When eve, her dewy star beneath, If such an hour was e'er thy choice, Washing Day. The Muses are turned gossips; they have lost From the wet kitchen scared, and reeking hearth, Cast at the louring sky, if sky should lour. When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale Drawn from her ravelled stocking might have soured At intervals my mother's voice was heard Then would I sit me down, and ponder much Ride buoyant through the clouds, so near approach MISS SEWARD-MRS HUNTER-MRS OPIE-MRS Several other poetesses of this period are deserving of notice, though their works are now almost faded from remembrance. With much that is delicate in sentiment and feeling, and with considerable powers of poetical fancy and expression, their leading defect is a want of energy or of genuine passion, and of that originality which can alone forcibly arrest the public attention. One of the most conspicuous of these was MISS ANNA SEWARD (1747– 1809), the daughter of the Rev. Mr Seward, canonresidentiary of Lichfield, himself a poet, and one of Saints have been calm while stretched upon the rack, the editors of Beaumont and Fletcher. This lady And Montezuma smiled on burning coals; But never yet did housewife notable Greet with a smile a rainy washing day. That day shall eat; nor, though the husband try- In silence dines, and early slinks away. I well remember, when a child, the awe This day struck into me; for then the maids, was early trained to a taste for poetry, and, before she was nine years of age, she could repeat the three first books of Paradise Lost. Even at this time, she says, she was charmed with the numbers of Milton. Miss Seward wrote several elegiac poems-an Elegy to the Memory of Captain Cook, a Monody on the Death of Major André, &c.—which, from the popular nature of the subjects, and the animated though inflated style of the composition, enjoyed great celebrity. Darwin complimented her as the inventress of epic elegy;' and she was known by the name of the Swan of Lichfield. A poetical novel, entitled Louisa, was published by Miss Seward in 1782, and passed through several editions. After bandying compliments with the poets of one generation, Miss Seward engaged Sir Walter Scott in a literary correspondence, and bequeathed to him for publication three volumes of her poetry, which he pronounced execrable. At the same time she left her correspondence to Constable, and that publisher gave to the world six volumes of her letters. Both collections were unsuccessful. The applauses of Miss Seward's early admirers were only calculated to excite ridicule, and the vanity and affectation which were her besetting sins, destroyed equally her poetry and prose. Some of her letters, however, are written with spirit and discrimination. In contrast to Miss Seward was MRS JOHN HUNTER (1742-1821), a retired but highly accomplished lady, sister of Sir Everard Home, and wife of John Hunter, the celebrated I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from surgeon. Having written several copies of verses, them; Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope For me their petted one; or buttered toast, which were extensively circulated, and some songs that even Haydn had married to immortal music, | Mrs Hunter was induced, in 1806, to collect her pieces and commit them to the press. In 1802, Mrs AMELIA OPIE, whose pathetic and interesting Tales are so justly distinguished, published a volume of miscellaneous poems, characterised by a simple and placid tenderness. Her Orphan Boy is one of those touching domestic effusions which at once finds its way to the hearts of all. In the following year a volume of miscellaneous poems was published by MRS ANNE GRANT, widow of the minister of Laggan, in Inverness-shire. Mrs Grant (1754-1838) was author of several able and interesting prose works. She wrote Letters from the Mountains, giving a description of Highland scenery and manners, with which she was conversant from her residence in the country; also Memoirs of an American Lady (1810); and Essays on the Superstitions of the High landers, which appeared in 1811. The writings of this lady display a lively and observant fancy, and considerable powers of landscape painting. They first drew attention to the more striking and romantic features of the Scottish Highlands, afterwards so fertile a theme for the genius of Scott. An Irish poetess, MRS MARY TIGHE (1773-1810), evinced a more passionate and refined imagination than any of her tuneful sisterhood. Her poem of Psyche, founded on the classic fable related by Apuleius, of the loves of Cupid and Psyche, or the allegory of Love and the Soul, is characterised by rarely excelled. It is in six cantos, and wants only a graceful voluptuousness and brilliancy of colouring a little more concentration of style and description to be one of the best poems of the period. Mrs Tighe was daughter of the Rev. W. Blackford, county of Wicklow. Her history seems to be little known, unless to private friends; but her early death, after six years of protracted suffering, has been commemorated by Moore, in his beautiful lyric 'I saw thy form in youthful prime.' When, fair as their young flowers, thy infant frame We subjoin some selections from the works of One sister dear, from spleen, from falsehood free, each of the above ladies : The Anniversary. [By Miss Seward.] Ah, lovely Lichfield! that so long hast shone Why fled ye all so fast, ye happy hours, Ah, dear Honora! that remembered day, 1 Honora Sneyd, the object of Major André's attachment, afterwards Mrs Edgeworth, and mother of the distinguished novelist, Maria Edgeworth. Rose to the verge of womanhood with me; Amply in friendship by her virtues blest, I gave to youthful gaiety the rest ; Considering not how near the period drew, When that transplanted branch should meet our view, 'Twas eve; the sun, in setting glory drest, In the kind interchange of mutual thought, To the maternal room we careless walked, 1 Miss Sarah Seward, who died in her nineteenth year, and on the eve of marriage. 2 The bishop's palace at Lichfield. Where sat its honoured mistress, and with smile Song. [From Mrs Hunter's Poems.] The season comes when first we met, Which time can ne'er restore? In fancy stop their rapid flight, Song. [From the same.] O tuneful voice! I still deplore Those accents which, though heard no more, And round your orbits play; The Death Song, Written for, and Adapted to, an [From the same.] The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, No; the son of Alknomook shall never complain. 1 The lustre of the brightest of the stars (says Miss Seward, in a note on her ninety-third sonnet) always appeared to me of a green hue; and they are so described by Ossian. Dear to my heart as life's warm stream And deck with smiles the future day; Of kind affections finely wrought? Deserve its love, as I have done! If so beloved, thou'rt fairly won. Bright may the sacred torch remain, And cheer thee till we meet again! The Lot of Thousands. [From the same.] "Tis hard to smile when one would weep; Yet such the lot by thousands cast Who wander in this world of care, Where disappointment cannot come; The Orphan Boy's Tale. Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, And my brave father's hope and joy; When news of Nelson's victory came, And see the lighted windows flame! To force me home my mother sought, She could not bear to see my joy; For with my father's life 'twas bought, And made me a poor orphan boy. The people's shouts were long and loud, My mother, shuddering, closed her ears; 'Rejoice! rejoice!' still cried the crowd; My mother answered with her tears. 'Why are you crying thus,' said I, While others laugh and shout with joy?" She kissed me--and with such a sigh! She called me her poor orphan boy. 280 'What is an orphan boy?' I cried, As in her face I looked, and smiled; My mother through her tears replied, You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!' Oh! were I by your bounty fed! Song.* [From the same.] Go, youth beloved, in distant glades New friends, new hopes, new joys to find! But thou mayst grant this humble prayer, Yet, should the thought of my distress Too painful to thy feelings be, [On a Sprig of Heath.] [From Mrs Grant's Poems.] Flower of the waste! the heath-fowl shuns Thy tender buds supply her food; Their food and shelter seek from thee; Nor garden's artful varied pride, Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild Of peace and freedom seem to breathe; To pluck thy blossoms in the wild, And deck his bonnet with the wreath, A writer in the Edinburgh Review styles this production af Mrs Opie's one of the finest songs in our language. Flower of his dear-loved native land! [The Highland Poor.] [From Mrs Grant's poem of The Highlander."] Where yonder ridgy mountains bound the scene, The narrow opening glens that intervene Still shelter, in some lowly nook obscure, One poorer than the rest-where all are poor; Some widowed matron, hopeless of relief, Who to her secret breast confines her grief; Dejected sighs the wintry night away, And lonely muses all the summer day: Her gallant sons, who, smit with honour's charme, Pursued the phantom Fame through war's alarms, Return no more; stretched on Hindostan's plain, Or sunk beneath the unfathomable main; In vain her eyes the watery waste explore For heroes-fated to return no more! Let others bless the morning's reddening beam, Foe to her peace-it breaks the illusive dream That, in their prime of manly bloom confest, Restored the long-lost warriors to her breast; And as they strove, with smiles of filial love, Their widowed parent's anguish to remove, Through her small casement broke the intrusive day, And chased the pleasing images away! No time can e'er her banished joys restore, For ah! a heart once broken heals no more. The dewy beams that gleam from pity's eye, The still small voice' of sacred sympathy, In vain the mourner's sorrows would beguile, Or steal from weary wo one languid smile; Yet what they can they do the scanty store, So often opened for the wandering poor, To her each cottager complacent deals, While the kind glance the melting heart reveals; And still, when evening streaks the west with gold, The milky tribute from the lowing fold With cheerful haste officious children bring, And every smiling flower that decks the spring: Ah! little know the fond attentive train, That spring and flowerets smile for her in vain: Yet hence they learn to reverence modest wo, And of their little all a part bestow. Let those to wealth and proud distinction born, With the cold glance of insolence and scorn Regard the suppliant wretch, and harshly grieve The bleeding heart their bounty would relieve: Far different these; while from a bounteous heart With the poor sufferer they divide a part; Humbly they own that all they have is given A boon precarious from indulgent Heaven: And the next blighted crop or frosty spring, Themselves to equal indigence may bring. [From Mrs Tighe's 'Psyche."] [The marriage of Cupid and Psyche in the Palace of Love. Psyche afterwards gazes on Love while asleep, and is banished from the Island of Pleasure.] She rose, and all enchanted gazed On the rare beauties of the pleasant scene: Conspicuous far, a lofty palace blazed Upon a sloping bank of softest green; A fairer edifice was never seen; The high-ranged columns own no mortal hand, But seem a temple meet for Beauty's queen ; Like polished snow the marble pillars stand, In grace-attempered majesty, sublimely grand. Gently ascending from a silvery flood, Above the palace rose the shaded hill, The lofty eminence was crowned with wood, And the rich lawns, adorned by nature's skill, The passing breezes with their odours fill; Here ever-blooming groves of orange glow, And here all flowers, which from their leaves distil Ambrosial dew, in sweet succession blow, And trees of matchless size a fragrant shade bestow. The sun looks glorious 'mid a sky serene, And bids bright lustre sparkle o'er the tide ; The clear blue ocean at a distance seen, Bounds the gay landscape on the western side, While closing round it with majestic pride, The lofty rocks mid citron groves arise; 'Sure some divinity must here reside,' As tranced in some bright vision, Psyche cries, And scarce believes the bliss, or trusts her charmed eyes. When lo! a voice divinely sweet she hears, From unseen lips proceeds the heavenly sound; 'Psyche approach, dismiss thy timid fears, At length his bride thy longing spouse has found, While gay saloons appeared on either side, Once more she hears the hymeneal strain; Far other voices now attune the lay; The swelling sounds approach, awhile remain, And then retiring, faint dissolved away; The expiring lamps emit a feebler ray, And soon in fragrant death extinguished lie: Then virgin terrors Psyche's soul dismay, When through the obscuring gloom she nought can spy, But softly rustling sounds declare some being nigh. Oh, you for whom I write! whose hearts can melt At the soft thrilling voice whose power you prove, You know what charm, unutterably felt, Attends the unexpected voice of love: Above the lyre, the lute's soft notes above, With sweet enchantment to the soul it steals, And bears it to Elysium's happy grove; You best can tell the rapture Psyche feels, When Love's ambrosial lip the vows of Hymen seals. "Tis he, 'tis my deliverer! deep imprest Upon my heart those sounds I well recall,' The blushing maid exclaimed, and on his breast A tear of trembling ecstacy let fall. But, ere the breezes of the morning call Aurora from her purple, humid bed, Psyche in vain explores the vacant hall; Her tender lover from her arms is fled, While sleep his downy wings had o'er her eyelids spread. * Illumined bright now shines the splendid dome, Melodious accents her arrival hail : But not the torch's blaze can chase the gloom, And all the soothing powers of music fail; Trembling she seeks her couch with horror pale, But first a lamp conceals in secret shade, While unknown terrors all her soul assail. Thus half their treacherous counsel is obeyed, That scarce the beams of heaven emit such lustre bright. For still her gentle soul abhors the murderous blade. The amethyst was there of violet hue, And there the topaz shed its golden ray, As the clear azure of a sunny day, Or the mild eyes where amorous glances play; • There the green emerald, there cornelians glow, Now through the hall melodious music stole, To taste celestial food, and pure ambrosial streams. All that voluptuous ease could e'er supply And now with softest whispers of delight, Love welcomes Psyche still more fondly dear; Not unobserved, though hid in deepest night, The silent anguish of her secret fear. He thinks that tenderness excites the tear, By the late image of her parent's grief, And half offended seeks in vain to cheer; Yet, while he speaks, her sorrows feel relief, Too soon more keen to sting from this suspension brief! Allowed to settle on celestial eyes, Soft sleep, exulting, now exerts his sway, From Psyche's anxious pillow gladly flies To veil those orbs, whose pure and lambent ray The powers of heaven submissively obey. Trembling and breathless then she softly rose, And seized the lamp, where it obscurely lay, With hand too rashly daring to disclose The sacred veil which hung mysterious o'er her woes. Twice, as with agitated step she went, The lamp expiring shone with doubtful gleam, As though it warned her from her rash intent: And twice she paused, and on its trembling beam Gazed with suspended breath, while voices seem With murmuring sound along the roof to sigh; As one just waking from a troublous dream, With palpitating heart and straining eye, Still fixed with fear remains, still thinks the danger nigh. Oh, daring Muse! wilt thou indeed essay To paint the wonders which that lamp could show! And canst thou hope in living words to say The dazzling glories of that heavenly view! Ah! well I ween, that if with pencil true That splendid vision could be well expressed, The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew Would seize with rapture every wondering breast, When Love's all-potent charms divinely stood confessed. 282 |