LITERARY SPECTATOR.

MRS. HEMANS—BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE FOR FEBRUARY.

IT is the enviable privilege of the critic, that he may gratefully re- pay the pleasure he receives, by pointing out the object of his ad- miration to public notice. The delight which a fine piece of poetry has the power of infusing into the heart of the reader, does not end with the swell of joy in . the bosom, the thrill of ecstasy creeping through the frame,—physical but significant signs of the soul's con- tentment ; but afterwards, when the emotion of the lover of poetry has sunk into calm, the critic can protract his satisfaction, by dwel- ling before the world upon that which originally gave rise to more passionate feelings. Mrs. HEMA.NS is universally known as a person of great poetical talent, and Blackwood's Magazine is read wherever bipeds' speak English; nevertheless it is possible the SPECTATOR insinuates itself where Mr. NORTH is not received ; so that we see no harm in saying, that we have been extraordinarily delighted with a chivalric little poem, bearing Mrs. HEMA.NS. name on the face of it, in the February Number of Blackwood. It is called "The Lady of Provence." Its subject is not so remarkable as the beauty of its tone, or the severe and elevated spirit in which it is conceived. The knightly lore of WARTON, and his love of barbaric pomp and chival- rous daring, have combined for its production with the maiden sim- plicity, the chaste and touching dignity, which ennoble the productions of the author of" The White Doe of Rylstone." The Moors have invaded Provence ; and while the lord of its chivalry has gone out to give them battle, his young wife has hied her to the chapel, to pray for the success of him in whom she lives and breathes.

"The sounds of the sea and the sounds of the night, And the hollow ecitoes of charge and flight, Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray In a chapel where the mighty lay On the old Provencal shore; Many a Chatillon beneath, Unstirr'd by the ringing trumpet's breath, His shroud of armour wore ; And the glimpses of moonlight that went and came Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame, Gave quivering life to the slumbers pale

Of stern forms couch'd in their marble mail,

At rest on the tombs of the knightly race, The silent throngs of that burial-place."

There are few things more imposing than the stiff and prostrate effigies on the tombs of men who in their time have been so restless and so daring : the pious attitude in which these antique monuments are usually sculptured, contrasts sadly with the mockery of mail and shield and knightly sword. While all above is stone, all below is dust. But there is one peculiar expression which the rude statuaries of those old times never fail to give, or at least the stone to take,— and that is a kind of stern serenity, which seems to smile in conscious pride of former deeds of high renown. This Mrs. HEISIANS has not failed to remark in two fine lines :

" And haughty their stillness look'd, and high. Like a sleep whose dreams were of victoryl

The Lady of Provence is represented by the poetess at her devo- tions in the chapel, when she is interrupted by a messenger from the field :—

" Hark ! a swift step ! she hath caught its tone

Through the dash of the sea, through the wild wind's moan :

Is her lord return'd with his conquering bands? No—a breathless vassal before her stands !

Hast thou been on the field ?—Art thou come from the host!'

From the slaughter, Lady I All, all is lost I Our banners are taken, our knights laid low, Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe; And thy Lord'—his voice took a sadder sound- ' Thy Lord—he is not on the bloody ground !

There are those who tell that the leader's plume Was seen on the flight through the gathering gloom.'

"A change o'er her mien and her spirit pass'd,— She ruled the heart which had beat so fast ;

She dash'd the tears from her kindling eye,

With a glance as of sudden royalty ; The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow Quick over her bosom, and cheek, and brow ; And her young voice rose, till the peasant shook At the thrilling tone and the falcon-look.

Dost thou stand midst the tombs of the glorious dead, And fear not to say that their son bath fled?

Away ! he is lying by lance and shield—

Point me the path to his battle field.'"

Amidst the horrors of the night, after a bloody conflict, disre- garding the chance of harm from pursuing victors and flying victims, the lady makes her way to the scene of struggle.

There lay the noble, the valiant, low-

-Aye, but one word speaks of deeper wo ; There lay the loved—on each fallen head

Mother's vain blessings and tears had shed; Sisters were watching, in many a home, For the fetter'd footstep, no more to come; Names in the prayers of that night were spoken, Whose claims unto kindred prayers was broken ; And the fire was heaped, and the bright wine poured

For those, now needing nor hearth nor board— Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell,

And oh, ye beloved of woman, farewell !"

Arrived at the place of contest, the melancholy task of the Lady of Provence commenced, and she unshrinkingly pursued her fearful inquisition.

"She searched into many an unclosed eye •

That look'd without soul to the starry sky; She bow'd o'er many a shatter'd breast, She lifted up helmet and cloven crest." In the spot where had been the thickest of the fight,—where the plumage was scattered to and fro, where the lances were shivered, the shields broken, and the mail-clad sleepers were heaped highest,— there the lady finds her lord ; but oh! how "darkly changed!"

"And the face—oh ! speak not of that dread face, As it lay to answer love's look no more, Yet never so proudly loved before!"

The manifest bravery of her lord's death put to flight the vague rumour of his escape ; and for a moment the pride she felt in his glorious fall stifled the feelings of a nearer interest-

" She quell'd in her soul the deep floods of wo ; The time was not for their waves to flow : She felt the full presence, the might of death, Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath ; And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair,

As she turn'd to his followers—' Your lord is there!'" The scene rapidly changes from the finding of the slain hero to his funeral : he is buried in the midst of hostile alarins- " Another day, another night,

And the sailor on the deep Hears the low chant of a funeral rite From the lordly chapel sweep."

The wasting grief of the sovereign knight's poor lady has pre- pared her to join him in the tomb, and the passion of her wo se- conds the wish of her broken heart. She thus addresses the mailed clay of her noble husband, as he is borne away from her on his bier:— " I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong, My soul hath risen from thy glory strong! Now call me hence by thy side to be,

The world thou leav'st hath no place for me. The light goes with thee. the joy, the worth— Faithful and tender I Oh, call me forth ! Give me my home on thy noble heart; Well have we loved, let us both depart !"

It is a woman who speaks this, it is a woman who writes it : let men take note—faithful and tender, these are the epithets dearest to their bosoms;. add brave, as the condition of the party supposes, and the woman's beau ideal is complete. A satirist would add to these three epithets, dead ;—death is indeed a consecrator more sancti- fying than either priest or pope. The noble love of the Lady of Provence thus ends the poem which has given us so much pleasure,— " Joy for the freed one ! she might not stay, When the crown had fallen from her life away ;

She might not linger—a weary thing, A dove with no home for its broken wing„ Thrown on the harshness of alien skies, That know not its own land's melodies.

From the long heart-withering early gone;

She bath lived—she hath loved—her task is done."

If you would love England, dwell for a time in a foreign land : if you would appreciate the merit of her literature, study that of other countries abroad : if you would understand the value of an odd num- ber of Blachwood's Magazine, pick one up, as we have done, at Nice or Pau, left on a bookseller's hands by a scoundrel of a subscriber, who, if he had left his debts unpaid, at least should not have left his Maga uncut, unread.