The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Was it but breath, to perish? Holier trust
Be mine!--thy love _is_ there, but purified from dust!
LXVII.
A thing all heavenly!--clear’d from that which hung
As a dim cloud between us, heart and mind!
Loosed from the fear, the grief, whose tendrils flung
A chain so darkly with its growth entwined.
This is my hope!--though when the sunset fades,
When forests rock the midnight on their shades,
When tones of wail are in the rising wind,
Across my spirit some faint doubt may sigh;
For the strong hours _will_ sway this frail mortality!
LXVIII.
We have been wand’rers since those days of woe,
Thy boy and I! As wild birds tend their young,
So have I tended him--my bounding roe!
The high Peruvian solitudes among;
And o’er the Andes’ torrents borne his form,
Where our frail bridge had quiver’d midst the storm.[307]
But there the war-notes of my country rung,
And, smitten deep of heaven and man, I fled
To hide in shades unpierced a mark’d and weary head.
LXIX.
But he went on in gladness--that fair child!
Save when at times his bright eye seem’d to dream,
And his young lips, which then no longer smiled,
Ask’d of his mother! That was but a gleam
Of memory, fleeting fast; and then his play
Through the wide Llanos[308] cheer’d again our way,
And by the mighty Oronoco stream,[309]
On whose lone margin we have heard at morn,
From the mysterious rocks, the sunrise-music borne:
LXX.
So like a spirit’s voice! a harping tone,
Lovely, yet ominous to mortal ear--
Such as might reach us from a world unknown,
Troubling man’s heart with thrills of joy and fear!
’Twas sweet!--yet those deep southern shades oppress’d
My soul with stillness, like the calms that rest
On melancholy waves:[310] I sigh’d to hear
Once more earth’s breezy sounds, her foliage fann’d,
And turn’d to seek the wilds of the red hunter’s land.
LXXI.
And we have won a bower of refuge now,
In this fresh waste, the breath of whose repose
Hath cool’d, like dew, the fever of my brow,
And whose green oaks and cedars round me close
As temple walls and pillars, that exclude
Earth’s haunted dreams from their free solitude;
All, save the image and the thought of those
Before us gone--our loved of early years,
Gone where affection’s cup hath lost the taste of tears.
LXXII.
I see a star--eve’s first-born!--in whose train
Past scenes, words, looks, come back. The arrowy spire
Of the lone cypress, as of wood-girt fane,
Rests dark and still amidst a heaven of fire;
The pine gives forth its odours, and the lake
Gleams like one ruby, and the soft winds wake,
Till every string of nature’s solemn lyre
Is touch’d to answer; its most secret tone
Drawn from each tree, for each hath whispers all its own.
LXXIII.
And hark! another murmur on the air,
Not of the hidden rills or quivering shades!--
That is the cataract’s, which the breezes bear,
Filling the leafy twilight of the glades
With hollow surge-like sounds, as from the bed
Of the blue, mournful seas, that keep the dead:
But _they_ are far! The low sun here pervades
Dim forest arches, bathing with red gold
Their stems, till each is made a marvel to behold,--
LXXIV.
Gorgeous, yet full of gloom! In such an hour,
The vesper-melody of dying bells
Wanders through Spain, from each gray convent’s tower
O’er shining rivers pour’d and olive dells,
By every peasant heard, and muleteer,
And hamlet, round my home: and I am here,
Living again through all my life’s farewells,
In these vast woods, where farewell ne’er was spoken,
And sole I lift to heaven a sad heart--yet unbroken!
LXXV.
In such an hour are told the hermit’s beads;
With the white sail the seaman’s hymn floats by:
Peace be with all! whate’er their varying creeds,
With all that send up holy thoughts on high!
Come to me, boy! By Guadalquiver’s vines,
By every stream of Spain, as day declines,
Man’s prayers are mingled in the rosy sky.
We, too, will pray; nor yet unheard, my child!
Of Him whose voice we hear at eve amidst the wild.
LXXVI.
At eve? Oh, through all hours! From dark dreams oft
Awakening, I look forth, and learn the might
Of solitude, while thou art breathing soft,
And low, my loved one! on the breast of night.
I look forth on the stars--the shadowy sleep
Of forests--and the lake whose gloomy deep
Sends up red sparkles to the fire-flies’ light:
A lonely world!--even fearful to man’s thought,
But for His presence felt, whom here my soul hath sought.
[299] The varying sounds of waterfalls are thus alluded to in an
interesting work of Mrs Grant’s. “On the opposite side the view
was bounded by steep hills, covered with lofty pines, from which a
waterfall descended, which not only gave animation to the sylvan scene,
but was the best barometer imaginable; foretelling by its varied and
intelligible sounds every approaching change, not only of the weather
but of the wind.”--_Memoirs of an American Lady_, vol. i. p. 143.
[300] The circular rainbows, occasionally seen amongst the Andes, are
described by Ulloa.
[301] Many striking instances of the vividness with which the mind,
when strongly excited, has been known to renovate past impressions,
and embody them into visible imagery, are noticed and accounted for in
Dr Hibbert’s _Philosophy of Apparitions_. The following illustrative
passage is quoted in the same work, from the writings of the late Dr
Ferriar:--“I remember that, about the age of fourteen, it was a source
of great amusement to myself, if I had been viewing any interesting
object in the course of the day, such as a romantic ruin, a fine seat,
or a review of a body of troops, as soon as evening came on, if I had
occasion to go into a dark room, the whole scene was brought before my
eyes with a brilliancy equal to what it had possessed in daylight, and
remained visible for several minutes. I have no doubt that dismal and
frightful images have been thus presented to young persons after scenes
of domestic affliction or public horror.”
The following passage from the _Alcazar of Seville_, a tale or
historical sketch, by the author of _Doblado’s Letters_, affords a
further illustration of this subject. “When, descending fast into the
vale of years, I strongly fix my mind’s eye on those narrow, shady,
silent streets, where I breathed the scented air which came rustling
through the surrounding groves; where the footsteps re-echoed from the
clean watered porches of the houses, and where every object spoke of
quiet and contentment;... the objects around me begin to fade into a
mere delusion, and not only the thoughts, but the external sensations,
which I then experienced, revive with a reality that almost makes me
shudder--it has so much the character of a trance or vision.”
[302] “For because the breath of flowers is farre sweeter in the aire
(where it comes and goes like the warbling of musick) than in the hand,
therefore nothing is more fit for that delight than to know what be
the flowers and plants which doe best perfume the aire.”--Lord Bacon’s
_Essay on Gardens_.
[303] “The pleasure we felt on discovering the Southern Cross was
warmly shared by such of the crew as had lived in the colonies. In the
solitude of the seas, we hail a star as a friend from whom we have
long been separated. Among the Portuguese and the Spaniards, peculiar
motives seem to increase this feeling; a religious sentiment attaches
them to a constellation, the form of which recalls the sign of the
faith planted by their ancestors in the deserts of the New World....
It has been observed at what hour of the night, in different seasons,
the Cross of the South is erect or inclined. It is a time-piece that
advances very regularly near four minutes a-day, and no other group
of stars exhibits to the naked eye an observation of time so easily
made. How often have we heard our guides exclaim, in the savannahs of
Venezuela, or in the desert extending from Lima to Truxillo, ‘Midnight
is past--the Cross begins to bend!’ How often these words reminded us
of that affecting scene where Paul and Virginia, seated near the source
of the river of Lataniers, conversed together for the last time; and
where the old man, at the sight of the Southern Cross, warns them that
it is time to separate!”--De Humboldt’s _Travels_.
[304] “Rio verde! rio verde!” the popular Spanish romance, known to the
English reader in Percy’s translation:--
“Gentle river! gentle river!
Lo, thy streams are stain’d with gore;
Many a brave and noble captain
Floats along thy willow’d shore,” etc.
[305] De Humboldt, in describing the burial of a young Asturian at sea,
mentions the entreaty of the officiating priest, that the body, which
had been brought upon deck during the night, might not be committed
to the waves until after sunrise, in order to pay it the last rites
according to the usage of the Romish Church.
[306] “And there was no more sea.”--_Revelation_, xxi. 1.
[307] The bridges over many deep chasms amongst the Andes are
pendulous, and formed only of the fibres of equinoctial plants. Their
tremulous motion is thus alluded to in one of the stanzas of _Gertrude
of Wyoming_:--
“Anon some wilder portraiture he draws,
Of nature’s savage glories he would speak;
The loneliness of earth, that overawes,
Where, resting by the tomb of old Cacique,
The lama-driver on Peruvia’s peak
Nor voice nor living motion marks around,
But storks that to the boundless forest shriek,
Or wild-cane arch, high flung o’er gulf profound,
That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound.”
[308] Llanos, or savannahs, the great plains in South America.
[309] De Humboldt speaks of these rocks on the shores of the Oronoco.
Travellers have heard from time to time subterraneous sounds proceed
from them at sunrise, resembling those of an organ. He believes in the
existence of this mysterious music, although not fortunate enough to
have heard it himself; and thinks that it may be produced by currents
of air issuing through the crevices.
[310] The same distinguished traveller frequently alludes to the
extreme stillness of the air in the equatorial regions of the New
World, and particularly on the thickly wooded shores of the Oronoco.
“In this neighbourhood,” he says, “no breath of wind ever agitates the
foliage.”
CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON “THE FOREST SANCTUARY.”
[“In the autumn of 1824 she began the poem which, in point of finish
and consecutiveness, if not in popularity, may be considered her
principal work, and which she herself inclined to look upon as her
best. ‘I am at present,’ she wrote to one always interested in her
literary occupations, ‘engaged upon a poem of some length, the idea of
which was suggested to me by some passages in your friend Mr Blanco
White’s delightful writings.[311] It relates to the sufferings of a
Spanish Protestant, in the time of Philip the Second, and is supposed
to be narrated by the sufferer himself, who escapes to America. I am
very much interested in my subject, and hope to complete the poem in
the course of the winter.’ The progress of this work was watched with
great interest in her domestic circle, and its touching descriptions
would often extract a tribute of tears from the fireside auditors.
When completed, a family consultation was held as to its name. Various
titles were proposed and rejected, till that of ‘The Forest Sanctuary’