Here was one, fond as a child of joy, eager as a native of the tropics
for swift transition from luxurious rest to passionate excitement,
prodigal to pour her mingled force of will, thought, sentiment, into
the life of the moment, all radiant with imagination, longing for
communion with artists of every age in their inspired hours, fitted by
genius and culture to mingle as an equal in the most refined circles
of Europe, and yet her youth and early womanhood had passed away
amid the very decent, yet drudging, descendants of the prim Puritans.
Trained among those who could have discerned her peculiar power, and
early fed with the fruits of beauty for which her spirit pined, she
would have developed into one of the finest lyrists, romancers and
critics, that the modern literary world has seen. This she knew; and
this tantalization of her fate she keenly felt.
But the tragedy of Margaret's history was deeper yet. Behind the poet
was the woman,--the fond and relying, the heroic and disinterested
woman. The very glow of her poetic enthusiasm was but an outflush of
trustful affection; the very restlessness of her intellect was
the confession that her heart had found no home.
Pages:
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58