The Corvey Poets Project at the University of Nebraska
British Poetry of the later Eighteenth and Earlier Nineteenth Centuries
Bibliographical and Contextual Apparatus
Contemporary Reviews
British Critic, 40 (Sept. 1812), 301.
Art. 14. Ballad Romances, and other Poems. By Miss Anna Maria
Porter. 12 mo. 7s. Longman and Co. 1812.
The authoress of this collection of Poems has at different times excited the
attention of the public as a writer of popular novels; at least it seems to
us. These poems are a little above mediocrity, but will not obtain Miss Porter
any very enduring reputation. The following is as good as any.
IMITATED
FROM GERMAN
"When the dark grave
this corse is hiding
From cheerful day's life-kindling
light,
My mournful shade, thro'
silence gliding
Will seek thee in the
dead of night,
And with a sighing voice
impart
The secrets of this burden'd
heart.
"Think not
my Ghost with wild accusing
Will come to torture,
of reprove;
O no! a brief resentment
losing,
That shade will
murmur only love,
And with its airy
voice impart
The secrets of my
burthen'd heart.
"Then all
the doubtful part revealing,
My love; my wrongs,
my slander'd truth,
No earthly shame
that spirit feeling,
Shame, the wrong
band of blushing youth!
My earth freed soul
will read in thine
If once it lov'd
or cheated mine."
Critical Review, s4, v1 (Feb. 1812) 164-65.
In an age so redundant with publication as the present, the periodical critic
must frequently open volumes in which while there is little which merits censure,
there is equally little which deserves commendation. Miss Porter's poetry fully
justifies this observation. She has read sufficient verse, and possibly written
enough to guard her from the errors attendant on inexperience in composition;
and while her poems remained in manuscript, had she never appeared in any other
shape as an authoress, they are good enough to gain her an allowance of superiority
of talent over a probably large proportion of her neighbors; but when unsatisfied
with success in this scale of comparison, she ventures to risk public opinion,
and challenges us to place her in the balance of merit with contemporary authors,
she must be satisfied to take her station where criticism may assign it, and
we confess that with all our gallantry we can only place her in the second class
of the lesser poets of the day. By the word lesser, however, we would be understood
to allude to those, the extent or subjects of whose works will not allow them
to be brought into comparison with the more voluminous or dignified race of
their brethren.
There are five of the ballads, neither of which can lay claim to any originality
of story, nor is the veil of antiquity, which so often imposes on the judgment,
thrown over them. Of the miscellaneous poetry, the epistle from Valrico to Inkle
is the best among the larger pieces. Among the smaller the Comparison,'
(from which we shall quote some lines) will recall to the mind of the scholar
the contrast between the seasons of life in an ancient philosopher, whose philosophy
for once condescends to cloth itself in all the graces of poetry without its
fictions. The following are by no means indifferent lines on this subject:
Health runs quick
thro' youth's full veins,
Age is weak and
fraught with pains;
Youth's fresh cheek
is smooth and red,
Age's pale and withered;
Youth's clear eyes
are strong and bright,
Age's dim as glimmering
light!
Youth is active,
warm, and bold,
Age is sluggish,
tim'rous, cold;
Youth of ardent
hope is full,
Age's hopes are
few and dull;
Youth with warm
emotion glows,
Age's buried is
in snows;
Youth life's rarest
joys would have,
Age doth only ask
a grave.'
The other side of the picture is then presented, but the contrasts are not so
closely or forcibly applied. We cannot but regret that the War Song' to
the Spaniards, has been translated into their language; for as it neither contains
any new incentive to courageous exertion, nor in any way presumes to new dispose
the dress, in which those arguments have often been decorated before, the only
effect we fear it can have, is to give the Spaniards, who may hear it, no very
high idea of our taste for the original in poetry. If the Shepard's Calendar'
originated from a few of the lines in Claudiam's old Man of Verona, of which
we have seen some good translations, which may have met the eye of Miss Porter,
the idea is wholly wasted away by expansion, a criticism which will hold equally
good if it is original. We close the volume rather with sentiments of weariness
than dislike.
Eclectic Review, 8 (Apr. 1812), 430-32
Art. XIV. Ballad Romances, and other Poems. By Miss Anna Maria
Porter, 12 mo. Pp 106. Longman and Co. 1811
Of all that numerous class of person who are prone to habits of composition,
the poets seem to find most difficulty in writing to themselves. To cherish
a passion for the muse in secret would be an enormity scarcely heard of; and
a love of rhymes, accordingly, never fails, sooner or later, to give birth to
a volume of poems. As the failure of rival competitors makes no impression on
the ever multiplying candidates for poetical reputation, to attempt anything
in the way of dissuasion would be quite superfluous. Each one is sufficiently
ready to acknowledge the silliness or stupidity of his neighbor's verses, but
is so armed in vanity as effectually to repel any suspicion of the propriety
of applying these epithets to his own. It is therefore pretty evident, that,
as long as the liberty of the press continues, there is not much chance of any
diminution in the frequency of these exhibitions of presumption and defect.
In the poems before us, we are happy to recognize an honorable exception from
these remarks, which none will accuse of undue severity, who have occasion to
inspect one-tenth part of the flimsy rhymes which annually issue from the press.
The compositions of Miss Porter, it is true, are not remarkable for elevation
of thought, or terseness of expression; but she usually writes with elegance,
and is sometimes peculiarly successful in portraying the gentler emotions of
the heart and the simpler scenes of domestic life. As an example, we may give
the following verses, entitled Remembrance of a little Favorite,'
Ah! Sweetest
child! Tho' ne'er again
I may to this sad
bosom press thee,
Yet still thro'
years of anxious pain,
My heart shall love,
my lips shall bless thee.
Still, still
with tears of fond regret,
Shall thought in
waking dreams recall thee,
And oft by many
fears beset,
Muse o'er the ills
that may befall thee.
For never
can I cease to dwell
On all thy looks
and acts endearing;
Thy prattling tongue,
remembered well;
Thy gaze, while
song or story hearing.
Those speaking
eyes, that kindled oft
With more than childish
sense or feeling;
Those pretty arms
caressing soft;
That kiss to dry
my tears when stealing.
That mimic
air of martial rage,
While sword or gun
they hand was grasping;
That studious look
o'er letter'd page;
That smile, while
watchful Pero clasping.'
That fairy
grace, with which they felt
Danced artless,
every eye delighting,
While pleasure,
genuine and sweet,
Shone from thy features,
love-exciting.
Those budding
charms of mind and heart;
That wondrous
taste, that temper even,
All, all thou
wast, nay, all thou art,
An angel turning
earth to heaven.
These from
my heart no time can take,
Nor changing scenes
make me forget thee;
I loved thee for
thy own sweet sake,
And for thine own
sake shall regret thee.'
pp.
163-165
Among the poems are several sonnets; and considering how very seldom attempts
in this department of verse have proved successful, those of Miss Porter are
entitled to a considerable degree of praise. In point of finish, the following
sonnet to Night, is not unobjectionable, but some of the individual lines are
bold and forcible.
Now gleam
the clouded host of stars! And now
The vestal Dian
with her lamp of light
Half-veiled in mists,
above the mountain's brow
Glides thro the
shadowy sky, and gilds the night
Here, while the
desert moor, the water still
In deepest gloom
are stretched, and dim and far,
The hamlet rests
in sleep, what fancies fill
This lonely heart,
and holier musings mar!
For haply now, amid
yon spacious scene,
Death's noiseless
scythe some blooming youth destroys;
Or Sorrow o'er wan
embers weeps past joys;
Or houseless Hunger
raves with anguish keen;
Or Murder o'er some
corpse, with bloody hands,
Heark'ning the last
dread cry, tremendous stands!'
Monthly Review, 67 (Mar. 1812), 325-26.
Art 35. Ballad-Romances, and other Poems. By Miss Anna Maria Porter,
12mo. 7s. Boards. Longman and Co. 1811.
Miss Porter's Ballads display less invention than her other poems; and in the
Knight of Malta,' which is the best of them, she hazards the following description
of a "green and yellow melancholy":
His cheek
was once like the orange red,
But now like the
olive pale.
And his heart that
erst with pity bled,
Now heaves through
pitiless mail.'
Yet this volume contains much that is elegant and pleasing; the ingenious allegory
of Youth' has many beautiful lines; the Address to a Regiment going
on Foreign Service' is both spirited and pathetic; while the Lines written
after reading the "Corinne" of Madame de Stael, and the "Psyche"
of the late Mrs. Henry Tighe,' are fraught with so much taste, feeling, and
generous enthusiasm, that we should be glad to extract them at length. We shall,
however, present readers with a part of the apostrophe to the authoress of Psyche:
Ah, sounds
divine! Whence flow ye? From yon copse,
Steal on the depth
of night melodious sighs
From Love's own
bosom heaved: the warbled lay,
First softly wooing,
then lamenting sad,
Now trembling with
delight, with hope, half bliss,
With dear persuasion
of partaken joy,
Soars and descends
by turns: al nature melts
To softer charm,
beneath its influence pure;
With tenderer light
looks down the pensive moon;
More balmy breathe
the flowers; and stiller stand
The listening trees;
the human breast overflows
With holy rapture;
virtue, love, and joy
All sweet emotions
find their happy way.
Nightingale of Rosanna!
Thou art gone!
Snatched mid
thy tuneful life, to sing above!
Earth's guilty echoes
dared not answer thee;
(Echoes so oft devote
to Passions' voice,
Tuneful indeed,
but lawless, and profane.)
Poetical Register, 8 (1811), 614.
Ballad Romances, and other Poems. By Miss Anna Maria Porter. Small
8 vo. Pp. 196.
Of these ballad romances, which are five in number, three are tales of terror, and two are of a softer kind. The whole are beautiful. In each the story is interesting, and the language poetical. Among the miscellaneous poems "Youth, an allegory" is the longest. It is written in the stanza of Spenser, and displays a glowing fancy and harmonious numbers. The epistle from Yarico to Inkle leaves far behind every other poem which we have seen on the same subject. It has great pathos and spirit. The remaining pieces in the volume are much above mediocrity.
Other reviews (unseen):
Edinburgh Monthly Magazine and Review (Scottish Review),
1 (Sept. 1812), 133-41.
European Magazine, 64 (Dec. 1813), 521.
Gentleman's Magazine, 832 (Dec. 1813), 576.
A Note on the contemporary reviews:
From all of these contemporary reviews, it is safe to say that the general
critical response to this volume was not one of dislike, but not one of great
popularity or enthusiasm either. Most of the reviews seem be uncertain about
the overall quality of the poetry.
Prepared by Jill Craig, University of Nebraska, December 2004.
© Jill Craig, 2004.