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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

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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
With its sweet commerce, like a bosom friend,

Will share the deeper thoughts which I could trust
Only to music and to solitude.

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.
I well remember how I flung myself,

Like a young goddess, on a purple cloud

Of light and odour---the rich violets
Were so ethereal in bloom and breath:

And I,---I felt immortal, for my brain

Was drunk and mad with its first draught of fame.
'Tis strange there was one only cypress tree,
And then, as now, I lay beneath its shade.
The night had seen me pace my lonely room,
Clasping the lyre I had no heart to wake,
Impatient for the day: yet its first dawn
Came cold as death; for every pulse sank down,
Until the very presence of my hope
Became to me a fear. The sun rose up;
I stood alone mid thousands: but I felt
Mine inspiration; and, as the last sweep
Of my song died away amid the hills,
My heart reverberate the shout which bore
To the blue mountains and the distant heaven
ERINNA'S name, and on my bended knee,
Olympus, I received thy laurel crown.

And twice new birth of violets have sprung
Since they were first my pillow, since I sought
In the deep silence of the olive grove
The dreamy happiness which solitude
Brings to the soul o'erfill'd with its delight:
For I was like some young and sudden heir
Of a rich palace heap'd with gems and gold,
Whose pleasure doubles as he sums his wealth,
And forms a thousand plans of festival;
Such were my myriad visions of delight.
The lute, which hitherto in Delphian shades
VOL. II.
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Had been my twilight's solitary joy,

Would henceforth be a sweet and breathing bond
Between me and my kind. Orphan unloved,
I had been lonely from my childhood's hour,
Childhood whose very happiness is love:
But that was over now; my lyre would be
My own heart's true interpreter, and those
To whom my song was dear, would they not bless
The hand that waken'd it? I should be loved
For the so gentle sake of those soft cords
Which mingled others' feelings with mine own.

Vow'd I that song to meek and gentle thoughts,
To tales that told of sorrow and of love,
To all our nature's finest touches, all
That wakens sympathy: and I should be
Alone no longer; every wind that bore,
And every lip that breath'd one strain of mine,
Henceforth partake in all my joy and grief.
Oh! glorious is the gifted poet's lot,
And touching more than glorious: 'tis to be
Companion of the heart's least earthly hour;
The voice of love and sadness, calling forth
Tears from their silent fountain: 'tis to have
Share in all nature's loveliness; giving flowers
A life as sweet, more lasting than their own;
And catching from green wood and lofty pine
Language mysterious as musical;

Making the thoughts, which else had only been
Like colours on the morning's earliest hour,
Immortal, and worth immortality;
Yielding the hero that eternal name

For which he fought; making the patriot's deed
A stirring record for long after time;

Cherishing tender thoughts, which else had pass'd
Away like tears; and saving the loved dead
From Death's worst part---its deep forgetfulness.

From the first moment when a falling leaf,
Or opening bud, or streak of rose-touch'd sky,
Waken'd in me the flush and flow of song,
I gave my soul entire unto the gift

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;
Mine, but o'er which I had not a control.
At times it was not with me, and I felt
A wonder how it ever had been mine:
And then a word, a look of loveliness,
A tone of Music, call'd it into life;

And song came gushing, like the natural tears,
To check whose current does not rest with us.

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
My spirit would have pour'd itself in song,
Have learn'd a language from the rustling leaves,
The singing of the birds, and of the tide.
Perchance, then, happy had I never known
Another thought could be attach'd to song
Than of its own delight. Oh! let me pause
Over this earlier period, when my heart
Mingled its being with its pleasures, fill'd
With rich enthusiasm, which once flung
Its purple colouring o'er all things of earth,
And without which our utmost power of thought
But sharpens arrows that will drink our blood.
Like woman's soothing influence o'er man,
Enthusiasm is upon the mind;

Softening and beautifying that which is

Too harsh and sullen in itself. How much
I loved the painter's glorious art, which forms
A world like, but more beautiful, than this;
Just catching nature in her happiest mood!
How drank I in fine poetry, which makes
The hearing passionate, fill'd with memories
Which steal from out the past like rays from clouds !
And then the sweet songs of my native vale,
Whose sweetness and whose softness call'd to mind
The perfume of the flowers, the purity

Of the blue sky; oh, how they stirr'd my soul !--
Amid the many golden gifts which heaven
Has left, like portions of its light, on earth,
None hath such influence as music bath.
The painter's hues stand visible before us
In power and beauty; we can trace the thoughts
Which are the workings of the poet's mind :
But music is a mystery, and viewless
Even when present, and is less man's act,
And less within his order; for the hand
That can call forth the tones, yet cannot tell
Whither they go, or if they live or die,
When floated once beyond his feeble ear;
And then, as if it were an unreal thing,
The wind will sweep from the neglected strings
As rich a swell as ever minstrel drew.

A poet's word, a painter's touch, will reach
The innermost recesses of the heart,
Making the pulses throb in unison

With joy or grief, which we can analyze ;
There is the cause for pleasure and for pain:
But music moves us, and we know not why;
We feel the tears, but cannot trace their source.
Is it the language of some other state,
Born of its memory? For what can wake
The soul's strong instinct of another world,
Like Music? Well with sadness doth it suit,

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