The Poems of Felicia Hemans
playfulness into the enjoyments of a mountain scramble, or a pic-nic
water party, the gayest of the merry band, of whom some are now, like
herself, laid low, some far away in foreign lands, some changed by
sorrow, and all by time; and then, in graver mood, dream away hours of
pensive contemplation amidst the gray ruins of that noblest of Welsh
castles, standing, as it then did, in solitary grandeur, unapproached
by bridge or causeway, flinging its broad shadow across the tributary
waves which washed its regal walls. These lovely scenes never ceased
to retain their hold over the imagination of her whose youthful muse
had so often celebrated their praises. Her peculiar admiration of Mrs
Joanna Baillie’s play of _Ethwald_ was always pleasingly associated
with the recollection of her having first read it amidst the ruins
of Conway Castle. At Conway, too, she first made acquaintance with
the lively and graphic Chronicles of the chivalrous Froissart, whose
inspiring pages never lost their place in her favour. Her own little
poem, “The Ruin and its Flowers,” which will be found amongst the
earlier pieces in the present collection, was written on an excursion
to the old fortress of Dyganwy, the remains of which are situated on
a bold promontory near the entrance of the river Conway; and whose
ivied walls, now fast mouldering into oblivion, once bore their part
bravely in the defence of Wales; and are further endeared to the lovers
of song and tradition as having echoed the complaints of the captive
Elphin, and resounded to the harp of Taliesin. A scarcely degenerate
representative of that gifted bard[3] had, at the time now alluded to,
his appropriate dwelling-place at Conway; but his strains have long
been silenced, and there now remain few, indeed, on whom the Druidical
mantle has fallen so worthily. In the days when his playing was heard
by one so fitted to enjoy its originality and beauty,
“The minstrel was infirm and old;”
but his inspiration had not yet forsaken him; and the following lines
(written in 1811) will give an idea of the magic power he still knew
how to exercise over the feelings of his auditors.]
Minstrel! whose gifted hand can bring
Life, rapture, soul, from every string;
And wake, like bards of former time,
The spirit of the harp sublime;--
Oh! still prolong the varying strain!
Oh! touch th’ enchanted chords again!
Thine is the charm, suspending care,
The heavenly swell, the dying close,
The cadence melting into air,
That lulls each passion to repose;
While transport, lost in silence near,
Breathes all her language in a tear.
Exult, O Cambria!--now no more
With sighs thy slaughter’d bards deplore:
What though Plinlimmon’s misty brow
And Mona’s woods be silent now,
Yet can thy Conway boast a strain
Unrivall’d in thy proudest reign.
For Genius, with divine control,
Wakes the bold chord neglected long,
And pours Expression’s glowing soul
O’er the wild Harp, renown’d in song;
And Inspiration, hovering round,
Swells the full energies of sound.
Now Grandeur, pealing in the tone,
Could rouse the warrior’s kindling fire,
And now, ’tis like the breeze’s moan,
That murmurs o’er th’ Eolian lyre:
As if some sylph, with viewless wing,
Were sighing o’er the magic string.
Long, long, fair Conway! boast the skill
That soothes, inspires, commands, at will!
And oh! while rapture hails the lay,
Far distant be the closing day,
When Genius, Taste, again shall weep,
And Cambria’s Harp lie hush’d in sleep!
[3] Mr Edwards, the Harper of Conway, as he was generally called, had
been blind from his birth, and was endowed with that extraordinary
musical genius by which persons suffering under such a visitation
are not unfrequently indemnified. From the respectability of his
circumstances, he was not called upon to exercise his talents with any
view to remuneration. He played to delight himself and others; and the
innocent complacency with which he enjoyed the ecstasies called forth
by his skill, and the degree of appreciation with which he regarded
himself, as in a manner consecrated, by being made the depositary of a
direct gift from Heaven, were as far as possible removed from any of
the common modifications of vanity or self-conceit.
EPITAPH ON MR W----,
A CELEBRATED MINERALOGIST.[4]
Stop, passenger! a wondrous tale to list--
Here lies a famous Mineralogist.
Famous indeed! such traces of his power,
He’s left from Penmaenbach to Penmaenmawr,
Such caves, and chasms, and fissures in the rocks,
His works resemble those of earthquake shocks;
And future ages very much may wonder
What mighty giant rent the hills asunder,
Or whether Lucifer himself had ne’er
Gone with his crew to play at foot-ball there.
His fossils, flints, and spars, of every hue,
With him, good reader, here lie buried too--
Sweet specimens! which, toiling to obtain,
He split huge cliffs, like so much wood, in twain.
We knew, so great the fuss he made about them,
Alive or dead, he ne’er would rest without them;
So, to secure soft slumber to his bones,
We paved his grave with all his favourite stones.
His much-loved hammer’s resting by his side;
Each hand contains a shell-fish petrified:
His mouth a piece of pudding-stone incloses,
And at his feet a lump of coal reposes:
Sure he was born beneath some lucky planet!--
His very coffin-plate is made of granite.
Weep not, good reader! he is truly blest
Amidst chalcedony and quartz to rest:
Weep not for him! but envied be his doom,
Whose tomb, though small, for all he loved had room:
And, O ye rocks!--schist, gneiss, whate’er ye be,
Ye varied strata!--names too hard for me--
Sing, “Oh, be joyful!” for your direst foe
By death’s fell hammer is at length laid low.
Ne’er on your spoils again shall W---- riot.
Clear up your cloudy brows, and rest in quiet--
He sleeps--no longer planning hostile actions,
As cold as any of his petrifactions;
Enshrined in specimens of every hue,
Too tranquil e’en to dream, ye rocks, of you.
[4] “Whilst on the subject of Conway, it may not be amiss to introduce
two little pieces of a very different character from the foregoing,
[Lines to Mr. Edward the Harper,] which were written at the same place,
three or four years afterwards, and will serve as a proof of that
versatility of talent before alluded to. As may easily be supposed,
they were never intended for publication, but were merely a _jeu
d’esprit_ of the moment, in good-humoured raillery of the indefatigable
zeal and perseverance of one of the party in his geological
researches.”--_Memoir_, p. 20.
EPITAPH
ON THE HAMMER OF THE AFORESAID MINERALOGIST.
Here in the dust, its strange adventures o’er,
A hammer rests, that ne’er knew rest before.
Released from toil, it slumbers by the side
Of one who oft its temper sorely tried;
No day e’er pass’d, but in some desperate strife
He risk’d the faithful hammer’s limbs and life:
Now laying siege to some old limestone wall,
Some rock now battering, proof to cannon-ball
Now scaling heights like Alps or Pyrenees,
Perhaps a flint, perhaps a slate to seize;
But, if a piece of copper met his eyes,
He’d mount a precipice that touch’d the skies,
And bring down lumps so precious, and so many,
I’m sure they almost would have made--a penny!
Think, when such deeds as these were daily done,
What fearful risks this hammer must have run.
And, to say truth, its praise deserves to shine
In lays more lofty and more famed than mine:
Oh! that in strains which ne’er should be forgot,
Its deeds were blazon’d forth by Walter Scott!
Then should its name with his be closely link’d,
And live till every mineral were extinct.
Rise, epic bards! be yours the ample field--
Bid W----’s hammer match Achilles’ shield:
As for _my_ muse, the chaos of her brain,
I search for specimens of wit in vain;
Then let me cease ignoble rhymes to stammer,
And seek some theme less arduous than the hammer;
Remembering well, “what perils do environ”
Woman or “man that meddles with cold iron.”
PROLOGUE TO THE _POOR GENTLEMAN_,
AS INTENDED TO BE PERFORMED BY THE OFFICERS OF THE 34TH REGIMENT AT
CLONMEL.[5]
_Enter Captain_ George Browne, _in the character of Corporal_ Foss.
To-night, kind friends, at your tribunal here,
Stands “The Poor Gentleman,” with many a fear;
Since well he knows, whoe’er may judge his cause,
That Poverty’s no title to applause.
Genius or Wit, pray, who’ll admire or quote,
If all their drapery be a threadbare coat?
Who, in a world where all is bought and sold,
Minds a man’s worth--except his worth in gold?
Who’ll greet poor Merit if she lacks a dinner!
Hence, starving saint, but welcome, wealthy sinner!
Away with Poverty! let none receive her,
She bears contagion as a plague or fever;
“Bony, and gaunt, and grim”--like jaundiced eyes,
Discolouring all within her sphere that lies.
“Poor Gentleman!” and by poor soldiers, too!
Oh, matchless impudence! without a sous!
In scenes, in actors poor, and what far worse is,
With heads, perhaps, as empty as their purses,
How shall they dare at such a bar appear?
What are their tactics and manœuvres here?
While thoughts like these come rushing o’er our mind,
Oh! may we still indulgence hope to find!
Brave sons of Erin! whose distinguish’d name
Shines with such brilliance in the page of Fame,
And you, fair daughters of the Emerald Isle!
View our weak efforts with approving smile!
School’d in rough camps, and still disdaining art,
Ill can the soldier act a borrow’d part;
The march, the skirmish, in this warlike age,
Are his rehearsals, and the field his stage;
His theatre is found in every land,
Where wave the ensigns of a hostile band:
Place him in danger’s front--he recks not where--
Be your own Wellington his prompter there,
And on that stage he trusts, with fearful mien,
He’ll act his part in glory’s tragic scene.
Yet here, though friends are gaily marshall’d round,
And from bright eyes alone he dreads a wound,
Here, though in ambush no sharpshooter’s wile
Aims at his breast, save hid in beauty’s smile;
Though all unused to pause, to doubt, to fear,
Yet his heart sinks, his courage fails him here.
No scenic pomp to him its aid supplies,
No stage effect of glittering pageantries:
No, to your kindness he must look alone
To realise the hope he dares not own;
And trusts, since here he meets no cynic eye,
His wish to please may claim indemnity.
And why despair, indulgence when we crave
From Erin’s sons, the generous and the brave?
Theirs the high spirit, and the liberal thought,
Kind, warm, sincere, with native candour fraught;
Still has the stranger, in their social isle,
Met the frank welcome and the cordial smile,
And well their hearts can share, though unexpress’d,
Each thought, each feeling, of the soldier’s breast.
[5] These verses were written about the same time as the preceding
humorous epitaphs.
[As, in the present collected edition of the writings of Mrs Hemans,
chronological arrangement has been for the first time strictly
attended to, a selection from her Juvenile compositions has been
given, chiefly as a matter of curiosity--for her real career as an