Sidor som bilder
PDF
ePub

She's my mind's companion still
Maugre Envy's evil will:

Whence she should be driven too,
Wer't in mortal's power to do.

She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow;
Makes the desolatest place
In her presence be a grace;
And the blackest discontents
Be her fairest ornaments.
In my former days of bliss
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some invention draw;
And raise Pleasure to her height
Through the meanest object's sight:
By the murmur of a spring,"
Or the least bough's rustling;
By a daisy, whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
On a shady bush or tree
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.

By her help I also now

Make this churlish place allow

Some things, that may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness:

The dull loneness, the black shade

That these hanging vaults have made,
The strange music of the waves
Beating on these hollow caves,

This black den, which rocks emboss
Overgrown with eldest moss;
The rude portals that give light
More to terror than delight;
This my chamber of neglect
Walled about with disrespect;
From all these, and this dull air
A fit object for despair,

She hath brought me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.

Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this!
Poetry, thou sweet'st content
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent;

Though they as a trifle leave thee

Whose dull thoughts can not conceive thee;

Though thou be to them a scorn

That for naught but earth are born;
Let my life no longer be

Than I am in love with thee!

Though our wise ones call it madness,
Let me never taste of gladness

If I love not thy maddest fits
Above all their greatest wits!

And though some, too seeming holy,

Do account thy raptures folly,

Thou dost teach me to contemn

What makes knaves and fools of them!

"The praises of poetry have been often sung in ancient and modern times; strange powers have been ascribed to it of influence over animate and inanimate auditors; its force over fascinated crowds has been acknowledged; but before Wither no one had celebrated its power at home; the wealth and the strength which this divine gift confers upon its possessor." This fine criticism, worthy of the poetry which it celebrates, is by Charles Lamb.

XIII.

FEMALE POETS.

JOANNA BAILLIE*-CATHERINE FANSHAWE.

BELOVED, admired, appreciated by the best spirits of her time, it is with no little triumph that I, who plead guilty to some of that esprit de corps, which may be translated into "pride of sex," write the name of our great female dramatist-of the first woman who won high and undisputed honors in the highest class of English poetry. The pleasure of rendering her a faint and imperfect justice is all the greater that I have the honor of claiming acquaintance with this most gifted person, and that she is, in her domestic relations, the very pattern of what a literary lady should be-quiet, unpretending, generous, kind, admirable in her writings, excellent in her life.

And yet of Mrs. Joanna Baillie, the praised of Scott, and of all whose praise is best worth having for half a century, what can I say, but that many an age to come will echo back their applause!

Her tragedies have a boldness and grasp of mind, a firmness of hand, and a resonance of cadence, that scarcely seem within the reach of a female writer; while the tenderness and sweetness of her heroines-the grace of the love-scenes-and the trembling outgushings of sensibility, as in Orra, for instance, in the fine tragedy on Fear-would seem exclusively feminine, if we did not know that a true dramatist-as Shakspeare or

* Since writing this paper, this gifted authoress and admirable woman has passed from this world to the higher and happier state which was ever in her thoughts. A letter from her to a mutual friend, written a very few days before her death, expresses her satisfaction in having received the sacrament with her sister the Sunday previous. In this letter, for the first time during a long correspondence, she breaks off somewhat suddenly, complaining of bodily fatigue, although no one then thought her ill.

Fletcher-has the wonderful power of throwing himself, mind and body, into the character that he portrays. That Mrs. Joanna is a true dramatist, as well as a great poet, I, for one, can never doubt, although it has been the fashion to say that her plays do

not act.

It must be above fifty years ago that I, then a girl of thirteen, in company with my old and dear friend, Mr. Harness, the bosom friend of Thomas Hope, the friend and correspondent of Lord Byron (and, be it observed, of all his correspondents, the one who seems to have impressed the daring poet with the most sincere respect), then a boy considerably younger than myself, witnessed the representation of "De Montfort," by John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. Forty years after, we had the pleasure of talking over that representation with the authoress, in Lady Dacre's drawing-room, a place where poets "most do congregate," and we both agreed that the impression which the performance had made upon us had remained indelible. Now, the qualities in an acted play that fixed themselves upon the minds of children so young, must have been purely dramatic. Purely dramatic, too, are many of the finer traits that strike us in reading, as, when De Montfort, with his ear quickened by hatred, announces the approach of Rezenvelt, and Freberg exclaims:

"How quick an ear thou hast for distant sound!

I hear him not-"

and many others scattered through the tragedies.

I concede, however, very willingly, that Mrs. Joanna is a most charming lyrical poetess; as witness the beautiful Morning Song in the "Beacon," which breathes the very spirit of hope.

Up! quit thy bower; late wears the hour;

Long have the rooks cawed round thy tower;
On flower and tree loud hums the bee;

The wilding kid sports merrily:
A day so bright, so fresh, so clear,
Showeth when good fortune's near.

Up! lady fair, and braid thy hair,
And bathe thee in the breezy air;

The rolling stream that soothed thy dream

Is dancing in the sunny beam;

And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay,

Will waft good fortune on its way.

G*

Up! time will tell; the friar's bell
Its service sound hath chimed well;
The aged crone keeps house alone,
And reapers to the fields are gone;
The active day, so fair and bright,

May bring good fortune ere the night.

There is a remarkable freedom in the diction and versification of the following beautiful song; the more remarkable that it is written for a Welsh air.

THE BLACK COCK.

Good morrow to thy sable beak,
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek,
Thy crimson moon and azure eye,
Cock of the heath so wildly shy!
I see thee slowly cowering, through
That wiry web of silver dew,
That twinkles in the morning air,
Like casement of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things, with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still;
The rarest things to light of day
Look shortly forth and break away.

One fleeting moment of delight
I warmed me in her cheering sight,
And short, I ween, the time will be
That I shall parley hold with thee.

Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day;
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay;

The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring;

Thou art already on the wing.

This song is distinguished by the same delicious freedom, and was also written to music. Truly, the Muse can dance in fetters.

O welcome bat and owlet gray,
Thus winging low your airy way!
And welcome moth and drowsy fly,
That to mine ear come humming by!

« FöregåendeFortsätt »