This hour hath blighted!-yet, whate'er

betide,

It is a noble privilege to look up

Fearless in heaven's bright face-and this is mine,

And shall be still.

[Exit.

Our other extract is from a later scene in the drama, which we think very happily conceived. Raimond, accused of treachery, and condemned to die by his own father, is in chains and in prison. The day of his execution has arrived, but the Sicilians are called on to give battle before their gates; he is left alone, respited, or rather forgotten, for the present. His alternation of feeling, as he at first attempts to respond to the consolations of the priest Anselmo, and then, on hearing of the battle that is being fought for his country, breaks out into all that ardent love of glory, which was the main passion of his soul, is very admirably expressed.

hand!

Ans. It will not be to-day. The foe hath reached

Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all Her warrior men, are marshalled and gone forth.

Thy father leads them on.

Raim. (starting up.) They are gone forth! my father leads them on!

All-all Palermo's youth! No! one is left, Shut out from glory's race! They are gone forth!

Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad-
It burns upon the air! The joyous winds
Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white

foam

Of battle's roaring billows! On my sight The vision bursts-it maddens! 'tis the flash, The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze Of helmets in the sun! Such things are Even now and I am here!

Ans. Alas, be calm!

To the same grave ye press-thou that dost
pine
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule
The fortunes of the fight.

Raim. Ay, thou canst feel

The calm thou wouldst impart, for unto thee All men alike, the warrior and the slave, Seem, as thou say 'st, but pilgrims, pressing on To the same bourne.

Vittoria, who had taken a leading part in the conspiracy, now rushes in, bringing the intelligence that the Sicilians are worsted-are in flight. Procida still strives

But all in vain! The few that breast the storm,

With Guido and Montalba, by his side,
Fight but for graves upon the battle-field.
Raim. And I am here! Shall there be
power, O God!

In the roused energies of fierce despair,
To burst my heart and not to rend my
chains?

his release, and he rushes forth to the Vittoria, however, gives orders for field, where he turns the tide of battle, and earns that glorious death he sighed for.

The failure of the play at Covent Garden theatre was attributed, amongst the friends of the authoress, to the indifferent acting of the lady who performed the part of Constance. In justice to the actress, we must confess she had a most difficult part to deal with. There is not a single speech set down for Constance which, we think, the most skilful recitation could make effective. The failure of Mrs Hemans, in this part of the drama, is not very easily accounted for. Constance is a gentle, affectionate

spirit, in love with the younger Procida, and the unfortunate cause of the suspicion that falls upon him of being a traitor. It is a character which, in her lyrical effusions, she would have beautifully portrayed. But we suppose that the exclusion from her favourite haunts of nature-the inability of investing the grief of her heroine in her accustomed associations of woods, and fields, and flowers-the confinement of her imagination to what would be suitable to the boards of a theatre-embarrassed and cramped her powers. Certain it is, she seems quite at a loss here to express a strain of feeling which, on other occasions, she has poured out with singular fluency and force. Constance has no other manner of exhibiting her distress but swooning or dreaming, or thinking she must have been dreaming, and recovering herself to the remembrance of what no mortal so situated could ever have forgottenthe most common, and, to our taste, one of the most unfortunate expedients that dramatists and novelists have recourse to. We are loath to quote any thing half so uninteresting as instances of this practice; we shall content ourselves with giving, in a note below, two brief passages to exemplify what we mean.'

It ought to be borne in remembrance, however, that the Vespers of Palermo, although not the "first" with respect to publication, was the first written of Mrs Hemans' dramatic works. It was produced in solitude, and away from the bustle of theatres, and, be it also confessed, probably with a very scanty knowledge of what stage-representation required. Indeed, the result proved this to be the case. The Siege of Valencia, written on a different principle, although probably even less adapted for stage representation, possesses loftier claims as a composition, and, as a poem, is decidedly superior. Its pervading fault consists in its being pitched on too high a key. All the characters talk in heroics-every sentiment is strained to the utmost; and the prevailing tone of the author's mind characterises the whole. We do not say that it is deficient in nature-it overflows alike with power and tenderness; but its nature is too high for the common purposes of humanity. The wild, stern enthusiasm of the priest-the inflexibility of the father-the wavering of the mother between duty and affection-the heroic devotion of the gentle Ximena, are all well brought out; but there is a want of individuality-the want of that, without

[She is led out by Anselmo.

which elaboration for the theatre is vain, and with which, compositions of very inferior merit often attract attention, and secure it.

Passing over Sebastian of Portugal, and the two or three sketches in the Scenes and Hymns of Life, as of minor importance, De Chatillon is the only other regular drama that Mrs Hemans subsequently attempted. Unfortunately for her, the Vespers, although long prior in point of composition, had not been brought out when the Siege of Valencia was written; and, consequently, she could not benefit by the fate and failure which was destined for that drama. This is much to be lamented, for De Chatillon, as a play, far exceeds either in power and interest. The redundancies in imagery and description, the painting instead of acting, which were the weaker side of its precursors, were here corrected. It is unfortunate that it wanted the benefit of her last corrections, as it was not published till some years after her death, and from the first rough draft-the amended one, which had been made from it, having been unfortunately lost. But, imperfect in many respects as it may be found to be, it is beyond compare the best and most successful composition of the author in this department. Without stripping her language of that richness and poetic grace which characterises her genius, or condescending to a single passage of mean baldness, so commonly mistaken by many modern dramatists as essentially necessary to the truth of dialogue, she has in this attempt preserved adherence to reality, amid scenes allied to romance; brevity and effect, in situations strongly alluring to amplification; and, in her delineation of some of the strongest as well as the finest emotions of the heart, she has exhibited a knowledge of nature's workings, remarkable alike for minuteness and truth.

in her own estimation, it was considered her best. Not so we. It has many passages of exquisite description, and it breathes throughout an exalted spirit; but withal it is monotonous in sentiment, and possesses not the human interest which ought to have attached to it, as a tale of suffering. To us The Last Constantine, which appears to have attracted much less attention, is in many respects a finer and better poem. Few things, indeed, in our literature, can be quoted as more perfect than the picture of heroic and Christian courage, which, amid the ruins of his empire, sustained the last of the Cæsars. The weight of the argument is sustained throughout. The reader feels as if breathing a finer and purer atmosphere, above the low mists and vapours of common humanity; and he rises from the perusal of the poem alike with an admiration of its hero and its author.

The Last Constantine may be considered as the concluding great effort of Mrs Hemans, in what of her writings may be said to belong to the classical school. She seems here first to have felt her own power, and, leaving precept and example, and the leading-strings of her predecessors, to have allowed her muse to soar adventurously forth. The Tales and Historic Scenes, the Sceptic, Dartmoor, and Modern Greece, are all shaped according to the same model-the classical. The study of modern German poetry, and of Wordsworth, changed, while it expanded, her views; and the Forest Sanctuary seems to have been composed with great elaboration, doubtless, while in this transition state. In matter it is too flimsy and etherial for a tale of life; it has too much sentiment and too little action. But some things in it it would be difficult to rival. The scenery of Southern America is painted with a gorgeousness which reminds us of the Isle of Palms and its fairy bowers; and the death and burial at sea is imbued with a serene and soul-subduing beauty.

Of these we prefer such as are apparently the expressions of spontaneousfeelings of her own to those which are

built upon some tale or legend. It happens too, unfortunately, that in the latter case we have first to read the legend or fable in prose, and then to read it again in verse. This gives something of weariness to the Lays of Many Lands. Still less fortunate, we think, is the practice Mrs Hemans indulges in of ushering in a poem of her own by a long quotation favourite stanza, perhaps-of some celebrated poet. We may possibly read the favourite stanza twice, and feel reluctant to proceed further. For instance, she quotes the beautiful and well-known passage from Childe Harold upon the spring, ending with—

a

I turned from all she brought to all she could not bring;

and on another occasion, that general favourite, beginning

And slight, withal, may be the things which bring;

and then proceeds to enlarge upon the same sentiments. Her own strain that follows is good-but not so good. Is it wise to provoke the comparison? -and does it not give a certain frivolity, and the air of a mere exercise, to the verse which only repeats, and modifies, and varies, so to speak, the melody that has been already given? Or if the quotation set out with is looked on as a mere prelude, is it good policy to run the risk of the prelude being more interesting than the strain itself? The beautiful passage from Southey

They sin who tell us love can die, &c., is too long to be quoted as merely a key-note to what is to follow, and is too good to be easily surpassed.

But this is a trifling remark, and hardly deserving of even the little space we have given to it. It is more worthy of observation, that Mrs Hemans, a reader and admirer of German poetry, contrived to draw a deep inspiration from this noble literature, without any disturbance to her principles of taste. A careful perusal of her works, by one acquainted with the lyrical poetry of Germany, will prove how well and how wisely she had studied that poetry-drawing from it just that deeper spirit of reflection which would harmonise with her own mind, without being tempted to imitate what, either in thought or in

manner, would have been foreign to her nature.

We fancy we trace something of this Teutonic inspiration in the poem, amongst others, that follows:

THE SILENT MULTITUDE.

A mighty and a mingled throng
Were gathered in one spot;
The dwellers of a thousand homes-

Yet midst them voice was not.
The soldier and his chief were there-
The mother and her child:
The friends, the sisters of one hearth-
None spoke-none moved-none smiled.
There lovers met, between whose lives
Years had swept darkly by;
After that heart-sick hope deferred,
They met but silently.

You might have heard the rustling leaf,
The breeze's faintest sound,

The shiver of an insect's wing,

On that thick-peopled ground.
Your voice to whispers would have died
For the deep quiet's sake;

Your tread the softest moss have sought,
Such stillness not to break.

What held the countless multitude
Bound in that spell of peace?
How could the ever-sounding life
Amid so many cease?

Was it some pageant of the air,
Some glory high above,

That linked and hushed those human souls
In reverential love?

Or did some burdening passion's weight
Hang on their indrawn breath?
Awe-the pale awe that freezes words?
Fear the strong fear of death?
A mightier thing-Death, Death himself,
Lay on each lonely heart!
Kindred were there yet hermits all,
Thousands-but each apart.

In any notice of Mrs Hemans' works, not to mention The Records of Woman would seem an unaccountable omission. Both the subject, and the manner in which it is treated especially characterise our poetess. Of all these Records there is not one where the picture is not more or less pleasing, or drawn with more or less power and fidelity. Estimated according to sheer literary merit, it would perhaps be impossible to give the preference to any one of them. Judging by the peculiar pleasure which its perusal gave us, we should select, for our favourite, The Switzer's Wife. Werner Stauffacher was one of the three confederates of the field of Grutli. He had been marked out by the Austrian bailiff as a fit subject for pillage;

but it was to the noble spirit of his wife that he owed the final resolution he took to resist the oppressor of his country. The whole scene is brought before us with singular distinctness. It is a beautiful evening in the Alpine valley,—

For Werner sat beneath the linden tree,

That sent its lulling whispers through his door,

Even as man sits, whose heart alone would be With some deep care, and thus can find no

more

Th'accustomed joy in all which evening brings Gathering a household with her quiet wings. His wife stood hushed before him, sad, yet mild In her beseeching mien,-he marked it not. The silvery laughter of his bright-haired child Rang from the greensward round the sheltered spot,

But seemed unheard; until at last the boy Raised from his heaped up flowers a glance of joy,

And met his father's face; but then a change Passed swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, And a quiet sense of something dimly strange Brought him from play to stand beside the knee

So often climbed, and lift his loving eyes, That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise.

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook;

But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid Her hand on his, and with a pleading look Through tears half-quivering, o'er him bent and said,

"What grief, dear friend, hath made thy

heart its prey,

That thou shouldst turn thee from our love

away?

"It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend! Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow,

Missing the smile from thine? Oh, cheer thee! bend

To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en

now!

Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share Of tried affection in thy secret care."

He looked up into that sweet earnest face, But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band Was loosened from his soul.

He then tells how the oppressor's envious eye "had been upon his heritage," and to-morrow eve might find him in chains. The blood leaves her cheek, and she leans back on the linden stem, but only for a moment; the free Alpine spirit wakes within her

And she that ever through her home had moved

With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile

Of woman, calmly loving and beloved

And timid in her happiness the while, Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hourHer clear glance kindling into sudden power.

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light, And took her fair child to her holy breast, And lifted her soft voice, that gathered might As it found language:-"Are we thus oppressed?

Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod, And man must arm, and woman call on God! "I know what thou wouldst do ;--and be it done!

Thy soul is darkened with its fears for me. Trust me to heaven, my husband; this, thy

son,

The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free !

And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth May well give strength-if aught be strong on earth.

"Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread Of my desponding tears; now lift once more, My hunter of the hills, thy stately head,

And let thine eagle glance my joy restore! I can bear all but seeing thee subduedTake to thee back thine own undaunted mood. "Go forth beside the waters, and along

The chamois' paths, and through the forests go;

And tell in burning words thy tale of wrong To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow,

God shall be with thee, my beloved!-away! Bless but thy child and leave me-I can pray!"

It is ever thus with all her women, -gentle, courageous, full of self-devotion, and, alas! of sorrow and suffering. This is her ideal of woman, from which she rarely departs a heart overflowing with tenderest affection-ill-requited-yet refusing to receive any earthly boon as a substitute for the returned affection it seeks. Fame is no compensation

Away! to me, a woman, bring

Sweet waters from affection's spring. Genius when she sings to Love is made to say

They crown me with the glistening crown,
Borne from a deathless tree;

I hear the pealing music of renown-
O Love, forsake me not!

Mine were a lone dark lot,

Bereft of thee!

They tell me that my soul can throw
A glory o'er the earth;

From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow!

Shed by thy gentle eyes,

It gives to flower and skies

A bright new birth!

Genius singing to Love. It is not often we find the superstitions of dark and ignorant ages