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THERE will doubtless be criticism by Lowell and Poe — each in a very different spirit from the other, but both Damascene as to the temper of the weapon — of a certain new book, just published by the Langleys. It is, (as to style merely,) Tennyson, out-Tennysoned, — the last strain and tension of peculiarity and surprise — but withal brimful of genius. We have underlined beauties enough in the following verses, to have made a fame in Waller's time: —
A CHILD ASLEEP.
How he sleepeth! having drunken
Weary childhood's mandragore,
From his pretty eyes have sunken
Pleasures, to make room for more —
Sleeping near the withered nosegay, which he pulled the day before.
Nosegays! leave them for the waking!
Throw them earthward where they grew;
Dim are such beside the breaking
Amaranths he looks unto —
Folded eyes see brighter colours than the open ever do.
Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows golden
From the paths they sprang beneath,
Now perhaps divinely holden,
Swing against him in a wreath —
We may think so from the quickening of his bloom and of his breath.
Vision unto vision calleth,
While the young child dreameth on;
Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth
With the glory thou hast won!
Darker wert thou in the garden, yestermorn, by summer sun.
We should see the spirits ringing
Round thee, — were the clouds away!
’Tis the child-heart draws them, singing
In the silent-seeming clay —
Singing! — Stars that seem the mutest, go in music all the way.
As the moths around a taper,
As the bees around a rose,
As at sunset, many a vapour, —
So the spirits group and close
Round about a holy childhood, as if drinking its repose.
Shapes of brightness overlean thee,
With their diadems of youth
Striking on the ringlets sheenly, —
While thou smilest,. . . not in sooth
Thy smile,. . . but the overfair one, dropt from some ethereal mouth.
Haply it is angels’ duty,
During slumber, shade by shade
To fine down this childish beauty
To the thing it must be made,
Ere the world shall bring it praises, or the tomb shall see it fade.
Softly, softly! make no noises!
Now he lieth dead and dumb —
Now he hears the angels’ voices
Folding silence in the room —
Now he muses deep the meaning of the heaven-words as they come.
Speak not! he is consecrated —
Breathe no breath across his eyes;
Lifted up and separated
On the hand of God he lies,
In a sweetness beyond touching, — held in cloistral sanctities.
Could ye bless him — father — mother?
Bless the dimple in his cheek?
Dare ye look at one another,
And the benediction speak?
Would ye not break out in weeping, and confess yourselves too weak?
He is harmless — ye are sinful, —
Ye are troubled — he, at ease!
From his slumber, virtue winful
Floweth outward with increase —
Dare not bless him! but be blessed by his peace — and go in peace.
Having first shown the extreme beauty in this new book, (the right end to being, in criticism,) let us now give a short specimen of the same genius gone affected.
Napoleon! years ago and that great word
Compact of human breath in hate and dread, [column 2:]
And exultation, skied us overhead —
An atmosphere whose lightning was the sword,
Scathing the cedars of the world, — drawn down
In burnings, by the metal of a crown.
That name was shouted near the pyramidal
Egyptian tombs, whose mummied habitants,
Packed to humanity's significance,
Motioned it back with stillness! Shouts as idle
As hireling artists’ work of myrrh and spice,
Which swathed last glories round the Ptolemies.
And now let us do away with the impression of this laboured and needless inversion, by quoting a sweet piece of mingled imagination and nature, from the same authoress — we did not name her, by the by — MRS. [[MISS]] ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT.
SLEEPING AND WATCHING.
Sleep on, baby, on the floor,
Tired of all the playing, —
Sleep with smile the sweeter for
That you dropped away in!
On your curls’ full roundness, stand
Golden lights serenely —
One cheek, pushed out by the hand,
Folds the dimple inly:
Little head and little foot
Heavy laid for pleasure,
Underneath the lids half-shut,
Slants the shining azure; —
Open-souled in noonday sun,
So, you lie and slumber!
Nothing evil, having done,
Nothing can encumber.
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 as 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, you, draw withal
From your slumber, solely, —
Me, from mine, an angel shall,
With reveillie holy!
Mrs. [[Miss]] Barrett is worth a dozen of Tennyson, and six of Motherwell — equal perhaps in original genius to Keats and Shelley. We wish we knew more of her.
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Notes:
This review was specifically rejected as being by Poe by W. D. Hull.
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[S:0 - NYEM, 1844] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Criticism - Review of Elizabeth Barrett Barrett (Willis ?, 1844)