldsmith’s Choice Works.

10. Pope’s Poetical Works.

11. Burns’ Poetical Works.

12. The Casquet of Gems. Choice Selections from the Poets.

13. The Book of Humorous Poetry.

14. Ballads: Scottish and English.

15. Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress and Holy War.

16. Lives of the British Poets.

17. The Prose Works of Robert Burns.

18. Poems, Songs, and Ballads of the Sea.

⁂ This Series of Books, from the very superior manner in which it is produced, is at once the cheapest and handsomest edition of the Poets in the market. The volumes form elegant and appropriate Presents as School Prizes and Gift-Books, either in cloth or morocco.

‘They are a marvel of cheapness, some of the volumes extending to as many as 700, and even 900, pages, printed on toned paper in a beautifully clear type. Add to this, that they are profusely illustrated with wood engravings, are elegantly and tastefully bound, and that they are published at 3s. 6d. each, and our recommendation of them is complete.’--_Scotsman._

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_Small 4to, beautifully printed on superior paper, handsomely bound in cloth extra, bevelled boards, gilt edges, price_ =6s.= _each._