The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Still green it waves! as when the hearth
Was sacred through the land;
And fearless was the banquet’s mirth,
And free the minstrel’s hand;
And guests, with shining myrtle crown’d,
Sent the wreath’d lyre and wine-cup round.
Still green! as when on holy ground
The tyrant’s blood was pour’d:
Forget ye not what garlands bound
The young deliverer’s sword!
Though earth may shroud Harmodius now,
We still have sword and myrtle bough!
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRÜTLI.
Whence art thou, flower? From holy ground,
Where freedom’s foot hath been!
Yet bugle-blast or trumpet-sound
Ne’er shook that solemn scene.
Flower of a noble field! thy birth
Was not where spears have cross’d,
And shiver’d helms have strewn the earth,
Midst banners won and lost.
But where the sunny hues and showers
Unto thy cup were given,
There met high hearts at midnight hours,
Pure hands were raised to heaven;
And vows were pledged that man should roam
Through every Alpine dell
Free as the wind, the torrent’s foam,
The shaft of William Tell.
And prayer, the full deep flow of prayer,
Hallow’d the pastoral sod;
And souls grew strong for battle there,
Nerved with the peace of God.
Before the Alps and stars they knelt,
That calm devoted band,
And rose, and made their spirits felt
Through all the mountain-land.
Then welcome, Grütli’s free-born flower!
Even in thy pale decay
There dwells a breath, a tone, a power,
Which all high thoughts obey.
ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.
And was thy home, pale wither’d thing,
Beneath the rich blue southern sky?
Wert thou a nursling of the spring,
The winds and suns of glorious Italy?
Those suns in golden light e’en now
Look o’er the poet’s lovely 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.
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 thine;
When shall another strain be sung
Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine?
THE CHIEFTAIN’S SON.
Yes, it is ours!--the field is won,
A dark and evil field!
Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.
Let me not hear your trumpets ring,
Swell not the battle-horn!
Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring,
When to the grave my glorious flower is borne!
Speak not of victory!--in the name
There is too much of woe!
Hush’d be the empty voice of Fame--
Call me back _his_ whose graceful head is low.
Speak not of victory!--from my halls
The sunny hour is gone!
The ancient banner on my walls
Must sink ere long; I had but him--but one!
Within the dwelling of my sires
The hearths will soon be cold,
With me must die the beacon-fires
That stream’d at midnight from the mountain-hold.
And let them fade, since this must be,
My lovely and my brave!
Was thy bright blood pour’d forth for me?
And is there but for stately youth a grave?
Speak to me once again, my boy!
Wilt thou not hear my call?
Thou wert so full of life and joy,
I had not dreamt of _this_--that thou couldst fall!
Thy mother watches from the steep
For thy returning plume;
How shall I tell her that thy sleep
Is of the silent house, th’ untimely tomb?
Thou didst not seem as one to die,
With all thy young renown!
--Ye saw his falchion’s flash on high,
In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down!
Slow be your march! the field is won!
A dark and evil field!
Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.
A FRAGMENT.
Rest on your battle-fields, ye brave!
Let the pines murmur o’er your grave,
Your dirge be in the moaning wave--
We call you back no more!
Oh! there was mourning when ye fell,
In your own vales a deep-toned knell,
An agony, a wild farewell--
But that hath long been o’er.
Rest with your still and solemn fame;
The hills keep record of your name,
And never can a touch of shame
Darken the buried brow.
But we on changeful days are cast,
When bright names from their place fall fast;
And ye that with your glory pass’d,
We cannot mourn you now.
ENGLAND’S DEAD.
Son of the Ocean Isle!
Where sleep your mighty dead?
Show me what high and stately pile
Is rear’d o’er Glory’s bed.
Go, stranger! track the deep--
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England’s dead.
On Egypt’s burning plains,
By the pyramid o’ersway’d,
With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade;--
But let the angry sun
From heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!--
_There_ slumber England’s dead.
The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far by Ganges’ banks at night
Is heard the tiger’s roar;--
But let the sound roll on!
It hath no tone of dread
For those that from their toils are gone,--
_There_ slumber England’s dead.
Loud rush the torrent-floods
The Western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia’s woods,
The hunter’s bow is strung;--
But let the floods rush on!
Let the arrow’s flight be sped!
Why should _they_ reck whose task is done?--
_There_ slumber England’s dead!
The mountain storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky
Like rose-leaves on the breeze;--
But let the storm rage on!
Let the fresh wreaths be shed!
For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,--
_There_ slumber England’s dead.
On the frozen deep’s repose
’Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern night-clouds lower;--
But let the ice drift on!
Let the cold-blue desert spread!
_Their_ course with mast and flag is done,--
Even there sleep England’s dead.
The warlike of the isles,
The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?
Go, stranger! track the deep--
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England’s dead.
THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.
WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF WELSH BARDS, HELD IN LONDON,
MAY 22, 1822.
[The _Gorseddau_, or meetings of the British bards, were anciently
ordained to be held in the open air, on some conspicuous situation,
whilst the sun was above the horizon; or, according to the expression
employed on these occasions, “in the face of the sun, and in the eye
of light.” The places set apart for this purpose were marked out by a
circle of stones, called the circle of federation. The presiding bard
stood on a large stone (Maen Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly) in
the centre. The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the ceremony
which announced the opening of a _Gorsedd_, or meeting. The bards
always stood in their uni-coloured robes, with their heads and feet
uncovered, within the circle of federation.--See Owen’s _Translation
of the Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen_.]
Where met our bards of old?--the glorious throng,
They of the mountain and the battle-song?
They met--oh! not in kingly hall or bower,
But where wild Nature girt herself with power:
They met where streams flash’d bright from rocky caves;
They met where woods made moan o’er warriors’ graves,
And where the torrent’s rainbow spray was cast,
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast,
And midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied
The crested Roman, in his hour of pride;
And where the Carnedd,[251] on its lonely hill,
Bore silent record of the mighty still;
And where the Druid’s ancient Cromlech[252] frown’d,
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round.
There throng’d th’ inspired of yore!--on plain or height,
_In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light_,
And, baring unto heaven each noble head,
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread.
Well might their lays be lofty!--soaring thought
From Nature’s presence tenfold grandeur caught:
Well might bold freedom’s soul pervade the strains
Which startled eagles from their lone domains,
And, like a breeze in chainless triumph, went
Up through the blue resounding firmament.
Whence came the echoes to those numbers high?
’Twas from the battle-fields of days gone by,
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest
With their good swords, upon the mountain’s breast;
And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow,
Sever’d by cloud and storm from all below;
And the turf-mounds,[253] once girt by ruddy spears,
And the rock-altars of departed years.
--Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent’s roar,
The winds a thousand wild responses bore;
And the green land, whose every vale and glen
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men,
On all her hills awakening to rejoice,
Sent forth proud answers to her children’s voice.
For us, not ours the festival to hold,
Midst the stone circles hallow’d thus of old;
Not where great Nature’s majesty and might
First broke all glorious on our infant sight;
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave,
Not by the mountain-llyn,[254] the ocean-wave,
In these late days we meet--dark Mona’s shore,
Eryri’s[255] cliffs resound with harps no more!
But as the stream, (though time or art may turn
The current, bursting from its cavern’d urn,
From Alpine glens or ancient forest bowers,
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,)
Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep,
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep;
Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm and free,
Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee!
To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong,
Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song!
Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less
To the green memory of thy loveliness,
Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal’d from every height,
_In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light_!
[251] Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn.
[252] Cromlech, a Druidical monument or altar. The word means a stone
of covenant.
[253] The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their followers
from small artificial mounts of turf.--_Pennant._
[254] Llyn, a lake or pool.
[255] _Eryri_, Snowdon.
THE VOICE OF SPRING.[256]
I come, I come! ye have call’d me long--
I come o’er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o’er the wakening earth
By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth,