The Poems of Felicia Hemans
What ‘has been, has been,’ and we wish not to detract one iota from
praise so fairly earned; but we must candidly confess, that before the
perusal of ‘De Chatillon,’ (although that poem is probably not quite
in the state in which it would have been submitted to the world by
its writer,) we were somewhat infected with the prevailing opinion,
that the most successful path of Mrs Hemans did not lead her towards
the drama. Our opinion on this subject is, however, now much altered;
and we hesitate not to say, after minutely considering the characters
of Rainier--so skilfully acted on, now by fraternal love, and now by
public duty--and of Aymer and Moraima, placed in situations where
inclination is opposed to principle--that, by the cultivation of this
species of composition, had health and prolonged years been the fate
of the author of ‘De Chatillon,’ that tragedy, noble as it is, which
must now be placed at the head of her dramatic efforts, would in all
probability have been even surpassed in excellence by ulterior efforts.
“Mrs Hemans had at length struck the proper keys. It is quite evident
that she had succeeded in imbibing new and more severe ideas of this
class of compositions. She had passed from the narrative into what
has been conventionally termed the dramatic poem--from the ‘Historic
Scenes’ to ‘Sebastian’ and ‘The Siege of Valencia;’ but ‘The Vespers
of Palermo’ and ‘De Chatillon’ can alone be said to be her legitimate
dramas.
“The last, however, must be ranked first, by many degrees of
comparison. Without stripping her language of that richness and
poetic beauty so characteristic of her genius, or condescending in
a single passage to the mean baldness, so commonly mistaken by many
modern writers for the stage as essentially necessary to the truth of
dialogue, she has, in this attempt, preserved adherence to reality
amid scenes allied with romance--brevity and effect, in situations
strongly alluring to amplification; and, in her delineation of some of
the strongest, as well as the finest emotions of the heart, there is
exhibited a knowledge of nature’s workings, at once minute, faithful,
and affecting.”--_MS. Critique by_ Δ.]
THE FOREST SANCTUARY.
“Long time against oppression have I fought,
And for the native liberty of faith
Have bled and suffer’d bonds.” _Remorse; a Tragedy._
[The following poem is intended to describe the mental conflicts,
as well as outward sufferings, of a Spaniard, who, flying from the
religious persecutions of his own country, in the sixteenth century,
takes refuge, with his child, in a North American forest. The story
is supposed to be related by himself, amidst the wilderness which has
afforded him an asylum.]
I.
The voices of my home!--I hear them still!
They have been with me through the dreamy night--
The blessed household voices, wont to fill
My heart’s clear depths with unalloy’d delight!
I hear them still, unchanged: though some from earth
Are music parted, and the tones of mirth--
Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright--
Have died in others; yet to me they come
Singing of boyhood back--the voices of my home!
II.
They call me through this hush of woods reposing
In the gray stillness of the summer morn;
They wander by when heavy flowers are closing,
And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are born.
Even as a fount’s remember’d gushings burst
On the parch’d traveller in his hour of thirst,
E’en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till worn
By quenchless longings, to my soul I say--
Oh! for the dove’s swift wings, that I might flee away,
III.
And find mine ark! Yet whither? I must bear
A yearning heart within me to the grave.
I am of those o’er whom a breath of air--
Just darkening in its course the lake’s bright wave,
And sighing through the feathery canes--hath power
To call up shadows, in the silent hour,
From the dim past, as from a wizard’s cave!
So must it be! These skies above me spread:
Are they my own soft skies?--Ye rest not here, my dead!
IV.
Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping,
Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear;
Save one! a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping
High o’er _one_ gentle head. Ye rest not here!--
’Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying,
Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing
Through my own chestnut groves which fill mine ear;
But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell,
And for their birthplace moan, as moans the ocean-shell.
V.
Peace!--I will dash these fond regrets to earth,
Even as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain
From his strong pinion. Thou that gavest me birth,
And lineage, and once home,--my native Spain!
My own bright land--my fathers’ land--my child’s!
What hath thy son brought from thee to the wilds?
He hath brought marks of torture and the chain--
Traces of things which pass not as a breeze;
A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, woe--thy gifts are these!
VI.
A blighted name! I hear the winds of morn--
Their sounds are not of this! I hear the shiver
Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne
From the high forest, when the light leaves quiver
Their sounds are not of this!--the cedars, waving,
Lend it no tone: His wide savannahs laving,
It is not murmur’d by the joyous river!
What part hath mortal name, where God alone
Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart is known?
VII.
Is it not much that I may worship Him
With naught my spirit’s breathings to control,
And feel His presence in the vast, and dim,
And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll
From the far cataracts? Shall I not rejoice
That I have learn’d at last to know _His_ voice
From man’s? I will rejoice!--my soaring soul
Now hath redeem’d her birthright of the day,
And won, through clouds, to Him her own unfetter’d way!
VIII.
And thou, my boy! that silent at my knee
Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes,
Fill’d with the love of childhood, which I see
Pure through its depths, a thing without disguise;
Thou that hast breathed in slumber on my breast,
When I have check’d its throbs to give thee rest,
Mine own! whose young thoughts fresh before me rise!
Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer,
And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful air?
IX.
Why should I weep on thy bright head, my boy?
Within thy fathers’ halls thou wilt not dwell,
Nor lift their banner, with a warrior’s joy,
Amidst the sons of mountain chiefs, who fell
For Spain of old. Yet what if rolling waves
Have borne us far from our ancestral graves?
Thou shalt not feel thy bursting heart rebel,
As mine hath done; nor bear what I have borne,
Casting in falsehood’s mould th’ indignant brow of scorn.
X.
This shall not be thy lot, my blessed child!
I have not sorrow’d, struggled, lived in vain.
Hear me! magnificent and ancient wild;
And mighty rivers, ye that meet the main,
As deep meets deep; and forests, whose dim shade
The flood’s voice, and the wind’s, by swells pervade;
Hear me! ’Tis well to die, and not complain;
Yet there are hours when the charged heart must speak,
E’en in the desert’s ear to pour itself, or break!
XI.
I see an oak before me:[290] it hath been
The crown’d one of the woods; and might have flung
Its hundred arms to heaven, still freshly green;
But a wild vine around the stem hath clung,
From branch to branch close wreaths of bondage throwing,
Till the proud tree, before no tempest bowing,
Hath shrunk and died those serpent folds among.
Alas! alas! what is it that I see?
An image of man’s mind, land of my sires, with thee!
XII.
Yet art thou lovely! Song is on thy hills:
O sweet and mournful melodies of Spain,
That lull’d my boyhood, how your memory thrills
The exile’s heart with sudden-wakening pain!
Your sounds are on the rocks:--that I might hear
Once more the music of the mountaineer!
And from the sunny vales the shepherd’s strain
Floats out, and fills the solitary place
With the old tuneful names of Spain’s heroic race.
XIII.
But there was silence one bright, golden day,
Through my own pine-hung mountains. Clear, yet lone,
In the rich autumn light the vineyards lay,
And from the fields the peasant’s voice was gone;
And the red grapes untrodden strew’d the ground;
And the free flocks, untended, roam’d around.
Where was the pastor?--where the pipe’s wild tone?
Music and mirth were hush’d the hills among,
While to the city’s gates each hamlet pour’d its throng.
XIV.
Silence upon the mountains! But within
The city’s gate a rush, a press, a swell
Of multitudes, their torrent-way to win;
And heavy boomings of a dull deep bell,
A dead pause following each--like that which parts
The dash of billows, holding breathless hearts
Fast in the hush of fear--knell after knell;
And sounds of thickening steps, like thunder-rain
That plashes on the roof of some vast echoing fane!
XV.
What pageant’s hour approach’d? The sullen gate
Of a strong ancient prison-house was thrown
Back to the day. And who, in mournful state,
Came forth, led slowly o’er its threshold-stone?
They that had learn’d, in cells of secret gloom,
How sunshine is forgotten! They to whom
The very features of mankind were grown
Things that bewilder’d! O’er that dazzled sight
They lifted their wan hands, and cower’d before the light!
XVI.
To this, man brings his brother! Some were there,
Who, with their desolation, had entwined
Fierce strength, and girt the sternness of despair
Fast round their bosoms, even as warriors bind
The breastplate on for fight; but brow and cheek
Seem’d _theirs_ a torturing panoply to speak!
And there were some, from whom the very mind
Had been wrung out; they smiled--oh, startling smile,
Whence man’s high soul is fled! Where doth it sleep the while?
XVII.
But onward moved the melancholy train,
For their false creeds in fiery pangs to die.
This was the solemn sacrifice of Spain--
Heaven’s offering from the land of chivalry!
Through thousands, thousands of their race they moved--
Oh, how unlike all others!--the beloved,
The free, the proud, the beautiful! whose eye
Grew fix’d before them, while a people’s breath
Was hush’d, and its one soul bound in the thought of death!
XVIII.
It might be that, amidst the countless throng,
There swell’d some heart with pity’s weight oppress’d:
For the wide stream of human love is strong;
And woman, on whose fond and faithful breast
Childhood is rear’d, and at whose knee the sigh
Of its first prayer is breathed--she, too, was nigh.
But life is dear, and the free footstep bless’d,
And home a sunny place, where each may fill
Some eye with glistening smiles,--and therefore all were still.
XIX.
All still,--youth, courage, strength!--a winter laid,
A chain of palsy cast, on might and mind!
Still, as at noon a southern forest’s shade,
They stood, those breathless masses of mankind,
Still, as a frozen torrent! But the wave
Soon leaps to foaming freedom; they, the brave,
Endured--they saw the martyr’s place assign’d
In the red flames--whence is the withering spell