Mrs. Lewis has, in a very short space of time, attained a high poetical
reputation. She is one of the youngest of our poetesses; and it is only since
the publication of her "Records of the Heart," in 1844, that
she can be said to have become known to the literary world; -- although her
"Ruins of Palenque" which appeared in the
"New-World" sometime, we think, in 1840, made a most decided
impression among a comparatively limited circle of readers. It was a composition
of unquestionable merit, on a topic of infallible interest. In 1846, Mrs. Lewis
published, in "The Democratic Review," a poem called
"The Broken Heart," in three cantos, and subsequently has
written many minor pieces for the "American" and
"Democratic" Reviews, and for various other periodical works.
In all her writings we perceive a marked idiosyncrasy -- so that we might
recognize her hand immediately in any of her anonymous productions. Passion,
enthusiasm, and abandon are her prevailing traits. In these
particulars she puts us more in mind of Maria del Occidente than of
any other American poetess.
There has been lately exhibited, at the Academy of Fine Arts in New York, a
portrait of Mrs. Lewis […] with dark and very expressive hazel eyes and chestnut
hair, naturally curling -- a poetical face, if ever one existed. […] We have
thought that these succinct personal particulars of one, who will most probably,
at no very distant day, occupy a high, if not the highest, position among
American poetesses, might not prove uninteresting to our readers.
The "Records of the Heart" was received with unusual favor at
the period of its issue. It consists, principally, of poems of length. The
leading one is "Florence," a tale of romantic passion, founded
on an Italian tradition of great poetic capability and well managed by the fair
authoress. It displays, however, somewhat less of polish and a good deal less of
assured power than we see evinced in her "Child of the Sea."
We quote a brief passage, by way, merely, of instancing the general spirit and
earnest movement of the verse:
Morn is abroad; the sun is up; |
The dew fills high each lily's cup. |
Ten thousand flowerets springing there
|
Diffuse their incense through the air,
|
5 And, smiling, hail the morning beam; |
The fawns plunge panting in the stream,
|
Or through the vale with light foot spring: |
Insect and bird are on the wing |
And all is bright, as when in May |
10 Young Nature holds high holiday. |
"Florence," however, is more especially noticeable for the
profusion of its original imagery -- as for example:
The cypress in funeral gloom |
Folds its dark arms above the tomb.
|
"Tenel" (pronounced Thanail,) "Melpomene," (a
glowing tribute to L. E. L.,) "The Last Hour of Sappho,"
"Laone," and "The Bride of Guayaquil," are
all poems of considerable length and of rare merit in various ways. Their
conduct as narratives, is, perhaps, less remarkable than their general effect as
poems proper. They leave invariably on the reader's heart a sense of
beauty and of sadness. In many of the shorter compositions which make up the
volume of which we speak, ("Records of the Heart") we are
forced to recognize the truth and perfect appositeness of the title -- we are
made to feel that it is here indeed the heart which records, rather
than the fancy which invents. The passionate earnestness of the following lines
will be acknowledged by every reader capable of appreciating that species of
poetry of which the essentiality and inspiration is truth.
THE FORSAKEN
It hath been said -- for all who die |
There is a tear; |
15 Some pining, bleeding heart to sigh |
O'er every bier: -- |
But in that hour of pain and dread |
Who will draw near |
Around my humble couch and shed |
20 One farewell tear? |
Who watch my life's departing ray |
In deep despair |
And soothe my spirit on its way |
With holy prayer? |
25 What mourner round my bier will come |
In "weeds of wo" |
And follow me to my long home |
Solemn and slow?
|
When lying on my clayey bed, |
30 In icy sleep, |
Who there by pure affection led |
Will come and weep; |
By the pale moon implant the rose
|
Upon my breast, |
35
And bid it cheer my dark repose --
|
My lowly rest? |
Could I but know when I am sleeping
|
Low in the ground,
|
One faithful heart would there be keeping
|
40
Watch all night round,
|
As if some gem lay shrined beneath
|
That sod's cold gloom,
|
'Twould mitigate the pangs of death
|
And light the tomb.
|
45
Yes, in that hour if I could feel
|
From halls of glee
|
And Beauty's presence one would steal
|
In secresy,
|
And come and sit and weep by me
|
50
In nights' deep noon --
|
Oh! I would ask of Mercury |
No other boon. |
But ah! a lonelier fate is mine -- |
A deeper wo: |
55 From all I love in youth's sweet time |
I soon must go -- |
Draw round me my cold robes of white,
|
In a dark spot,
|
To sleep through Death's long dreamless night, |
60 Lone and forgot. |
We have read this little poem more than twenty times and always with increasing
admiration. It is inexpressibly beautiful. No one of real feeling
can peruse it without a strong inclination to tears. Its irresistible charm is
its absolute truth -- the unaffected naturalness of its thought.
The sentiment which forms the basis of the composition is, perhaps, at once the
most universal and the most passionate of sentiments. No human
being exists, over the age of fifteen, who has not, in his heart of hearts, a
ready echo for all here so pathetically expressed. The essential
poetry of the ideas would only be impaired by "foreign
ornament." This is a case in which we should be repelled by the mere
conventionalities of the Muse. We demand, for such thoughts, the rigorous
simplicity at all points. It will be observed that, strictly speaking, there is
not an attempt at "imagery" in the whole poem. All is direct,
terse, penetrating. In a word nothing could be better done. The versification,
while in full keeping with the general character of simplicity, has in certain
passages a vigorous, trenchant euphony which would confer honor on the most
accomplished masters of the art. We refer, especially to the lines:
And follow me to my long home |
Solemn and slow
|
and to the quatrain:
Could I but know when I am sleeping |
Low in the ground
|
65 One faithful heart would there be keeping |
Watch all night round.
|
The initial trochee here, in each instance, substituted for the iambus produces,
so naturally as to seem accidentally, a very effective echo of sound to sense.
The thought included in the line "And light the
tomb," should be dwelt upon to be appreciated in its full extent of
beauty; and the verses which I have italicized in the last stanza are poetry --
poetry in the purest sense of that much misused word. They have
power -- indisputable power; making us thrill with a sense of their
weird magnificence as we read them.
In "The Child of the Sea," Mrs. Lewis has accomplished a much
more comprehensive at least, if not at all points a more commendable poem than
any included in her "Records of the Heart." One of its most
distinguishing merits is the admirable conduct of its narrative -- in which
every incident has its proper position -- where nothing is inconsequent or
incoherent -- and where, above all, the rich and vivid interest is never, for a
single moment, permitted to flag. How few, even of the most accomplished and
skillful of poets, are successful in the management of a story, when that
story has to be told in verse. […]
The poem, although widely differing in subject from any of Mrs. Lewis'
prior compositions, and far superior to any of them in general vigor, artistic
skill, and assured certainty of purpose, is nevertheless easily recognized as
the production of the same mind which originated "Florence"
and "The Forsaken." We perceive, throughout, the same passion,
the same enthusiasm, and the same seemingly reckless abandon of
thought and manner which we have already mentioned as characterizing the writer.
We should have spoken also, of a fastidious yet most sensitive and almost
voluptuous sense of Beauty. […]