He would have made himself
A green o_a_sis mid the strife of tongues.
We observe too that Mrs. Sigourney places the accent in _Wyoming_ on
the second syllable.
'Twas summer in Wy_o_ming. Through the breast,
&c.
------And the lore
Of sad Wy_o_ming's chivalry, a part
Of classic song.
But we have no right to quarrel with her for this. The word is so
pronounced by those who should know best. Campbell, however, places
the accent on the first syllable.
On Susquehannah's banks, fair _Wy_oming!
We will conclude our remarks upon Zinzendorff with a passage of
surpassing beauty, energy, and poetic power. Why cannot Mrs. Sigourney
write always thus?
------Not a breath
Disturbed the tide of eloquence. So fixed
Were that rude auditory, it would seem
Almost as if a nation had become
_Bronzed into statues_. Now and then a sigh,
The unbidden messenger of thought profound,
Parted the lip; or some barbarian brow
Contracted closer in a haughty frown,
As scowled the cynic, 'mid his idol fanes,
When on Mars-Hill the inspired Apostle preached
Jesus of Nazareth.
These lines are glowing all over with the true radiance of poetry. The
image in italics is perfect. Of the versification, it is not too much
to say that it reminds us of Miltonic power. The slight roughness in
the line commencing "When on Mars-Hill," and the discord introduced at
the word "inspired," evince an ear attuned to the _delicacies_ of
melody, and form an appropriate introduction to the sonorous and
emphatic closing--Jesus of Nazareth.
Of the minor poems in the volume before us, we must be pardoned for
speaking in a cursory manner. Of course they include many degrees of
excellence. Their beauties and their faults are, generally, the
beauties and the faults of Zinzendorff. We will particularize a few of
each.
On page 67, in a poem entitled Female Education, occur the following
lines:
----Break Oblivion's sleep,
And toil with florist's art
To plant the scenes of virtue deep
In childhood's fruitful heart!
To thee the babe is given,
Fair from its glorious Sire;
Go--nurse it for the King of Heaven,
And _He_ will _pay the hire_.
The conclusion of this is _bathetic_ to a degree bordering upon the
grotesque.
At page 160 is an error in metre--of course an oversight. We point it
out merely because, did we write ourselves, we should like to be
treated in a similar manner. For 'centred' we should probably read
'concentred.'
The wealth of every age
_Thou hast centered here_,
The ancient tome, the classic page,
The wit, the poet, and the sage,
All at thy nod appear.
At page 233, line 10, the expression "Thou _wert_ their friend,"
although many precedents may be found to justify it--is nevertheless
_not English_. The same error occurs frequently in the volume.
The poem entitled _The Pholas_, at page 105, has the following
introductory prose sentence: "It is a fact familiar to Conchologists,
that the genus Pholas possesses the property of phosphorescence. It
has been asserted that this may be restored, even when the animal is
in a dried state, by the application of _water_, but is extinguished
by the least quantity of _brandy_." This odd fact in Natural History
is precisely what Cowley would have seized with avidity for the
purpose of preaching therefrom a poetical homily on Temperance. But
that Mrs. Sigourney should have thought herself justifiable in using
it for such purpose, is what we cannot understand. What business has
her good taste with so palpable and so ludicrous a _conceit_? Let us
now turn to a more pleasing task.
In the _Friends of Man_, (a poem originally published in our own
Messenger,) the versification throughout is of the first order of
excellence. We select an example. {115}
The youth at midnight sought his bed,
But ere he closed his eyes,
Two forms drew near with gentle tread,
In meek and saintly guise;
One struck a lyre of wondrous power,
With thrilling music fraught,
That chained the flying summer hour,
And charmed the listener's thought--
For still would its tender cadence be
Follow me! follow me!
And every morn a smile shall bring,
Sweet as the merry lay I sing.
The lines entitled _Filial Grief_, at page 199, are worthy of high
praise. Their commencement is chaste, simple, and altogether
exquisite. The verse italicized contains _an unjust metaphor_, but we
are forced to pardon it for the sonorous beauty of its expression.
The love that blest our infant dream,
That dried our earliest tear,
The tender voice, the winning smile,
That made our home so dear,
The hand that urged our youthful thought
O'er low delights to soar,
_Whose pencil wrote upon our souls_,
Alas, is ours no more.
We will conclude our extracts with "_Poetry_" from page 57. The burden
of the song finds a ready echo in our bosoms.
Morn on her rosy couch awoke,
Enchantment led the hour,
And Mirth and Music drank the dews
That freshened Beauty's flower--
Then from her bower of deep delight
I heard a young girl sing,
"Oh, speak no ill of Poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing!"
The sun in noon-day heat rose high,
And on with heaving breast
I saw a weary pilgrim toil,
Unpitied and unblest--
Yet still in trembling measures flow'd
Forth from a broken string,
"Oh, speak no ill of Poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing!"
'Twas night, and Death the curtains drew,
Mid agony severe,
While there a willing spirit went
Home to a glorious sphere--
Yet still it sighed, even when was spread
The waiting Angel's wing,
"Oh, speak no ill of Poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing!"
We now bid adieu to Mrs. Sigourney--yet we trust only for a time. We
shall behold her again. When that period arrives, having thrown aside
the petty shackles which have hitherto enchained her, she will assume,
at once, that highest station among the poets of our land which her
noble talents so well qualify her for attaining.
* * * * *
The remarks which we made in the beginning of our critique on Mrs.
Sigourney, will apply, in an equal degree, to Miss Gould. Her
reputation has been greatly assisted by the _frequency_ of her appeals
to the attention of the public. The poems (one hundred and seventeen
in number,) included in the volume now before us have all, we believe,
appeared, from time to time, in the periodicals of the day. Yet in no
other point of view, can we trace the remotest similarity between the
two poetesses. We have already pointed out the prevailing
characteristics of Mrs. Sigourney. In Miss Gould we recognize, first,
a disposition, like that of Wordsworth, to seek beauty where it is not
usually sought--in the _homelinesses_ (if we may be permitted the
word,) and in the most familiar realities of existence--secondly
_abandon_ of manner--thirdly a phraseology sparkling with antithesis,
yet, strange to say, perfectly simple and unaffected.
Without Mrs. Sigourney's high reach of thought, Miss Gould surpasses
her rival in the mere vehicle of thought--expression. "Words, words,
words," are the true secret of her strength. _Words_ are her
kingdom--and in the realm of language, she rules with equal despotism
and _nonchalance_. Yet we do not mean to deny her abilities of a
higher order than any which a mere _logocracy_ can imply. Her powers
of imagination are great, and she has a faculty of inestimable worth,
when considered in relation to effect--the faculty of holding ordinary
ideas in so novel, and sometimes in so fantastic a light, as to give
them all of the appearance, and much of the value, of originality.
Miss Gould will, of course, be the favorite with the multitude--Mrs.
Sigourney with the few.
We can think of no better manner of exemplifying these few
observations, than by extracting part of Miss G's little poem, _The
Great Refiner_.
'Tis sweet to feel that he, who tries
The silver, takes his seat
Beside the fire that purifies;
Lest too intense a heat,
Raised to consume the base alloy,
The precious metal too destroy.
'Tis good to think how well he knows
The silver's power to bear
The _or_deal to which it goes;
And that with skill and care,
He'll take it from the fire, when fit
For his own hand to polish it.
'Tis blessedness to know that he
The piece he has begun
Will not forsake, till he can see,
To prove the work well done,
An image by its brightness shown
The perfect likeness of his own.
The mind which could conceive the _subject_ of this poem, and find
poetic appropriateness in a forced analogy between a refiner of
silver, over his crucible, and the Great Father of all things,
occupied in the mysteries of redeeming Grace, we cannot believe a mind
adapted to the loftier breathings of the lyre. On the other hand, the
delicate _finish_ of the illustration, the perfect fitness of one
portion for another, the epigrammatic nicety and point of the
language, give evidence of a taste exquisitely alive to the
_prettinesses_ of the Muse. It is possible that Miss Gould has been
led astray in her conception of this poem by the scriptural
expression, "He shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver."
From the apparently harsh strictures we have thought it our duty to
make upon the poetry of Miss Gould, must be excepted one exquisite
little _morceau_ at page 59 of the volume now under review. It is
entitled _The Dying Storm_. We will quote it in full. {116}
_I am feeble, pale and weary,_
_And my wings are nearly furled;_
I have caused a scene so dreary,
I am glad to quit the world!
With bitterness I'm thinking
On the evil I have done,
_And to my caverns sinking_
_From the coming of the sun._
The heart of man will sicken
In that pure and holy light,
When he feels the hopes I've stricken
With an everlasting blight!
For widely, in my madness,
Have I poured abroad my wrath,
And changing joy to sadness,
Scattered ruin on my path.
_Earth shuddered at my motion,_
And my power in silence owns;
_But the deep and troubled ocean_
_O'er my deeds of horror moans!_
I have sunk the brightest treasure--
I've destroyed the fairest form--
_I have sadly filled my measure,_
_And am now a dying storm._
We have much difficulty in recognizing these verses as from the pen of
Miss Gould. They do not contain a single trace of her manner, and
still less of the prevailing features of her thought. Setting aside
the flippancy of the metre, ill adapted to the sense, we have no fault
to find. All is full, forcible, and free from artificiality. The
personification of the storm, in its perfect simplicity, is of a high
order of poetic excellence--the images contained in the lines
italicized, all of the _very highest_.
* * * * *
Many but not all of the poems in Mrs. Ellet's volume, likewise, have
been printed before--appearing, within the last two years, in
different periodicals. The whole number of pieces now published is
fifty-seven. Of these thirty-nine are original. The rest are
translations from the French of Alphonse de Lamartine and
Beranger--from the Spanish of Quevedo and Yriarte--from the Italian of
Ugo Foscolo, Alfieri, Fulvio Testi, Pindemonte, and Saverio
Bettinelli,--and from the German of Schiller. As evidences of the
lady's acquaintance with the modern languages, these translations are
very creditable to her. Where we have had opportunities of testing the
fidelity of her versions by reference to the originals, we have always
found reason to be satisfied with her performances. A too scrupulous
adherence to the text is certainly not one of her faults--nor can we
yet justly call her, in regard to the spirit of her authors, a
latitudinarian. We wish, however, to say that, in fully developing the
meaning of her originals, she has too frequently neglected their
_poetical characters_. Let us refer to the lady's translation of the
_Swallows_. We have no hesitation in saying, that not the slightest
conception of Pierre Jean de Beranger, can be obtained by the perusal
of the lines at page 112, of the volume now before us.
Bring me, I pray--an exile sad--
Some token of that valley bright,
Where in my sheltered childhood glad,
The future was a dream of light.
Beside the gentle stream, where swell
Its waves beneath the lilac tree,
Ye saw the cot I love so well--
And speak ye of that home to me?
We have no fault to find with these verses in themselves--as specimens
of the _manner_ of the French _chansonnier_, we have no patience with
them. What we have quoted, is the second stanza of the song. Our
remarks, here, with some little modification, would apply to the
_Sepulchres_ of Foscolo, especially to the passage commencing
Yes--Pindemonte!
The aspiring soul is fired to lofty deeds
By great men's monuments, &c.
They would apply, also, with somewhat less force, to Lamartine's _Loss
of the Anio_, in the original of which by the way, we cannot perceive
the lines answering to Mrs. E's verses
All that obscures thy sovereign majesty
Degrades our glory in degrading thee.
Quevedo's Sonnet _Rome in Ruins_, we happen to have by us at this
moment. The translation in this instance is faultless, and combines,
happily, a close approximation to the meaning of the original, with
its quaint air and pompous rhythm. The Sonnet itself is a plagiarism
entire, from Girolamo Preti. The opening lines of Quevedo,
Pilgrim! in vain thou seekest in Rome for Rome!
Alas! the Queen of nations is no more!
Dust are her towers, that proudly frowned of yore,
And her stern hills themselves have built their tomb,
are little else than the
Roma in Roma non è
In se stessa cadeo morta e sepolta, &c.
of Girolamo. But this is no concern of Mrs. Ellet's.
Of the original poems, which form the greater part of the volume, we
have hardly been able to form an opinion, during the cursory perusal
we have given them. Some of them have merit. Some we think unworthy of
the talents which their author has undoubtedly displayed. The epigram,
for example, at page 102 is rather a silly joke upon a threadbare
theme, and, however well it might have suited Mrs. Ellet's purpose to
indite it, she should have had more discretion than to give it
permanency in a collection of her poems.
Echo was once a love sick maid
They say: the tale is no deceiver.
Howe'er a woman's form might fade
Her voice would be the last to leave her!
The tragedy (Teresa Contarini) at the end of the volume, "is founded,"
says the authoress, "upon an incident well known in the history of
Venice, which has formed the material for various works of fiction."
Mrs. E. has availed herself of a drama of Nicolini's in part of the
first scene of the first act, and in the commencement of the fifth
act. The resemblance between the two plays is, however, very slight.
In plot--in the spirit of the dialogue--and in the range of incidents
they differ altogether. _Teresa Contarini_ was received with
approbation at the Park Theatre in March 1835,--Miss Philips
performing the heroine. We must confine ourselves to the simple
remark, that the drama appears to us better suited to the closet than
the stage.
In evidence that Mrs. Ellet is a poetess of no ordinary rank, we
extract, from page 51 of her volume, a little poem rich in vigorous
expression, and full of solemn {117} thought. Its chief merits,
however, are condensation and energy.
Hark--to the midnight bell!
The solemn peal rolls on
That tells us, with an iron tongue,
Another year is gone!
Gone with its hopes, its mockeries, and its fears,
To the dim rest which wraps our former years.
Gray pilgrim to the past!
We will not bid thee stay;
For joys of youth and passion's plaint
Thou bear'st alike away.
Alike the tones of mirth, and sorrow's swell
Gather to hymn thy parting.--Fare thee well!
Fill high the cup--and drink
To Time's unwearied sweep!
He claims a parting pledge from us--
And let the draught be deep!
We may not shadow moments fleet as this,
With tales of baffled hopes, or vanished bliss.
No comrade's voice is here,
That could not tell of grief--
Fill up!--We know that friendship's hours,
Like their own joys--are brief.
Drink to their brightness while they yet may last,
And drown in song the memory of the past!
The winter's leafless bough
In sunshine yet shall bloom;
And hearts that sink in sadness now
Ere long dismiss their gloom.
Peace to the sorrowing! Let our goblets flow,
In red wine mantling, for the tears of wo!
Once more! A welcoming strain!
A solemn sound--yet sweet!
While life is ours, Time's onward steps
In gladness will we greet!
Fill high the cup! What prophet lips may tell
Where we shall bid another year farewell!
With this extract, we close our observations on the writings of Mrs.
Ellet--of Miss Gould--and of Mrs. Sigourney. The time may never arrive
again, when we shall be called upon, by the circumstances of
publication, to speak of them in connexion with one another.