FOOTNOTES:

Yet musical as when the waters run,Lapsing through sylvan haunts deliciously.[159]

It is not without reason that Barry Cornwall has been styled the "Poet of woman,"par excellence. It enhances the value, it adds to the charm of every tender and beautiful passage addressed to us, that we know them to be sincere and heartfelt,

Not fable bred,But such as truest poets love to write.

It is for the sake ofone, beloved "beyond ambition and the light of song,"—and worthy to be so loved, that he approachesallwomen with the most graceful, delicate, and reverential homage ever expressed in sweet poetry. His fancy is indeed so luxuriant, that he makes whatever he touches appear fanciful: but the beauty adorned by his verse, and adorning his home, is not imaginary; and though he has almost hidden his divinity behind a cloud of incense, she is not therefore lessreal.

The life Lord Byron led was not calculated to give him a good opinion of women, or to place before him the best virtues of our sex. Of all modern poets, he has been the most generally popular among female readers; and he owes this enthusiasm not certainly to our obligations tohim; for, as far as women are concerned, we may designate his works by a line borrowed from himself,—

With much to excite, there's little to exalt.

But who, like him, could administer to that "besoin de sentir" which I am afraid is an ingredient in the feminine character all over the world?

Lord Byron is really the Grand Turk of amatory poetry,—ardent in his love,—mean and merciless in his resentment: he could trace passion in characters of fire, but his caustic satire burns and blisters where it falls. Lovely as are some of his female portraits, and inimitably beautiful as are some of his lyrical effusions, it must be confessed there is something very Oriental in all his feelings and ideas about women; he seems to require nothing of us but beauty and submission. Please him—and he will crown you with the richestflowers of poetry, and heap the treasures of the universe at your feet, as trophies of his love; but once offend, and you are lost,—

There yawns the sack—and yonder rolls the sea!

Campbell, ever elegant and tender, has hymned us all into divinities; and through his sweet and varied page

Where love pursues an ever devious race,True to the winding lineaments of grace,

we figure under every beautiful aspect that truth and feeling could inspire, or poetry depict.

Sir Walter Scott ought to have lived in the age of chivalry, (if we could endure the thoughts of his living in any other age but our own!) so touched with the true antique spirit of generous devotion to our sex are all his poetical portraits of women. I do not find that he has, like most other writers of the present day, mixed up his personal feelings and history with his poetry; or that any fair and distinguished object will be so thrice fortunate as to share his laurelled immortality. We must therefore treat him like Shakspeare, whom alone he resembles—and claim him for us all.

Then there is Rogers, whose compliments to us are so polished, so pointed, and so elegantly turned, and have such a drawing-room air, that they seem as if intended to be presented to Duchesses, by beaux in white kid gloves. And there is Coleridge who approaches women with a sort of feeling half earthly, half heavenly, like that with which an Italian devotee bends before his Madonna—

And comes unto his courtship as his prayer.

And there is Southey, in whose imagination we are all heroines and queens; and Wordsworth, lost in the depths of his own tenderness!

The time is not yet arrived, when the loves of the living poets, or of those lately dead, can be discussed individually, or exhibited at full length. The subject is much too hazardous for a contemporary, and more particularly for a female to dwell upon. Such details belong properly to the next age, and there is no fear that these gossiping times will leave any thing a mystery for posterity.The next generation will be infinitely wiser on these interesting subjects than their grandmothers. Yet a few years, and what is scandal and personalitynow, willthenbe matter for biography and history. Then many a love, destined to rival that of Petrarch in purity and celebrity, and that of Tasso in interest, shall be divulged; the thread of many a poetical romance now coiled up in mystic verse, shall then be evolved. Then we shall know the true history of Lord Byron's "Fare thee well." We shall then know more than the mere name of his Mary,[160]who first kindled his boyish fancy, and left an ineffaceable impression on his young heart, and whose history is said to be shadowed forth in "The Dream." We may then know who was the heroine of "Remember him whom passion's power:" whose moonlight charms at once so radiant and so shadowy, inspired "She walks in beauty;" we shall be told, perhaps, who was the Thyrza, soloving and beloved in life, and whose early death, which appears to have taken place during his travels, is so deeply, so feelingly lamented: and who was his Ginevra,[161]and what spot of earth was made happy by her beautiful presence—if any thing so divinely beautiful ever was!

Then we shall not ask in vain who was Campbell's Caroline?[162]Whether she did, indeed, walk this earth in mortal beauty, or was not rather invoked by the poet's spell, from the soft evening star which shone upon her bower?

Then we shall know upon whose white bosom perished that rose,[163]which, dying, bequeathed with its odorous breath a tale of truest love to after-times, and glory to her, whose breast was its envied tomb—toher, whose heart has thrilled to the homage of her poet,—yet who would "blush to find it fame!"

Then we shall know who was the "Lucy,"

Who dwelt among the untrodden ways,Beside the springs of Dove![164]

and who was the heroine of that most exquisite picture of feminine loveliness in all its aspects, "She was a Phantom of delight."[165]—No phantom, it is said, but a fair reality:

A being, breathing thoughtful breath,A traveller betwixt life and death,

yet fated not to die, while verse can live!

Then we shall know whose tear has been preserved by Rogers with a power beyond "the Chymist's magic art;" who was the lovely bride who is destined to blush and tremble in his Epithalamium, for a thousand years to come; and to what fair obdurate is addressed his "Farewell."

We may then learn who was that sweet Mary who adorned the cottage-home of Wilson; and who was the "Wild Louisa," of whom he has drawn such a captivating picture; first asthe sprightly girl floating down the dance,

With footsteps light as falling snow,

and afterwards as the matron and the mother, hanging over the cradle of her infant, and blessing him in his sleep.

Then we maytellwho was the "Bonnie Jean," sung by Allan Cunningham, whose destructive charms are so pleasantly, so naturally touched upon.

Sair she slights the lads—Three are like to die;Four in sorrow listed,—And five flew to sea!

This rural beauty, who caused such terrible devastation, and who, it is said, first made a poet of her lover, became afterwards his wife; and in her matronly character, she inspired that beautiful little effusion of conjugal tenderness, "The Poet's Bridal Song." When first published, it was almost universally copied, and committed to memory; and Allan Cunningham may not only boast that he has woven a wreath "to grace his Jean,"

While rivers flow and woods are green,

but that he has given the sweet wife, seated among her children in sedate and matronly loveliness, an interest even beyond that which belongs to the young girl he has described with raven locks and cheeks of cream, driving rustic admirers to despair, or lingering with her lover at eve,

—Amid the falling dew,When looks were fond, and words were few!

Such is the charm of affection, and truth, and moral feeling, carried straight into the heart by poetry!

What a new interest and charm will be given to many of Moore's beautiful songs, when we are allowed to trace the feeling that inspired them, whether derived from some immediate and present impression; or from remembered emotion, that sometimes swells in the breast, like the heaving of the waves, when the winds are still! Several of the most charming of his lyrics are said to be inspired by "the heart so warm, and eyes so bright," which first taught him the value of domestic happiness;—taught him that the true poetneed not rove abroad for themes of song, but may kindle his genius at the flame which glows on his own hearth, and make the Muses his household goddesses.[166]

Gifford, the late editor of the Quarterly Review, and the author of the Baviad and Mæviad, was in early youth doomed to struggle with poverty, obscurity, ill health, and every hardship which could check the rise of genius. He has himself described the effect produced on his mind, under these circumstances, by his attachment to an amiable and gentle girl. "I crept on," he says, "in silent discontent, unfriended and unpitied; indignant at the present, careless of the future,—an object at once of apprehension and dislike. From this state of abjectness, I was raised by a young woman of my own class.She was a neighbour; and whenever I took my solitary walk with my Wolfius in my pocket, she usually came to the door, and by a smile, or a short question, put in the friendliest manner, endeavoured to solicit my attention. My heart had been long shut to kindness; but the sentiment was not dead within me; it revived at the first encouraging word; and the gratitude I felt for it, was the first pleasing sensation I had ventured to entertain for many dreary months."

There are two little effusions inserted in the notes to the Baviad and Mæviad, which have since been multiplied by copies, and have found their way into almost all collections of lyric poetry and "Elegant Extracts;" one of these was composed during the life of Anna; the other, written after her death, and beginning,

I wish I were where Anna lies,For I am sick of lingering here,

is extremely striking from its unadorned simplicity and profound pathos.—Such was not the prevailing style of amatory verse at the time it was written, nearly fifty years ago. Mr. Gifford nevermarried; and the effect of this early disappointment could be traced in his mind and constitution to the last moments of his life.

The same sad bereavement which tended to make Gifford a caustic critic and satirist, made Mr. Bowles a sentimental poet. The subject of his Sonnets was real; but he who has pointed out the difference between natural and fabricated feeling, should not have left ablankfor the name of her he laments. He gives us indeed a formal permission to fill up the blank with any name we choose. But it is not the same thing; the name of the woman who inspired a poet, is quite as important to posterity, as the name of the poet himself.

Who was the Hannah, whose fickleness occasioned that exquisite little poem which Montgomery has inscribed "To the memory of her who is dead to me?" It tells a tale of youthful love, of trusting affection, suddenly and eternally blighted,—and with such a brevity, such a simplicity, such a fervent yet heart-broken earnestness, that I fear it must be true!

At some future time, we shall, perhaps, be told who was the beautiful English girl, whose retiring charms won the heart of Hyppolito Pindemonte, when he was here some years ago. His Canzone on her is, in Italy, considered as his masterpiece,[167]and even compared to some of Petrarch's. There are indeed few things in the compass of Italian poetry more sweet in expression, more true to feeling, than the lines in which Pindemonte, describing the blooming youth, the serene and quiet grace of this fair girl, disclaims the idea of even wishing to disturb the heavenly calm of her pure heart by a passion such as agitates his own.

Il men di che può Donna esser corteseVer chi l'ha di sè stesso assai più cara,Da te, vergine pura, io non vorrei.

This was being very peculiarly disinterested.—We may also learn, at some future time, who was the sweet Elvire, to whom Alphonse de Lamartinehas promised immortality, and not promised more than he has the power to bestow. He is one of the few French poets, who have created a real and a strong interest out of their own country. He has vanquished, by the mere force of genius and sentiment, all the difficulties and deficiencies of the language in which he wrote, and has given to its limited poetical vocabulary a charm unknown before. He thus addresses Elvire in one of theMeditations Poëtiques.

Vois, d'un œil de pitié, la vulgaire jeunesseBrillante de beauté, s'enivrant de plaisir;Quand elle aura tari sa coupe enchanteresse,Que restera-t-il d'elle? à peine un souvenir:Le tombeau qui l'attend l'engloutit tout entière,Un silence éternel succède à ses amours;Mais les siècles auront passé sur ta poussière,Elvire!—et tu vivras toujours!

Over some of the heroines of modern poetry, the tomb has recently closed; and the flowers scattered there, could not be disturbed without awakening a pang in the bosoms of those who survive.They sleep, but only for a while: they shall rise again—the grave shall yield them up, "even in the loveliest looks they wore," for a poet's love has redeemed them from death and from oblivion! Methinks I see them even now with the prophetic eye of fancy, go floating over the ocean of time, in the light of their beauty and their fame, like Galatea and her nymphs triumphing upon the waters!

Others, perhaps, (the widow of Burns, and the widow of Monti, for instance,) are declining into wintry age: sorrow and thought have quenched the native beauty on their cheek, and furrowed the once polished brow; yet crowned by poetry with eternal youth and unfading charms, they will go down to posterity among the Lauras, the Geraldines, the Sacharissas of other days;—Nature herself shall feel decrepitude,

And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows,

ere these grow old and die!

And some, even now, move gracefully through the shades of domestic life, and the universe, of whose beauty they will ere long form a part, knowsthem not. Undistinguished among the ephemeral divinities around them, not looking as though they felt the future glory round their brow, nor swelling with anticipated fame, they yet carry in their mild eyes, that light of love, which has inspired undying strains,

And Queens hereafter shall be proud to liveUpon the alms of their superfluous praise!

FOOTNOTES:[153]Crabbe's Poems.[154]See the Excursion.[155]Wordsworth.[156]Even so the smile of woman stamps our fates,And consecrates the love it first creates!Barry Cornwall.[157]See in particular Schiller's ode, "Honour to Women," one of the most elegant tributes ever paid to us by a poet's enthusiasm. It may be found translated in Lord F. Gower's beautiful little volume of Miscellanies.[158]Many light lays (ah! woe is me the more)In praise of that mad fit which fools calllove,I have i' the heat of youth made heretofore,That in light wits did loose affections move;But all these follies do I now reprove, &c.Spenser.[159]Marcian Colonna.[160]Miss Chaworth, now Mrs. Musters.[161]Lord Byron's Works, vol. iii. p. 183, (small edit.)[162]Campbell's Poems, vol. ii. p. 202.[163]Barry Cornwall's Poems, "Lines on a Rose."[164]Wordsworth's Poems, vol. i. p. 181.[165]Wordsworth, vol. ii. p. 132.[166]See in Moore's Lyrics the beautiful song. "I'd mourn the hopes that leave me." The concluding stanza is in point:"Far better hopes shall win me,Along the path I've yet to roam,The mind that burns within me,And pure smiles from theeat home."[167]See in the "Opere di Pindemonte," the Canzone, "O Giovanetta che la dubbia via."

[153]Crabbe's Poems.

[154]See the Excursion.

[155]Wordsworth.

[156]Even so the smile of woman stamps our fates,And consecrates the love it first creates!Barry Cornwall.

[156]

Even so the smile of woman stamps our fates,And consecrates the love it first creates!Barry Cornwall.

[157]See in particular Schiller's ode, "Honour to Women," one of the most elegant tributes ever paid to us by a poet's enthusiasm. It may be found translated in Lord F. Gower's beautiful little volume of Miscellanies.

[158]Many light lays (ah! woe is me the more)In praise of that mad fit which fools calllove,I have i' the heat of youth made heretofore,That in light wits did loose affections move;But all these follies do I now reprove, &c.Spenser.

[158]

Many light lays (ah! woe is me the more)In praise of that mad fit which fools calllove,I have i' the heat of youth made heretofore,That in light wits did loose affections move;But all these follies do I now reprove, &c.Spenser.

[159]Marcian Colonna.

[160]Miss Chaworth, now Mrs. Musters.

[161]Lord Byron's Works, vol. iii. p. 183, (small edit.)

[162]Campbell's Poems, vol. ii. p. 202.

[163]Barry Cornwall's Poems, "Lines on a Rose."

[164]Wordsworth's Poems, vol. i. p. 181.

[165]Wordsworth, vol. ii. p. 132.

[166]See in Moore's Lyrics the beautiful song. "I'd mourn the hopes that leave me." The concluding stanza is in point:"Far better hopes shall win me,Along the path I've yet to roam,The mind that burns within me,And pure smiles from theeat home."

[166]See in Moore's Lyrics the beautiful song. "I'd mourn the hopes that leave me." The concluding stanza is in point:

"Far better hopes shall win me,Along the path I've yet to roam,The mind that burns within me,And pure smiles from theeat home."

[167]See in the "Opere di Pindemonte," the Canzone, "O Giovanetta che la dubbia via."

LONDON:PRINTED BY S. AND R. BENTLEY,Dorset Street, Fleet Street.

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