The Poems of Felicia Hemans
And the bright Isle, when all is pass’d,
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last!
Yes! there, with all its rainbow streams,
Clear as within thine arrow’s flight,
The Isle of Founts, the isle of dreams,
Floats on the wave in golden light;
And lovely will the shadows be
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee!
And breathings from their sunny flowers,
Which are not of the things that die,
And singing voices from their bowers,
Shall greet thee in the purple sky;
Soft voices, e’en like those that dwell
Far in the green reed’s hollow cell.
Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise
From the deep chambers of the earth?
The wild and wondrous melodies
To which the ancient rocks gave birth?[318]
Like that sweet song of hidden caves
Shall swell those wood-notes o’er the waves.
The emerald waves!--they take their hue
And image from that sun-bright shore;
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe,
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,--
Before thee, hadst thou morning’s speed,
The dreamy land should still recede!
Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear
The music of its flowering shades,
And ever should the sound be near
Of founts that ripple through its glades;
The sound, and sight, and flashing ray
Of joyous waters in their play!
But woe for him who sees them burst
With their bright spray-showers to the lake!
Earth has no spring to quench the thirst
That semblance in his soul shall wake,
For ever pouring through his dreams
The gush of those untasted streams!
Bright, bright in many a rocky urn,
The waters of our deserts lie,
Yet at their source his lip shall burn,
Parch’d with the fever’s agony!
From the blue mountains to the main,
Our thousand floods may roll in vain.
E’en thus our hunters came of yore
Back from their long and weary quest;--
Had they not seen th’ untrodden shore?
And could they midst our wilds find rest?
The lightning of their glance was fled,
They dwelt amongst us as the dead!
They lay beside our glittering rills
With visions in their darken’d eye;
Their joy was not amidst the hills
Where elk and deer before us fly:
Their spears upon the cedar hung,
Their javelins to the wind were flung.
They bent no more the forest bow,
They arm’d not with the warrior band,
The moons waned o’er them dim and slow--
They left us for the spirits’ land!
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap
Shows where the restless found their sleep.
Son of the stranger! if at eve
Silence be midst us in thy place,
Yet go not where the mighty leave
The strength of battle and of chase!
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile--
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!
[317] The Cherokees believe that the recesses of their mountains,
overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered with old mossy
rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs of rattlesnakes, whom
they denominate the “bright old inhabitants.” They represent them as
snakes of an enormous size, and which possess the power of drawing
to them every living creature that comes within the reach of their
eyes. Their heads are said to be crowned with a carbuncle of dazzling
brightness.--See _Notes to_ Leyden’s _Scenes of Infancy_.
[318] The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the South
American missionaries _Laxas de Musica_, and alluded to in a former
note.
THE BENDED BOW.
[It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in Britain by
sending messengers in different directions through the land, each
bearing a _bended bow_; and that peace was in like manner announced
by a bow unstrung, and therefore straight.--See the _Cambrian
Antiquities_.]
There was heard the sound of a coming foe,
There was sent through Britain a bended bow;
And a voice was pour’d on the free winds far,
As the land rose up at the sign of war.
“Heard you not the battle-horn?--
Reaper! leave thy golden corn:
Leave it for the birds of heaven--
Swords must flash and spears be riven!
Leave it for the winds to shed--
Arm! ere Britain’s turf grow red.”
And the reaper arm’d, like a freeman’s son;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.
“Hunter! leave the mountain-chase,
Take the falchion from its place;
Let the wolf go free to-day,
Leave him for a nobler prey;
Let the deer ungall’d sweep by--
Arm thee! Britain’s foes are nigh.”
And the hunter arm’d ere the chase was done;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.
“Chieftain! quit the joyous feast--
Stay not till the song hath ceased:
Though the mead be foaming bright,
Though the fires give ruddy light,
Leave the hearth, and leave the hall--
Arm thee! Britain’s foes must fall.”
And the chieftain arm’d, and the horn was blown;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.
“Prince! thy father’s deeds are told
In the bower and in the hold,
Where the goatherd’s lay is sung,
Where the minstrel’s harp is strung!
Foes are on thy native sea--
Give our bards a tale of thee!”
And the prince came arm’d, like a leader’s son;
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.
“Mother! stay thou not thy boy,
He must learn the battle’s joy:
Sister! bring the sword and spear,
Give thy brother words of cheer:
Maiden! bid thy lover part:
Britain calls the strong in heart!”
And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on;
And the bards made song for a battle won.
HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.
[It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son,
Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy,
he was never seen to smile.]
The bark that held a prince went down,
The sweeping waves roll’d on;
And what was England’s glorious crown
To him that wept a son?
He lived--for life may long be borne
Ere sorrow break its chain;
Why comes not death to those who mourn?
He never smiled again!
There stood proud forms around his throne,
The stately and the brave;
But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?
Before him pass’d the young and fair,
In pleasure’s reckless train;
But seas dash’d o’er his son’s bright hair--
He never smiled again!
He sat where festal bowls went round,
He heard the minstrel sing,
He saw the tourney’s victor crown’d
Amidst the knightly ring:
A murmur of the restless deep
Was blent with every strain,
A voice of winds that would not sleep--
He never smiled again!
Hearts, in that time, closed o’er the trace
Of vows once fondly pour’d,
And strangers took the kinsman’s place
At many a joyous board;
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Were left to heaven’s bright rain,
Fresh hopes were born for other years--
_He_ never smiled again!
CŒUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.
[The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church of
Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Cœur-de-Lion, who, on
beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly
reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the
means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.]
Torches were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier
In the church of Fontevraud.
Banners of battle o’er him hung,
And warriors slept beneath;
And light, as noon’s broad light, was flung
On the settled face of death.
On the settled face of death
A strong and ruddy glare,
Though dimm’d at times by the censer’s breath,
Yet it fell still brightest there:
As if each deeply furrow’d trace
Of earthly years to show.
Alas! that sceptred mortal’s race
Had surely closed in woe!
The marble floor was swept
By many a long dark stole,
As the kneeling priests round him that slept
Sang mass for the parted soul:
And solemn were the strains they pour’d
Through the stillness of the night,
With the cross above, and the crown and sword,
And the silent king in sight.
There was heard a heavy clang,
As of steel-girt men the tread,
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang
With a sounding thrill of dread;
And the holy chant was hush’d awhile,
As, by the torch’s flame,
A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle
With a mail-clad leader came.
He came with haughty look,
An eagle-glance and clear;
But his proud heart through its breastplate shook,
When he stood beside the bier!
He stood there still with a drooping brow,
And clasp’d hands o’er it raised;
For his father lay before him low--
It was Cœur-de-Lion gazed!
And silently he strove
With the workings of his breast;
But there’s more in late repentant love
Than steel may keep suppress’d!
And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain,--
Men held their breath in awe;
For his face was seen by his warrior train,
And he reck’d not that they saw.
He look’d upon the dead--
And sorrow seem’d to lie,
A weight of sorrow, even like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stoop’d--and kiss’d the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay;
Till bursting words--yet all too weak--
Gave his soul’s passion way.
“O father! is it vain,
This late remorse and deep?
Speak to me, father! once again:
I weep--behold, I weep!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire!--
Were but this work undone,
I would give England’s crown, my sire!
To hear thee bless thy son.
“Speak to me! Mighty grief
Ere now the dust hath stirr’d!
Hear me, but hear me!--father, chief,
My king! I _must_ be heard!
Hush’d, hush’d--how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?
When was it thus?----Woe, woe for all
The love my soul forgot!
“Thy silver hairs I see,
So still, so sadly bright!
And father, father! but for me,
They had not been so white!
_I_ bore thee down, high heart! at last:
No longer couldst thou strive.
Oh! for one moment of the past,
To kneel and say--‘forgive!’
“Thou wert the noblest king
On royal throne e’er seen;
And thou didst wear in knightly ring,
Of all, the stateliest mien;
And thou didst prove, where spears are proved,
In war, the bravest heart:
Oh! ever the renown’d and loved
Thou wert--and _there_ thou art!
“Thou that my boyhood’s guide
Didst take fond joy to be!--
The times I’ve sported at thy side,
And climb’d thy parent knee!
And there before the blessed shrine,
My sire! I see thee lie,--
How will that sad still face of thine
Look on me till I die!”
THE VASSAL’S LAMENT FOR THE FALLEN TREE.
[“Here (at Brereton in Cheshire) is one thing incredibly strange,
but attested, as I myself have heard, by many persons, and commonly