XXII. FEMALE POETS. MRS. CLIVE, MRS. ACTON TINDAL, MISS DAY, THERE never was a more remarkable contrast between the temperament of the poetess and the temperament of the woman, than that which exists between the thoughtful gravity, the almost gloomy melancholy that characterizes the writings of that celebrated initial letter, the V." of "Blackwood's Magazine," and the charming, cheerful, light-hearted lady, known as Mrs. Clive. This discrepancy has been acknowledged before now to exist between the tastes and the tempers of nations. The French in their old day, before this last revolution, perhaps before any of their revolutions, the French of our old traditions and our old travelers, the Sternes and the Goldsmiths, with their Watteau pageantries, their dances in the open air, and their patient love of the deepest and most unmingled tragedy, afforded a notable instance of this contrast. But that which is observable in Mrs. Clive's case, is still more striking. I have never known any creature half so cheerful. Happy sister, happy mother, happy wife, she even bears the burden of a large fortune and a great house without the slightest diminution of the delightful animal spirits, which always seem to me to be of her many gifts the choicest. Moreover, enjoyment seems to be her mode of thankfulness; as, not content with being happy herself, she has a trick of making every body happy that comes near her. I do not know how she contrives it, but such is the effect. There is no resisting the contagious laughter of those dancing eyes. As, however, every body that thinks deeply, as she does, must have some moments of sadness, she is content to put them into her writings sometimes in prose, for her " Story of the Great Drought" has an intensity of tragic power, a realization of impossible horrors, such as gave their fascination to the best works of Godwin; sometimes in verse, where the depth of thought and fearless originality of treatment, frequently redeem the commonest subject from any thing like commonplace. Here is an example : THE GRAVE. I stood within the grave's o'ershadowing vault; Faint from the entrance came a daylight ray, I lit a torch at a sepulchral lamp, Which shot a thread of light amid the gloom; I bore it through the regions of the tomb. Around me stretched the slumbers of the dead, The former men of every age and place, From all their wanderings, gathered round me lay; I saw whole cities, that in flood or fire, Or famine, or the plague, gave up their breath; Swept by ten thousands to the arms of death. I saw the Old World's white and wave-swept bones, Death's various shrines-the urn, the stone, the lamp- Unspoken tongues, perchance in praise or woe, No hand was here to wipe the dust away; No reader of the writing traced beneath; No spirit sitting by its form of clay; No sigh nor sound from all the heaps of death. One place alone had ceased to hold its prey; A form had pressed it and was there no more; Where once they wrapped HIM on the rocky floor. HE only with returning footsteps broke The eternal calm with which the tomb was bound; And blessed with outstretched hands the host around. Well is it that such blessing hovers here, They to the verge have followed what they love, But vainly there they seek their soul's relief, All that have died, the earth's whole race, repose Its actors, sufferers, schools, kings, armies-sleep. It would be difficult to frame a better wish for the writer and the woman, than that both may remain unchanged-that the shadow may still cast its deep and thoughtful vail over the poetry and the sunshine, and the blessing rest upon the life! The exact reverse of Mrs. Clive may be found in Mrs. Acton Tindal, whose verse, so free, so buoyant, so firm, and so graceful, derives most of its charm from its resemblance to the sweet and lovely creature by whom it was written. There is a sparkling vividness in her style, which has the life and color of painting. The very choice of her subjects is picturesque. With an extent and variety of reading, remarkable even now in one of the youngest of our female writers, she instinctively fixes upon some theme of processional grace and beauty, and throws all the truth and tenderness of her sentiment around figures already interesting by historical association. The "Infant Bridal" might be transferred to canvas without altering a word. "Richard Duke of York, second son of Edward IV., was married to Anne Mowbray, Duchess of Norfolk in her own right. The bridegroom was not five years old, and the bride scarcely three. The ceremony was performed in St. Stephen's Chapel, A.D. 1477." The sunbeams of the early day Streamed through the lattice grim, Of belted barons of the land The bravest best were there. But slowly moved the bright array, Two blooming children led the way The fair boy-bridegroom and the bride, (Like Cupid's train in eld,) Meekly and loving, side by side, Each other's hands they held. Half pleased and half surprised they seemed, For in each kindred eye Love mixed with pity fondly gleamed, And mournful gravity. A fear, for them who knew no fear, On each heart darkly fell; They view life's future through a tear Who know the past too well. The bridegroom bore a royal crown That like a golden vail fell down In tresses soft and fair. The bearing of the noble child His princely lineage told, Beneath that brow so smooth and mild All coyly went the sweet babe-bride; She raised, soft-stepping by his side, And playfellows who loved her well The infant bridal o'er. Then words of import strange and deep The hoary prelate said, And some had turned away to weep, As earnestly they seemed to seek The solemn words' intent. Calm in the blest simplicity That never woke to doubt; Calm in the holy purity Whose presence bars shame out! Then turned they from each troubled brow And many a downcast eye, And gazed upon each other now In wondering sympathy; And nestled close, with looks of love, Upon the altar's stone: Such ties as Seraphs bind above These little ones might own. And sweetly was the babe-bride's cheek Against the fair boy pressed, All reverent, yet so fond and meek, As kneeling to be blest. Then smiled they on their grand array And went forth hand in hand, Well pleased to keep high holyday Amid that gorgeous band. With such prophetic gloom, |