“We are contending for no sickly morality: we would shut out the poet from the haunts of libertinism, not from the haunts of men; we would have him associate with his fellows, hold intercourse with the great minds that light up the gloom of ages, and share in the best impulses of human nature, and not, under the influence of a too delicate sensibility, treat only of the harmless flowers, and the innocent birds, and the exhilarating charm of agreeable scenery; and still less, in the spirit of a sullen misanthropy, delight in obscure abstractions, find comfort only in solitude, and rejoice, or pretend to rejoice, chiefly in the mountains, and the ocean, and the low places of the earth. Their pursuit of moral beauty does not lead to an affected admiration, or an improper idolatry of the visible creation. The genius of the poet can impart a portion of its eloquence to the external world, and elevate creation by connecting it with moral associations. But descriptions, except of scenes where moral beings are to move, possess little interest. If landscape-painting is an inferior branch of that art, though the splendid works of Claude demand praise without measure, landscape poetry is a kind of affectation, an unnatural result of excessive refinement. Description is important, but subordinate. The external world, with all its gorgeousness and varied forms of beauty; the cataract, ‘with its glory of reflected light;’ the forests, as they wave in the brilliancy of early summer; the flowers, that are crowded in gardens, or waste their sweetness on the desert air; ‘the noise of the hidden brook, that all night long in the leafy months sings its quiet tune to the sleeping woods;’ the ocean, whether reposing in tranquil majesty or tossed by the tempest; night, when the heavens are glittering with the splendour of the constellations; morning, when one perfect splendour beams in the sky, and is reflected in a thousand colours from the guttering earth—these are not the sublimest themes that awaken the energies of the muse. It is mind, and mind only, which can exhibit the highest beauty. The hymn of martyrdom, the strength by which the patriot girds himself to die, ‘God’s breath in the soul of man,’ the unconquerable power of generous passion, the hopes and sorrows of humanity—love, devotion, and all the deep and bright springs of affection—these are higher themes of permanent interest and exalted character.
“Here, too, we find an analogy between poetic and religious feeling. The image of God is to be sought for, not so much in the outward world as in the mind. No combination of inanimate matter can equal the sublimity and wonderful power of life. To impart organic life, with the power of reproduction, is a brighter display of Omnipotence than any arrangement of the inanimate, material world. A swarm of flies, as through their short existence they buzz and wheel in the summer’s sun, offer as clear, and, to some minds, a clearer demonstration of Omnipotence, than the everlasting, but silent, courses of the planets. But moral life is the highest creation of divine power. We, at least, know and can conceive of none higher. We are, therefore, not to look for God among the rivers and the forests, nor yet among the planets and the stars, but in the hearts of men; he is not the God of the dead, but of the living.
“Those who accord with the general views which we have here maintained, will be prepared to express unqualified approbation of the literary career of Mrs Hemans. Had her writings been merely harmless, we should not have entered into an analysis of them; but the moral charm which is spread over them is so peculiar, so full of nature, and truth, and deep feeling, that her productions claim at once the praise of exquisite purity and poetic excellence. She adds the dignity of her sex to a high sense of the duties of a poet; she writes with buoyancy, yet with earnestness; her poems bear the impress of a character worthy of admiration. In the pursuit of literary renown, she never forgets what is due to feminine reserve. We perceive a mind endowed with powers to aspire, and are still further pleased to find no unsatisfied cravings, no passionate pursuit of remote objects, but high endowments, graced by contentment. There is plainly the consciousness of the various sorrow to which life is exposed, and with it the spirit of resignation. She sets before herself a clear and exalted idea of what a female writer should be, and is on the way to realise her own idea of excellence. Living in domestic retirement, in a beautiful part of Wales, it is her own feelings and her own experience which she communicates to us. We cannot illustrate our meaning better, than by introducing our readers at once to Mrs Hemans herself, as she describes to us the occupations of a day.
AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.
‘There were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood’s sleep,
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound
As of soft showers on water,’ etc. etc.
“The poetry is here as beautiful as the scene described is quiet and pleasing. It forms an amiable picture of the occupations of a contemplative mind. The language, versification, and imagery, are of great merit, the beauties of nature described by a careful observer; the English scene is placed in happy contrast with the Eastern, and the dream of romance pleasantly disturbed by the cheerfulness of life. But we make but sorry work at commenting on what the reader must feel.