sufficient merit to counteract the faults? Milman, we are assured, will himself deny this. Superfluous praise is often more injurious than moderate contempt; it makes conscientious admirers suspicious, and increases the vigilancy of detractors. We give Mr. Jerdan every credit for the purest, most generous motives, in patronising L. E. L. Placed as he is, at the head of a critical Gazette, whose criticisms are seen every where, and believed no where (where intellect or talent preside), master of his own venal quill, and left supreme arbiter over the fates of new books, it was very laudable and courteous of him to introduce his protegée, and recommend her genius, we mean talent. There is every thing to acquire an adventitious fame for Miss Laudon. She is young-youth is always interesting-she is a lady. How could Mr. Jerdan criticize her? And lastly, she is very amiable in private life. Had Mr. Jerdan but have condescended to the level of plain sense in his praises; had he just attended to a few distinctions, and evinced a little discernment amid his ridiculousness, he might perhaps have been an important prop to Miss L. E. L.'s poetical fame. We all know the very modest specimen of eulogium he presented the public with a few weeks since! What does Mr. Jerdan mean by asserting, that Lord Byron's poems scarcely created " nine days sensation?" We suspect he forgot the proper word, when he wrote this wretched piece of perversity. Lord Byron's poems, he may be assured, will create nine hundred and ninety-nine years sensation, while we are capable of enjoying poesy in all its freshness and purity. Where will Mr. Jerdan and L. E. L. be by that time? We could not refrain from alluding to Mr. Jerdan in this place; he is too important a personage to be ómitted, as relates to the puffing department. We are aware, that many may consider our remarks on L. E. L. as invidiously intended, proceeding from a wish of severity, rather than a just and generous opinion. This is not so we have read L. E. L.'s poetry in the best mood for enjoying it, and with the readiest wish to admire it. In the following observation, we shall state what we really believe to be true; and after all, the admirers of L. E. L. are at liberty to disagree with us!! Miss Laudon rhymes with the greatest freedom; her eight syllable lines seem all extempore. It is for this reason that there is so much monotony or (to use Byron's words,)" fatal facility." She thinks of her subject, has several pretty ideas floating in her imagination, takes her pen, and writes on while the subject is capable of being spun out:-but for fifty lines, perhaps, there will be nothing approaching to originality-nothing resembling inspiration. Her poetry is by far the least original of the day; it certainly contains no abrupt or vulgar faults; no startling inelegancies or extravagances in diction; her words flow easily and musically; the frequency of vowels and tender diminutives give an artificial sweetness to her pieces-but withall, how little is there she can claim for her own? We do not for a moment accuse her of wilful piracy, although her poems are replete with them; we do not say she purposely borrows or imitates, and yet most of her ideas may be seen elsewhere. Miss Laudon has all Tom Moore's trifling, without his taste and imagination; all his fine and sparkling words, without his loftier imagery and powerful conceptions--she writes too fast and too much to write for posterity. Her fugitive pieces are read; and some are heard (and justly too) to exclaim, how pretty!"-but nobody remembers a line of them next week. We know not if Miss Laudon has been disappointed in love; at any rate, her poems are quite sickening by her eternal allusions to Cupid, quivers, sighs and eyes, lips and frowns, and all the rest of the dalliant phraseology. It appears to us, that Miss Laudon has a certain peculiar vocabulary which she cannot dispense with? We do not recollect a piece of her's without some part of the body being named, and two or three dozen sighs heaving through every twenty lines:- she could scarcely write without a "blushing cheek," a "brow," a 66 glance," a "hue," a "beauty," a "deliciousness of sighs," and "eyes" of all colors. This monotonous phraseology is really tiresome;--few admire cheeks ripe with beauty, and eyes lit with love, more than ourselves; still there are times when we can dispense with them, particularly in the speciousness of description. This repetition of words, naturally occasions a repetition of metaphor. We remember in her "Troubadour" she metaphorised the innocent "rainbow" no less than thirty times!!--- After so much endurance, was it likely there would be much vividness left in its hues? There is the same frequent introduction of like imagery in the "Golden Violet." We will not assert that her imagery is BAD, but it is too light to bear such working. Another great and important fault in Miss Laudon's poetry is, the confused length of her periods; some of them are complete labyrinths; we are puzzled in a maze of words. She has always numerous sweet, harmonious, ding-dong words ready, and therefore pours them forth till they die away in absurdity. As to the feeling displayed in Miss L.'s writings, we consider it more frequently ARTIFICIAL than real; it appears to arise from every spring but the soul; whether the worn out qualities of her subjects, or the glittering tinsel of her language, cause this, we know not. In short, in every sense, Miss Laudon's poetry is built on fragile materials. We should sum up our general opinion of her as a poet thus:---she is rarely above mediocrity; abounding in sentimental nonsense, though often beautifully tender; too light and specious to make a lasting impression; too much adorned with flowery epithets and flimsy facilities to move the heart or warm the imagination :---her poems are read with languor, praised for their prettiness, admired for glimpses of fanciful thought, laughed at for their futile tenderness, removed to the bookcase, and then forgotten! Miss Laudon's warmest admirers ought to regret the publication of the "Golden Violet;" it has the appearance of being written in the last stage of a gallopping CONSUMPTION." We take credit to ourselves for the stoicism we have displayed in perusing the volume. It is by no means equal to the " Improvisatrice;" in that there was something like a muse presiding---and the descriptive sketches at the end were superior to any thing she has ever written. In this last volume the only thing worth reading is "Erinna," part of which we have extracted; this will be found to contain some good passages; though even here, if we mistake not, there are many of the best imitated from Wordsworth. We had marked MANY parts of the "Golden Violet," which we intended to extract, and point out their mystic nonsense, affected perversions, and metaphoric medleys of flowing superfluities---but our review has extended beyond the usual length. The "Golden Violet" is altogether the most faulty and superficial of all Miss L. E. L.'s poems. We doubt if Jerdan's praise will save it from its proper fate. It is sincerely to be wished, that Miss Landon would endeavour to concentrate her talents; to apply them seriously ---think more, and write less. ERINNA. "My hand is on the lyre, which never more Will share the deeper thoughts which I could trust It is the very grove, the olive grove, Where first I laid my laurel crown aside, And bathed my fever'd brow in the cold stream; As if that I could wash away the fire Which from that moment kindled in my heart. Like a young goddess, on a purple cloud Of light and odour---the rich violets And I,---I felt immortal, for my brain Was drunk and mad with its first draught of fame. And twice new birth of violets have sprung Had been my twilight's solitary joy, Would henceforth be a sweet and breathing bond Vow'd I that song to meek and gentle thoughts, Making the thoughts, which else had only been For which he fought; making the patriot's deed Cherishing tender thoughts, which else had pass'd From the first moment when a falling leaf, I deem'd mine own, direct from heaven; it was The hope, the bliss, the energy of life; I had no hope that dwelt not with my lyre, No bliss whose being grew not from my lyre, No energy undevoted to my lyre. It was my other self, that had a power; And song came gushing, like the natural tears, Had I lived ever in the savage woods, Or in some distant island, which the sea To hear the melancholy sounds decay, And think (for thoughts are life's great human links) With wind and wave guards in deep loneliness: Had my eye never on the beauty dwelt Of human face, and my ear never drank The music of a human voice; I feel Softening and beautifying that which is Too harsh and sullen in itself. How much Of the blue sky; oh, how they stirr'd my soul !-- A poet's word, a painter's touch, will reach With joy or grief, which we can analyze ; |