E441000D. Poems (1844).
The New Monthly Magazine and Humorist, October 1844, pp. 282–284.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 9, 338–339.
The strong indications of high poetic feeling and talent exhibited in the former productions of this fair authoress, are still more amply manifested in those which are now before us. Notwithstanding a certain degree of abstruseness, and occasional quaintness of expression, which may and probably will render them “caviare to the million,” the genius they display, the depth of thought as well as the beauty and propriety of the imagery, set off by a harmony of versification rarely exceeded, must unquestionably secure them no common popularity with all who are capable of appreciating the beauties of a Klopstock, or a Wordsworth. There is much in the opening and principal poem of these volumes, especially, which reminds us of the former. It is couched in a dramatic form, and bears for its title “A Drama of Exile,” having for its subject the Exodus of our first parents from the blissful abodes of Eden; or, to use the poetess’s own expression,
“The new and strange experience of the fallen humanity, as it went forth from Paradise into the wilderness; with a peculiar reference to Eve’s allotted grief, which, considering that self-sacrifice belonged to her womanhood, and the consciousness of originating the Fall to her offence” (she goes on to say), “appeared to her imperfectly apprehended hitherto, and more expressible by a woman than a man.
“There was room at least,” (she adds) “for lyrical emotion in those first steps into the wilderness—in that first sense of desolation after wrath—in that first [p. 283→] audible gathering of the recriminating ‘groan of the whole creation’—in that first darkening of the hills from the recoiling feet of angels—and in that first silence of the voice of God.”
This she has endeavoured, and not unsuccessfully, to portray in a “form approaching the model of the Greek tragedy,” and though she appears, and not unnaturally, to have had the fear of one John Milton before her eyes in regard to her design, and the characters with which it is conversant, yet, she says, and says truly,
“After all, and at the worst, I have only attempted in regard to Milton what the Greek dramatists achieved lawfully in respect to Homer. They constructed dramas on Trojan ground; they raised on the buskin, and even clasped with the sock the feet of Homeric heroes, yet they neither imitated their Homer nor emasculated him.”
With respect to the “graver points,” of which she speaks as having been objected to by some of her friends, viz., the vision introduced towards the close of the poem, we confess we do not participate in their fears, nor feel the force of their apprehensions. The strong and serious, though by no means enthusiastic, sense of religion, which runs like a life-blood through the whole poem, cannot for a moment be mistaken, nor can we think it at all calculated to give offence in any quarter free from fanatical hypercriticism.
Of the minor poems which follow, most of which are of a serious, not to say metaphysical cast; our favourite is, we fairly confess, though we question if the authoress herself will sympathize with us, “The Rhyme of the Duchess May.” The main incidents of the legend are familiar to all who have ever read of Love and Chivalry, and who are of course aware that
The course of true love never did run smooth.
It is the catastrophe only that is new as well as startling. “The Duchess May,” an orphan, is betrothed by her guardian, despite her own contrary feelings, to the “Lord Leigh of Leigh,” while she herself doth not only seriously incline to a certain Sir Guy Linteged, but elopes with and marries him. Three little moons have scarcely filled their horns ere the disappointed suitor besieges his more fortunate rival’s castle. One after another its defenders fall, the walls are sapped, and about to give way. In this extremity, Sir Guy orders his favourite steed, the one which had enabled him to carry off his bride, to be brought to the summit of the highest tower, a difficult feat for the grooms to accomplish, but which the gentle voice of his lady, whom the noble animal follows like a dog, effects. From this situation it seems to be the good knight’s intention to spring headlong down and perish among his enemies, but he is diverted by his lady, who expresses her determination of joining in the leap. Sir Guy calls to his followers to unclasp her hands as she clings to his stirrup.
“Friends and brothers, save my wife,
Pardon, sweet, in change for life—
But I ride alone to God!”
Straight, as if his Holy name
Did upwreathe her as a flame—
Toll slowly! [p. 284→]
She upsprung, she rose upright!
In his selle she sate in sight;
By her love she overcame.
And her head was on his breast,
Where she smiled as one at rest—
Toll slowly!
“Ring,” she cried, “O vesper bell,
In the beechwood’s old chapelle!
But the pas[s]ing bell rings best!”
They have caught out at the rein
Which Sir Guy threw loose—in vain—
Toll slowly!
For the horse, in stark despair,
With his front hoofs poised in air,
On the last verge rears amain.
And he hangs, he rocks between—
And his nostrils curdle in—
Toll slowly!
And he shivers head and hoof—
And the flakes of foam fall off,
And his face grows fierce and thin!
And a look of human woe,
From his staring eyes did go—
Toll slowly!
And a sharp cry uttered he,
In a foretold agony
Of the headlong death below.
And “Ring, ring thou passing bell!”
Still she cried, “i’ the old chapelle!”
Toll slowly!
Then back-toppling, crashing back—
A dead weight flung out to wrack,
Horse and riders overfell!
* * * * * *
There are other poems of great pathos and beauty, among which we may particularize “The Child Asleep,” and “Catarina to Camoens,” but want of space forbids any further extract.
Reviewed:
Poems (EBB), London: Edward Moxon, 1844.
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