The Poems of Felicia Hemans
With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath,
Had spread for ages the repose of death!
Ah! still the wanderer, by the boundless deep,
Lives but to watch--and watches but to weep!
He sees no sail in faint perspective rise,
His the dread loneliness of sea and skies!
Far from his cherish’d friends, his native shore,
Banish’d from being--to return no more;
There must he die!--within that circling wave,
That lonely isle--his prison and his grave!
Lo! through the waste, the wilderness of snows,
With fainting step, Siberia’s exile goes!
Homeless and sad, o’er many a polar wild,
Where beam, or flower, or verdure never smiled;
Where frost and silence hold their despot-reign,
And bind existence in eternal chain!
Child of the desert! pilgrim of the gloom!
Dark is the path which leads thee to the tomb!
While on thy faded cheek the arctic air
Congeals the bitter tear-drop of despair!
Yet not that fate condemns thy closing day
In that stern clime to shed its parting ray;
Not that fair nature’s loveliness and light
No more shall beam enchantment on thy sight;
Ah! not for _this_--far, far beyond relief,
Deep in thy bosom dwells the hopeless grief;
But that no friend of kindred heart is there,
Thy woes to mitigate, thy toils to share;
That no mild soother fondly shall assuage
The stormy trials of thy lingering age;
No smile of tenderness, with angel power,
Lull the dread pangs of dissolution’s hour;
For this alone, despair, a withering guest,
Sits on thy brow, and cankers in thy breast!
Yes! there, e’en there, in that tremendous clime,
Where desert grandeur frowns in pomp sublime;
Where winter triumphs, through the polar night,
In all his wild magnificence of might;
E’en _there_, affection’s hallow’d spell might pour
The light of heaven around th’ inclement shore!
And, like the vales with gloom and sunshine graced,
That smile, by circling Pyrenees embraced,
Teach the pure heart with vital fires to glow,
E’en ’midst the world of solitude and snow!
The halcyon’s charm, thus dreaming fictions feign,
With mystic power could tranquillise the main;
Bid the loud wind, the mountain billow sleep,
And peace and silence brood upon the deep!
And thus, Affection, can _thy_ voice compose
The stormy tide of passions and of woes;
Bid every throb of wild emotion cease,
And lull misfortune in the arms of peace!
Oh! mark yon drooping form, of aged mien,
Wan, yet resign’d, and hopeless, yet serene!
Long ere victorious time had sought to chase
The bloom, the smile, that once illumed his face,
That faded eye was dimm’d with many a care,
Those waving locks were silver’d by despair!
Yet filial love can pour the sovereign balm,
Assuage his pangs, his wounded spirit calm!
He, a sad emigrant! condemn’d to roam
In life’s pale autumn from his ruin’d home,
Has borne the shock of Peril’s darkest wave,
Where joy--and hope--and fortune--found a grave!
’Twas his to see Destruction’s fiercest band
Rush, like a Typhon, on his native land,
And roll triumphant on their blasted way,
In fire and blood, the deluge of dismay!
Unequal combat raged on many a plain,
And patriot-valour waved the sword in vain!
Ah! gallant exile! nobly, long, he bled,
Long braved the tempest gathering o’er his head!
Till all was lost! and horror’s darken’d eye
Roused the stern spirit of despair to die!
Ah! gallant exile! in the storm that roll’d
Far o’er his country, rushing uncontroll’d,
The flowers that graced his path with loveliest bloom,
Torn by the blast, were scatter’d on the tomb!
When carnage burst, exulting in the strife,
The bosom ties that bound his soul to life,
Yet one was spared! and she, whose filial smile
Can soothe his wanderings and his tears beguile,
E’en _then_ could temper, with divine relief,
The wild delirium of unbounded grief;
And, whispering peace, conceal with duteous art
Her own deep sorrows in her inmost heart!
And now, though time, subduing every trace,
Has _mellow’d_ all, he _never_ can _erase_;
Oft will the wanderer’s tears in silence flow,
Still sadly faithful to remember’d woe!
Then she, who feels a father’s pang alone,
(Still fondly struggling to suppress her own,)
With anxious tenderness is ever nigh,
To chase the image that awakes the sigh!
Her angel-voice his fainting soul can raise
To brighter visions of celestial days!
And speak of realms, where Virtue’s wing shall soar
On eagle-plume--to wonder and adore;
And friends, divided here, shall meet at last,
Unite their kindred souls--and smile on all the past!
Yes! we may hope that nature’s deathless ties,
Renew’d, refined, shall triumph in the skies!
Heart-soothing thought! whose loved, consoling powers
With seraph-dreams can gild reflection’s hours,
Oh! still be near, and brightening through the gloom,
Beam and ascend! the day-star of the tomb!
And smile for those, in sternest ordeals proved,
Those lonely hearts, bereft of all they loved.
Lo! by the couch where pain and chill disease
In every vein the ebbing life-blood freeze;
Where youth is taught, by stealing, slow decay,
Life’s closing lesson--in its dawning day;
Where beauty’s rose is withering ere its prime,
Unchanged by sorrow and unsoil’d by time;
There, bending still, with fix’d and sleepless eye,
There, from her child, the mother learns to die;
Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace
Of lingering sickness in the faded face;
Through the sad night, when every hope is fled,
Keeps her lone vigil by the sufferer’s bed;
And starts each morn, as deeper marks declare
The spoiler’s hand--the blight of death is there!
He comes! now feebly in the exhausted frame,
Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame;
From the glazed eye-ball sheds its parting ray--
Dim, transient spark, that fluttering fades away!
Faint beats the hovering pulse, the trembling heart;
Yet fond existence lingers ere she part!
’Tis past! the struggle and the pang are o’er,
And life shall throb with agony no more;
While o’er the wasted form, the features pale,
Death’s awful shadows throw their silvery veil.
Departed spirit! on this earthly sphere
Though poignant suffering mark’d thy short career,
Still could maternal love beguile thy woes,
And hush thy sighs--an angel of repose!
But who may charm _her_ sleepless pang to rest,
Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast?
And, while she bends in silence o’er thy bier,
Assuage the grief, too heart-sick for a tear?
Visions of hope in loveliest hues array’d,
Fair scenes of bliss by fancy’s hand portray’d!
And were ye doom’d with false, illusive smile,
With flattering promise, to enchant awhile?
And are ye vanish’d, never to return,
Set in the darkness of the mouldering urn?
Will no bright hour departed joys restore?
Shall the sad parent meet her child no more?
Behold no more the soul-illumined face,
The expressive smile, the animated grace!
Must the fair blossom, wither’d in the tomb,
Revive no more in loveliness and bloom?
Descend, blest faith! dispel the hopeless care,
And chase the gathering phantoms of despair;
Tell that the flower, transplanted in its morn,
Enjoys bright Eden, freed from every thorn;
Expands to milder suns, and softer dews,
The full perfection of immortal hues;
Tell, that when mounting to her native skies,
By death released, the parent spirit flies;
There shall the child, in anguish mourn’d so long,
With rapture hail her midst the cherub throng,
And guide her pinion on exulting flight,
Through glory’s boundless realms, and worlds of living light.
Ye gentle spirits of departed friends!
If e’er on earth your buoyant wing descends;
If, with benignant care, ye linger near,
To guard the objects in existence dear;
If, hovering o’er, ethereal band! ye view
The tender sorrows, to _your_ memory true;
Oh! in the musing hour, at midnight deep,
While for your loss affection wakes to weep;
While every sound in hallow’d stillness lies,
But the low murmur of her plaintive sighs;
Oh! then, amidst that holy calm be near,
Breathe your light whisper softly in her ear;
With secret spells her wounded mind compose,
And chase the faithful tear--for you that flows:
Be near--when moonlight spreads the charm you loved
O’er scenes where once your _earthly_ footstep roved.
Then, while she wanders o’er the sparkling dew,
Through glens and wood-paths, once endear’d by you,
And fondly lingers in your favourite bowers,
And pauses oft, recalling former hours;
Then wave your pinion o’er each well-known vale,
Float in the moonbeam, sigh upon the gale;
Bid your wild symphonies remotely swell,
Borne by the summer-wind from grot and dell;
And touch your viewless harps, and soothe her soul
With soft enchantments and divine control!
Be near, sweet guardians! watch her sacred rest,
When Slumber folds her in his magic vest;
Around her, smiling, let your forms arise,
Return’d in dreams, to bless her mental eyes;
Efface the memory of your last farewell--
Of glowing joys, of radiant prospects tell;
The sweet communion of the past renew,
Reviving former scenes, array’d in softer hue.
Be near when death, in virtue’s brightest hour,
Calls up each pang, and summons all his power;
Oh! then, transcending Fancy’s loveliest dream,
Then let your forms unveil’d around her beam;
Then waft the vision of unclouded light,
A burst of glory, on her closing sight;
Wake from the harp of heaven th’ immortal strain,
To hush the final agonies of pain;
With rapture’s flame the parting soul illume,
And smile triumphant through the shadowy gloom!
Oh! still be near, when, darting into day,
Th’ exulting spirit leaves her bonds of clay;
Be yours to guide her fluttering wings on high
O’er many a world, ascending to the sky;
There let your presence, once her earthly joy,
Though dimm’d with tears and clouded with alloy,
Now form her bliss on that celestial shore
Where death shall sever kindred hearts no more.
Yes! in the noon of that Elysian clime,
Beyond the sphere of anguish, death, or time;
Where mind’s bright eye, with renovated fire,
Shall beam on glories never to expire;
Oh! there th’ illumined soul may fondly trust,
More pure, more perfect, rising from the dust,
Those mild affections, whose consoling light
Sheds the soft moonbeam on terrestrial night,
Sublimed, ennobled, shall for ever glow,
Exalting rapture--not assuaging woe!
TO MR EDWARDS, THE HARPER OF CONWAY.
[Some of the happiest days the young poetess ever passed were during
occasional visits to some friends at Conway, where the charms of the
scenery, combining all that is most beautiful in wood, water, and
ruin, are sufficient to inspire the most prosaic temperament with a
certain degree of enthusiasm; and it may therefore well be supposed
how fervently a soul constituted like hers would worship Nature at so
fitting a shrine. With that happy versatility which was at all times a
leading characteristic of her mind, she would now enter with child-like