The daughter of Mr. Porden, an architect, and wife of the enterprising Captain Franklin, wrote The Veils, or The Triumph of Constancy; Cœur de Lion, or The Third Crusade; and The Arctic Expedition.
Her best work is Cœur de Lion, in sixteen books. It bears in many passages the stamp of genuine poetry; but the taste of the day being decidedly against the epic style, its readers have been far from numerous.
As slowly now descend the shades of night,
What glories burst on Leonora's sight!
Far to the left, the flame in flashes broke
Thro' the thick volumes of incumbent smoke
That shroud Vesuvio's head; before them far
The stronger flames of Stromboli appear,
Vulcano's sulphurous fumes, and Etna's brow
Where crimson vapours tinge the eternal snow,
And all the heavens with awful beauty glow.
On lofty Stromboli the sky was bright,
As when it sparkles with the northern light,
And ever as the mountain hurled on high
Its mass of molten lava to the sky,
O'er all the isle the vivid lustre spread,
And brighten'd ocean with a glow of red;
Like distant thunder, burst a hollow sound, Disturb'd the quivering air, and shook the shores around.
Berengaria having assumed the Garb of a Minstrel, discovers Richard in the Castle of Trivallis.
FREED from the castle* ere the dawn of day,
The minstrel queen pursued her anxious way;
Scarce on the right-hand path one glance bestow'd,
But took, impetuous, the forbidden road.
Scarce could she still the beatings of her breast,
Or pause herself, or give her palfrey rest,
*The castle of Count Maynard.
When the hot sun in cloudless skies was bright,
Or glimmering stars diffus'd a doubtful light.
She trod the burning crags, whose ruins spread
The dizzy ledge, and beetled o'er her head;
Plung'd in rude dells, unconscious of the beam,
Or to its cradle trac'd the brawling stream;
Nor sought the goat-herd's shed, her scrip
supplied
The scanty meal; she drank the limpid tide.
Till when at last those awful walls appear'd,
Which cowards fled, and e'en the valiant fear'd,
They seem'd like forms in waking visions wrought,
When hope obsequious paints the secret thought.
Fell'd was the nearer wood-beyond, it rose
To screen the fort, but not to hide its foes:
High on a hill, the triple towers were seen,
On three huge crags, with horrid depths between ;
A triple foss the vast enclosure bound,
And massy walls the triple vallum crown'd..
The stones were black with age, the struggling day
Scarce thro' the loopholes sent a scanty ray.
From those dark halls no sounds of welcome
No hamlet shelters in its shade beneath;
One awful beam th' autumnal evening threw,
That ting'd the western front with sanguine hue;
While from behind, the moon arising bright,
Cloth'd the pale landscape in contrasted light.
She left her steed beneath the beechen shade, "And art thou there, my best belov'd!" she said, Upbraiding all that to thy help should fly,
Nor think'st what fond, what anxious heart is nigh."
Eve's last soft flushes fade, and all is still, While veil'd in gloom, she climbs the arduous hill. Rude was the path, nor oft by pilgrim worn, O'ergrown with briars, long, wildering, and forlorn: Scarce might the horseman trace that dangerous
Thro' brakes, impervious to the summer day,
Now wrapt in night; while onward as she hies,
Scar'd at her step the birds of carnage rise.
At last, yet shrouded in the castle's shade,
Cautious she crost its spacious esplanade;
Mark'd each strong wall with towers begirt around,
The massy keep what lofty turrets crown'd;
The boy who never dreamt of war might know
Those awful ramparts would but mock the foe;
While not one light the abode of man confest,
Or gave the weary pilgrim hope of rest.
Those grated loopholes o'er the gateah there
Perchance her Richard wastes with secret care!
Whose gifts were kingdoms, now by famine dies -
His only prospect those relentless skies,
His only visitants the bats, that prowl
Round the grim tower, or nightly-hooting owl!
Mournful she stood; but soon the breeze that
Thro' her lone harp, bids other thoughts arise:
"Yet, yet," she said, some dear familiar strain
May reach his cell, and bolts and bars be vain;
While, should some jealous warder mark the lay,
'Tis but a minstrel sings to cheer his way.
Ah, me! that air to early love so dear,
Even in the tomb might rouse my Richard's ear;
Oh! could I pour his deep clear tones along,
And steal his accents as I steal his song.
Frown, frown, Clorinda-I would prize
Thy smile o'er all that arms might gain;
O'er wealth and fame; yet mock my sighs,
My faded cheek, my tears despise,
Nor I my fate arraign;
While every rival's grief I see,
And know that all are scorn'd like me."
She ceas'd, for from on high a fuller tone,
Tho' faint in distance, blended with her own;
That voice, those words, could come from one
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