But it is more to our present purpose to say, that we think the fair writer before us is eminently a mistress of this poetical secret; and, in truth, it was solely for the purpose of illustrating this great charm and excellence in her imagery, that we have ventured upon this little dissertation. Almost all her poems are rich with fine descriptions, and studded over with images of visible beauty. But these are never idle ornaments; all her pomps have a meaning; and her flowers and her gems are arranged, as they are said to be among Eastern lovers, so as to speak the language of truth and of passion. This is peculiarly remarkable in some little pieces, which seem at first sight to be purely descriptive--but are soon found to tell upon the heart, with a deep moral and pathetic impression. But it is, in truth, nearly as conspicuous in the greater part of her productions; where we scarcely meet with any striking sentiment that is not ushered in by some such symphony of external nature--and scarcely a lovely picture that does not serve as an appropriate foreground to some deep or lofty emotion. We may illustrate this proposition, we think, by the following exquisite lines, on a palm-tree in an English garden.
It waved not through an Eastern sky, Beside a fount of Araby It was not fanned by southern breeze In some green isle of Indian seas, Nor did its graceful shadows sleep O'er stream of Africa, lone and deep.
But far the exiled Palm-tree grew Midst foliage of no kindred hue; Through the laburnum's dropping gold Rose the light shaft of orient mould, And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, Purpled the moss-beds at his feet.
There came an eve of festal hours-- Rich music filled that garden's bowers: Lamps, that from flowering branches hung, On sparks of dew soft colours flung, And bright forms glanced--a fairy show-- Under the blossoms, to and fro.
But one, a lone one, midst the throng, Seemed reckless all of dance or song: He was a youth of dusky mien, Whereon the Indian sun had been-- Of crested brow, and long black hair-- A stranger, like the Palm-tree, there!
And slowly, sadly moved his plumes, Glittering athwart the leafy glooms: He passed the pale green olives by, Nor won the chestnut-flowers his eye; But, when to that sole Palm he came, Then shot a rapture through his frame!