The Poems of Felicia Hemans
_Then_ from the cavern of the dead
Shall the sleepers wake in might!
With a leap, like Tell’s proud leap
When away the helm he flung,
And boldly up the steep
From the flashing billow sprung![312]
They shall wake beside their Forest-Sea,
In the ancient garb they wore
When they link’d the hands that made us free,
On the Grütli’s moonlight shore;
And their voices shall be heard,
And be answer’d with a shout,
Till the echoing Alps are stirr’d,
And the signal-fires blaze out.
And the land shall see such deeds again
As those of that proud day
When Winkelried, on Sempach’s plain,
Through the serried spears made way;
And when the rocks came down
On the dark Morgarten dell,
And the crownèd casques,[313] o’erthrown,
Before our fathers fell!
For the Kühreihen’s[314] notes must never sound
In a land that wears the chain,
And the vines on freedom’s holy ground
Untrampled must remain;
And the yellow harvests wave
For no stranger’s hand to reap,
While within their silent cave
The men of Grütli sleep!
[312] The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of Gessler
is marked by a chapel, and called the _Tellensprung_.
[313] Crowned Helmets, as a distinction of rank, are mentioned in
Simond’s _Switzerland_.
[314] The Kühreihen--the celebrated _Ranz des Vaches_.
SWISS SONG,
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE.
[The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to celebrate the
anniversaries of their ancient battles with much solemnity; assembling
in the open air on the fields where their ancestors fought, to hear
thanksgivings offered up by the priests, and the names of all who
shared in the glory of the day enumerated. They afterwards walk in
procession to chapels, always erected in the vicinity of such scenes,
where masses are sung for the souls of the departed.--See Planta’s
_History of the Helvetic Confederacy_.]
Look on the white Alps round!
If yet they gird a land
Where Freedom’s voice and step are found,
Forget ye not the band,--
The faithful band, our sires, who fell
Here in the narrow battle-dell!
If yet, the wilds among,
Our silent hearts may burn,
When the deep mountain-horn hath rung,
And home our steps may turn,--
Home!--home!--if still that name be dear,
Praise to the men who perish’d here!
Look on the white Alps round!
Up to their shining snows
That day the stormy rolling sound,
The sound of battle, rose!
Their caves prolong’d the trumpet’s blast,
Their dark pines trembled as it pass’d!
They saw the princely crest,
They saw the knightly spear,
The banner and the mail-clad breast,
Borne down and trampled here!
They saw--and glorying there they stand,
Eternal records to the land!
Praise to the mountain-born,
The brethren of the glen!
By them no steel array was worn,
They stood as peasant-men!
They left the vineyard and the field,
To break an empire’s lance and shield!
Look on the white Alps round!
If yet, along their steeps,
Our children’s fearless feet may bound,
Free as the chamois leaps:
Teach them in song to bless the band
Amidst whose mossy graves we stand!
If, by the wood-fire’s blaze,
When winter stars gleam cold,
The glorious tales of elder days
May proudly yet be told,
Forget not then the shepherd race.
Who made the hearth a holy place!
Look on the white Alps round!
If yet the Sabbath-bell
Comes o’er them with a gladdening sound,
Think on the battle-dell!
For blood first bathed its flowery sod,
That chainless hearts might worship God!
THE MESSENGER BIRD.
[Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird
that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger
which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that it
brings them news from the other world.--See Picart’s _Ceremonies and
Religious Customs_.]
Thou art come from the spirits’ land, thou bird!
Thou art come from the spirits’ land:
Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard,
And tell of the shadowy band!
We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that summer shore;
And we know that the friends we have lost are there,
They are there--and they weep no more!
And we know they have quench’d their fever’s thirst
From the fountain of youth ere now,[315]
For _there_ must the stream in its freshness burst
Which none may find below!
And we know that they will not be lured to earth
From the land of deathless flowers,
By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth,
Though their hearts were once with ours:
Though they sat with us by the night-fire’s blaze,
And bent with us the bow,
And heard the tales of our fathers’ days,
Which are told to others now!
But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain!
Can those who have loved forget?
We call--and they answer not again:
Do they love--do they love us yet?
Doth the warrior think of his brother _there_,
And the father of his child?
And the chief of those that were wont to share
His wandering through the wild?
We call them far through the silent night,
And they speak not from cave or hill;
We know, thou bird! that their land is bright,
But say, do they love there still?[316]
[315] An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Ponce de Leon, in
the 16th century, with a view of discovering a wonderful fountain,
believed by the natives of Puerto Rico to spring in one of the Lucayo
Isles, and to possess the virtue of restoring youth to all who bathed
in its waters.--See Robertson’s _History of America_.
[316] ANSWER TO “THE MESSENGER BIRD.”
BY AN AMERICAN QUAKER LADY.
Yes! I came from the spirits’ land, From the land that is bright and
fair; I came with a voice from the shadowy band, To tell that they love
you there.
To say, if a wish or a vain regret Could live in Elysian bowers,
’Twould be for the friends they can ne’er forget, The beloved of their
youthful hours.
To whisper the dear deserted band, Who smiled on their tarriance here,
That a faithful guard in the dreamless land Are the friends they have
loved so dear.
’Tis true, in the silent night you call, And they answer you not again;
But the spirits of bliss are voiceless all-- Sound only was made for
pain.
That their land is bright and they weep no more, I have warbled from
hill to hill; But my plaintive strain should have told before, That
they love, oh! they love you still.
They bid me say that unfading flowers You’ll find in the path they
trode; And a welcome true to their deathless bowers, Pronounced by the
voice of God. 1827.
THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA.
[An early traveller mentions people on the banks of the Mississippi
who burst into tears at the sight of a stranger. The reason of this
is, that they fancy their deceased friends and relations to be only
gone on a journey, and, being in constant expectation of their return,
look for them vainly amongst these foreign travellers.--Picart’s
_Ceremonies and Religious Customs_.
“J’ai passé moi-même,” says Chateaubriand in his _Souvenirs
d’Amérique_, “chez une peuplade Indienne qui se prenait à pleurer à la
vue d’un voyageur, parce qu’il lui rappelait des amis partis pour la
Contrée des Ames, et depuis long-tems _en voyage_.”]
We saw thee, O stranger! and wept.
We look’d for the youth of the sunny glance
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance;
The light of his eye was a joy to see,
The path of his arrows a storm to flee.
But there came a voice from a distant shore--
He was call’d--he is found midst his tribe no more
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
But we look for him still--he will yet return!
His brother sat with a drooping brow
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough:
We roused him--we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step--but the step was thine!
We saw thee, O stranger! and wept.
We look’d for the maid of the mournful song--
Mournful, though sweet,--she hath left us long:
We told her the youth of her love was gone,
And she went forth to seek him--she pass’d alone.
We hear not her voice when the woods are still,
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill.
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled,
The winter is white on his lonely head:
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track,
He hath none when we rest--yet she comes not back!
We look’d for her eye on the feast to shine,
For her breezy step--but the step was thine!
We saw thee, O stranger! and wept.
We look’d for the chief, who hath left the spear
And the bow of his battles forgotten here:
We look’d for the hunter, whose bride’s lament
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent:
We look’d for the first-born, whose mother’s cry
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky!--
Where are they? Thou’rt seeking some distant coast:
Oh ask of them, stranger!--send back the lost!
Tell them we mourn by the dark-blue streams,
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams!
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine,
And to watch for a step--but the step was thine!
THE ISLE OF FOUNTS;
AN INDIAN TRADITION.
[“The river St Mary has its source from a vast lake or marsh, which
lies between Flint and Oakmulge rivers, and occupies a space of near
three hundred miles in circuit. This vast accumulation of waters, in
the wet season, appears as a lake, and contains some large islands
or knolls of rich high land; one of which the present generation of
the Creek Indians represent to be a most blissful spot of earth.
They say it is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, whose women
are incomparably beautiful. They also tell you that this terrestrial
paradise has been seen by some of their enterprising hunters, when in
pursuit of game; but that in their endeavours to approach it, they
were involved in perpetual labyrinths, and, like enchanted land,
still as they imagined they had just gained it, it seemed to fly
before them, alternately appearing and disappearing. They resolved,
at length, to leave the delusive pursuit, and to return; which, after
a number of difficulties, they effected. When they reported their
adventures to their countrymen, the young warriors were inflamed with
an irresistible desire to invade and make a conquest of so charming a
country; but all their attempts have hitherto proved abortive, never
having been able again to find that enchanting spot.”--Bertram’s
_Travels through North and South Carolina, &c._
The additional circumstances in the “Isle of Founts” are merely
imaginary.]
Son of the stranger! wouldst thou take
O’er yon blue hills thy lonely way,
To reach the still and shining lake
Along whose banks the west winds play?
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile--
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!
Lull but the mighty serpent-king,[317]
Midst the gray rocks, his old domain;
Ward but the cougar’s deadly spring,--
Thy step that lake’s green shore may gain;