‘O wind that wandereth from the south!
Seek where my love repaireth,
And blow a kiss to his dear mouth.
And tell me how he fareth.’
Nothing can exceed the tender sweetness of these lines; but there is no skill. Again, in Faire Rosamonde, the verse that describes the cruelty of Eleanor—
‘With that she struck her on the mouth,
So dyed double red;
Hard was the heart that gave the blow,
Soft were the lips that bled.’
How musical is the alliteration! but it is music which, like that of the singing brook, has sprung up of itself. Now, Mrs Hemans has the most perfect skill in her science; nothing can be more polished than her versification. Every poem is like a piece of music, with its eloquent pauses, its rich combinations, and its swelling chords. Who that has ever heard, can forget the exquisite flow of ‘The Voice of Spring?’—