Legends and Lyrics. Part 1

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Procter Adelaide Anne. Legends and Lyrics. Part 1

DEDICATION

AN INTRODUCTION BY CHARLES DICKENS

VERSE: THE ANGEL’S STORY

VERSE: ECHOES

VERSE: A FALSE GENIUS

VERSE: MY PICTURE

VERSE: JUDGE NOT

VERSE: FRIEND SORROW

VERSE: ONE BY ONE

VERSE: TRUE HONOURS

VERSE: A WOMAN’S QUESTION

VERSE: THE THREE RULERS

VERSE: A DEAD PAST

VERSE: A DOUBTING HEART

VERSE: A STUDENT

VERSE: A KNIGHT ERRANT

VERSE: LINGER, OH, GENTLE TIME

VERSE: HOMEWARD BOUND

VERSE: LIFE AND DEATH

VERSE: NOW

VERSE: CLEANSING FIRES

VERSE: THE VOICE OF THE WIND

VERSE: TREASURES

VERSE: SHINING STARS

VERSE: WAITING

VERSE: THE CRADLE SONG OF THE POOR

VERSE: BE STRONG

VERSE: GOD’S GIFTS

VERSE: A TOMB IN GHENT

VERSE: THE ANGEL OF DEATH

VERSE: A DREAM

VERSE: THE PRESENT

VERSE: CHANGES

VERSE: STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY

VERSE: A LAMENT FOR THE SUMMER

VERSE: THE UNKNOWN GRAVE

VERSE: GIVE ME THY HEART

VERSE: THE WAYSIDE INN

VERSE: VOICES OF THE PAST

VERSE: THE DARK SIDE

VERSE: A FIRST SORROW

VERSE: MURMURS

VERSE: GIVE

VERSE: MY JOURNAL

VERSE: A CHAIN

VERSE: THE PILGRIMS

VERSE: INCOMPLETENESS

VERSE: A LEGEND OF BREGENZ

VERSE: A FAREWELL

VERSE: SOWING AND REAPING

VERSE: THE STORM

VERSE: WORDS

VERSE: A LOVE TOKEN

VERSE: A TRYST WITH DEATH

VERSE: FIDELIS

VERSE: A SHADOW

VERSE: THE SAILOR BOY

VERSE: A CROWN OF SORROW

VERSE: THE LESSON OF THE WAR (1855)

VERSE: THE TWO SPIRITS (1855)

VERSE: A LITTLE LONGER

VERSE: GRIEF

VERSE: THE TRIUMPH OF TIME

VERSE: A PARTING

VERSE: THE GOLDEN GATE

VERSE: PHANTOMS

VERSE: THANKFULNESS

VERSE: HOME-SICKNESS

VERSE: WISHES

VERSE: THE PEACE OF GOD

VERSE: LIFE IN DEATH AND DEATH IN LIFE

VERSE: RECOLLECTIONS

VERSE: ILLUSION

VERSE: A VISION

VERSE: PICTURES IN THE FIRE

VERSE: THE SETTLERS

VERSE: HUSH

VERSE: HOURS

VERSE: THE TWO INTERPRETERS

VERSE: COMFORT

VERSE: HOME AT LAST

VERSE: UNEXPRESSED

VERSE: BECAUSE

VERSE: REST AT EVENING

VERSE: A RETROSPECT

VERSE: TRUE OR FALSE

VERSE: GOLDEN WORDS

Отрывок из книги

In the spring of the year 1853, I observed, as conductor of the weekly journal Household Words, a short poem among the proffered contributions, very different, as I thought, from the shoal of verses perpetually setting through the office of such a periodical, and possessing much more merit. Its authoress was quite unknown to me. She was one Miss Mary Berwick, whom I had never heard of; and she was to be addressed by letter, if addressed at all, at a circulating library in the western district of London. Through this channel, Miss Berwick was informed that her poem was accepted, and was invited to send another. She complied, and became a regular and frequent contributor. Many letters passed between the journal and Miss Berwick, but Miss Berwick herself was never seen.

How we came gradually to establish, at the office of Household Words, that we knew all about Miss Berwick, I have never discovered. But we settled somehow, to our complete satisfaction, that she was governess in a family; that she went to Italy in that capacity, and returned; and that she had long been in the same family. We really knew nothing whatever of her, except that she was remarkably business-like, punctual, self-reliant, and reliable: so I suppose we insensibly invented the rest. For myself, my mother was not a more real personage to me, than Miss Berwick the governess became.

.....

Those readers of Miss Procter’s poems who should suppose from their tone that her mind was of a gloomy or despondent cast, would be curiously mistaken. She was exceedingly humorous, and had a great delight in humour. Cheerfulness was habitual with her, she was very ready at a sally or a reply, and in her laugh (as I remember well) there was an unusual vivacity, enjoyment, and sense of drollery. She was perfectly unconstrained and unaffected: as modestly silent about her productions, as she was generous with their pecuniary results. She was a friend who inspired the strongest attachments; she was a finely sympathetic woman, with a great accordant heart and a sterling noble nature. No claim can be set up for her, thank God, to the possession of any of the conventional poetical qualities. She never by any means held the opinion that she was among the greatest of human beings; she never suspected the existence of a conspiracy on the part of mankind against her; she never recognised in her best friends, her worst enemies; she never cultivated the luxury of being misunderstood and unappreciated; she would far rather have died without seeing a line of her composition in print, than that I should have maundered about her, here, as “the Poet”, or “the Poetess”.

With the recollection of Miss Procter as a mere child and as a woman, fresh upon me, it is natural that I should linger on my way to the close of this brief record, avoiding its end. But, even as the close came upon her, so must it come here.

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