Is the book all like this?" "No, indeed," said I, shaking my head, "there are many very mediocre productions to be found in it; so many as I fear more than to overweigh the good. Mrs. Hemans's pen-like female eloquence in general-having been flattered at first, and let to run on, knows not now where to stop; and she, perhaps, believes by this time that anything from her is poetry, and must be applauded. Then she has all the periodicals with their common-places. 'Another gem of Felicia's,' says the Athenæum. When we repeat the name of Mrs. Hemans to our readers,' responds the Quarterly, and inform them that she is again before them, we have done enough-she is certain of their applause.' 'Sweet Felicia! again warbling her native wood-notes wild,' chirps the green old age of North. 'A happy, calm, spiritual-looking little book, sighs the Record; and so on. Is this criticism of use to any body? Is it of use to Mrs. Hemans herself? Why not, then, boldly come forward, as a friend would in the cause of a friend, and tell her her faults as well as her beauties ?"

"Why, my dear sir, one would think that you were going to review her yourself."

"I wish I could convince her that I meant well, and I would do so tomorrow. But this is one of the failings of a popular author. Praise becomes as necessary to subsistence as vital air, and the discovery of a fault operates like a choke-damp."

"Well-suppose you were to attack her-what are your charges?"

"I will tell you them, Sir. I charge her with echoing herself, (in the book before us,) through two-thirds of the volume. Her songs are purposely composed on the most vague and immaterial subjects, in order to give her an opportunity of handling each in precisely the same way; so much so, that you might put the headings, with a very few exceptions, into a bag, and after shaking and drawing them out, place them one after another before the poems, and they would answer just as well as they do now. The subjects are immaterial; but the style is yet more visionary and dream-like. Nothing but 'dying sounds,' and 'tones,' and beams of light flung back,' and

'voices gone,' are to be distinguished through the strain, which resembles the chords of an Eolian harp in its sweetness and indistinctness. Her poetry seems to me to resemble inarticulate singing, with all the power and feeling which the human throat is capable of producing, but wanting the added charm of the tongue-the words, which give to harmony articulation, and force music past the ear into the soul and the memory. Or, perhaps, it may more resemble a hymn coming upon our solitude, and travelling from a distance, with its holy swell and cadence, where its words cannot reach. Then, Sir, (for I must go on with my charges,) she has enlarged her book, and spoiled many of her poems, with all the repeats required in adapting them to music. As here

Be not like that lost lyre!

Not like that lyre! -Be not like that lost flower! Not like that flower!

And again

-Oh! I am like thy broken flower, Cherish'd too late, too late,

My love!

Cherish'd, alas! too late!

And again

66

Wake my heart no more!

No more!

These, and an infinity of 'away! away's!' and I go! I go's!' are spread through the volume. Indeed, she seems so often on the point of going,' in good earnest, that, when I first read her book I thought I should have found finis' at the bottom of every page. I at last saw through the deception, and took it just as I do the auctioneer's burthen, going, going,' which begins from the first display of his wares. Then, Sir, she takes a passage from a book, and enlarges upon it, spinning out an idea, which, by the way, you will generally find more happily expressed in the quotation, and running it so fine that you would almost think the grand rule of song-writing was the reverse of what it is, and that it was an object to rarify instead of condense. Look at the Books and Flowers,' for instance. There is a beautiful passage of Madame Roland's-what is the poem? Scarcely

separately. Why, Sir, are you not proud of your new muse, who has come to reside amongst you? Look at the female versifiers of the present day, and what rank does Mrs. Hemans bear among them? That of Diana among her nymphs-the moon among the lesser stars. No one, man or woman, understands the harmony of poetry like her; and recollect, that Cowley, Dryden, all those who excelled in this way, are still worshipped as the benefactors of our language. Am I reckoning without my host, and unable to adduce examples of excellence in this volume? The cursory glance I have had over it is sufficient to supply me with material to bear me out. You have attacked her love-read this feeling address to a sister :

Sister! since I met thee last,
O'er thy brow a change hath past,
In the softness of thine eyes,
Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone,
Never to thy childhood known;
Thro' thy soul a storm hath moved,
-Gentle sister, thou hast loved!

Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught
Hues too bright from troubled thought;
Far along the wandering stream,
Thou art followed by a dream;
In the woods and vallies lone
Music haunts thee not thine own;
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain?
Sister, thou hast loved in vain!

Tell me not the tale, my flower!
On my bosom pour that shower!
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted;
Tell me not of young hopes blasted;
Wring not forth one burning word,
Let thy heart no more be stirred!
Home alone can give thee rest.
-Weep, sweet sister, on my breast!

You have censured her paucity of ideas-look at "the Water Lilies :"

Come away, Elves! while the dew is sweet,
Come to the dingles where fairies meet;
Know that the lilies have spread their bells
O'er all the pools in our forest-dells;
Stilly and lightly their vases rest

On the quivering sleep of the water's breast,
Catching the sunshine thro' leaves that throw
To their scented bosoms an emerald glow;
And a star from the depth of each pearly cup,
A golden star unto heaven looks up,
As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie,
Set in the blue of the summer sky.
-Come away! under arching boughs we'll float,
Making those urns each a fairy boat;

We'll row them with reeds o'er the fountains free,
And a tall flag leaf shall our streamer be,

And we'll send out wild music so sweet and low, It shall seem from the bright flower's heart to flow,

As if 'twere a breeze with a flute's low sigh.
Or water-drops trained into melody.
-Come away! for the midsummer sun grows
strong,

And the life of the lily may not be long.

Can there be lines more highly expressive of the idea than these?—

I heard a song upon the wandering wind,
A song of many tones-though one full soul
Breathed through them all imploringly; and made
All nature as they passed, all quivering leaves
And low responsive reeds and waters thrill,
As with the consciousness of human prayer.
-At times the passion-kindled melody
Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart,
Over the wild sea-wave;-at times the strain
Flowed with more plaintive sweetness, as if boru
Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse;
And sometimes, with its melancholy swell,
A graver sound was mingled, a deep note
Of Tasso's holy lyre;-yet still the tones
Were of a suppliant ;- Leave me not!' was still
The burden of their music; and I knew
The lay which Genius, in its loneliness,
Its own still world amidst th' o'erpeopled world,
Hath ever breathed to Love.

Read, too, these stanzas from one of the "Songs of Captivity:"

'I dream of all things free!

Of a gallant, gallant bark,

That sweeps through storm and sea,
Like an arrow to its mark!
Of a stag that o'er the hills
Goes bounding in his glee;
Of a thousand flashing rills--
Of all things glad and free.
I dream of some proud bird,

A bright-eyed mountain king!
In my visions I have heard

The rushing of his wing.
I follow some wild river,

On whose breast no sail may be ;
Dark woods around it shiver-
I dream of all things free.

Of a happy forest child,

With the fawns and flowers at play;
Of an Indian midst the wild,
With the stars to guide his way:
Of a chief his warriors leading,
Of an archer's greenwood tree:-
My heart in chains is bleeding,

And I dream of all things free!

And take, as a concluding specimen, these affecting and powerful lines :

Where is the sea?-I languish here-
Where is my own blue sea?
With all its barks in fleet career,

And flags, and breezes free.

I miss that voice of waves which first
Awoke my childhood's glee;
The measured chime-the thundering burst-
Where is my own blue sea?

Oh! rich your myrtle's breath may rise,
Soft, soft your winds may be;
Yet my sick heart within me dies-
Where is my own blue sea?

I hear the shepherd's mountain flute-
I hear the whispering tree-
The echoes of my soul are mute;-
Where is my own blue sea?

Now, Sir, why was it necessary to attack the author of National Lyrics?" "I fear, Sir," I replied, "you have not looked sufficiently narrowly into the book. You have not, for instance, observed her placing perennial snows on Snowdon

"Tut-Tut, my good friend," he interrupted, "you are now degenerating into a species of criticism which it would be well for every man to avoid; and I counsel you to keep your mind elevated above such cavilling as this, which may gain you a character for judgment at the tea-table, but will inevitably draw down the scorn of all liberal-minded men, to whose ears such hypercriticism may come."

"You seem to me, my excellent friend,” replied I, much chagrined at the tartness of his reproof, "to conceive yourself an authority on such subjects. Pray, may I ask why you assume so much ?"

"And pray, Sir, let me ask you in return, whether I am not merely acting the part of a gentleman, and a lover of justice, in defending an amiable absent woman, against unseen, as well as unjust attacks ?"

An extract from my note book, dated May the mentions my disagreeable journey from to Dublin the night before, with the comical circumstance of my having, under the influence of some strange and distempered dream, collared the unfortunate coachman, who had thrust in his head with his accustomed speech, "I leave you here, gentlemen." I was, in fact, slightly bilious at the time, and it was some time before I could shake off the delusion. I have endeavoured in the foregoing paper to embody, and place in a connected form, some of my fancies, as I recollect them. I must, however, take care in future to be cautious how I assert, that “I never sleep in a coach."

ADVENA.