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Art. VII. Vancenza; or, The Dangers of Credulity. By Mrs M. Robinson, Authoress of the Poems of Laura Maria, Ainsi va le Monde, &c. pp. 286. 12mo. 2 Vols. 5s. sewed. Printed for the Authoress; and sold by Bell, London. 1792.
There have been so many elegant proofs of the poetical powers of Mrs ROBINSON, that the most churlish critic cannot refuse to bear testimony in favour of her genius. Indeed, considering the number and the variety of her productions, we are disposed to think that she has more successfully climbed Parnassian heights than any female votary of the muses which this country has produced. The novel before us is, we believe, her first attempt to obtain an equal reputation in prose; and though we certainly cannot place it upon a level with her poetical compositions, we cannot withhold from it a tribute of warm commendation; and such, we hope, will induce her to persevere in a species of literature for which she seems to be admirably qualified.
The story is simple, and judiciously expanded. There is an interesting contrast in the characters. The family of Vancenza are represented as highly amiable, and are drawn with those touches of sensibility that excite in the reader a high respect for the mind which could conceive, and so well exhibit, such a charming series of moral portraits. In striking opposition to this amiable assemblage, are the sordid, despicable, and unprincipled troop of fashionable wretches whom they encounter at Madrid.
As this work is entirely the offspring of fancy, we cannot forgive the fair author for not having more regard to poetical justice. We confess that it does not appear to us necessary that, in a mere work of imagination, the good should be the victims of misfortune, and that any of the flagitious characters she has introduced should be dismissed without due punishment. In this respect we think the lady counteracts her own purpose, and while she 'sends her readers weeping to their beds,' has not more effectually directed the moral object in view. Mrs Robinson, however, had certainly a right to dispose as she pleased of the beings she had created; and we thank her for the pleasure she has excited, and the feelings she has exercised, by her elegant and affecting little tale.
Of the language, to speak with the candour of criticism, we must say, that though it is elevated and poetical in many parts, it is in general too florid, and too ornamental for prose, though indeed we consider that exceptionable quality as the effect of [112] warm affections, and an exuberant fancy, that has been chiefly conversant with poetical images.
There is a very pretty episode entitled The Pilgrim's Story, and two effusions of poesy, that are highly creditable to the taste and tenderness of the plaintive muse. We cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of submitting the latter to the sensible and sympathising reader.
The chilling gale that nipt the rose,
Now murmuring sinks to soft repose;
The shad'wy vapours sail away,
Upon the silv'ry floods of day:
Health breathes on every face I see,
But, ah! she breathes no more on ME!
The woodbine wafts its odours meek,
To kiss the rose's glowing cheek:
Pale twilight sheds her vagrant show'rs,
To wake Aurora's infant flow'rs:
May smiles on every face I see,
But, ah! she smiles no more on ME!
Perchance, when youth's delicious bloom
Shall fade unheeded in the tomb,
Fate may direct a daughter's eye
To where my mould'ring reliques lie;
And, touch'd by sacred sympathy,
That eye may drop a tear for ME!
Betray'd by love; of hope bereft;
No gentle gleam of comfort left;
Bow'd by the hand of sorrow low;
No pitying friend to weep my wo [sic]:
Save her, who, spar'd by Heav'n's decree,
Shall live to sigh, and think on ME!
Oh! I would wander where no ray
Breaks through the gloom of doubtful day;
There would I court the wint'ry hour,
The ling'ring dawn, the midnight show'r;
For cold and comfortless shall be
Each future scene - ordain'd for ME!
__________
Within this drear and silent gloom,
The lost Louisa pines, unknown;
Fate shrouds her in a living tomb,
And Heaven relentless hears her groan:
Yet, 'midst the murky shades of woe,
The tear of fond regret shall flow.
[113] Yon lofty wall, that mocks my grief,
Still echoes with my ev'ning pray'r;
The gale that fans the trembling leaf
'Shall waft it to the realms of air,
Till prostrate at the throne of Heav'n,
Unpity'd Love shall be forgiv'n!
Or, if to endless sorrow born -
If doom'd to fade a victim here;
Still pining, friendless, and forlorn,
Ah! let Religion drop one tear;
Like holy incense shall it prove,
To heal the wounds of hopeless Love.
Ye black'ning clouds that sail along,
Oh! hide me in your shade profound;
Ye whisp'ring breezes catch my song,
And bear it to the woods around.
Perchance some hapless Petrarch's feet
May wander near this dread retreat.
Ah! tell him Love's delicious strain
No rapture yields, no joy inspires,
Where cold Religion's icy chain
Has long subdu'd its quiv'ring fires;
No ray of comfort gilds the gloom,
That marks the hopeless vestal's tomb!
The ruby gem within my breast,
Now faintly glows with vital heat;
Each warring passion sinks to rest:
My freezing pulses slowly beat.
Soon shall these languid eyelids close,
And Death's stern mandate seal my woes.
Then, when the virgin's matin song
Shall 'midst the vaulted roof resound,
Haply the tuneful seraph throng
Shall whisper gentle pity round;
While VIRTUE, sighing o'er my bier,
Shall drop unseen - A SAINTED TEAR!
[complete]
Provided by Julie A. Shaffer, January 2000
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