1825
ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION

Ballad.

La Belle Assemblee S3 1 (June 1825) 256-57.

Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson


Four lyric stanzas (ababcC) on the four seasons of the year by "Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson" (Margaret Harries) who would later edit a weekly La Belle Assemblee. While this topic had been present in Spenserian poetry since the Shepheardes Calender, it is so common in periodical verse that the use of the stanza in this connection might be arbitrary. Margaret Harries, as she was when she made her first appearance in La Belle Assemblee, was a regular contributor the literary annuals.

New Monthly Magazine: "This is surely the day of female poetical talent. With the elegant, the sentimental, and the tender, the ladies are naturally allied; and how can these be more attractively displayed than in the offerings of the Muse! The present little volume abounds in graceful, domestic, and pleasing poetry, and we quite agree with Mrs. Wilson that the amiable and placid scenes of domestic life are worthy subjects of poetry, and particularly well adapted for the female pen" Review of Wilson, Hours at Home; NS 18 (April 1826) 142.



'Tis pleasant in the young fresh morn of May,
When blossoms bud, and flow'rets bloom,
To walk around, and hail the 'wakening day,
Through hawthorn-scented fields, and breathe their soft perfume;
But sweeter far than this it is to rove
Through the heart's fairy world — the early dream of love!

'Tis pleasant in the summer's golden hours,
When clust'ring roses blush along our way,
To muse by cooling streams — in shady bowers,
Till Eve's pale beam subdues the god of day;
But sweeter far than this it is to rove
Through the heart's fairy world — the early dream of love!

'Tis sad to watch th' autumnal vine leaves fall,
Faded and dying at the close of day;—
(Those emblems of mortality recall
Visions of early hopes — long past away!)
But far more sad than this, it is to mourn
The blossoms of the heart — that never can return!

'Tis sad to mark, when winter's icy breath
Freezes the stream, and strips the blighted spray,
All nature sunk in the repose of death,
Till spring's warm blushes wake her into day;
But far more sad than this, it is to mourn
The winter of the heart — whose spring shall ne'er return.

[pp. 256-57]