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And the soft west winds shall come,
Bearing all their courtier treasures,
When at evening thou dost roam,
Taking thy immortal pleasures
With some bud or lily young,
Which the sky shall then have flung
On a green bank or a dell
Of sun-coloured asphodel.

-Then shalt thou once more resume
Odour, strength, and all thy bloom
Of beauty, and regain thy powers
Over the time-enchanted hours!-

B. C.

Vivuntque commissi calores.

-THERE are few periodical writers, to whom the public is more indebted, both for materials of thought and for helps in the correction of false thinking, than to the late Opium-eater: but, in his argument against a distinctive superiority of fancy in women, he puts us off with what the schools describe as à dicto secundùm quid ad dictum simpliciter. Thus, because men have written poems superior in imaginative power to those written by women, therefore women possess no imagination at all."


"Men," he says, are shy of pressing too hard upon women.' do not think that he can, himself, be accused of this shyness; nor do I agree with him. So far from a feeling of gallantry restraining men from indulging a severity of comment on the productions of female authors, the absurdity of female literary pretension is, with them, a proverbial topic:

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I leave you to your daily tea is ready,' Snug coterie and literary lady: such is the slang of male candour and male politeness.

The author of the paper on "False Distinctions" has chosen his own ground, and himself fixed the standard by which women shall be tried: but there is a stumbling-block in his way, and he knows it; for, like an experienced controvertist, well aware of the weak and strong points of his own and his opponent's argument, he, quietly and with a composed inJULY, 1824.

difference, "sets aside SAPPHO and a few other female lyric poets." He knows very well that it is lyric poetry which is chiefly conversant with the "ideal;" with those "high abstractions" which he assumes to be unattainable by women; and he therefore "sets aside the female lyric poets." "We have not," forsooth, "sufficient samples of their poetry." But we have one very stubborn sample, which Longinus quotes expressly as embodying the TRUE SUBLIME; and its author is a woman: and, more than this, Catullus and Horace, though they tried hard, could never create any thing, which approached at all near it in simplicity, intensity, and spontaneous power. After this, it requires something like what is called a modest assurance" (Calve, tuâ veniâ) to come forward and accost the ladies with the courtly appellation of "good women," and to tell them that it is "sufficient honour for them to have produced us."

As the challenger does not demand a hundred or a score of samples in proof of women possessing imagination, but will be content with one,-one, himself being the judge, is as good as a score or a hundred. If we have but one or two remnants of Sappho, we have, at least, the testimony of ancient opinion to the merit of her nine books of odes; and if that opinion be confessedly just, as respects a part, we are bound to admit its justness as respects the whole.


I am content with the one sample of Longinus. Had only the Il Penseroso survived Milton, would posterity have squeamishly boggled in allowing Milton's claim to be considered as a poet? There is but one critic, of whom I ever heard, that estimated poetical merit by bulk; and that was the Dutch gentleman in Peter Pindar; who recommended his brother's poem by saying, that it was so big as von cheese."


I will say nothing of the tribute of tradition to Erinna; to Corinna, who, it is said, won a prize from Pindar; or to the Roman Sulpicia: I will "talk with him on the theme" of Sappho. I will not consent that she shall be thrown into a corner. I am asked (and the question is to make me start bolt upright in my easy chair), "what work of imagination, owing its birth to a woman, can Í lay my hand upon, which has exerted any memorable influence, such as history would notice, on the mind of man? I answer, SAPPHO'S ODE Εις έταιραν.


Pass we by the ladies of antiquity. I am not going to place the Colombiade of Madame du Boccage by the side of the Paradise Lost, though I should think twice before I gave the Henriade the preference to it; but I might inquire why, when we hear continually of Congreve, Wycherley, and Farquhar, no mention is ever made of Mrs. Centlivre; whose comedies, unrivalled for light bustle of intrigue, keep possession of the stage, to the shame of male critics, and the discomfiture of theories? It appears that living female authors are to be " set aside," together with the " Eolian girl" of old; or I might also inquire, if the authoress of De Monfort have not "risen to an entire sympathy with what is most excellent in the art of poetry," which of her male contemporaries has? Is it the author of


The defiance to the women, to produce their female Hudibras, or their female Dunciad, is something like calling on them to produce their female Spring and Langan; and in default of this, to resign all pretensions to grace and agility.

"Where is the female Rape of the Lock?" ejaculates, with a gay swelling of the cheeks, the detecter

of false distinctions: I cannot tell; and what then?

I will choose my own ground, and contend, that, because women do not run in parallels with men, their divergent likeness does not argue an absolute and hopeless inferiority.

If any mode of writing can be said to "have exerted a memorable influence on the mind of man," it is that of the novel; the epopea of every-day nature; and this, in the hands of women, has been equally successful in drawing tears and smiles: "sive risus essent movendi, sive lacrymæ." Truer portraits of men and women, more affecting passages of human life, more closely entwined interest, may be found in novels, and in female novels too, than in all the "solemnly planned poems that ever existed from the Æneid downwards to the Parish Register.

"What work of imagination, owing its birth to a woman, can I lay my hand upon?" The difficulty is in the choice.

Shall I name CORINNE? No-let our own fair country women take prethe cedence. I lay my hand upon "SIMPLE STORY."

I may be told of Tom Jones, and Molly Seagrim; of Roderick Random and Strap; of Lovelace's lace ruffles, and Clarissa's hoop-petticoat; or I may be told of Meg Merrilies, and of her hundredth double, the Spae-wife :

All this

my affection: Nor moves my gall nor alters peculiarly a woI take a tale, man's; and in this her proper circle, with all appliances and means about her, I challenge the male superiority. I demand, where are the characters, of whose breathing individuality we are so assured, as of that Miss Milner? of Doriforth and Where are readiness of wit, nativeness of sentiment, refined and profound passion, the graces, the foibles, the pride and the weakness of woman; or the sterner and haughtier stuff, of which the mind of man is composed; the reasoning sensibility, the guarded, economized, self-retiring, self-wounding tenderness, that weeps behind the mask of fierce resentment, and wraps its bleeding anguish with the cloak of apathy? where are these conceived with such intuitive tact, and touched and blend

ed into light and shadow with so free, yet so firm, a pencil? Where is there such a grasp of the human heart, such a playful or tyrannous mastery over its finest and strongest chords?

Shall I be referred to the amiable male romance, in which, for the decent amusement of the ladies and gentlemen of England, a lover is made to eat his mistress alive?



"TWEEN Evening's farewell, and the Night's approach,
I love to linger on the garden seat,

While glooms around me sluggishly encroach;

Or in some neighbouring spot short walks repeat,
To watch the West which heaven's last smile doth bless,
Where longest clings the memory of the day;
To see it fade and fade, 'till colourless

The painted record vanishes away,

In Time's turn'd pages to be seen no more.
Yet gloomy Night shall but awhile delay

The past day's offspring, that hath smiles in store
As lovely as the first.-Oh! it is sweet,
To prove by this, when Death's long night is o'er,
That we shall wake another world to meet.

J. C.




Se d'Amor queste son reti e legami,
Oh com'è dolce l'amoroso impaccio !
Se questo è il cibo ov' io son preso al laccio,
Come son dolci l'esche, e dolci gli ami!
Quanta dolcezza agl' invischiati rami
Il vischio aggiunge, ed all' ardore il ghiaccio,
Quanto è dolce il soffrir, s'io penso e taccio,
E dolce il lamentar ch' altri non ami!
Quanto soavi ancor le piaghe interne,
E lagrime stillar per gli occhi rei,
E d'un colpo mortal querele eterne!
Se questa è vita, io mille al cor torrei
Ferite e mille, e mille gioje averne ;
Se morte, sacro a morte i giorni miei.

If Love his captive bind with ties so dear,
How sweet to be in amorous tangles caught!
If such the food to snare my freedom brought,
How sweet the baited hook that lured me near!

How tempting sweet the limed twigs appear,
The chilling ice that warmth like mine has wrought;
Sweet too each painful unimparted thought,
The moan how sweet that others loathe to hear.

Nor less delight the wounds that inward smart,
The tears that my sad eyes with moisture stain,
And constant wail of blow that deadly smote.
If this be life-I would expose my heart
To countless wounds, and bliss from each should gain,
If death-to death I would my days devote.


Negli anni acerbi tuoi purpurea rosa
Sembravi tu, che a'rai tiepidi allora
Non apre il sen, ma nel suo verde ancora
Verginella s'asconde e vergognosa;

O più tosto parei (che mortal cosa
Non rassomiglia a te) celeste Aurora,
Che le campagne imperla e i monti indora,
Lucida in ciel sereno e rugiadosa.

Or la men verde età nulla a te toglie,
Nè te, benchè negletta, in manto adorno
Giovinetta beltà vince o pareggia;

Così più vago è il fior poichè le foglie
Spiega adorate, e'l Sol nel mezzo giorno
Via più che nel mattin luce e fiammeggia.

Thy unripe youth seem'd like the purple rose
That to the warm ray opens not its breast,
But, hiding still within its mossy vest,
Dares not its virgin beauties to disclose.

Or like Aurora when the heaven first glows,
For likeness from above will suit thee best,
When she with gold kindles each mountain crest,
And o'er the plain her pearly mantle throws.

No loss from time thy riper age receives,
Nor can young beauty deck'd with art's display
Rival the native graces of thy form.

Thus lovelier is the flower whose full blown leaves

Perfume the air, and more than orient ray

The Sun's meridian glories blaze and warm.


Ben veggio avvinta al lido ornata nave,
E'l nocchier che m'alletta, e 'l mar che giace
Senz' onda, e 'l freddo Borea ed Austro tace,
E sol dolce l'increspa aura soave.

Ma l'aria, e 'l vento, e'l mar fede non ave;
Altri seguendo il lusingar fallace,
Per notturno seren già sciolse audace
Ch' ora è sommerso, or va perduto, e pave.
Veggio trofei del mar, rotte le vele,
Tronche le sarte, e biancheggiar l'arene
D'ossa insepolte, e 'ntorno errar gli spirti :
Pur, se convien che questo Egeo crudele
Per Donna solchi, almen fra le Sirene
Trovi la morte, e non fra scogli e Sirti.

I see the anchor'd bark with streamers gay,
The beckoning pilot, and unruffled tide,
The south and stormy north their fury hide,

And only Zephyrs on the waters play.

But winds and waves and skies alike betray;

Others who to their flattery dared confide,

And late when stars were bright sail'd forth in pride, Now breathe no more, or wander in dismay.

I see the trophies which the billows heap,

Torn sails, and wreck, and graveless bones that throng
The whitening beach, and spirits hovering round.
Still, if for woman's sake this cruel deep

I must essay, not shoals and rocks among
But 'mid the Sirens may my bones be found!


Espero, sacra ed amorosa Stella,
Nel notturno silenzio scorta e duce,
Viva fiamma d'amor, amica luce,
Di Venere gentil raggio e facella!
Mentre vo queto alla mia donna bella
Che spegne 'l Sol quando il dì novo adduce,
Or che la luna è sotto, e a noi non luce,
Mostrami in vece sua tua lampa bella.
Non vo così lontan di notte oscura
Per far a'lassi vïandanti oltraggio,
Nè per trar di sepolcri ombre di canto:
Io amo, ed altri a me l'anima fura ;
Deh, perch' io la riabbia, O lume santo,
Tu, che pur ami, alluma il mio viaggio !

Blest star of Love, bright Hesperus! whose glow
Serves for sweet escort through the still of night,
Of love the living flame, the friendly light,
And torch of Venus when she walks below.
Whilst to my mistress fair in stealth I go,
Who dims the sun in orient chambers bright,
Now that the moon is low, nor cheers the sight,
Haste, in her stead thy silver cresset show.

I wander not these gloomy shades among,
Upon the way-worn traveller to prey,
Or graves dispeople with enchanter's song:

My ravish'd heart from cruel spoiler's sway
I would redeem, then oh! avenge my wrong,
Blest star of Love, and beam upon my way.


THIS is a work much wanted; though, as far as may be judged from the portion of history condensed in the volume before us, Mr. Godwin has restricted himself within the limits of a mere historical compendium. The voluminous collections of state-papers relative to this important period, the registers of historical affairs, whether military, civil, or religious, which have been preserved

to us in the form of Parliamentary histories, as of May and Spriggememorials and memoirs, as of Whitlock, Ludlow, and Warwick-and tracts by all parties, such as were collected by the late Baron Maseres, furnish ample groundwork for an extended and complete history: we are therefore somewhat disappointed at being presented in the room of it with a meagre abridgment. It may be

History of the Commonwealth of England from its Commencement to the Restoration of Charles the Second. By William Godwin. Volume the First, containing the Civil War. Colburn, 1824,

This is particularly the case in the military transactions. They might have been given more in detail without too much encroaching on the space prescribed to himself by the author. Thus the memorable surrender of Bristol, in 1645, which led to the revocation of Prince Rupert's commissions by the king, is dryly dismissed in a few words: "here the news reached him of the surrender of Bristol on the 11th of September." Mr. Godwin adds, "Rupert relied for the vindication of his conduct upon his inadequate means of defence and the improbability of any efforts at relief." Now Mrs. Macaulay properly states that, "this was a garrison, by his own particular desire, entrusted to the care of Prince Rupert: a garrison, which he had taken care to recruit with great proportions both of men and money, and of which he had written to the king, that he should be

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