The Poetical Works of Mrs. Felicia Hemans

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard and the sea! And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!

The ocean-eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam,
And the rocking pines of the forest roared-
This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair,
Amidst that pilgrim-band-
Why had they come to wither there
Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?
-They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod!

They have left unstained what there they foundFreedom to worship God! ·

Lay like a twilight-star 'midst palmy shades,
Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There too she lingered, from the diamond wave
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips,
And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reached,
The Earth's One Sanctuary-and rapture hushed
Her bosom, as before her, through the day,
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped
In light, like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear
Turned from the white-robed priest, and round
her arm

Clung as the ivy clings-the deep spring-tide
Of Nature then swelled high, and o'er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song." Alas," she cried,
"Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes,
And now fond thoughts arise,
And silver cords again to earth have won me;
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-
How shall I hence depart?

"How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing

So late, along the mountains, at my side?

And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,
Beholding thee so fair!

[These glorious verses will find an echo in the breast of every true descendant of the Pilgrims; and give the name of their authoress a place in many hearts. She has laid our community under a common obligation of gratitude. Every one must feel the sublimity and poetical truth, with which she has conceived the scene presented, and the inspiration of that. And oh! the home whence thy bright smile deep and holy strain of sentiment, which sounds forth like the pealing of an organ.]

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

THE rose was rich in bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother with her first-born thence
Went up to Zion, for the boy was vowed
Unto the Temple-service;-by the hand
She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God. So passed they on,
O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon;
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-boughs,
With their cool dimness, crossed the sultry blue
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and
watch

The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart.-And where a fount

hath parted,

Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turned from its door away?

While through its chambers wandering, wearyhearted,

I languish for thy voice, which past me still
Went like a singing rill?

"Under the palm trees thou no more shalt meet

me,

When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn;

Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet

me,

As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake,
And watch for thy dear sake.

"And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee,

Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?
Wilt thou not vainly spread
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound
thee,

To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,
A cry which none shall hear?

"What have I said, my child ?—Will He not hear|
thee,

Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?
Shall He not guard thy rest,

And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,

THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP.

ON A MONUMENT BY CHANTREY FOR AN INFANT
DAUGHTER OF SIR THOMAS ACKLAND.

Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy? THOU sleepest-but when wilt thou wake, fair

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

"I give thee to thy God-the God that gave thee,
A wellspring of deep gladness to my heart!
And precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child.

child?

When the first rich breath of the rose is born?

Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies Too deep and still on thy soft-sealed eyes; Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to seeWhen will the hour of thy rising be?

"Therefore, farewell!-I go, my soul may fail me, Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark As the hart panteth for the water-brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks

But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail

me;

Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,
The Rock of Strength.-Farewell!"

THE CHILD AND DOVE.

SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY'S STATUE OF LADY

LOUISA RUSSELL.

THOU art a thing on our dreams to rise,
'Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies,
And to fling bright dew from the morning back,
Fair form! on each image of childhood's track.

Thou art a thing to recall the hours.

When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers

On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark-
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet ;
Grief with pain passionate tears hath wet
Love with sad kisses unfelt hath prest
Thy meck dropt eyelids and quiet breast;
And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee,
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child, but thee.

Thou'rt gone from us, bright one--that thou shouldst
die,

And life be left to the butterfly!*

Thou 'rt gone, as a dew-drop is swept from the bough,

-Oh! for the world where thy home is now!

How may we love but in doubt and fear,
How may we anchor our fond hearts here,
How should e'en Joy but a trembler be,
Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?

THE LADY OF THE CASTLE.

When a world was our own in some dim sweet FROM "THE PORTRAIT GALLERY," AN UNFINISHED

grove,

And treasure untold in one captive dove,

Are they gone? can we think it, while thou art
there,

Thou joyous child with the clustering hair?
Is it not Spring that indeed breathes free

POEM.

THOU seest her pictured with her shining hair,
Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair
(Famed were its tresses in Provençal song,)
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along
Her gorgeous vest.-A child's light hand is roving
'Midst the rich curls, and oh! how meekly loving

And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on Its earnest looks are lifted to the face,
thee?

That mother left that child-went hurrying by
Its cradle-haply, not without a sigh-
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene

She hung-but no! it could not thus have been,
For she went on!-forsook her home, her hearth,
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth,
To live a gaudy and dishonoured thing,
Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king.

Her lord, in very weariness of life,
Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife;
He recked no more of glory-grief and shame
Crushed out his fiery nature, and his name
Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls
Crept year by year; the minstrel passed their walls,
The warder's horn hung mute;-meantime the child
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled,
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew
Into sad youth; for well, too well she knew
Her mother's tale!-Its memory made the sky
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye;
Checked on her lip the flow of song, which fain
Would there have lingered; flushed her cheek to pain
If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone
Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,
E'en to the Spring's glad voice.-Her own was low,
And plaintive-oh! there lie such depths of wo
In a young blighted spirit.-Manhood rears
A haughty brow, and Age has done with tears,
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days;
And thus it was with her.-A mournful sight
In one so fair; for she indeed was fair-
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light,

From the heart's urn-and with her white lips prest
The ground they trod-then, burying in her vest
Her brow's deep flush, sobbed out, "Oh! undefiled!
I am thy mother!-spurn me not, my child!"
Isaure had prayed for that lost mother-wept
O'er her stained memory, when the happy slept,
In the hushed midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days;
But never breathed in human ear the name
Which weighed her being to the earth with shame
What marvel if the anguish of surprise,
The dark remembrances, the altered guise,
Awhile o'erpowered her?--from the weeper's touch
For that all humbled one-its mortal stroke
She shrank-'t was but a moment--yet too much
At once in silence.--Heavily and prone
Came down like lightning's, and her full heart broke
She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold-stone,
Those long fair tresses--they still brightly wore
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no

Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty rolled,
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold.

Her child bent o'er her-called her-'t was too late!
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate.-
The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard--
How didst thou fall, oh! bright-haired Ermengarde!

TO THE IVY.

OCCASIONED BY RECEIVING A LEAF GATHERED IN
THE CASTLE OF RHEINFELS.

Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer, OH! how could Fancy crown with thee,

And with long lashes o'er a white-rose check
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still, and meek,
Still that fond child's-and oh! the brow above,
So pale and pure! so formed for holy love
To gaze upon in silence !-but she felt
That love was not for her, though hearts would melt
Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given
Went with her; and low prayers, that called on
Heaven

To bless the young Isaure.

One sunny morn,
With alms before her castle gate she stood,
'Midst peasant-groups; when breathless and o'er-
worn,

And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood,
A stranger through them broke-the orphan maid
With her sweet voice, and proffered hand of aid,
Turned to give welcome; but a wild sad look
Met hers; a gaze that all her spirit shook;
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued
By some strong passion in its gushing mood,
Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears
As rain the hoarded agonies of years

In ancient days, the god of wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be,
Companion of the vine?

Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er;
Where song's full notes once pealed around,
But now are heard no more.
The Roman, on his battle plains,

Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee, with exulting strains,
Around the victor's tent;
Yet there, though fresh in glossy green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,——
Better thou lovest the silent scene,

Around the victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,

The bards and heroes of the past,
Where, through the halls of glory gone,
Murmurs the wintry blast;
Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair-

Thou in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime,

Beneath a blue, Italian sky,

Hath nought of beauty left by time,

Save thy wild tapestry.

And reared 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine
To wave where banners waved of yore,
O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine,
Along his rocky shore.

High from the fields of air, look down
Those eyries of a vanished race,
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath passed and left no trace.
But thou art there-thy foliage bright,
Unchanged, the mountain-storm can brave—
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,

And deck the humblest grave.

The breathing forms of Parian stone,

That rise round Grandeur's marble halls; The vivid hues by painting thrown Rich o'er the glowing walls; Th' acanthus on Corinthian fanes,

In sculpured beauty waving fair.— These perish all—and what remains?— Thou, thou alone art there.

"T is still the same-where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see, The marvels of all ages fled,

Left to Decay and thee.

And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, grace, and strength-
Days pass, thou "Ivy never sere,"
And all is thine at length.

ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.

AND was thy home, pale withered thing, Beneath the rich blue southern sky? Wert thou a nurseling of the Spring, The winds and suns of glorious Italy?

Those suns in golden light, e'en now, Look o'er the Poet's lonely grave, Those winds are breathing soft, but thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt

wave.

The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow,

May cluster in their purple bloom, But on th' o'ershadowing ilex-bough, Thy breezy place is void, by Virgil's tomb.

• "Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."-Lycidas.

Thy place is void-oh! none on earth, This crowded earth, may so remain, Save that which souls of loftiest birth Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.

Another leaf ere now hath sprung,

On the green stem which once was thineWhen shall another strain be sung

Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine?

FOR A DESIGN OF A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL.

CREATURE of air and light,

Emblem of that which may not fade or die,
Wilt thou not speed thy flight,

To chase the south-wind through the glowing sky?
What lures thee thus to stay,

With Silence and Decay,

Fixed on the wreck of cold Mortality?

The thoughts once chambered there, Have gathered up their treasures, and are goneWill the dust tell us where

They that have burst the prison-house are flown?
Rise, nursling of the day,

If thou wouldst trace their way-
Earth hath no voice to make the secret known.

Who seeks the vanished bird

By the forsaken nest and broken shell ?—
Far thence he sings unheard,

Yet free and joyous in the woods to dwell.
Thou of the sunshine born,

Take the bright wings of morn!
Thy hope calls heaven-ward from yon ruined cell.

THE LOST PLEIAD.

"Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."

Byron.

AND is there glory from the heavens departed?
-Oh! void unmarked!-thy sisters of the sky
Still hold their place on high,
Though from its rank thine orb so long hath
started,

Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye.

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exiled thence-
No desert seems to part those urns of light,
'Midst the far depth of purple gloom intense.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning—
The shepherd greets them on his mountains

free;

And from the silvery sea

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turningUnchanged they rise, they have not mourned for thee.

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place
E'en as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray,

Swept by the wind away?

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,
And was there power to smite them with decay?

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?
Bowed be our hearts to think of what we are,
When from its height afar

A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven
Shines not the less for that one vanished star!

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven,

And the red blood stained his crest;
While she-the gentlest wind of heaven
Might scarcely fan her breast.

Yet a thousand arrows passed him by,
And again he crossed the seas;
But she had died, as roses die,

That perish with a breeze.

As roses die, when the blast is come,
For all things bright and fair-
There was death within the smiling home,
How had death found her there?

THE SLEEPER ON MARATHON.

I LAY upon the solemn plain

And by the funeral mound,
Where those who died not there in vain,
Their place of sleep had found.

'T was silent where the free blood gushed,
When Persia came arrayed-

So many a voice had there been hushed,
So many a footstep stayed.

I slumbered on the lonely spot,
So sanctified by Death-

I slumbered--but my rest was not
As theirs who lay beneath.

For on my dreams, that shadowy hour,

They rose-the chainless deadAll armed they sprang, in joy, in power, Up from their grassy bed.

1 saw their spears, on that red field, Flash as in time gone by

Chased to the seas, without his shield

I saw the Persian fly.

I woke the sudden trumpet's blast
Called to another fight-
From visions of our glorious past,
Who doth not wake in might?

THE TRUMPET.

THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land,
Light up the beacon pyre!

-A hundred hills have seen the brand
And waved the sign of fire.

A hundred banners to the breeze

Their gorgeous folds have castAnd hark!-was that the sound of seas? -A king to war went past.

The chief is arming in his hall,

The peasant by his hearth;

The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth.

The mother on her first-born son

Looks with a boding eye-
They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side;

E'en for the marriage altar crowned,

The lover quits his bride.

And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By earthly clarion spread !—
How will it be when kingdoms hear

The blast that wakes the dead?

TROUBADOUR SONG. THE warrior crossed the ocean's foam, For the stormy fields of war

The maid was left in a smiling home,

And a sunny land afar.

His voice was heard where javelin showers
Poured on the steel-clad line;
Her step was 'midst the summer-flowers,
Her seat beneath the vine.

THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.

AT THE TIME OF THE SUPPOSED MASSACRE BY
EDWARD I.

THE Hall of Harps is lone this night,
And cold the chieftain's hearth;
It hath no mead, it hath no light,
No voice of melody, no sound of mirth.

And I depart-my wound is deep,
My brethren long have died-
Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep,
Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride,

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The Poetical Works of Mrs. Felicia Hemans: Complete in One Volume