E381201A. The Seraphim.
The Literary Gazette, 1 December 1838, pp. 759–760.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 4, 408–409.
Although this volume contains much delightful poetry, still we cannot let it pass without censuring the many antiquated and affected phrases with which it abounds. Our authoress seems to have modelled herself upon the very worst portion of Keats and Tennyson, in labouring for outlandish compound words, picking up obsolete phrases, and accenting every unnecessary syllable. Then we have such expressions as “a low shadowy laughter,” “the night is in her hair,” “ranks of solemnities,” “the silentnesses,” “putting thunder-questions,” “mournful as a star,” eyes that “gaze most starry kind,” &c. &c. Now we object to such expressions as these, a few of them may be looked over, and in many instances the author has struck out several new and beautiful epithets, such as we have never before seen surpassed, but we do think that her coinages are sometimes too mysterious. Besides, she has no need to have recourse to the worst examples of this school of poetry, for she has that within her soul which is far above all forced and false art. Her poetry is of a very high order, and, in numerous instances, will bear comparison with the best portions of Shelley. But she also seems to have caught that wild, dreamy spirit, which too prominently pervades the writings of that author. We know no modern writer in whose works we could point out so many imperfections as in Miss Barrett’s: neither do we know one possessing more genuine excellences; there is a feeling and a flow of true poetry in her pages that seem to know no bounds; heart and soul are borne away by her power; she showers down her wealth of song without let or hinderance; and it is only the cold, experienced critic, that will dwell upon what she herself might poetically call her “beautiful errors.” We are late in the field with our remarks, but from us they come in sincerity; her works need no praise, all she requires is a little honest censure, to make her one of the bright literary ornaments of the present day. We have only to accompany these observations with the following extract, which needs not a word of commendation.
My dream is of an island place
The distant seas are folding;
And over which, the only watch
Those trooped stars are holding.
Those bright still stars! they need not seem
Brighter or stiller in my dream!
Hills questioning the heavens for light—
Ravines too deep to scan!
As if the wild earth mimicked there
The wilder heart of man:
Only it shall be greener far
And gladder than hearts ever are.
More like, perhaps, some mount sublime
Of starry paradise,
Disrupted to a hundred hills,
In falling from the skies—
Bringing within it, all the roots
Of heavenly trees, and flowers, and fruits.
For saving where yon spectral heights
Denude their rocky whiteness,
Or ragged fissures, miser-like,
Hoard up some fountain brightness—
(And e’en in them—stoop down and hear—
Leaf sounds with water in your ear!)
Around, above, the plumed trees
Their gracious shadows throw;
Through whose clear fruit and blossoming,
Whene’er the sun may go,
The ground beneath he deeply stains,
As shining through cathedral panes.
But little needs the ground beneath,
That shining from above her,
When many Pleiades of flowers
(Not one lost) star her over:
The rays of their unnumbered hues
Being refracted by the dews. [p. 760→]
Wide-petalled plants, that boldly drink
Th’ Amreeta of the sky;
Shut bells, all heavy with delight,
Whose faces earthward lie—
I cannot count them: but between,
Is room for grass, and mosses green,
And rapid brooks, that bear all hues
Reflected in disorder;
Or, gathering up their silver lengths
Beside their winding border,
Sleep, haunted through the slumber hidden
By lilies white as dreams in Eden.
Nor think each arched tree with each
Too closely interlaces,
T’ admit of vistas opening broad,
And sweet sun-basking places,
Upon whose sward the antlered deer
View their own image long and clear.
Unless they fainer would behold
That image on the seas,
Whene’er’s a way through shelving rocks
And over-branching trees,
Whose doves from half-closed lids espy
The green and purple fish go by.
One mateless dove is answering
The water every minute,
Thinking such music could not be
Without his cooing in it!
So softly doth earth’s beauty round
Infuse itself in ocean’s sound.
My soul in love bounds forwarder
To meet the bounding waves!
Beside them is the home for me,
Within the coral caves—
And near me two or three may dwell
Whom dreams fantastic please as well.
High winding caverns! not uncleft
In all their sparry ceilings;
Through which may shine the earnest stars
In prophet-like revealings,
And down their slanted glory, move
Scents from the flowers that grow above.
Reviewed:
The Seraphim, and Other Poems (EBB), London: Saunders & Otley, 1838.
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