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

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

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

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

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

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

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

object as that of the extensive subject to which they relate, and whose varied beauties, power and influences they exemplify with such attractiveness and purity. We pretend not to have escaped the charge of being out of order, if we allow ourselves to be judged according to the grave rules of parliamentary usage; but as keeping to the question, in that sense, was no part of our profession, we presume further remark upon this point will be superfluous.

The history of the mind and of the literary career of Mrs. Hemans, must certainly be pleasing to any one who loves to contemplate the progress of a singularly industrious, pure, and aspiring spirit, through its several stages, to a high and valuable reputation. Her intellect, though strong, and full of that which was as high-toned as it was poetical, was always essentially feminine in its developments. It has been justly said by Mrs. Jameson, 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 unsullied by any grosser alloy of mean ambition."

We have no fear about the increasing fame of Mrs. Hemans. Her poetry is of a kind to live. It is of a kind to gain honour with the lapse of years; and it may well be a peculiar and pleasing reflection with her admirers, that all who become the friends of her muse will come up to a good cause, and rank themselves as the friends of virtue. We lament that her light is extinguished, and her harp still. But even as we lament, we cannot but remember that there may be a selfishness in our sorrow, as we repeat to ourselves,

"Wo unto us-not" her-" for" she "sleeps well."

Meanwhile we would not carry our critical gallantry quite so far as to induce a belief that we consider this fair author, upon whose poetical example we have so amplified, in no degree liable to imperfections, under the common ban of genius, as well as of humanity. We could find fault in this, and all like cases, with perfect ease; but we doubt whether it would result in any thing like utility to the cause of literature. We hold it to be vain to torture ourselves-though it may gratify some bilious readers-in finding fault, where we have more than tolerable reason to be thankful and delighted. Verbal criticism we abjure, save in instances of high criminality. The purest language under heaven lies open to the animadversions of a caviling, misconstruing, uneasy spirit of scrutiny. Where thought goes far to redeem the work, we are fain, therefore, to let words alone. As to poetry, viewed as the subject-matter upon which severe criticism is to sit in judgment, we are free to

say that we think it has been hardly dealt by, very unfairly examined, very unjustly judged, and very ignorantly sentenced. We have taken occasion, in another place, to speak of the critical and poetical sentiments as rarely combined, and as affording, in most instances where they are assumed, very natural exhibitions of a want of sympathy. We have seen cases which may be called extremely hard ones, in this particular. The court in which they were tried had no title to its jurisdiction drawn from any portion of any healthy literary charter whatever, or from common sense itself; yet prosaic, unimaginative, and unlearned as it was, it presumed to sit upon the matter it had irreverently brought to its tribunal, with all the circumstance and pretension with which it would pass upon subjects to which it might lay some claim of knowledge and authority. No one will deny that this is a highly dangerous proceeding in the business of criticism. It is dangerous as regards both the writer and the reviewer; for the former may be made bitter by the harsh and undeserved judgment to which he is subjected; or on the other hand expanded beyond all rational dimensions by the flattery with which he is dismissed; while the latter is sure to render himself eminently ridiculous by his criticism in the minds of all whose literary judgment is untrammeled.

But let us pass from this to a few closing considerations suggested by our still expanding subject. Poetry has seen times of greater veneration, indeed, than our own. Time was when its votary was all but deified. The oaken crowns of Homer and Virgil proved the enthusiastic worship of their countrymen. But it was the worship of a listening and excited, not of a reading and thinking people. They were triumphs indeed that Racine and Voltaire could boast, when theatres rose up to them, and welcomed them as the poetic fathers of their country. It was high honour that encircled Petrarca, thought of as divine in his shadowy Vaucluse, and received as divine amidst the plaudits of all Italy. It was a proud thing for Tasso to be set apart to be crowned with laurel at the Capitol, in the midst of popes and prelates and cardinals. Yet the fame of the blind bard of the isles was not full, till temples and statues rose upon his ashes, and cities contended for the honour of his birth-place. The Latin poet commanded an admiration that derived its chief glory from the patronage and power of Augustus. The Euripides of France enjoyed a literary renown as great as a taste so decidedly national would admit, while the poet was torn between the struggles of his great genius and the tyranny of court criticism. Petrarch retains, in many of our recollections, but a romantic celebrity; and it is not the honours rendered, nor yet the coronation decreed him, that can blind us to the

belief, that, in poetry, the highest moral elevation was not reached even by Tasso the Repentant.1

Though the art, then, and its successful and commanding votaries, may find that the period of their more peculiar and unqualified veneration has passed by, they need indulge no apprehensions about the destruction or decay of the principle of their influence. That principle is imperishable. It is founded as deeply and as securely as human nature itself. It appeals to feelings and sympathies that are born with us, and that go with us to the grave. We cannot escape from its power if we would. It stirs the heart like music, and finds its response as unfailing as its pulsations. Those instances of submission to its enchantment, and of honour paid to its supremacy, to which we have adverted, though not repeated to the eye in this our day, are still no strange tribute in the spirit-land of sympathetic and uncorrupted natures.

In this wholesome and honourable consciousness, then, let the poet find his unfailing satisfaction. His is a high duty; for he strikes his harp for the world-for the benefit as well as delight of his fellows, with whom he mingles on the broad pathway of life. His, too, is a high reward; for he finds it in the applause of the good and great, who render it to his genius in a still more unqualified strain, where the brilliancy of the poet is rendered yet brighter by the worth of the man. Such duty and such reward are surely better than those of an earlier, though perhaps a more romantic age, and surely the best, disconnected with his art, which can await him on the common journey; and though to the mighty masters of a more enthusiastic but less enlightened period, the tribute of praise was rendered with more direct and almost royal manifestations, the regard with which the writer, of true poetic power--of the true inspiration, is now met by an admiring people-a whole landthe world, may well be deemed equivalent to the best admiration of which genius has been the recipient on its most triumphant way.

"Il fut reçu dans l'académie des Aetherei de Padoue sous le nom de Pentito, du Repentant, pour marquer, qu'il se repentait du temps qu'il croyait avoir perdu dans l'étude du droit, et dans les autres, ou son inclination ne l'avait pas appelé.-Voltaire: Essai sur le Poesie epique. Le Tasse.