The Poems of Felicia Hemans
One tear, one sorrow cease!
Then, oh! may Heaven, that loves to bless,
Bestow the power to cheer distress;
Make _thee_ its minister below,
To light the cloudy path of woe;
To visit the deserted cell,
Where indigence is doom’d to dwell;
To raise, when drooping to the earth,
The blossoms of neglected worth;
And round, with liberal hand, dispense
The sunshine of beneficence!
But ah! if Fate should still deny
Delights like these, too rich and high;
If grief and pain thy steps assail,
In life’s remote and wintry vale;
Then, as the wild Æolian lyre
Complains with soft entrancing number,
When the lone storm awakes the wire,
And bids enchantment cease to slumber;
So filial love, with soothing voice,
E’en then shall teach thee to rejoice;
E’en _then_ shall sweeter, milder sound,
When sorrow’s tempest raves around;
While dark misfortune’s gales destroy,
The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy!
TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER,
ON HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN, AFTER THE FATAL RETREAT UNDER SIR JOHN MOORE,
AND THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA.
Though dark are the prospects and heavy the hours,
Though life is a desert, and cheerless the way;
Yet still shall affection adorn it with flowers,
Whose fragrance shall never decay!
And lo! to embrace thee, my Brother! she flies,
With artless delight, that no words can bespeak;
With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes,
With a smile and a glow on her cheek!
From the trophies of war, from the spear and the shield,
From scenes of destruction, from perils unblest;
Oh! welcome again, to the grove and the field,
To the vale of retirement and rest.
Then warble, sweet muse! with the lyre and the voice,
Oh! gay be the measure and sportive the strain;
For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice
To meet thee, my Brother! again.
When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true,
Were bleeding, were falling, with victory crown’d,
How often would fancy present to my view
The horrors that waited thee round!
How constant, how fervent, how pure was my prayer,
That Heaven would protect thee from danger and harm;
That angels of mercy would shield thee with care,
In the heat of the combat’s alarm!
How sad and how often descended the tear,
(Ah, long shall remembrance the image retain!)
How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with fear
I might never behold thee again!
But the prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o’er,
And the tear-drop is fled, like the dew on the rose;
Thy dangers, our tears, have endear’d thee the more,
And my bosom with tenderness glows.
And oh! when the dreams, the enchantments of youth,
Bright and transient, have fled like the rainbow away;
My affection for thee, still unfading in truth,
Shall never, oh! never decay!
No time can impair it, no change can destroy,
Whate’er be the lot I am destined to share;
It will smile in the sunshine of hope and of joy,
And beam through the cloud of despair!
TO MY ELDEST BROTHER.
(WITH THE BRITISH ARMY IN PORTUGAL.)
How many a day, in various hues array’d,
Bright with gay sunshine, or eclipsed with shade,
How many an hour, on silent wing is past,
O my loved Brother! since we saw thee last!
Since _then_ has childhood ripen’d into youth,
And fancy’s dreams have fled from sober truth;
Her splendid fabrics melting into air,
As sage experience waved the wand of care!
Yet _still_ thine absence wakes the tender sigh,
And the tear trembles in affection’s eye!
When shall we meet again?--with glowing ray
Heart-soothing hope illumes some future day;
Checks the sad thought, beguiles the starting tear,
And sings benignly still--_that_ day is near!
She, with bright eye, and soul-bewitching voice,
Wins us to smile, inspires us to rejoice;
Tells that the hour approaches, to restore
Our cherish’d wanderer to his home once more;
Where sacred ties his manly worth endear,
To faith still true, affection still sincere!
Then the past woes, the future’s dubious lot,
In that blest meeting shall be all forgot!
And joy’s full radiance gild that sun-bright hour,
Though all around th’ impending storm should lower.
Now distant far, amidst the intrepid host,
Albion’s firm sons, on Lusitania’s coast,
(That gallant band, in countless dangers tried,
Where glory’s pole-star beams their constant guide,)
Say, do thy thoughts, my Brother, fondly stray
To Cambria’s vales and mountains far away?
Does fancy oft in busy day-dreams roam,
And paint the greeting that awaits at home?
Does memory’s pencil oft, in mellowing hue,
Dear social scenes, departed joys renew;
In softer tints delighting to retrace
Each tender image and each well-known face?
Yes, wanderer! yes! thy spirit flies to those
Whose love, unalter’d, warm and faithful glows.
Oh! could that love, through life’s eventful hours,
Illume thy scenes and strew thy path with flowers!
Perennial joy should harmonise thy breast,
No struggle rend thee, and no cares molest!
But though our tenderness can but bestow
The wish, the hope, the prayer, averting woe,
Still shall it live, with pure, unclouded flame,
In storms, in sunshine, far and near--the same!
Still dwell enthroned within th’ unvarying heart,
And, firm and _vital_, but with life depart!
Bronwylfa, Feb. 8, 1811.
LINES
WRITTEN IN THE MEMOIRS OF ELIZABETH SMITH.
O thou! whose pure, exalted mind,
Lives in this record, fair and bright;
O thou! whose blameless life combined
Soft female charms, and grace refined,
With science and with light!
Celestial maid! whose spirit soar’d
Beyond this vale of tears--
Whose clear, enlighten’d eye explored
The lore of years!
Daughter of Heaven! if here, e’en _here_,
The wing of towering thought was thine;
If, on this dim and mundane sphere,
Fair truth illumed thy bright career,
With morning-star divine;
How must thy bless’d ethereal soul
_Now_ kindle in her noontide ray,
And hail, unfetter’d by control,
The Fount of Day!
E’en _now_, perhaps, thy seraph eyes,
Undimm’d by doubt, nor veil’d by fear,
Behold a chain of wonders rise--
Gaze on the noon-beam of the skies,
Transcendant, pure, and clear!
E’en _now_, the fair, the good, the true,
From mortal sight conceal’d,
Bless in one blaze thy raptured view,
In light reveal’d!
If _here_ the lore of distant time,
And learning’s flowers, were all thine own;
How must thy mind ascend sublime,
Matured in heaven’s empyreal clime,
To light’s unclouded throne!
Perhaps e’en _now_ thy kindling glance
Each orb of living fire explores,
Darts o’er creation’s wide expanse,
Admires--adores!
Oh! if that lightning-eye surveys
This dark and sublunary plain;
How must the wreath of human praise
Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze,
So dim, so pale, so vain!
How, like a faint and shadowy dream,
Must quiver learning’s brightest ray;
While on thine eyes, with lucid stream,
The sun of glory pours his beam,
Perfection’s day!
[The reader may contrast these early lines of Mrs Hemans with the
maturer ones on the same subject by Professor Wilson.--_Poems_, vol.
ii. p. 140-9.]
THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS.
Sweets of the wild! that breathe and bloom
On this lone tower, this ivied wall,
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall.
Though doom’d, remote from careless eye,
To smile, to flourish, and to die
In solitude sublime,
Oh! ever may the spring renew,
Your balmy scent and glowing hue,
To deck the robe of time!
Breathe, fragrance! breathe! enrich the air,
Though wasted on its wing unknown!
Blow, flowerets! blow! though vainly fair,
Neglected and alone!
These flowers that long withstood the blast,
These mossy towers, are mouldering fast,
While Flora’s children stay--
To mantle o’er the lonely pile,
To gild Destruction with a smile,
And beautify Decay!
Sweets of the wild! uncultured blowing,
Neglected in luxuriance glowing;
From the dark ruins frowning near,
Your charms in brighter tints appear,
And richer blush assume;
You smile with softer beauty crown’d,
Whilst all is desolate around,
Like sunshine on a tomb!
Thou hoary pile, majestic still,
Memento of departed fame!
While roving o’er the moss-clad hill,
I ponder on thine ancient name!
Here Grandeur, Beauty, Valour sleep,
That here, so oft, have shone supreme;
While Glory, Honour, Fancy, weep
That vanish’d is the golden dream!
Where are the banners, waving proud,
To kiss the summer-gale of even--
All purple as the morning-cloud,
All streaming to the winds of heaven?
Where is the harp, by rapture strung
To melting song or martial story?
Where are the lays the minstrel sung
To loveliness or glory?
Lorn Echo of these mouldering walls,
To thee no festal measure calls;
No music through the desert halls,
Awakes thee to rejoice!
How still thy sleep! as death profound--
As if, within this lonely round,
A step--a note--_a whisper’d sound_
Had ne’er aroused thy voice!
Thou hear’st the zephyr murmuring, dying,
Thou hear’st the foliage waving, sighing;
But ne’er again shall harp or song,
These dark deserted courts along,
Disturb thy calm repose.
The harp is broke, the song is fled,
The voice is hush’d, the bard is dead;
And never shall thy tones repeat
Or lofty strain or carol sweet
With plaintive close!
Proud Castle! though the days are flown
When once thy towers in glory shone;
When music through thy turrets rung,
When banners o’er thy ramparts hung,
Though ’midst thine arches, frowning lone,
Stern Desolation rear his throne;
And Silence, deep and awful, reign
Where echo’d once the choral strain;
Yet oft, dark ruin! lingering here,
The Muse will hail thee with a tear;
Here when the moonlight, quivering, beams,
And through the fringing ivy streams,
And softens every shade sublime,
And mellows every tint of Time--
Oh! here shall Contemplation love,
Unseen and undisturb’d, to rove;
And bending o’er some mossy tomb,
Where Valour sleeps or Beauties bloom,
Shall weep for Glory’s transient day
And Grandeur’s evanescent ray;
And listening to the swelling blast,
Shall wake the Spirit of the Past--
Call up the forms of ages fled,
Of warriors and of minstrels dead,
Who sought the field, who struck the lyre,
With all Ambition’s kindling fire!
Nor wilt thou, Spring! refuse to breathe
Soft odours on this desert air;
Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath,
And fringe these towers with garlands fair!
Sweets of the wild, oh! ever bloom
Unheeded on this ivied wall!
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall!
Thus round Misfortune’s holy head,
Would Pity wreaths of honour spread;