Songs Reviews

— The Corvey Poets Project at the University of Nebraska —

British Poetry of the later Eighteenth and Earlier Nineteenth Centuries

Bibliographical and Contextual Apparatus

[Costello, Louisa Stuart]

Songs of a Stranger. London: Published for the Author. London: by Talor and Hessey, 1825. Vol. 1, ix + 158pp.

Contemporary Reviews

The Eclectic Review: Vol. 24, Art. 6, January 1825 (168-173). Songs of a Stranger, by Louisa Stuart Costello. Published in London : C. Taylor, 1805-1868.

From the title of this volume, as well as from the Italian surname, one would infer that these are the songs of a foreign minstrel in a strange land. The poetry, however, is pure English, and there is nothing exotic about it. Is not the Writer afraid, however, of being set down as a strange lady?

Many of these songs are certainly very elegant,—an epithet which we use with the full persuasion that the Author will consider it as the highest praise we could bestow. The following, which has been set to mush by Linley, has the spirit of a classic epigram.
     'I will not ask one glance from thee,
     Lest, fondly, I should linger yet,
     And all thy scorn and cruelty
     In that entrancing glance forget.

     'I may not, dare not, hear thee speak
     In music's most persuasive tone,
     Lest the sweet sound to joy awake,
     And I forget 'tis sound alone!'

The Spirit's Song has a sylphic sportiveness about it.

     ''Tis thy Spirit calls thee-come away !
     I have sought thee through the weary day,
     I have dived in the glassy stream for thee—
     I have gone wherever a spirit might be:

     'In the earth, where di'monds hide,
     In the deep, where pearls abide,
     In the air, where rainbows, glancing gay,
     Smile the tears of the sun away,

     'I have wandered; 'mid the starry zone,
     Through a world by spirits only known,
     Where 'tis bliss to sail in the balmy air;
     But to me 'twas joyless till thou wert there.

     'I traced the footsteps of the fawn
     As it bounded over the dewy lawn;
     For the print it left was so light and fair,
     I deem'd thy step had linger'd there.

     'I heard a sound of melody—
     Sad and sweet as thy tender sigh;
     'Twas the night-bird's tone, but it smote my ear,
     For I thought they own soft voice to hear.

     'I see a form—it is gliding on,
     Like a cloud that sails in the sky alone,
     And the stars gleam thought its veil of white—
     Oh ! can it be aught of earth, so bright
     It beckons me on to my airy home—
     My own lov'd spirit !—I come ! I come !'   pp. 21,2.

The next poem, however, is worth all the spirit's songs and love songs in the volume.

'TO MY MOTHER'

     'Yes, I have sung of others' woes,
     Until they almost seem'd mine own,
     And Fancy oft will scenes disclose
     Whose being was in thought alone:

     'Her magic power I've cherished long,
     And yielded her soothing sway;
     Enchanting is her siren song,
     And wild and wond'rous is her way.

     'But thou-whene'er I think on thee,
     Those glittering visions fad away;
     My soul awakes, how tenderly!
     To pleasures that can ne're decay.

     'There's not an hour of life goes by
     But makes thee still more firmly dear;
     My sighs attend upon thy sigh,
     My sorrows wait upon thy tear:

     'For earth has nought so good, so pure,
     That may compare with love like thine—
     Long as existence shall endure,
     They star of guiding love shall shine!

     'O'er other stars dark clouds may lower,
     And from our path their light may sever—
     They lived to bless us but an hour,
     But thine shall live to bless us ever !' pp. 23, 4.

'The First Discovery of Columbus,' 'The Hunter of Uruguay to his Love,' the 'Song of the Crew of Diaz,' and a few more might be particularized as poems of very picturesque and lyrical character. The first of these has, we think, very high merit: it is a genuine ballad.
     '"The howling winds forbid us to trust the fatal main,
     Oh, turn our wand'ring vessel to harbour once again!
     Why to this ' bold Italian' our lives, our hopes confide?
     No golden land awaits us beyond the shoreless tide.
     How long shall he deceive us with boasting, vain and loud?
     And when we gaze for land he can show us but a cloud!"

     'The gallant leader heard; but he listened undismay'd,
     Through he saw their furious glances, and their daggers half display'd,
     No fear was in his soul—but his heart was wrung with woe—
     Shall he quail before their murmurs, and his glorious meed forego?
     Had he braved the ocean's terror in tempest and in night—
     And shall he furl his sails with the promised goal in sight?
     For he look'd tow'rds the horizon and mark'd the setting sun;
     And by its ruddy light he knew his toil was done.

     ''Twas in the deepest midnight, as they cut the yielding wave,
     When not a star was shining to guide them, or to save—
     As in awful, hopeless silence their onward course they steer,
     Far in the murky distance—lo! glimmering lights appear!

     'In breathless joy and wonder they watch the opening sky;
     And with the morning rises their rapturous certainty:
     Through the silvery vapour gleaming extends the welcome strand,
     And trees, and rocks, and mountains, before their view expand:
     They breast the foaming surges, and shouting leap to shore,
     While every echo answers, "God, and Saint Salvador!" ' pp. 105, 6.

We must rifle the volume of one more poem, entitled 'Colabah, the Camel Seeker:' if all the allusions should not be understood by the reader, Miss Costello refers them to the Koran.
     '"Return! return! where dost thou stray—
     Where hide thee from my sight?
     I have wandered all the burning day
     And through the shade of night:—
     Amidst the Winding Sands I go,
     And call to thee in vain:
     And see before me, rising slow,
     The 'vapor of pain.'

     'As I hopeless tread, with eager haste,
     Along the wild and scorching waste,
     The purple haze comes on:
     Around upon the air it flings
     Destruction form its rainbow wings,
    And warns me to be gone.

     'My faithless favourite! ah why
     Led'st thou thy master here to die!
     Among my children was thy place,
     Those tears thy lost deplore:—
     Though thou hadst been of heavenly race,
     We had not prized thee more;—
     Though thou wert stately, pure, and fair,
     As she who came at Saleh's prayer.

     'Methinks I hear the warning cry
     Of Dûma in the air,
     Who calls upon me sullenly—
     'Thy hour is nigh, prepare!"'

     'Thus Colaba, the Arab, strayed,
     With toil and grief opprest,
     Till, 'midst a cavern's awful shade
     He cast him down to rest,
     And to the Desert Spirit prayed
     That his visions might be blest:
     He lay in slumber heavy and deep,
     And dream came over his troubled sleep.

    'He thought in the cavern's murky gloom
     A single ray was shed,
     Like the light that glimmers in a tomb
     Beside the unconscious dead:
     And by that dim, uncertain light
     He traced a vaulted way,
     That frown'd in the dismal hues of night,
     While all beyond was day;
     And there, 'midst skies of purest blue,
     Were shadows and shapes of things—
     But he could not mark their form or hue,
     For the flashing of golden wings;
     And voice sounded in melody,
     But he knew not what they sung.
     For even the breeze of that lovely sky
     With answering music rung.

     'He started from that fairy dream,
     And gazed through the gloom around;—
     Behold! 'tis there, the lonely gleam,—
    And, hark! 'tis the magic sound!

     It beckons to yonder land of light,
     That spreads before his cager sight!
     But all the glories who may tell,
     That favour'd Arab that befell?
     As he roved through Iram's radiant bowers,
     'Midst glowing fruits and perfumed flowers;
     By a stream of liquid pearl, whose bed
     Of musk with emeralds was spread,
     And rubies, whose unclouded light
     Made the sparkling tide more bright;
     By whose banks, of varied hue,
     Trees, whose leaves where jewels, grew;
     And the bells of gold that amidst them hung
     On the wakening breeze soft music flung;
     And lovely forms were flitting by,
     Like scattered pearls so fair,
     But the lustre of each large black eye
     Met his gaze unconsciously,
     Nor mark'd as Colabah drew nigh:
     And all he look'd on there,
     Though bright, and glowing, and rich it gleam'd,
     Was but the shadow of what it seem'd.

     'To him the stream was the land—
     The flowers, the fruit, shrunk from his hand,
     Nor aught opposed his way;
     But while he lingered in rapt surprise,
     The hues grew pale to his dazzled eyes,
     And all was silvery gray:
     The forms were dim-and, one by one,
     They faded, till each trace was gone;
     And where that lovely land had been,
     The waste of the Winding Sands were seen!
     And Colabah with joy descried
     His wandering camel by his side.

* * * * *
* * * * *

     'Oft, since that time, at the pensive hour,
     When slowly waned the day,
     And in worship of the Prince of Power
     The prostrate shadows lay,
     The Arab told, in Shedad's bowers
     The wonders that befell;—
     How soft the tints of Iram's flowers,—
     How fair the maids who dwell
     In those eternal groves of light:
     Pure as Zohara's eyes of night,
     When ou the erring sons of Heaven
     They shot a mournful ray
     That told their crime was unforgiven—
     Then fled from their gaze away:
     Leaving the earth they dared prefer,
     A ray of the Paradise lost for her!'

There is an obscurity in the last verse, and some of the allusions are somewhat too recondite; but altogether, this is a beautiful poem, and does great credit to the writer's taste and fancy.

The Literary Chronicle: Vol. 316, 4 June 1825 (360-1). Songs of a Stranger, by Louisa Stuart Costello. Published in London : Limbird, 1819-1828.

MISS COSTELLO has not written, perhaps half so much as Mrs. Hemans or Miss Landon, but we think her little inferior to the former, and fully equal to the latter. Good taste, correct feeling, smooth versification, and no slight portion of gracefulness, distinguished the poems of this lady. We may, perhaps. Be suspected of too great partiality, since the fair author has honoured the pages of The Literary Chronicle with the offspring of her muse; we shall, however, be much surprised if the critical world does not think as highly of her talents as we do and express the opinion much more strongly. There is much sweetness and true poetry in this lady's songs, many of which have been set to music, and are, indeed, much, very much, superior to the new songs with which the public is glutted. The following, though, perhaps, not the best of the 'Songs of a Stranger,' will, we are sure, be sufficient to the more than justify the praise we have bestowed on them. The first is—
'THE CAPE OF THE CABA RUMIA'

'Cervantes mentions that the memory of Florinda, the daughter of Count Julian, is held in detestation by both Spaniards and Moors. On the coast of Barbary is a cape called the Caba Rumia, or Cape of the Wicked Christian Woman, where, it is said, that Cava, or Caba, or Florinda, lies buried; and the Moors think it ominous to be forced into that bay.'
Sir Walter Scott.

     'Sail on ! what power has our luckless bark
     To this ominous realm betrayed,
     Where Cava's rock, o'er the waters dark,
     Points out where her bones are laid ?

     'Away ! away ! though tempest sweep,
     And waves rage loud and high,
     Brave all the terrors of the deep—
     But come not that haven nigh.
     The spirit of the fatal fair
     Hovers dimly over her grave;
     'Tis her voice that rings through the troubled air,
     'Tis her moan that awakes the wave.

     'Oh ! dearly the sons of Spain can tell
     The woes that her beauty cost,
     When Roderick, won by the wiching spell,
     Fame—honour and country lost.
     And ever her name is an evil sound,
     And her memory hated shall be;
     And woe and dangers that bark surround,
     That Cava's rock shall see.
     Then hasten on her some happier shore;
     Nor that cape still linger near,
     That the Spaniard true, and the infidel Moor,
     Alike avoid with fear!'

The next is a sweet—

     'SONG'
     'Odi quell rusignolo
     Che va di ramo in ramo
     Cantando ; io amo ; io amo'
     Tasso's Aminta.

     'This mournful heart can dream of nought but thee,
     As with slow steps these shades I move.
     And hear the nightingale from tree to tree
     Sighing, "I love! I love!"
     'This mournful heart wakes to one thought alone
     That still our fatal parting will renew,
     To hear that bird, when Spring's last eve is gone,
     Sighing, "Adieu! Adieu!"

The next song has been set to music by William Linley, Esq.—

     'I will not ask one glance from thee,
     Lest, fondly, I should linger yet,
     And all thy scorn and cruelty
     In that entrancing glance forget.

     'I may not, dare not, hear thee speak
     In music's most persuasive tone,
     Lest the sweet sound to joy awake,
     And I forget 'tis sound alone!'

The following is of a plaintive cast, but furnishes equal evidence of the talents of our amiable and accomplished author. It is an—

     'ELEGY'
     'The sea is deep above thy grave,
     And the murmur of rushing wave
     Soothes thee to endless sleep.
     The warring winds, with angry yell,
     Ring mournfully thy funeral knell,
     And wild discordance keep,
     Now round thee wakes they hurrying storm.
     And the red lightning rends aside
     The wat'ry veil that strives to hide
     Thy passive form.

     'The affrighted waves in heaps divide
     And close again, as the loud thunder peals—
     No eye beholds what that abyss reveals!
     A waste of horror, black and drear, is spread
     Far o'er the bosom of the troubled main,
     Thy grave is calm again,
     The dread commotion ceases o'er thy head-
     The dark sea onward drives, and peaceful
     Sleeps the dead!'

Monthly Magazine: Vol. 59, 1 June 1825 (453-4). Songs of a Stranger, by Louisa Stuart Costello. By Large. 8vo. Published by Conn Danbury and John C. Gray.

Songs of a Stranger. By LOUISA STUART COSTELLO, Large. 8vo-
We bid the fair stranger welcome; but could wish her always to visit us in her native garb. We do not think that garments she sometimes assumes sit easy upon her. To speak without metaphor, all imitations and adoptions of the style of other writers are bad. In poetry, especially, the modes of expression, and run of the verse, should grow out of the subject, and emanate from sentiment and the feeling. If this be attended to, every writer will have a style of his own; because every one has constitutionally his own peculiarities of perception and feeling; but imitation betrays into mere mannerism-which is sure to be occasionally incongruous with the thought or the passion that should be expressed. Thus, Miss Costello's "Destroying Spirit," p. 5 &c. very merrily, to our ear, dances a Scotch jig.
"The rushing tide an ocean now,
And islands of ruin darken its brow."

     "Where, from scenes of bliss, shall I go?
     I, whose existence is terror and woe."

But what shall we make of the following, either in rhyme or rhythmus?

     "Down to its deepest valley I dive.
     Which no mortal can ever see and live."
Miss Costello should remember, that poetry is written for the ear; and that a rhyme merely to the eye, is efficiently no rhyme at all. Surely we need not add, that every succession of ten syllables will not make a verse. If the volume before us contained only such lines as these, we should not have given ourselves the trouble to notice it, but, remembering that they were the effusions of a lady, should have passed, in civil silence, what we could not with sincerity commend. But when our fair stranger dismisses this affected lilting of an inappropriate versification, and resigns herself to her own feelings, and the perceptions of her own ear, there is a vein of taste and tenderness in her effusions that entitle her to attention, and should inspire her with confidence to seek not other guide. We present a single example. If we quoted all that is of at least equal merit, we should copy almost half the volume.
    "If those dark eyes have gazed on me,
     Unconscious of their power—
     The glance in secret ecstasy
     I've treasur'd many an hour.
     If that soft voice a single word
     Has breathed for me to hear,
     Like heaven's entrancing airs, the chord
     Resounded on my ear.
     And yet, alas ! too well I knew
     That love—or hope—was vain,
     The fountain whence delight I drew
     Would end in yielding pain!
     My folly and my peace at once
     A moment could destroy:
     It bade me every wish renounce,
     And broke my dream of joy."

Monthly Magazine: Vol. 1, 1 April 1826 (417-8). Songs of a Stranger, by Louisa Stuart Costello. Published by Conn Danbury and John C. Gray.

Songs of a Stranger, by LOUISA STUART COSTELLO.

This volume reflects uncommon praise on the taste, talents, and information of the writer. The subjects chosen by her are not common-place, nor treated in a common-place manner. The feeling displayed throughout the work is tender without being weak, such as we delight to find in woman, and which would confer honour on our own sex.

The true poetical feeling displayed in the following song will fully justify the encomium we have sincerely paid her as her due.

     SONG
     They form was fair, thine eye was bright,
     Thy voice was melody:
     Around thee beamed the purest light,
     Of Love's own sky.
     Each word that trembled on thy tongue.
     Was sweet, was dear to me;
     A spell in those soft numbers hung,
     That drew my soul to thee.
     Thy form, thy voice, thine eyes are now
     As beauteous and as fair;
     But though still blooming is thy brow,
     Love is not there.
     And though as sweet thy voice be yet,
     I treasure not the tone:
     It cannot bid my heart forget—
     Its tenderness is gone!

The stanzas, To my Mother, are touching and very natural. The Song to the Crew of Diaz, on the Discover of the Cape of Good Hope, or the Cape of Storms, is worthy of any poet of the day, and is a specimen of simple poetic power, which would have been quoted and more known if it had been written by Byron or Campbell, instead of being composed by a young woman. We cannot quote the whole, but the following stanzas, not superior to the others, are very unlike the stamp of poetry too often lauded.
     Where no sail has ever wandered,
     Beneath that troubled sky,
     Frowns the stately Cape of Storms.
     O'er the drear immensity!
     Above whose hoary summit,
     Where captive thunders sleeps
     Three huge black clouds for ever
     Their dreadful station keep.
     We have gazed on what no other
     Has ever gazed upon—
     We have braved the angry spirits,
     And our victory is won.

The Sylph's Song we must, in duty, quote, since it upholds our high estimation of these poems, and proves Miss Costello to possess a fine and poetical imagination, which only requires the fostering approbation of others to soar yet higher, and gain for herself honour, while she bestows pleasure on others.

     SYLPH'S SONG.
     Fly with me, my mortal love!
     Oh! haste to realms of purer day,
     Where we form the morning dew,
     And the rainbow's varied hue;
     And give the sun each golden ray!
     Oh! stay no more
     On this earthly shore,
     Where joy is sick of the senseless crew;
     But taste the bliss we prove,
     In the starry plains above,
     Queens of the meads of ether blue.
     When the noon is riding high,
     And the trembles in the lake below,—
     Then we hover in its ray,
     And smid the sparkles play,
     While rippling waves of silver flow,
     As pure and bright
     As that gleaming light:
     We watch the eddying circle's bound,
     And within those lucid rings
     We dip our shining wings,
     And scatter shower of radiance round.
     When softly falls the summer shower,
     Fresh'ning all the earth with green,
     From the cup of many a flower,
     While the purple shadows lour.
     We drink the crystal tears unseen.
     Then come away!
     No more delay—
     Our joys and our revels hast to share,
     Behold, where near thee wait,
     As subjects of our state,
    The shadowy spirits of the air.

It has been lately said, that since the death of Bryon our poetry is at a low ebb. It is an error. Let us look at the band of women who still live, and write, and reflect honour on our age, and prove its intellectual refinement. Their names must grace our pages: Joanna Baillie— Dacre— Fanshawe— Hemans— Mitford— Costello. The authoress of "The Veils," and that splendid epic "Coeur de Lion," has only lately winged her way to a higher world. Miss Porden's epic has been neglected. Every noble whose ancestors fought in the Holy Land is bound in honour to see their deeds recorded; and when they have been nobly sung by a woman, let chivalry save her poetry from perishing unnoticed and unknown. There are more, and among our poets, Montgomery— Campbell— Rogers— Maldon— Crabbe— and many besides, yet lived, and will support their fame.

New Monthly Magazine: Vol. 15, 1825 (270). Louisa Stuart Costello, Songs of a Stranger. Published by Philadelphia : E. Littell, 1821-.

This bibliographical record is apparently incorrect. I have been unable to locate a Volume 15, and none of the volumes I have been able to consult, dating from 1821 through 1838, had any mention of any of Costello's works.

Below are two twentieth-century biographical reviews

The Dictionary of National Biography: Vol. 4, 1917 (1202). "Costello, Louisa Stuart (1799-1870).: By G. C. Boase, Eds. Sir Leslie Stephen and Sir Sidney Lee.

COSTELLO, STUART COSTELLO (1799-1870), miniature painter and author, only sister of Dudley Costello [q.v.], was born in 1799, and, after the early death of her father, went with her mother in 1814 to Paris. Although not sixteen she was a proficient artist, and was able to add so considerably to her mother's pension by painting miniatures that she maintained her young brother at Sandhurst College, and assisted him not only while he served in the army, but subsequently till his death. Removing after some years to London to practice miniature painting as a profession, and almost unknown, she published in 1825 'Songs of a Stranger,' dedicated to Lisle Bowles. They are graceful verses, and so tunable that some of them set to music became popular. Her pale pretty face and engaging conversation soon gained friends, none firmer or more helpful than Sir Francis and Lady Burdett and their daughter. 'The Maid of the Cyprus Isle and other Poems' attracted the attention of Thomas Moore, to whom, in 1835, she dedicated 'Specimens of the Early Poetry of France.' This work, by which she first became generally known, procured for her the friendship of Sir Walter Scott, and caused her to devote herself entirely to literature. With her brother, to whom she was devotedly attached, she was one of the first to call attention to the occupation of copying illuminated manuscripts, and she worked at this business herself both in Paris and in London. She was one of the most voluminous and popular writers of her day. Her best books, describing those parts of France least known in England, combine graphic description with anecdotal archæology which varies the narrative of travel and adventure. Louis-Philippe marked his approval of these works by presenting Miss Costello with a very valuable jewelled ornament. She at length acquired by her industry a small competence, which was supplemented by a liberal pension from the Burdett family, and on 9 Aug. 1852 she was awarded a civil list annuity of 75l. Her mother died at Munich in 1846, and her brother died in 1865, when, although she was blessed with troops of friends in England, she retired to live alone at Boulogne. Here she died from the effects of a virulent cancer in the mouth on 24 April 1870, and was buried in the cemetery of St. Martin, Boulogne, on 27 April. She was the author of the following works: 1. 'The Maid of the Cyprus Isle and other Poems,' 1815. 2. 'Redwald, a Tale of Mona, and other Poems,' 1819. 3. 'Songs of a Stranger,' 1825. 4. 'Specimens of the Early Poetry of France, from the Time of the Troubadours and Trouvères to the Reign of Henri Quatre,' 1835. 5. 'A Summer among the Bocages and the Vines,' 1840. 6. 'A Pilgrimage to Auvergne from Picardy to Le Velay,' 1841. 7. 'The Queen's Poisoner, or France in the 16th Century,' 1841; republished as 'Catherine de Medicis, or the Queen Mother,' 1859. 8. 'Gabrielle, or Pictures of a Reign,' 1843. 9. 'Memoirs of Eminent Englishwomen,' 1844. 10. 'Béarn and the Pyrenees, a Legendary Tour,' 1844. 11. 'The Falls, Lakes, and Mountains of North Wales,' 1845. 12. 'The Rose Garden of Persia,' 1845. 13. 'A Tour to and from Venice, by the Vaudois and the Tyrol,' 1846. 14. 'Jacques Cœur, the French Argonaut, and his Times,' 1847. 15. 'Clara Fane, or the Contrasts of a Life,' 1848. 16. 'Memoirs of Mary, the young Duchess of Burgundy,' 1853. 17. 'Memoirs of Anne, Duchess of Brittany,' 1855. 18. 'The Lay of the Stork, a poem,' 1856.

The Feminist Companion to Literature in English : Women Writers form the Middle Ages to the Present. Eds. Virginia Blain, Patricia Clements, and Isobel Grundy. New Haven: Yale UP, 1990; p. 240.

Costello, Louisa Stuart, 1799-1870, miniature painter, poet and novelist, b. in Ireland, only da. Of Colonel James Francis C. After the death of her father in 1814 she supported her mother and brother in Paris by painting miniatures and by governessing, and in 1815 pub. her first poems, Maid of the Cyprus Isle. She was also one of the earliest copyist of illuminated manuscripts (some of her work is in the British Museum). Her first volume to attract attention was Songs of a Stranger, 1825, and she was well known as a song writer. She wrote picturesque descriptions of France, and histories of French and English celebrities, which were as popular as her poems and novels. Other works include The Queen's Poisoner, 1841, and Clara Fane, 1848, a novel dedicated to 'my close friend Miss Janet Wilkinson in memory of a visit to LLANGOLLEN': its heroine a governess and school teacher who eventually finds her long-lost father. Her Memoirs of Eminent Englishwomen, 1844, is illustrated with her own engravings from portraits in the Duke of Devonshire's collection. She became friendly with the Burdett family who awarded her a liberal pension. In 1852 she was given a Civil List pension of £75 p.a. LSC retired to Boulogne where she died of cancer.