Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 056.djvu/631

1844.] "Art thou near me? nearer? so!

Kiss me close upon the eyes—

That the earthly light may go

Sweetly as it used to rise—

When I watch'd the morning-gray

Strike, betwixt the hills, the way

He 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 snows

Through the snow-wind above loss!

"Jesus, Victim, comprehending

Love'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!—

"I, who cannot sleep as well,

Shall I sigh to view you?

Or sigh further to foretell

All that may undo you?

Nay, keep smiling, little child,

Ere the sorrow neareth,—

I will smile too! Patience mild

Pleasure's token weareth.

Nay, keep sleeping, before loss;

I shall sleep though losing!

As by cradle, so by cross,

Sure is the reposing.

" And God knows, who sees us twain,

Child at childish leisure,

I am near as tired of pain

As you seem of pleasure;—

Very soon too, by his grace

Gently wrapt around me,

Shall I show as calm a face,

Shall I sleep as soundly!

Differing in this, that you

Clasp your playthings sleeping,

While my hand shall drop the few

Given to my keeping;

Differing in this, that I

Sleeping, shall be colder,

And in waking presently,

Brighter to beholder!

Differing in this beside

(Sleeper, have you heard me?

Do you move, and open wide

Eyes of wonder toward me?)—

That while I draw you withal

From your slumber, solely,—

Me, from mine, an angel shall,

With reveillie holy!

After having perused these extracts, it must be impossible for any one to deny that Miss Barrett is a person gifted with very extraordinary powers of mind, and very rare sensibilities of heart. She must surely be allowed to take her place among the female writers of England as a poetess of no ordinary rank; and if she does not already overtop them all, may she one day stand forth as the queen of that select and immortal sisterhood! It is in her power to do so if she pleases.

It is now our duty to revert to the principal poem in the collection, respecting which we have already ventured to pronounce rather an unfavourable opinion. The "Drama of Exile" is the most ambitious of Miss Barrett's compositions. It is intended to commemorate the sayings and doings of our First Parents, immediately subsequent to their expulsion from the garden of Eden. Its authoress, with sincere modesty, disclaims all intention of entering into competition with Milton; but the comparison must, of course, force itself upon the reader; and although it was not to be expected that she should rise so soaringly as Milton does above the level of her theme, it was at any rate to be expected that her dramatis personæ should not stand in absolute contrast to his. Yet Milton's Satan and Miss Barrett's Lucifer are the very antipodes of each other. Milton's Satan is a thoroughly practical character, and, if he had been human, he would have made a first-rate man of business in any department of life. Miss Barrett's Lucifer, on the contrary, is the poorest prater that ever made a point of saying nothing to the purpose, and we feel assured that he could have put his hand to nothing in heaven, on earth, or in hell. He has nothing to do, he does nothing, and