A Poem Addressed to Horace Walpole by Elizabeth Craven

    When I wrote the list of Elizabeth Craven's works on this blog some time ago, I forgot to include one early poem that she wrote in response to the praise of Horace Walpole, to whom she had dedicated one of her first printed stories. The poem was printed in The Monthly Mirror 1801, which ran a "Biographical Sketch of the Margravine of Anspach" that focussed on her poetic output. 

Elizabeth Craven drawing c.1805.

    To appreciate Craven's poem it is necessary to read Walpole's first. It was written in 1775.

                HORACE WALPOLE TO LADY CRAVEN

                    Genius howe'er sublime, pathetic, free,
                    Trusts to the press for immortality.
                    To types would Craven her sweet lays prefer?
                    The press would owe immortal fame to her!
                    While she, too careless of so fair a face,
                    Would breathe eternal youth on every grace,
                    Ages unborn computing with surprise,
                    From her own wit the brightness of her eyes.

                      LADY CRAVEN'S REPLY TO LORD ORFORD

                    Thus spoke the bard, while Craven, whom he sung,
                    In sad confusion bow'd her blushing head.
                    Her downcast eyes bespoke the poet wrong
                    And fear'd a satire in each word he said.

                    Conscious that oft she felt the Muse's pow'r
                    But conscious too she felt it oft in vain.
                    Her heart to study ne'er had spar'd an hour,
                    That heart e're bleeding at another's pain.    

                   Untaught and unconfin'd by learned rules,
                   Say, would you bid her trust her simple lays
                   To the rude eye of sense or scorn of fools,

                   To envy, poison of her youthful days?

                   Already has the face you deem so fair
                   Unconscious sown in many a female breast
                   The bitter seed of envy's cank'ring care,
                   That bane of friendship, foe to woman's rest.

                   Then spare, in pity, to some future day
                   That praise which all my sex would fain receive,
                   And let my life obscurely glide away
                   Nor, for one woman, many others grieve.

                   So shall my careless hours, from envy free,
                   Be yet employ'd in silence with each Muse,
                   But yield to you that immortality
                   Which I with grateful caution must refuse.

    

The reference to "That praise which all my sex would fain receive," implies that the literary abilities of all of the female sex deserve to be more highly esteemed, while the concern that Walpole's fulsome flattery might arouse the envy of others, "Nor, for one woman, many others grieve," implies that Craven didn't want to annoy the Bluestockings, many of whom already regarded her as an unwelcome competitor.

The editor comments with approval on her diffidence and modesty, adding, "Those who witnessed with his Lordship [i.e. Walpole, who had by 1801 become Earl of Orford] her first appearance in the literary world frankly acknowledge that the carelessness that pervades her writings proceeded from a very evident cause, a cause which reflects no small degree of credit on the amiable tendency of her mind, the assiduous attention she daily bestowed on her children - they were her primary object, nor can we but in justice declare that few had more capability to cultivate or to enlighten the youthful understanding, and very few in any situation of life have evinced more decidedly the feelings of maternal affection."

        So a woman is to be applauded for preferring the care of her children to any too-absorbing literary pursuits. It is a compliment of a condescending sort, intended to soften the accusation of  "carelessness". Nevertheless, to my mind, it is better than an outright insult to female intelligence. It's not that she couldn't write well, she was just too busy.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE MARGRAVINE OF ANSPACH, The Monthly Mirror Reflecting Men and Manners ; with Strictures on Their Epitome, the Stage, March -April 1801.