Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 56, Number 349, November, 1844

Miss Barrett is a classical scholar. She surely knows that the great works in which she delights have earned the epithet of classical, and come recommended to the reverence of all mankind, solely in virtue of the scrupulous propriety of their language; and because they are fitted to serve as models of style to all succeeding generations. The purity of their diction, and nothing else, has been their passport to immortality. We cannot but lament that Miss Barrett has not provided more surely for her future fame, by turning to their best account the lessons which the masterpieces of antiquity are especially commissioned to teach.

Let it not be thought that we would counsel Miss Barrett, or any one else, to propose these works to themselves as direct objects of imitation. Far from it. Such directions would be very vague and unmeaning, and might lead to the commission of the very errors which they aimed at preventing. The words "purity and propriety of diction" are themselves very vague words. Let us say, then, that a style which goes at once to the point, which is felt to get through business, and which carries with it no affectation, either real or apparent, is always a good style; and that no other style is good. This is the quality which may be generalized from the works of the great authors of all ages, as the prime characteristic of all good writing. Their style is always pregnant with a working activity – it impresses us with the feeling that real work is done here. We fear not to say that Milton himself owes much of his reputation to the peremptory and business-like vigour of his style. He never beats about the bush – he never employs language which a plain man would not have employed – if he could. The sublimity of "Paradise Lost" is supported throughout by the direct force of its language – language the most elaborate, but also the most to the point, and the least fantastical, that ever fell from human lips. There are difficulties to encounter in the abstract conception of the poem. The naked argument does not at first recommend itself to our understanding. It is not till we have vanquished those difficulties, – in which step we are mainly assisted by the unparalleled execution of the work, – that all our sympathies gravitate towards the mysterious theme.

Now if it be true that it requires all the force of a thoroughly practical style to reconcile our affections to such remote and obscure conceptions as the fall of man, the war of the rebellious angels, &c., it is peculiarly unfortunate that Miss Barrett, in her opening poem, entitled a "Drama of Exile," should have ventured to tread on Miltonic ground. For, while our feelings are naturally disposed to fly off at a tangent from the vague and impalpable conceptions which form the staple of her poem, the dreamy and unpractical character of her style makes them fly still further from the subject. The force of her language is not sufficient to bind down and rivet our sympathies to the theme; and the lyrical portions of the drama, in particular, are so inarticulate, that we are compelled to pronounce this composition – partial to it as its authoress is – the least successful of her works.

But it is our wish to do full justice to Miss Barrett's extraordinary merits, and to convey to our readers a favourable impression of her powers; and therefore we shall say no more at present about the "Drama of Exile," but shall turn our attention to some of the fairer and less questionable manifestations of her genius. We shall commence with her sonnets; for these appear to us to be by far the most finished of her compositions in point of style; and in depth and purity of sentiment, we think that they surpass any thing she has ever written, with the exception of the poem entitled "Bertha in the Lane," which we shall quote hereafter. As our first specimen, we select one which she entitles

Discontent"Light human nature is too lightly tostAnd ruffled without cause; complaining on —Restless with rest – until, being overthrown,It learneth to lie quiet. Let a frostOr a small wasp have crept to the innermostOf our ripe peach; or let the wilful sunShine westward of our window, – straight we runA furlong's sigh, as if the world were lost.But what time through the heart and through the brainGod hath transfix'd us – we, so moved before,Attain to a calm! Ay, shouldering weights of pain,We anchor in deep waters, safe from shore;And hear, submissive, o'er the stormy main,God's charter'd judgments walk for evermore."

Yes; we fear it is too true that the voice of God never speaks so articulately to man, as when it speaks in the desperate calm of a soul to which life or death has done its worst. The same solemn thought with which the sonnet concludes, forms the moral of her ballad entitled the "Lay of the Brown Rosary." It is thus that the heroine of that poem speaks —

"Then breaking into tears – 'Dear God,' she cried, 'and must we seeAll blissful things depart from us, or ere we go to Thee?We cannot guess thee in the wood, or hear thee in the wind?Our cedars must fall round us, ere we see the light behind?Ay sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to need thee on that road;But woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on 'God.'"

Then it is that the despair which blackens the earth strikes clear the face of the sky. Listen again to Miss Barrett, when her soul is cheered by the promises of "Futurity: " —

Futurity"And, O beloved voices! upon whichOurs passionately call, because erelongYe brake off in the middle of that songWe sang together softly, to enrichThe poor world with the sense of love, and witchThe heart out of things evil – I am strong, —Knowing ye are not lost for aye amongThe hills, with last year's thrush. God keeps a nicheIn Heaven to hold our idols! and albeitHe brake them to our faces, and deniedThat our close kisses should impair their white, —I know we shall behold them raised, complete, —The dust shook from their beauty, – glorifiedNew Memnons singing in the great God-light."

And again, listen to her hallowed and womanly strain when she speaks of "Comfort: " —

Comfort"Speak low to me, my Saviour – low and sweetFrom out the hallelujahs, sweet and low,Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee soWho art not miss'd by any that entreat.Speak to me as to Mary at thy feet —And if no precious gums my hands bestow,Let my tears drop like amber, while I goIn reach of thy divinest voice completeIn humanest affection – thus, in soothTo lose the sense of losing! As a child,Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore,Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth;Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled,He sleeps the faster that he wept before."

How profound and yet how feminine is the sentiment! No man could have written that sonnet. It rises spontaneously from the heart of a Christian woman, which overflows with feelings more gracious and more graceful than ever man's can be. It teaches us what religious poetry truly is; for it makes affections inspired by the simplest things of earth, to illustrate, with the most artless beauty, the solemn consolations of the Cross.

The pointedness of the following religious sonnet is very striking and sublime. The text is, "And the Lord turned and looked upon Peter."

The Meaning of the Look"I think that look of Christ might seem to say —'Thou Peter! art thou then a common stoneWhich I at last must break my heart upon,For all God's charge, to his high angels, mayGuard my foot better? Did I yesterdayWash thy feet, my beloved, that they should runQuick to deny me 'neath the morning sun, —And do thy kisses, like the rest, betray? —The cock crows coldly. – Go, and manifestA late contrition, but no bootless fear!For when thy deathly need is bitterest,Thou shalt not be denied, as I am here —My voice, to God and angels, shall attest, —Because I know this man, let him be clear.'"

One more sonnet, and we bid adieu to these very favourable specimens of Miss Barrett's genius: —

Patience Taught by Nature"'O dreary life!' we cry, 'O dreary life!'And still the generations of the birdsSing through our sighing, and the flocks and herdsSerenely live while we are keeping strifeWith heaven's true purpose in us, as a knifeAgainst which we may struggle. Ocean girdsUnslacken'd the dry land: savannah-swardsUnweary sweep: hills watch, unworn; and rifeMeek leaves drop yearly from the forest-trees,To show, above, the unwasted stars that passIn their old glory. O thou God of old!Grant me some smaller grace than comes to these; —But so much patience, as a blade of grassGrows by contented through the heat and cold."

There is a poem in these volumes entitled the "Cry of the Human" – some stanzas of which are inspired by profound feeling, and written with a rare force and simplicity of style; but as other parts of it are obscure, and as it appears to us to be of very unequal merit, we shall not quote the whole of it. In addition to the faults which are to be found in the poem itself, its title is objectionable, as embodying one of Miss Barrett's worst mannerisms, and one for which we think that no allowance ought to be made. She is in the habit of employing certain adjectives in a substantive sense. She does so here. In other places she writes "Heaven assist the Human." "Leaning from my human," that is, stooping from my rank as a human being. In one passage she says,

"Till the heavenly InfiniteFalling off from our Created– "

nature being understood after the word "created." The word "divine" is one which she frequently employs in this substantive fashion. She also writes "Chanting down the Golden" – the golden what?

"Then the full sense of your mortalRush'd upon you deep and loud."

For "mortal," read "mortality." It is true that this practice may be defended to a certain extent by the example and authority of Milton. But Miss Barrett is mistaken if she supposes that her frequent and prominent use of such a form of speech, can be justified by the rare and unobtrusive instances of it which are to be found in the Paradise Lost. To use an anomalous expression two or three times in a poem consisting of many thousand lines, is a very different thing from bringing the same anomaly conspicuously forward, and employing it as a common and favourite mode of speech in a number of small poems. In the former case, it will be found that the expression is vindicated by the context, and by the circumstances under which it is employed; in the latter case it becomes a nuisance which cannot be too rigorously put down. One step further and we shall find ourselves talking, in the dialect of Yankeeland, of "us poor Humans!" However, as the point appears to us to be one which does not admit of controversy, we shall say no more on the subject, but shall proceed to the more agreeable duty of quoting the greater portion of Miss Barrett's poem, which may be regarded as a commentary on the prayer – "The Lord be merciful to us sinners."

The Cry of the Human"'There is no God,' the foolish saith, —But none, 'There is no sorrow;'And nature oft, the cry of faith,In bitter need will borrow:Eyes, which the preacher could not school,By wayside graves are raised;And lips say, 'God be pitiful,'Which ne'er said, 'God be praised.'Be pitiful, O God!"The curse of gold upon the land,The lack of bread enforces —The rail-cars snort from strand to strand,Like more of Death's White horses!The rich preach 'rights' and future days,And hear no angel scoffing:The poor die mute – with starving gazeOn corn-ships in the offing.Be pitiful, O God!"We meet together at the feast —To private mirth betake us —We stare down in the winecup, lestSome vacant chair should shake us!We name delight and pledge it round —'It shall be ours to-morrow!'God's seraphs! do your voices soundAs sad in naming sorrow?Be pitiful, O God!"We sit together with the skies,The steadfast skies above us:We look into each other's eyes, —'And how long will you love us?' —The eyes grow dim with prophecy,The voices, low and breathless —'Till death us part!' – O words, to beOur best for love the deathless!Be pitiful, dear God!"We tremble by the harmless bedOf one loved and departed —Our tears drop on the lips that saidLast night, 'Be stronger-hearted!'O God – to clasp those fingers close,And yet to feel so lonely! —To see a light on dearest brows,Which is the daylight only!Be pitiful, O God!"The happy children come to us,And look up in our faces:They ask us – Was it thus, and thus,When we were in their places? —We cannot speak: – we see anewThe hills we used to live in;And feel our mother's smile press throughThe kisses she is giving.Be pitiful, O God!"We pray together at the kirk,For mercy, mercy, solely —Hands weary with the evil work,We lift them to the Holy!The corpse is calm below our knee —Its spirit, bright before Thee —Between them, worse than either, we —Without the rest or glory!Be pitiful, O God!"We sit on hills our childhood wist,Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding!The sun strikes, through the furthest mist,The city's spire to golden.The city's golden spire it was,When hope and health were strongest,But now it is the churchyard grassWe look upon the longest.Be pitiful, O God!"And soon all vision waxeth dull —Men whisper, 'He is dying:'We cry no more, 'Be pitiful!' —We have no strength for crying! —No strength, no need! Then, Soul of mine,Look up and triumph rather —Lo! in the depth of God's Divine,The Son adjures the Father —Be pitiful, O God!"

"The Romance of the Swan's Nest" is written in a different vein. It is characterized by graceful playfulness of manner and sentiment, which shows how heartily the amiable authoress can enter into the sympathies and enjoyments of child, and how much she is at home when she engages in lighter dalliance with the muse. We have taken the liberty to print in italics two or three Barrettisms, which however, we believe, are not very reprehensible. On the whole, it is very pleasing and elegant performance: —

Romance of the Swan's Nest"Little Ellie sits aloneMid the beeches of a meadow,By a stream-side, on the grass:And the trees are showering downDoubles of their leaves in shadow,On her shining hair and face."She has thrown her bonnet by;And her feet she has been dippingIn the shallow water's flow —Now she holds them nakedlyIn her hands, all sleek and dripping,While she rocketh to and fro."Little Ellie sits alone, —And the smile, she softly useth,Fills the silence like a speech;While she thinks what shall be done, —And the sweetest pleasure, chooseth,For her future within reach!"Little Ellie in her smileChooseth … 'I will have a lover,Riding on a steed of steeds!He shall love me without guile;And to him I will discoverThat swan's nest among the reeds."'And the steed shall be red-roan,And the lover shall be noble,With an eye that takes the breath, —And the lute he plays uponShall strike ladies into trouble,As his sword strikes men to death."'And the steed, it shall be shodAll in silver, housed in azure,And the mane shall swim the wind!And the hoofs, along the sod,Shall flash onward in a pleasure,Till the shepherds look behind."'But my lover will not prizeAll the glory that he rides in,When he gazes in my face!He will say, 'O Love, thine eyesBuild the shrine my soul abides in;And I kneel here for thy grace.'"'Then, ay, then – he shall kneel low —With the red-roan steed anear himWhich shall seem to understand —Till I answer, "Rise, and go!For the world must love and fear himWhom I gift with heart and hand.""'Then he will arise so pale,I shall feel my own lips trembleWith a yes I must not say —Nathless, maiden-brave, "Farewell,"I will utter and dissemble —"Light to-morrow, with to-day.""'Then he will ride through the hills,To the wide world past the river,There to put away all wrong!To make straight distorted wills, —And to empty the broad quiverWhich the wicked bear along."'Three times shall a young foot-pageSwim the stream, and climb the mountain,And kneel down beside my feet —"Lo! my master sends this gage,Lady, for thy pity's counting!What wilt thou exchange for it?""'And the first time, I will sendA white rosebud for a guerdon, —And the second time, a glove!But the third time – I may bendFrom my pride, and answer – "Pardon,If he comes to take my love.""'Then the young foot-page will run,Then my lover will ride faster,Till he kneeleth at my knee!"I am a duke's eldest son!Thousand serfs do call me master, —But, O Love, I love but thee!""'He will kiss me on the mouthThen, and lead me as a lover,Through the crowds that praise his deeds!And when soul-tied by one troth,Unto him I will discoverThat swan's nest among the reeds.'"Little Ellie, with her smileNot yet ended, rose up gaily, —Tied the bonnet, donn'd the shoe —And went homeward, round a mile,Just to see, as she did daily,What more eggs were with the two."Pushing through the elm-tree copseWinding by the stream, light-hearted,Where the osier pathway leads —Past the boughs she stoops – and stops!Lo! the wild swan had deserted —And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds."Ellie went home sad and slow!If she found the lover ever,With his red-roan steed of steeds,Sooth I know not! but I knowShe could show him never – never,That swan's nest among the reeds!"

But the gem of the collection is unquestionably the poem entitled "Bertha in the Lane." This is the purest picture of a broken heart that ever drew tears from the eyes of woman or of man. Although our extracts are likely to exceed the proportion which they ought to bear to our critical commentary, we must be permitted to quote this poem entire. A grain of such poetry is worth a cart-load of criticism: —

Bertha in the Lane"Put the broidery-frame away,For my sewing is all done!The last thread is used to-day,And I need not join it on.Though the clock stands at the noon,I am weary! I have sewnSweet, for thee, a wedding-gown."Sister, help me to the bed,And stand near me, dearest-sweet,Do not shrink nor be afraid,Blushing with a sudden heat!No one standeth in the street? —By God's love I go to meet,Love I thee with love complete."Lean thy face down! drop it inThese two hands, that I may hold'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin,Stroking back the curls of gold.'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth —Larger eyes and redder mouthThan mine were in my first youth!"Thou art younger by seven years —Ah! – so bashful at my gaze,That the lashes, hung with tears,Grow too heavy to upraise?I would wound thee by no touchWhich thy shyness feels as such —Dost thou mind me, dear, so much?"Have I not been nigh a motherTo thy sweetness – tell me, dear?Have we not loved one anotherTenderly, from year to year;Since our dying mother mildSaid with accents undefiled,32'Child, be mother to this child!'"Mother, mother, up in heaven,Stand up on the jasper sea,And be witness I have givenAll the gifts required of me; —Hope that bless'd me, bliss that crown'd,Love, that left me with a wound,Life itself, that turneth round!"Mother, mother, thou art kind,Thou art standing in the room, —In a molten glory shrined,That rays off into the gloom!But thy smile is bright and bleakLike cold waves – I cannot speak;I sob in it, and grow weak."Ghostly mother, keep aloofOne hour longer from my soul —For I still am thinking ofEarth's warm-beating joy and dole!On my finger is a ringWhich I still see glittering,When the night hides every thing."Little sister, thou art pale!Ah! I have a wandering brain —But I lose that fever-bale,And my thoughts grow calm again.Lean down closer – closer still!I have words thine ear to fill, —And would kiss thee at my will."Dear, I heard thee in the spring,Thee and Robert – through the trees,When we all went gatheringBoughs of May-bloom for the bees.Do not start so! think insteadHow the sunshine overheadSeem'd to trickle through the shade."What a day it was, that day!Hills and vales did openlySeem to heave and throb away,At the sight of the great sky:And the silence, as it stoodIn the glory's golden flood,Audibly did bud – and bud!"Through the winding hedgerows green,How we wander'd, I and you, —With the bowery tops shut in,And the gates that show'd the view —How we talk'd there! thrushes softSang our pauses out, – or oftBleatings took them, from the croft."Till the pleasure, grown too strong,Left me muter evermore;And, the winding road being long,I walked out of sight, before;And so, wrapt in musings fond,Issued (past the wayside pond)On the meadow-lands beyond."I sate down beneath the beechWhich leans over to the lane,And the far sound of your speechDid not promise any pain:And I bless'd you full and free,With a smile stoop'd tenderlyO'er the May-flowers on my knee."But the sound grew into wordAs the speakers drew more near —Sweet, forgive me that I heardWhat you wish'd me not to hear.Do not weep so – do not shake —Oh, – I heard thee, Bertha, makeGood true answers for my sake."Yes, and he too! let him standIn thy thoughts, untouch'd by blame.Could he help it, if my handHe had claim'd with hasty claim?That was wrong perhaps – but thenSuch things be – and will, again!Women cannot judge for men."Had he seen thee, when he sworeHe would love but me alone?Thou wert absent, – sent beforeTo our kin in Sidmouth town.When he saw thee who art bestPast compare, and loveliest,He but judged thee as the rest."Could we blame him with grave words,Thou and I, Dear, if we might?Thy brown eyes have looks like birds,Flying straightway to the light:Mine are older. – Hush! – Look out —Up the street! Is none without?How the poplar swings about!"And that hour – beneath the beech, —When I listen'd in a dream,And he said, in his deep speech,That he owed me all esteem, —Each word swam in on my brainWith a dim, dilating pain,Till it burst with that last strain —"I fell flooded with a Dark,In the silence of a swoon —When I rose, still cold and stark,There was night, – I saw the moon:And the stars, each in its place,And the May-blooms on the grass,Seem'd to wonder what I was."And I walk'd as if apartFrom myself, when I could stand —And I pitied my own heart,As if I held it in my hand, —Somewhat coldly, – with a senseOf fulfill'd benevolence,And a 'poor thing' negligence."And I answer'd coldly too,When you met me at the door;And I only heard the dewDripping from me to the floor:And the flowers I bade you see,Were too wither'd for the bee, —As my life, henceforth, for me."Do not weep so – dear – heart-warm!It was best as it befell!If I say he did me harm,I speak wild, – I am not well.All his words were kind and good —He esteem'd me! Only bloodRuns so faint in womanhood."Then I always was too grave, —Liked the saddest ballads sung, —With that look, besides, we haveIn our faces, who die young.I had died, Dear, all the same —Life's long, joyous, jostling gameIs too loud for my meek shame."We are so unlike each other,Thou and I; that none could guessWe were children of one mother,But for mutual tenderness.Thou art rose-lined from the cold,And meant, verily, to holdLife's pure pleasures manifold."I am pale as crocus growsClose beside a rose-tree's root!Whosoe'er would reach the rose,Treads the crocus underfoot —I, like May-bloom on thorn tree —Thou, like merry summer-bee!Fit, that I be pluck'd for thee."Yet who plucks me? – no one mourns —I have lived my season out, —And now die of my own thornsWhich I could not live without.Sweet, be merry! How the lightComes and goes! If it be night,Keep the candles in my sight."Are there footsteps at the door?Look out quickly. Yea, or nay?Some one might be waiting forSome last word that I might say.Nay? So best! – So angels wouldStand off clear from deathly road —Not to cross the sight of God."Colder grow my hands and feet —When I wear the shroud I made,Let the folds lie straight and neat,And the rosemary be spread —That if any friend should come,(To see thee, sweet!) all the roomMay be lifted out of gloom."And, dear Bertha, let me keepOn my hand this little ring,Which at nights, when others sleep,I can still see glittering.Let me wear it out of sight,In the grave – where it will lightAll the Dark up, day and night."On that grave, drop not a tear!Else, though fathom-deep the place,Through the woollen shroud I wear,I shall feel it on my face.Rather smile there, blessed one,Thinking of me in the sun —Or forget me – smiling on!"Art thou near me? nearer? so!Kiss me close upon the eyes —That the earthly light may goSweetly as it used to rise —When I watch'd the morning-grayStrike, betwixt the hills, the wayHe was sure to come that day."So – no more vain words be said!The hosannas nearer roll —Mother, smile now on thy Dead —I am death-strong in my soul!Mystic Dove alit on cross,Guide the poor bird of the snowsThrough the snow-wind above loss!"Jesus, Victim, comprehendingLove's divine self-abnegation —Cleanse my love in its self-spending,And absorb the poor libation!Wind my thread of life up higher,Up through angels' hands of fire! —I aspire while I expire!"

The following extract from a little poem entitled "Sleeping and Watching," is very touching in its simplicity. Miss Barrett is watching over a slumbering child. How softly does the spirit of the watcher overshadow the cradle with the purest influences of its own sanctified sorrows, while she thus speaks! —