Leonora, Leonora,
How the word rolls—Leonora.
Lion-like in full-mouthed sound,
Marching o’er the metric ground,
With a tawny tread sublime.
So your name moves, Leonora,
Down my desert rhyme.
Mrs. Craik’s best poems are, on the whole, those that are written in blank verse; and these, though not prosaic, remind one that prose was her true medium of expression. But some of the rhymed poems have considerable merit. These may serve as examples of Mrs. Craik’s style:
A SKETCH
Dost thou thus love me, O thou all beloved,
In whose large store the very meanest coin
Would out-buy my whole wealth? Yet here thou comest
Like a kind heiress from her purple and down
Uprising, who for pity cannot sleep,
But goes forth to the stranger at her gate—
The beggared stranger at her beauteous gate—
And clothes and feeds; scarce blest till she has blest.But dost thou love me, O thou pure of heart,
Whose very looks are prayers? What couldst thou see
In this forsaken pool by the yew-wood’s side,
To sit down at its bank, and dip thy hand,
Saying, ‘It is so clear!’—and lo! ere long,
Its blackness caught the shimmer of thy wings,
Its slimes slid downward from thy stainless palm,
Its depths grew still, that there thy form might rise.THE NOVICE
It is near morning. Ere the next night fall
I shall be made the bride of heaven. Then home
To my still marriage-chamber I shall come,
And spouseless, childless, watch the slow years crawl.These lips will never meet a softer touch
Than the stone crucifix I kiss; no child
Will clasp this neck. Ah, virgin-mother mild,
Thy painted bliss will mock me overmuch.This is the last time I shall twist the hair
My mother’s hand wreathed, till in dust she lay:
The name, her name given on my baptism day,
This is the last time I shall ever bear.O weary world, O heavy life, farewell!
Like a tired child that creeps into the dark
To sob itself asleep, where none will mark,—
So creep I to my silent convent cell.Friends, lovers whom I loved not, kindly hearts
Who grieve that I should enter this still door,
Grieve not. Closing behind me evermore,
Me from all anguish, as all joy, it parts.
The volume chronicles the moods of a sweet and thoughtful nature, and though many things in it may seem somewhat old-fashioned, it is still very pleasant to read, and has a faint perfume of withered rose-leaves about it.
(1) A Book of Verses. By William Ernest Henley. (David Nutt.)
(2) Romantic Ballads and Poems of Phantasy. By William Sharp. (Walter Scott.)
(3) Poems, Ballads, and a Garden Play. By A. Mary F. Robinson. (Fisher Unwin.)
(4) Poems. By the Author of John Halifax, Gentleman. (Macmillan and Co.)
SIR EDWIN ARNOLD’S LAST VOLUME
(Pall Mall Gazette, December 11, 1888.)