I would censure Lord Brougham more severely as a writer than as a speaker; for Lord Brougham is also a writer, and a good deal too much of one. The melancholy activity which distinguishes him, pushes him on incessantly to fill the reviews with his economical, political, scientific, historical, and theological essays, and to heap up pamphlet on pamphlet; if his writings were characterized by a finished style or new ideas, the evil would not be half so great; there is, however, eternally the same excessive flood of words; and on paper, where they cannot evaporate, it becomes even more intolerable. Though on his own part it has not been an interested speculation, I cannot pardon him for having been the father of that leprous, cheap literature, which, pretending to diffuse useful knowledge, has only displayed false opinions, ignorance, and bad writing. In France, where this disastrous invention has been so quickly perfected, there is good cause to curse in all sincerity its author. It is not his fault however, that the French have permitted their worthless laborers to infect, as they have done, all their literary field, with these tares which threaten to choke the promising harvest of their young poetry.
Let us examine Lord Brougham as a politician. Here we find him still more imperfect. I acquit him of the charge of having offered his support to the conservatives, on the condition of their securing him his chancellorship; this is a calumny of his enemies. I wish he had never had any thing to do with toryism. It is not his fault however, that he has not again become a whig officer. It is said that it is the whigs who object to his joining their ministry, and who have refused him the seals. Experience has proved that he is less dangerous as an enemy than as a friend. He is neither tory nor whig; nor is he a radical; he is however at present among the radicals. He is of no party, if it be not his own, the party of Lord Brougham.
The case of Lord Brougham ought to afford a salutary example to M. Dupin, his friend. There are many curious analogies between these two celebrated lawyers; they resemble each other strikingly in their countenances, in their fortune, in their inconsistencies, and in their extravagancies. M. Dupin does not preside more soberly over the Chamber of Deputies, than Lord Brougham did over that of the Lords. He is also a lawyer who fills the speaker's chair, and speaks himself much more willingly than he accords the permission to another. I grant you that his eloquence is of better metal, more powerful, more solid, more triumphant; that his blows are heavier and more mortal; but should he ever succeed in reaching the power after which he aspires, I doubt if his temperament will allow him to sustain himself half the time that the petulance of our ci-devant chancellor remained seated on the woolsack.
IANTHE.
BY MORNA.
Oh! if to die in life's young hours,
Ere childhood's buds are burst to flowers;
While Hope still soars on tireless wing,
Where skies are bright with changeless Spring;
Ere Sorrow's tear has dimm'd the eye,
That late with rapture's glance was swelling;
Or Grief has sent the bursting sigh
In silence to its lonely dwelling:
Oh! if to part with this world only,
Where all is cold, and bleak, and lonely—
To welcome in those happier spheres,
The loved and lost of parted years;
If this give pain, or waken sadness,
Oh! who can tell the more than madness
Circling thro' life the hearts that bear
The chains that wounded spirits wear—
To live, and yet to feel thro' life
The aching wish, the ceaseless strife—
The yearnings of a bleeding breast,
To sink within the grave to rest;
To smile, when every smile must wear
The hue and coldness of despair;
To weep, or only strive in vain
To waken tears, that ne'er again
Shall cool the fever of that eye,
Whose fountains are forever dry:
When joys are gone, and hope has fled,
And friends are changed, and love is dead,
And we are doomed alone to wait,
And struggle with a bitter fate—
Left like some lone and towering rock,
To brave the ocean's battling shock,
'Till broken by some mightier wave,
That bears it to a lonely grave.
My early years, how coldly bright
The memory of their parted light
Falls round the heart, whose cords are broken,
Or, only strung to suffering's power,
When struck in grief's o'erwhelming hour,
Give back to sorrow's touch a token.
My sire, alas! they say he died
When in the flower of manhood's pride:
I stood beside that parent's bier,
And wondered why the big bright tear
Was coursing down my mother's cheek;
She took my hand, but could not speak—
I kiss'd her then, and sadly smiled,
Nor felt I was an orphan child.
My Mother! how the thoughts of years,
With all their smiles, and all their tears,
Rush with the memory of her name
Upon me—and I seem the same
Bright, careless child she looked upon,
And joyed to call her fair-haired son:—
Oh, I remember well the time
She led me to our favorite bower;
It was in Spring's sweet, sunny prime,
And just at sunset's dying hour,
When woods, and hills, and waters seem
Wrapt in some soft, mysterious dream—
When birds are still, and folded flowers
Their dark green lids are peering through,
Waiting the coming evening hours,
Within each bright cup to renew
The wasted wealth of morning dew—
When spirit voices seem to sigh
In every breeze that wanders by—
And thoughts grow hushed in that calm hour,
Beneath its soft, subduing power.
She knelt, and breathed to heaven a prayer,
“That God would guard that orphan there”—
Then turned, and with a faltering tone,
She took my hand within her own,
And said, “I ne'er should find another
To love me as she loved me then”—
And I could only say, “my Mother!”
And fall upon her neck again,
And bathe it with my burning tears—
The bleeding heart's most precious rain—
That I had hoarded there for years,
And hoped to never shed again;
Nor knew, alas! how soon the heart,
When all its early ties are parted,
Will link it to some kindred heart—
That wounded bird and broken-hearted
Are soonest won, and cling the longest
To those who seek their ruined wealth.
* * * * *
She died, and then, alas! I thought
My cup of suffering was o'erfraught—
No voice to cheer, when sorrow's power
Assailed me in her darkest hour—
No lip to smile, when hope was bright,
No eye to glad me with its light—
No heart to meet my throbbing heart—
No prayer to lift my thoughts above,
When murmuring tears were forced to start—
No Father's care!—no Mother's love!
Ye, that have known in life's young spring,
The fondness of a Mother's love,
Oh guard it, 'tis an holy thing,
A priceless treasure from above!
And when, on life's tempestuous sea,
Thy shatter'd bark by storm is driven,
'Twill be a beacon-light to thee,
A guiding star, by memory given,
To lead thy wandering thoughts to Heaven.
The Spring renews the leafless tree,
And Time may check the bosom's grief—
And thus it wrought a change on me,
But oh! mine hour of Spring was brief.
They are who tell us, “love's a flower,
That only blooms in cloudless skies—
That gaily thrives in pleasure's bower,
But touched by sorrow, droops and dies.”
Not so was ours! we never loved
'Till suffering had our spirits proved,
And then there seemed a strange communion,
Sinking our souls in deathless union:
Such power hath love to render dear
The hearts that grief hath made so near,
That we had loved each other less,
Save for our very loneliness.
Her gentler spirit was not formed
To war with stern misfortune's storm,
And soon we felt, that day by day
She yielded to a slow decay,
Wearing unseen her life away.
And yet so sweet the smile that played
On lips that ne'er a sigh betrayed—
So calm the light that lingering slept
In eyes that ne'er for pain had wept,
We could not grieve, but only pray,
That when that light should pass away,
The faint, sad smile might linger yet,
And vainly teach us to forget.
She died! I know not when or where—
I never knew—for silent there
I stood, unconscious, strange and wild,
In all save thought and tears, a child;
For sorrow's channels then were sealed,
Or flowed too deep to be revealed.
I stood beside her grass-grown grave,
And saw the boughs above it wave;
And then I felt that I was changed—
That reason, late so far estranged,
Had won me from my spirit's madness,
To settled grief and silent sadness:
I placed bright flowers above her grave,
And nursed them with my warmest tears,
And for my grief a balm they gave,
The memory of departed years.
Ianthe! o'er thine early tomb
The Summer's winds are gently blowing,
And fair white flowers, the first to bloom,
Around thy narrow home are growing;
And o'er it twines the changeless myrtle,
Fit emblem of thy spirit's love!
And near it mourns the gentle turtle,
And I, how like to that lone dove!
While every leaf, and flower, and tree
Is fraught with memory of thee.
And oh! if true, who tell us death
Can never quench its purer fires—
That not with life's last faltering breath,
The soul's immortal love expires;
If heart meets kindred heart above,
Shall we not greet each other there?
Say, was not ours a deathless love?
Too deep, too strong for life to bear!
Then let us hope to meet again,
Ere long, in guiltless transport there,
With bliss for all the grief and pain
We here on earth were doomed to share,
And love on, through unending years,
Uncheck'd by time, unchang'd by tears.