Yet o'er the low dark dwellings of the dead, from his knowledge, worships the impious though elegant idols of a depraved imagination; the loftiest efforts of his genius are debased by the vileness of unhallowed associations; poetry and painting, wood and stone, the winds and the air, the earth and the waters, gross vices and falsely sublime virtues, become his deities; he lives without God; he perishes without hope; he precipitates himself into destruction. What had Greece to give-and if not Greece in her magnificence, what has all this sublunary spherewhich can fill and bound the capacities of an immortal spirit created in the image of its Maker, and intended for the eternal enjoyments of the unseen world? Modern Greece then, with these its chequered tints, is an admirable subject for poetical fancy; and it was still more so perhaps when Mrs. Hemans wrote her poem three and twenty years ago, when its sons were beginning to struggle for that freedom from the Turkish yoke which they at length achieved, but which they have not yet learned worthily to make use of; for, alas! the demoralising and debasing effects of slavery are perpetuated long after slavery is abolished; the mental degradation remains after the limbs are set free; the brand on the brow is not obliterated till long after the yoke is cast off the neck. But let us listen to the classic strains of Mrs. Hemans. She thus describes the mingled feelings excited by the recollection of "the land of Phidias, theme of lofty strains." Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs blow, 'Tis hard to deem that misery can be nigh; Where the clear heavens in blue trans Verdure and flowers in summer bloom may smile, And ivy boughs their graceful drapery spread In green luxuriance o'er the ruined pile; And mantling woodbine veils the withered tree, And thus it is, fair land, forsaken Greece ! with thee. For all the loveliness, and light, and bloom, That yet are thine, surviving many a storm, Are but as heaven's warm radiance on the tomb, The rose's blush that marks the can ker worm: And thou art desolate-thy morn hath past So dazzling in the splendour of its way, That the dark shades the night hath o'er thee cast Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay. Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair, Thy fate hath been unmatch'd—in glory and despair. Chateaubriand mentions that he found in the wilds of Florida, some Greek emigrants who had fled to the lonely bowers and primæval woods of the Western world, where no despot foot had trod, to escape the bondage of Turkish tyranny in their own loved land. Mrs. Hemans thus tenderly depicts the wanderer sighing for his native gales, and pining in his day dreams for a clime still dear to him by every tender tie. In vain for him the gay liannes entwine, Or the green fire-fly sparkles through the brakes, Or summer-winds waft odours from the pine, As eve's last blush is dying on the lakes, Through thy fair vales his fancy roves the while, Or breathes the freshness of Citharon's height, Or dreams how softly Athens' towers would smile, Or Sunium's ruins, in the fading light, On Corinth's cliff what sunset hues may sleep, Or, at that placid hour, how calm th' Egean deep! 3A what sunbeams, are to him The mighty works Ambition piled on What scenes, E'en to the stranger's roving eye they Soft as the vision of remembered joy. And views with fond regret thy lessening As he would watch a star that sets to rise Hast thou beheld some sovereign spirit, hurl'd By Fate's rude tempest from its radiant Doomed to resign the homage of a world, That weareth still a glory in decay? Thought, science, genius, to the storm a prey, And o'er the blasted tree, the wither'd ground, Despair's wild night-shade spread, and darkly flourish round? So mayest thou gaze, in sad and awestruck thought, On the deep fall of that yet lovely clime: Such there the ruin Time and Fate have wrought, So changed the bright, the splendid, the sublime! There the proud monuments of Valour's name, The rich remains by Art bequeath'd to Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength, and Blend in decay; while all that yet is fair Seems only spared to tell how much hath perished there ! There, while around lie mingling in the dust The column's graceful shaft, with weeds o'ergrown, The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust, Amidst the loneliness of shattered fanes, The chosen haunts where Freedom's foot would roam; She loves to dwell by glen and torrentstream, And make the rocky fastnesses her home. And in the rushing of the mountainflood, In the wild eagle's solitary cry, In sweeping winds that peal through There is a voice of stern sublimity, Yet how tenderly does this poetess of emotion, after this sub And all that round us blooms, is blooming o'er the dead. The "Sceptic" appeared to us at the time it was published, and does still, a failure after "Greece." The subject is not adapted to poetry. It is too painful, viewed religiously, and too hard and barren, viewed in minstrel fashion, to elicit the powers of genius in an imaginative effort. It can be at best but the peroration of a sermon put into verse. A tale of striking incident or powerful emotion might indeed be invented to cover the theme; but as a didactic subject it could scarcely be made poetically interesting. What is true and striking, would be equally true and not less striking in prose. It would be impossible to make a picturesque or affecting poem on Socialism or London University College. However Mrs. Hemans's intentions were good, and her feelings right; and she seizes throughout the piece one point of striking effect, the wretchedness of man without religion; the blank dreary desolateness of a heart from which God and eternity are excluded. But she had better meed than literary fame as her guerdon. Many years after, a stranger called on her, and expressed in tones of the deepest feeling that to the perusal of that piece he owed, by the blessing of God, that faith and those hopes which were more precious to him than life itself; that he had been rescued from miserable infidelity, and led to search the Scriptures, and there had found eternal life, and that he could not rest satisfied till he had found her out, and avowed his obligations. He left her overwhelmed at the recital "with joyful gratitude and wondering humility." It does not appear that she ever ascertained who he was. It may be time enough in heaven to learn such blessed secrets. At the risk of stultifying our own perhaps too disparaging estimate of this piece, as a poetical composition, we will quote a strik. ing specimen of its appeals. Yet few there are so lonely, so bereft, But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left : And haply one whose strong affection's power Unchanged may triumph thro' misfor Still let for ever' vibrate on thine ear! If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown, Find more than anguish in the thought -tis gone! Go! to a voice such magic influence give, Thou canst not lose its melody and live; And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul, And let a glance the springs of thought controul; Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight; There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust, Lean on the willow, idolize the dust! Then, when thy treasure best repays thy That the horses are bright yellow brass, beyond doubt; So I'll ask you but this, the same subject pursuing, Do you think they are truly Lysippus's doing? In 1821, Mrs. Hemans obtained the prize proposed by the Society of Literature for the best poem on Dartmoor. It must in all courtesy be considered a good poem; for vast numbers of pieces were sent in,-some of them as long, it is said, as Paradise Lost -and hers won the laurel; and it would be harsh to imagine that bad was the best. But the subject was uninspiring, and no blame to the writer if the piece is only an excellent "prize poem." The memoir however takes us behind the scenes in those domestic hopes, fears, and raptures which make much of life's joyousness or pain. We calmly read in the newspapers of the adjudication of prizes in a school or college, at an hospital or university; and all that we learn is who wins; but the many home-tales connected with that announcement meet not our ear. We perhaps rejoice with the victor, and think of the pleasure of parents and the exultation of sisters, the latter of course never doubted the result, and ofopening prospects of success in his future career to the successful aspirant; but for the one that wins how many lose; some perhaps really as deserving of the prize, but arbiters are fallible; many more thinking themselves so; others distanced by vexatious casualties; to some the projected hopes of life blighted; others retire dejected, and perhaps enfeebled in mind and body by long-protracted and exhausting efforts, succeeded by the vexation of frustrated hope, and perhaps a feeling of wrong; and the disappointment of fond objects of affection, and sometimes not the most good-natured remarks of spectators. Mrs. Hemans's fire-side exhibited these chequered emotions. She writes to a friend : "What with surprise, bustle, and pleasure, I am really almost bewildered. I wish you had but seen the children when the prize was announced to them yesterday. Arthur, you know, had so set his heart upon it, that he was quite troublesome with his constant inquiries upon the subject. He sprang up from his Latin exercise, and shouted aloud, Now I am sure mamma is a better poet than Lord Byron.' Their acclamations were actually deafening; and George said that the excess of his pleasure had given him a head-ache." Mrs. Hemans did not much heed the celebrity of a prize, or literary estimation; for she used to say that "Fame can afford only reflected delight to a woman;' but this reflected delight she did enjoy; nor was the pecuniary meed valueless to a widow, as in effect she was, struggling to bring up a young family. About this time she was occupied in the composition of a tragedy, "The Vespers of Palermo," which she originally wrote without any intention, it is stated, of offering it for the stage; but the 66 sanguine recommendation" of her friend Reginald Heber, and the "equally kind encouragement of" Mr. Milman, induced her to venture upon that step. After many difficulties it was acted in 1823, at Covent Garden, but failed; it was subsequently represented at the Edinburgh Theatre, where it was well received at the moment; but it does not appear to have been heard of again. The vexation she suffered in this affair we are not sorry for, as it perhaps prevented her devoting hertalents to dramatic authorship, which we cannot think she herself in her later days would have approved; neither, we are persuaded, would Bishop Heberwe mean in actual scenic exhibition. The piece, viewed as a poem, is highly sustained; the sentiments are patriotic and dignified; and the characters of the hero and heroine are marked by tender and noble traits; but we feel as in regard to Hannah More's Percy, that it cannot sanctify the theatre with all its demoralising accompaniments in the living representation. But though Mrs. Hemans gained not theatrical notoriety, Murray the bookseller gave her two hundred guineas for the copy-right of the piece; so that she did not quite lose her labour. Mrs. Hemans would have pardoned our an |