1829.] C 677 ] 



MONTHLY REVIEW OF LITERATURE, D03IESTIC AND FOREIGN. 



Miis Landon's new Poems: — The Ve- 

 netian Bracelet, ^c. ; 1829 — Here is some 

 of the staff of poetry — feeling, absorption, 

 force. We confess our surprise. The ad- 

 mirers of Miss Landon's early efforts will 

 smile at our late discovery ; but none of 

 them, in their zeal to insist upon original 

 excellence, will surely be so impolitic as to 

 deny she mends. Conscious slie could mend, 

 she has set to with all her soul and spirit, 

 and is reaping tlie fruits of well-directed 

 labour. She has rigorously taxed her powers, 

 and, in the same proportion, strengthened 

 them. There is less, in her present per- 

 formances, of the flourish of versification, 

 and more concentrating of feeling. She is 

 more correct — more specific — more true. 

 These are the results of labour, but of suc- 

 cessful labour. They bear the visible im- 

 pressions of care ; but they prove also the 

 virtue of care. Jliss Landon must hence- 

 forth class with tlie first of the poets of the 

 day, and need fear no rival. No longer a 

 mere annualist, slie must be as distinct and 

 alone as Campbell or IMoore. No longer 

 one of the lady-poets, but matching with 

 masculine minds. Her preface is well con. 

 sidered and conciliating. She avows her 

 faith in the great and excellent influence of 

 poetry. It is, in her conceptions, calculated 

 to counteract the corruptions of luxury. Sel- 

 fishness too surely follows indulgence, and 

 heartlessness attends on refinement. To 

 elevate, she feels she must soften ; and be- 

 fore she can purify, she must touch : and, 

 accordingly, disappointment — the fallen 

 leaf — the faded flower — the broken heart — 

 the early grave, constitute the materia me- 

 dico of her remedial poetry. " Surely," 

 she observes, " we must be less worldly, 

 less interested, from this sympathy with the 

 sorrow in which our unselfish feelings alone 

 can take part." No doubt with the more 

 susceptible ; but this same selfishness will 

 wind through the labyrinths even of imagi- 

 nary woes, and escape pursuit. 

 Another tale nf thine I fair Italie — 

 What makes my lute, my licart, ay turn to 



thee ? 

 I do not know thy language, — that is still 

 Like the niystciious music of the rill ; — 

 And neither have I seen thy cloudless sky. 

 Where the sun hath his immortality ; 

 Thy cities crowned with palaces, thy halls 

 Where arts great -wonders light the storied 



walls ; 

 Tby fountaina' atlver sweep, thy groves, trlicre 



dwell 

 The rose and orauge, summer's citadel ; 

 Thy »on,','» that rise at twilight on the air, 

 Wedding the hreath thy thousand flowers sigh 



there ; 

 Thy tales of other times, thy marble shrines, 

 r,ovcIy though fallen,— for the ivy tuines 

 Us graceful wreath around each ruined fane, 

 As still in some shape btauty would remain. 



I know them not, yet, Italie, thou art 



The promised land that haui.ts my dreaming 



heart. 

 But now, whenever I am mixed too mnch 

 With worldly natures till I feel as such ; 

 When wearied by the vain, chilled by the cold. 

 Impatient of society's set mould — 

 The many meannesses, the petty cares, 

 The long avoidance of a thousand snares. 

 The lip that must be chained, the eye so taught 

 To iniaerc all but its own actual thought ; 

 When worn, by nature struggling with my fate. 

 Checking my love, but, oh, still more my hate ; 

 Wearied of this, upon what eager wings 

 My spirit turns to thee, and bird-like flinj^s 

 Its best, its breath, its spring, and song o'er 



thee. 

 My lute's enchanted world, fair.Italie. 

 To me thou art a vision half divine. 

 Of myriad flowers lit up with summer shine : 

 Of Vineyards like Aladdin's gem-set hall. 

 Fountains like fairy ones with music's fall; 

 Of sorrows, too; for e'en on this bright soil 

 Grief has its shadow, and care has its coil — - 

 But e'en amid its darkness and its crime. 

 Touched with the native beauty of such clime, 

 Till wonder rises with each gushing tear: — 

 And hath the serpent brought its curse even 



here? 

 Such is the tale that haunts me — &c. 



This tale tells of a yoimg and lovely 

 Itahan, brought up as a peasant-girl, but 

 finally discovered to be the heiress of a 

 princely house and a princely fortune. In 

 her lowliness she iiad, by her native charms, 

 won the affections of a noble; and, in her 

 magnificence and splendour, she waits with 

 impatience for his return to throw all at his 

 feet. He returns, but with a bride in his 

 hand — the certainty of which stirs up the 

 sleeping demon within her, and, with a 

 Venetian facility, poisons her. The hus- 

 band is suspected, tried, and condemned; 

 when the wretched woman, to save the life 

 of the man she still loves, confesses her 

 guilt, and, exhausted by the convulsions of 

 emotion, dies at his feet. The main points 

 are touched with a learned spirit of human 

 dealing, and the effect decisive. 



The " History of the Lyre" has powerful 

 passages. The improvising lady argues 

 keenly and feelingly : — 



Again I'll borrow Summer's elo<iuenec. 



Yon Eastern tulip — that is emblem mine; 



Ay! it has radiant colours — every leaf 



la as a gem from its own country's mines. 



'Tis redolent with sunshine ; but with noon 



II has begun to wither ; — look within. 



It has a wasted bloom, a burning heart ; 



It has dwelt too uuich in the open day. 



And so have I ; and both must droop and die! 



I did not choose my gift : — too soon my heart. 



Watch-like, had pointed to a later hour 



Than time had reached ; and ap my years 



pa,»sod on, 

 fhadows and floating visions grew to thoughts. 



