They are the convictions of "higher moral responsibility and greater power," which strike us so forcibly in the later writings of L. E. L.
But what shall we say to the preparation of prussic acid, and to its preservation by Lady Marchmont? What of the perpetual creed of L. E. L., that all affection brings wo and death? What of the Improvisatrice in her earliest work, already quoted:—
"I ever had, from earliest youth,
A feeling what my fate would be."
And then the fate itself?
Whether this melancholy belief in the tendency of the great subject of her writings, both in prose and poetry; this irresistible annunciation, like another Cassandra, of wo and desolation; this evolution of scenes and characters in her last work, bearing such dark resemblance to those of her own after-experience; this tendency in all her plots to a tragic catastrophe, and this final tragedy itself, whether these be all mere coincidences or not, they are still but the parts of an unsolved mystery. If they be, they are more than strange, and ought to make us superstitious. But surely, if ever
Coming events cast their shadows before,
they did so in the foreboding tone of this gifted spirit. However these things be, we come from a fresh perusal of her works, since her lamented death, with a higher opinion of her intellectual and moral constitution, and with a livelier sense of the peculiar character of her genius.
W. H.
L’ENVOI.
Farewell, farewell! Thy latest word is spoken:
The lute thou lovedst hath given its latest tone;
Yet not without a lingering, parting token
Hast thou gone from us, young and gifted one!
And what in love thou gavest, here we treasure,
Sweet words of song penned in those far-off wilds,
And pure and righteous thoughts, in lofty measure,
Strong as a patriot's, gentle as a child's.
Here shrine we them, like holy relics keeping,
That they who loved thee may approach and read;
May know thy latest thoughts; may joy in weeping
That thou wast worthy to be loved indeed!
Farewell, farewell! And as thy heart could cherish
For love, a flower, the sere leaf of a tree,—
So from these pages shall not lightly perish
Thy latest lays—memento flowers of thee!
M. H.
