but it embraces a great deal of that which gives the very best poetry its chief power of pleasing; and would strike us, perhaps, as more impassioned and exalted, if it were not regulated and harmonised by the most beautiful taste. It is infinitely sweet, elegant, and tender-touching, perhaps, and contemplative, rather than vehement and overpowering; and not only finished throughout with an exquisite delicacy, and even serenity of execution, but informed with a purity and loftiness of feeling, and a certain sober and humble tone of indulgence and piety, which must satisfy all judgments, and allay the apprehensions of those who are most afraid of the passionate exaggerations of poetry. The diction is always beautiful, harmonious, and free; and the themes, though of infinite variety, uniformly treated with a grace, originality, and judgment, which mark the same master-hand. These themes she has borrowed, with the peculiar interest and imagery that belong to them, from the legends of different nations, and the most opposite states of society; and has contrived to retain much of what is interesting and peculiar in each of them, without adopting, along with it, any of the revolting or extravagant excesses which may characterise the taste or manners of the people or the age from which it has been derived. She has thus transfused into her German or Scandinavian legends, the imaginative and daring tone of the originals, without the mystical exaggerations of the one, or the painful fierceness and coarseness of the other she has preserved the clearness and elegance of the French, without their coldness or affectation-and the tenderness and simplicity of the early Italians, without their diffuseness or languor. Though occasionally expatiating, somewhat fondly and at large, amongst the sweets of her own planting, there is, on the whole, a great condensation and brevity in most of her pieces, and, almost without exception, a most judicious and vigorous conclusion. The great merit, however, of her poetry, is undoubtedly in its tenderness and its beautiful imagery. The first requires no explanation; but we must be allowed to add a word as to the peculiar charm and character of the latter,

"It has always been our opinion, that the very essence of poetry, apart from the pathos, the wit, or the brilliant description which may be embodied in it, but may exist equally in prose, consists in the fine perception and vivid expression of that subtle and mysterious analogy which exists between the physical and the moral world-which makes outward things and qualities the natural types and emblems of inward gifts and emotions, and leads us to ascribe life and sentiment to every thing that interests us in the aspects of external nature. The feeling of this analogy, obscure and inexplicable as the theory of it may be, is so deep and universal in our nature, that it has stamped itself on the ordinary language of men of every kindred and speech: and that to such an extent, that one-half of the epithets by which we familiarly designate moral and physical qualities, are in reality so many metaphors, borrowed reciprocally, upon this analogy, from those opposite forms of existence. The very familiarity, however, of the expression, in these instances, takes away its poetical effect and indeed, in substance, its metaphorical character. The original sense of the word is entirely forgotten in the derivative one to which it has succeeded; and it requires some etymological recollection to convince us that it was originally nothing else than a typical or analogical illustration. Thus we talk of a penetrating understanding, and a furious blast-a weighty argument, and a gentle stream-without being at all aware that we are speaking in the language of poetry, and transferring qualities from one extremity of the sphere of being to another. In these cases,

accordingly, the metaphor, by ceasing to be felt, in reality ceases to exist; and the analogy, being no longer intimated, of course can produce no effect. But whenever it is intimated, it does produce an effect; and that effect, we think, is poetry.

"It has substantially two functions, and operates in two directions. In the first place, it strikes vividly out, and flashes at once on our minds, the conception of an inward feeling or emotion, which it might otherwise have been difficult to convey, by the presentment of some bodily form or quality, which is instantly felt to be its true representative; and enables us to fix and comprehend it with a force and clearness not otherwise attainable: and, in the second place, it vivifies dead and inanimate matter with the attributes of living and sentient mind; and fills the whole visible universe around us with objects of interest and sympathy, by tinging them with the hues of life, and associating them with our own passions and affections. This magical operation the poet, too, performs, for the most part, in one of two wayseither by the direct agency of similes and metaphors, more or less condensed or developed, or by the mere graceful presentment of such visible objects on the scene of his passionate dialogues or adventures, as partake of the character of the emotion he wishes to excite, and thus form an appropriate accompaniment or preparation for its direct indulgence or display. The former of those methods has perhaps been most frequently employed, and certainly has most attracted attention. But the latter, though less obtrusive, and perhaps less frequently resorted to of set purpose, is, we are inclined to think, the most natural and efficacious of the two, and is often adopted, we believe unconsciously, by poets of the highest order-the predominant emotion of their minds overflowing spontaneously on all the objects which present themselves to their fancy, and calling out from them, and colouring with its own hues, those that are naturally emblematic of its character, and in accordance with its general expression. It would be easy to show how habitually this is done by Shakspeare and Milton especially, and how much many of their finest passages are indebted, both for force and richness of effect, to this general and diffusive harmony of the external character of their scenes with the passions of their living agents-this harmonising and appropriate glow with which they kindle the whole surrounding atmosphere, and bring all that strikes the sense into unison with all that touches the heart.

"But it is more to our present purpose to say, that we think the fair writer before us is eminently a mistress of this poetical secret; and, in truth, it was solely for the purpose of illustrating this great charm and excellence in her imagery, that we have ventured upon this little dissertation. Almost all her poems are rich with fine descriptions, and studded over with images of visible beauty. But these are never idle ornaments: all her pomps have a meaning; and her flowers and her gems are arranged, as they are said to be among Eastern lovers, so as to speak the language of truth and of passion. This is peculiarly remarkable in some little pieces, which seem at first sight to be purely descriptive, but are soon found to tell upon the heart, with a deep moral and pathetic impression. But it is a truth nearly as conspicuous in the greater part of her productions, where we scarcely meet with any striking sentiment that is not ushered in by some such symphony of external nature, and scarcely a lovely picture that does not serve as a foreground to some deep or lofty emotion. We may illustrate this proposition, we think, by opening either of these little volumes at random, and taking what they first present to us. The following

exquisite lines, for example, on a Palm-tree in an English garden :

'It waved not through an Eastern sky,

Beside a fount of Araby,' etc.

"The following, which the author has named, 'Graves of a Household,' has rather less of external scenery, but serves, like the others, to show how well the graphic and pathetic may be made to set off each other :—

"They grew in beauty, side by side,

They fill'd one home with glee,' etc.

"We have taken these pieces chiefly on account of their shortness; but it would not be fair to Mrs Hemans not to present our readers with one longer specimen, and to give a portion of her graceful narrative along with her pathetic descriptions. This story, of The Lady of the Castle,' is told, we think, with great force and sweetness :

"Thou see'st her pictured with her shining hair,

(Famed were these tresses in Provençal song,)' etc. "The following sketch of Joan of Arc in Rheims,' is in a loftier and more ambitious vein, but sustained with equal grace, and as touching in its solemn tenderness. We can afford to extract but a part of it:

Within, the light,

Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing,' etc. "There are several strains of a more passionate character, especially in the two poetical epistles from Lady Arabella Stuart and Properzia Rossi. We shall venture to give a few lines from the former. The Lady Arabella was of royal descent; and having excited the fears of our pusillanimous James by a secret union with the Lord Seymour, was detained in a cruel captivity, by that heartless monarch, till the close of her life during which she is supposed to have indited this letter to her lover from her prison-house :

My friend, my friend! where art thou? Day by day,
Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away,' etc.

"The following, though it has no very distinct object or moral, breathes, we think, the very spirit of poetry, in its bright and vague picturings, and is well entitled to the name it bears- An Hour of Romance:'

There were thick leaves above me and around,

And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's sleep,' etc. "There is great sweetness in the following portion of a little poem on a Girl's School: '

Oh! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,' etc. "There is a fine and stately solemnity in these lines on "The Lost Pleiad :'

'Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?

She wears her crown of old magnificence,' etc. "The following on The Dying Improvisatore,' have a rich lyrical cadence, and glow of deep feeling :'Never, oh! never more,

On thy Rome's purple heaven mine eye shall dwell,' etc. "But we must stop here. There would be no end of our extracts, if we were to yield to the temptation of noting down every beautiful passage which arrests us in turning over the leaves of the volumes before us. We ought to recollect, too, that there are few to whom our pages are likely to come, who are not already familiar with their beauties; and, in fact, we have made these extracts, less with the presumptuous belief that we are introducing Mrs Hemans for the first time to the knowledge or admiration of our readers, than from a desire of illustrating, by means of them, the singular felicity in the choice and employment of her imagery, of which we have already spoken so much at large;-that fine accord she has established between the world of sense and of soul-that delicate blending of our deep inward emotions with their splendid symbols and emblems without."]

But, with the fulness of a heart that burn'd
For the deep sympathies of mind, I turn'd
From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought
In all wild scenes with thrilling murmurs fraught,
In every still small voice and sound of power,
And flute-note of the wind through cave and bower,
A perilous delight!-for then first woke
My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest
Of secret knowledge; and each tone that broke
From the wood-arches or the fountain's breast,
Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre,
But minister'd to that strange inborn fire.

Midst the bright silence of the mountain dells,
In noontide-hours or golden summer-eves,
My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells
Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves
Shakes out response. O thou rich world unseen!
Thou curtain'd realm of spirits!-thus my cry
Hath troubled air and silence-dost thou lie
Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen
Shut from us ever? The resounding woods,
Do their depths teem with marvels?-and the
floods,

And the pure fountains, leading secret veins
Of quenchless melody through rock and hill,
Have they bright dwellers?-are their lone domains
Peopled with beauty, which may never still
Our weary thirst of soul? Cold, weak and cold,
Is earth's vain language, piercing not one fold
Of our deep being! Oh, for gifts more high!
For a seer's glance to rend mortality!

For a charm'd rod, to call from each dark shrine
The oracles divine!

I woke from those high fantasies, to know
My kindred with the earth-I woke to love.
O gentle friend! to love in doubt and woe,
Shutting the heart the worshipp'd name above,
Is to love deeply; and my spirit's dower
Was a sad gift, a melancholy power
Of so adoring-with a buried care,

And with the o'erflowing of a voiceless prayer,
And with a deepening dream, that day by day,
In the still shadow of its lonely sway,
Folded me closer, till the world held naught
Save the one being to my centred thought.
There was no music but his voice to hear,
No joy but such as with his step drew near;
Light was but where he look'd-life where he
moved:

Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved.
Oh! but such love is fearful!--and I knew
Its gathering doom: the soul's prophetic sight
Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw
O'er all things round a full, strong, vivid light,
Too sorrowfully clear !—an under-tone
Was given to Nature's harp, for me alone
Whispering of grief. Of grief?-be strong, awake!
Hath not thy love been victory, O my soul?
Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake
Death's fastnesses?-a magic to control
Worlds far removed?-from o'er the grave to thee
Love hath made answer; and thy tale should be
Sung like a lay of triumph! Now return
And take thy treasure from its bosom'd urn,
And lift it once to light!

In fear, in pain,

I said I loved-but yet a heavenly strain
Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream,
A joy flash'd through the trouble of my dream!
I knew myself beloved! We breathed no vow,
No mingling visions might our fate allow,
As unto happy hearts; but still and deep,
Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave,
Like golden sand in some dark river's wave,
So did my soul that costly knowledge keep,
So jealously!—a thing o'er which to shed,
When stars alone beheld the drooping head,
Lone tears! yet ofttimes burden'd with the excess
Of our strange nature's quivering happiness.

But, oh! sweet friend! we dream not of love's might

Till death has robed with soft and solemn light
The image we enshrine! Before that hour,
We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power
Within us laid!—then doth the spirit-flame

With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame; The wings of that which pants to follow fast Shake their clay-bars, as with a prison'd blastThe sea is in our souls!

He died-he died
On whom my lone devotedness was cast!
I might not keep one vigil by his side,

I, whose wrung heart watch'd with him to the last!
I might not once his fainting head sustain,
Nor bathe his parch'd lips in the hour of pain,
Nor say to him, "Farewell!" He pass'd away-
Oh! had my love been there, its conquering sway
Had won him back from death! But thus removed,
Borne o'er th' abyss no sounding line hath proved,
Join'd with the unknown, the viewless-he became
Unto my thoughts another, yet the same--
Changed-hallow'd-glorified!—and his low
grave
Seem'd a bright mournful altar-mine, all mine:
Brother and friend soon left me that sole shrine,
The birthright of the faithful!-their world's wave
Soon swept them from its brink. Oh! deem thou

not

That on the sad and consecrated spot

My soul grew weak! I tell thee that a power
There kindled heart and lip-a fiery shower
My words were made-a might was given to prayer,
And a strong grasp to passionate despair,
And a dread triumph! Know'st thou what I sought?
For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought?
-Communion with the dead! I sent a cry
Through the veil'd empires of eternity-
A voice to cleave them! By the mournful truth,
By the lost promise of my blighted youth
By the strong chain a mighty love can bind
On the beloved, the spell of mind o'er mind;
By words, which in themselves are magic high,
Armed, and inspired, and wing'd with agony;
By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem
To bear the heart's blood in their passion-stream;
I summon'd, I adjured !—with quicken'd sense,
With the keen vigil of a life intense.

I watch'd, an answer from the winds to wring,
I listen'd, if perchance the stream might bring
Token from worlds afar; I taught one sound
Unto a thousand echoes-one profound
Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky-
One prayer to night-" Awake! appear! reply!”
Hast thou been told that from the viewless bourne
The dark way never hath allow'd return?
That all, which tears can move, with life is fled-
That earthly love is powerless on the dead?
Believe it not !-There is a large lone star
Now burning o'er yon western hill afar,

And under its clear light there lies a spot Which well might utter forth-Believe it not !

I sat beneath that planet. I had wept
My woe to stillness; every night-wind slept;
A hush was on the hills; the very streams
Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams;
And the dark tree o'ershadowing me that hour,
Stood motionless, even as the gray church-tower
Whereon I gazed unconsciously. There came
A low sound, like the tremor of a flame,
Or like the light quick shiver of a wing,
Flitting through twilight woods, across the air;
And I look'd up! Oh! for strong words to bring
Conviction o'er thy thought! Before me there,
He, the departed, stood! Ay, face to face,
So near, and yet how far! His form, his mien,
Gave to remembrance back each burning trace
Within:-Yet something awfully serene,
Pure, sculpture-like, on the pale brow, that wore
Of the once beating heart no token more;
And stillness on the lip-and o'er the hair
A gleam, that trembled through the breathless air;
And an unfathom'd calm, that seem'd to lie
In the grave sweetness of th' illumined eye,
Told of the gulfs between our being set,
And, as that unsheath'd spirit-glance I met,
Made my soul faint:-with fear? Oh! not with
fear!

With the sick feeling that in his far sphere
My love could be as nothing! But he spoke-
How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill
In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill
My bosom's infinite? O friend! I woke
Then first to heavenly life! Soft, solemn, clear,
Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear,
Yet strangely seem'd as if the while they rose
From depths of distance, o'er the wide repose
Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells
Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo-cells.
But, as they murmur'd on, the mortal chill
Pass'd from me, like a mist before the morn;
And, to that glorious intercourse upborne
By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still,
Possess'd my frame. I sought that lighted eye-
From its intense and searching purity

I drank in soul-I question'd of the dead-
Of the hush'd, starry shores their footsteps tread,
And I was answer'd. If remembrance there
With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air;
If thought, here piled from many a jewel-heap,
Be treasure in that pensive land to keep;
If love, o'ersweeping change, and blight, and blast,
Find there the music of his home at last:

I ask'd, and I was answer'd. Full and high
Was that communion with eternity-
Too rich for aught so fleeting! Like a knell
Swept o'er my sense its closing words, "Farewell!
On earth we meet no more!" And all was gone-
The pale, bright settled brow-the thrilling tone,
The still and shining eye! and never more
May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore
That radiant guest! One full-fraught hour of heaven,
To earthly passion's wild implorings given,
Was made my own-the ethereal fire hath shiver'd
The fragile censer in whose mould it quiver'd,
Brightly, consumingly! What now is left?
A faded world, of glory's hues bereft-

A void, a chain! I dwell midst throngs, apart,
In the cold silence of the stranger's heart;
A fix'd immortal shadow stands between
My spirit and life's fast-receding scene;
A gift hath sever'd me from human ties,
A power is gone from all earth's melodies,
Which never may return: their chords are broken,
The music of another land hath spoken-
No after-sound is sweet! This weary thirst!
And I have heard celestial fountains burst!
What here shall quench it?

Dost thou not rejoice, When the spring sends forth an awakening voice Through the young woods? Thou dost! And in that birth

Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth, Thousands, like thee, find gladness! Couldst thou know

How every breeze then summons me to go!
How all the light of love and beauty shed
By those rich hours, but woos me to the dead!
The only beautiful that change no more--
The only loved!-the dwellers on the shore
Of spring fulfill'd! The dead! whom call we so?
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know
Things wrapt from us! Away! within me pent,
That which is barr'd from its own element
Still droops or struggles! But the day will come-
Over the deep the free bird finds its home;
And the stream lingers midst the rocks, yet greets
The sea at last; and the wing'd flower-seed meets
A soil to rest in: shall not I, too, be,
My spirit-love! upborne to dwell with thee?
Yes! by the power whose conquering anguish stirr'd
The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard,
Whose agony of triumph won thee back
Through the dim pass no mortal step may track,
Yet shall we meet! that glimpse of joy divine
Proved thee for ever and for ever mine!

["It was towards the close of the year 1829, that Mrs Hemans began to contemplate the publication of a new volume of poems. She had already made some preparation for this by contributing a series of lyrics under the title of "Songs of the Affections," to Blackwood's Magazine, together with the long ballad, "The Lady of Provence," which, for the glowing pictures it contains, the lofty yet tender affection to which it is consecrated, and the striking but never uncouth changes of its versification, must be considered as one of its author's finest chivalresque poems. She had still, however, to produce some work of greater importance than these, suitable for the commencement of a volume. The subject at length fixed upon by her, as peculiar as it was almost dangerously fascinating, was suggested by a fireside conversation. It had long been a favourite amusement to wind up our evenings by telling ghost-stories. One night, however, the store of thrilling narratives was exhausted, and we began to talk of the feelings with which the presence and the speech of a visitant from another world, (if indeed a spirit could return,) would be most likely to impress the person so visited. After having exhausted all the common varieties of fear and terror in our speculations, Mrs Hemans said that she thought the predominant sensation at the time must partake of awe and rapture, and resemble the feelings of those who listen to a revelation, and at the same moment know themselves to be favoured above all men, and humbled before a being no longer sharing their own cares' or passions; but that the person so visited must thenceforward and for ever be inevitably separated from this world and its concerns: for the soul which had once enjoyed such a strange and spiritual communion, which had been permitted to look, though but for a moment, beyond the mysterious gates of death, must be raised, by its experience, too high for common grief again to perplex, or common joy to enliven. She spoke long and eloquently upon this subject; and I have reason to believe that this conversation settled her wandering fancy, and gave rise to the principal poem in her next volume."-CHORLEY'S Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 69-72. Mr Chorley, in an after part of the same work, makes the following ingenious and suggestive remarks in reference to the same exquisite poem :-"The coming of the apparition is described with all the plainness and intensity of the most entire conviction, so difficult in these days for a writer to assume might it not almost be said, so impossible to be assumed by those who have wholly and scornfully cast off those superstitions, so distasteful to reason, but so dear to fancy? It is impossible, in reading Sir Walter Scott's incomparable descriptions of supernatural visitations, the episode of the Bodach Glas' for instance, or Wandering Willie's tale,' or the vigil of Master Holdenough in the Mirror Chamber, (though this is afterwards explained away,)-to imagine that the creator of these scenes did not in some measure believe in their possibility, though it might be but with a poetical faith. Were it otherwise, they must strike us as unnaturally as the recent French revivifications of the antique Catholic legends and mysteries-as merely grotesque old fables, adopted as studies by clever artists, for the sake of their glaring contrasts and effective situations."-Memorials, p. 103.

In conclusion, we add the comparative estimate formed of this production by its author. It is from one of her letters to a friend. "Your opinion of the 'Spirit's Return' has given me particular pleasure, because I prefer that poem to any thing else I have written; but if there be, as my friends say, a greater power in it than I had before evinced, I paid dearly for the discovery, and it almost made me tremble as I "sounded the deep places' of my soul."]