The Poems of Felicia Hemans
authoress cannot be said to have commenced before the publication of
the section which immediately follows.
In a very general point of view, the intellectual history of Mrs
Hemans’ mind may be divided into two distinct and separate eras--the
first of which may be termed the _classical_, and comprehends the
productions of her pen, from “The Restoration of the Works of Art to
Italy,” and “Modern Greece,” down to the “Historical Scenes,” and
the “Translations from Camoens;” and the last, the _romantic_, which
commences with “The Forest Sanctuary,” and includes “The Records of
Woman,” together with nearly all her later efforts. In regard to
excellence, there can be little doubt that the last section as far
transcends the first as that does the merely Juvenile Poems now given,
and which certainly appear to us to exhibit occasional scintillations
of the brightness which followed. Even after the early poetical
attempts of Cowley and Pope, of Chatterton, Kirke White, and Byron,
these immature outpourings of sentiment and description may be read
with an interest which diminishes not by comparison.]
THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY.
[“The French, who in every invasion have been the scourge of Italy,
and have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapacity of the Goths and
Vandals, laid their sacrilegious hands on the unparalleled collection
of the Vatican, tore its masterpieces from their pedestals, and,
dragging them from their temples of marble, transported them to Paris,
and consigned them to the dull sullen halls, or rather stables, of
the Louvre.... But the joy of discovery was short, and the triumph of
taste transitory.”--Eustace’s _Classical Tour through Italy_, vol. ii.
p. 60.]
“Italia, Italia! O tu cui die la sorte
Dono infelice di bellezza, ond’ hai
Funesta dote d’infiniti guai,
Che’n fronte scritte per gran doglia porte;
Deh, fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte.”
Filicaja.
Land of departed fame! whose classic plains
Have proudly echo’d to immortal strains;
Whose hallow’d soil hath given the great and brave,
Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave;
Home of the Arts! where glory’s faded smile
Sheds lingering light o’er many a mouldering pile;
Proud wreck of vanish’d power, of splendour fled,
Majestic temple of the mighty dead!
Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay,
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day;
Though dimm’d thy brightness, riveted thy chain,
Yet, fallen Italy! rejoice again!
Lost, lovely realm! once more ’tis thine to gaze
On the rich relics of sublimer days.
Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades,
Or sacred Tivoli’s romantic glades;
Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom
Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil’s tomb;
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga’s lonely wave,
Swell’d the deep echoes of the fountain’s cave,
Or thrill’d the soul in Tasso’s numbers high--
Those magic strains of love and chivalry!
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove,
Haunting the myrtle vale, the laurel grove,
Oh! rouse once more the daring soul of song,
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long,
And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered,
Hallow’d by time, by absence more endear’d.
And breathe to Those the strain, whose warrior-might
Each danger stemm’d, prevail’d in every fight--
Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured,
Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured.
Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant mind
Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind;
Whose banners track’d the vanquish’d Eagle’s flight
O’er many a plain, and dark sierra’s height;
Who bade once more the wild heroic lay
Record the deeds of Roncesvalles’ day;
Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and snow,
An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck foe;
Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales,
Rich Languedoc! that fan thy glowing vales,
And ’midst those scenes renew’d th’ achievements high
Bequeath’d to fame by England’s ancestry.
Yet, when the storm seem’d hush’d, the conflict past,
One strife remain’d--the mightest and the last!
Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour
Untamed Ambition summon’d all his power:
Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were there,
And the stern might of resolute Despair.
Isle of the free! ’twas then thy champions stood,
Breasting unmoved the combat’s wildest flood;
Sunbeam of battle! then thy spirit shone,
Glow’d in each breast, and sunk with life alone.
O hearts devoted! whose illustrious doom
Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb,
Ye firm and faithful, in the ordeal tried
Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified;
Shrined, not entomb’d, ye rest in sacred earth,
Hallow’d by deeds of more than mortal worth.
What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust,
No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust,
Yours, on the scene where valour’s race was run,
A prouder sepulchre--the field ye won!
There every mead, each cabin’s lowly name,
Shall live a watchword blended with your fame;
And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown
That ask no urn to blazon their renown!
There shall the bard in future ages tread,
And bless each wreath that blossoms o’er the dead;
Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave
O’er the low mounds, the altars of the brave!
Pause o’er each warrior’s grass-grown bed, and hear
In every breeze some name to glory dear;
And as the shades of twilight close around,
With martial pageants people all the ground.
Thither unborn descendants of the slain
Still throng as pilgrims to the holy fane,
While as they trace each spot, whose records tell
Where fought their fathers, and prevail’d, and fell,
Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow,
Claiming proud kindred with the dust below!
And many an age shall see the brave repair
To learn the Hero’s bright devotion there.
And well, Ausonia! may that field of fame,
From thee one song of echoing triumph claim.
Land of the lyre! ’twas there th’ avenging sword
Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored;
Those precious trophies o’er thy realms that throw
A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe,
And bid the stranger for awhile forget
How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet.
Yes, fair creations! to perfection wrought,
Embodied visions of ascending thought!
Forms of sublimity! by Genius traced
In tints that vindicate adoring taste!
Whose bright originals, to earth unknown,
Live in the spheres encircling glory’s throne;
Models of art, to deathless fame consign’d,
Stamp’d with the high-born majesty of mind;
Yes, matchless works! your presence shall restore
One beam of splendour to your native shore,
And her sad scenes of lost renown illume,
As the bright sunset gilds some hero’s tomb.
Oh! ne’er, in other climes, though many an eye
Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasy--
Ne’er was it yours to bid the soul expand
With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand,
As in that realm, where each faint breeze’s moan
Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone;
Where midst the ruin’d shrines of many a vale,
E’en Desolation tells a haughty tale,
And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends,
But its proud name with song eternal blends!
Yes! in those scenes where every ancient stream
Bids memory kindle o’er some lofty theme;
Where every marble deeds of fame records,
Each ruin tells of Earth’s departed lords;
And the deep tones of inspiration swell
From each wild olive-wood, and Alpine dell;
Where heroes slumber on their battle plains,
Midst prostrate altars and deserted fanes,
And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot,
With shades of those who ne’er shall be forgot;
_There_ was your home, and there your power imprest,
With tenfold awe, the pilgrim’s glowing breast;
And, as the wind’s deep thrills and mystic sighs
Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies,
Thus at your influence, starting from repose,
Thought Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose.
Fair Florence! queen of Arno’s lovely vale!
Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale,
And sternly smiled, in retribution’s hour,
To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler’s power.
Too long the spirits of thy noble dead
Mourn’d o’er the domes they rear’d in ages fled.
Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced,
Temples of genius, palaces of taste,
Too long, with sad and desolated mien,
Reveal’d where Conquest’s lawless track had been;
Reft of each form with brighter light imbued,
Lonely they frown’d, a desert solitude.
Florence! th’ Oppressor’s noon of pride is o’er,
Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more!
As one who, starting at the dawn of day
From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay,
With transport heighten’d by those ills of night,
Hails the rich glories of expanding light;
E’en thus, awakening from thy dream of woe,
While heaven’s own hues in radiance round thee glow,
With warmer ecstasy ’tis thine to trace
Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace;
More bright, more prized, more precious, since deplored
As loved lost relics, ne’er to be restored--
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed
By fond affection bending o’er the dead.
Athens of Italy! once more are thine
Those matchless gems of Art’s exhaustless mine.
For thee bright Genius darts his living beam,
Warm o’er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream,
And forms august as natives of the sky
Rise round each fane in faultless majesty--
So chastely perfect, so serenely grand,
They seem creations of no mortal hand.
Ye at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance,
Burst in full splendour from her deathlike trance--
Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake,
And daring Intellect his bondage break--
Beneath whose eye the lords of song arose,
And snatch’d the Tuscan lyre from long repose,
And bade its pealing energies resound
With power electric through the realms around;
O high in thought, magnificent in soul!
Born to inspire, enlighten, and control;
Cosmo, Lorenzo! view your reign once more,
The shrine where nations mingle to adore!
Again th’ enthusiast there, with ardent gaze,
Shall hail the mighty of departed days:
Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind
Seems in the marble’s breathing mould enshrined;
Still with ascendant power the world to awe,
Still the deep homage of the heart to draw;
To breathe some spell of holiness around,
Bid all the scene be consecrated ground,
And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought,
Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought.
There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind!
Love’s radiant goddess, idol of mankind!
Once the bright object of Devotion’s vow,
Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now.
Oh! who can tell what beams of heavenly light
Flash’d o’er the sculptor’s intellectual sight,
How many a glimpse, reveal’d to him alone,
Made brighter beings, nobler worlds, his own;
Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless,
Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness!
Young Genius there, while dwells his kindling eye
On forms instinct with bright divinity,