The Poems of Felicia Hemans
believed. Before any heir of this family dies, there are seen, in a
lake adjoining, the bodies of trees swimming on the water for several
days.”--Camden’s _Britannia_.]
Yes! I have seen the ancient oak
On the dark deep water cast,
And it was not fell’d by the woodman’s stroke,
Or the rush of the sweeping blast;
For the axe might never touch that tree,
And the air was still as a summer sea.
I saw it fall, as falls a chief
By an arrow in the fight,
And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf,
At the crashing of its might;
And the startled deer to their coverts drew,
And the spray of the lake as a fountain’s flew!
’Tis fallen! But think thou not I weep
For the forest’s pride o’erthrown--
An old man’s tears lie far too deep
To be pour’d for this alone;
But by that sign too well I know
That a youthful head must soon be low!
A youthful head, with its shining hair,
And its bright quick-flashing eye;
Well may I weep! for the boy is fair,
Too fair a thing to die!
But on his brow the mark is set--
Oh! could _my_ life redeem him yet!
He bounded by me as I gazed
Alone on the fatal sign,
And it seem’d like sunshine when he raised
His joyous glance to mine.
With a stag’s fleet step he bounded by,
So full of life--but he must die!
He must, he must! in that deep dell,
By that dark water’s side,
’Tis known that ne’er a proud tree fell
But an heir of his fathers died.
And he--there’s laughter in his eye,
Joy in his voice--yet he must die!
I’ve borne him in these arms, that now
Are nerveless and unstrung;
And must I see, on that fair brow,
The dust untimely flung?
I must!--yon green oak, branch and crest,
Lies floating on the dark lake’s breast!
The noble boy!--how proudly sprung
The falcon from his hand!
It seem’d like youth to see _him_ young,
A flower in his father’s land!
But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh,
For the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die.
Say not ’tis vain! I tell thee, some
Are warn’d by a meteor’s light,
Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them home,
Or a voice on the winds by night;
And they must go! And he too, he!--
Woe for the fall of the glorious Tree!
THE WILD HUNTSMAN.
[It is a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the passing of the Wild
Huntsman announces the approach of war. He is supposed to issue with
his train from the ruined castle of Rodenstein, and traverse the air
to the opposite castle of Schnellerts. It is confidently asserted,
that the sound of his phantom horses and hounds was heard by the Duke
of Baden before the commencement of the last war in Germany.]
Thy rest was deep at the slumberer’s hour,
If thou didst not hear the blast
Of the savage horn from the mountain-tower,
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d,
And the roar of the stormy chase went by
Through the dark unquiet sky!
The stag sprang up from his mossy bed
When he caught the piercing sounds,
And the oak-boughs crash’d to his antler’d head,
As he flew from the viewless hounds;
And the falcon soar’d from her craggy height,
Away through the rushing night!
The banner shook on its ancient hold,
And the pine in its desert place,
As the cloud and tempest onward roll’d
With the din of the trampling race;
And the glens were fill’d with the laugh and shout,
And the bugle, ringing out!
From the chieftain’s hand the wine-cup fell,
At the castle’s festive board,
And a sudden pause came o’er the swell
Of the harp’s triumphal chord;
And the Minnesinger’s[319] thrilling lay
In the hall died fast away.
The convent’s chanted rite was stay’d,
And the hermit dropp’d his beads,
And a trembling ran through the forest-shade,
At the neigh of the phantom steeds,
And the church-bells peal’d to the rocking blast
As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d.
The storm hath swept with the chase away,
There is stillness in the sky;
But the mother looks on her son to-day
With a troubled heart and eye,
And the maiden’s brow hath a shade of care
Midst the gleam of her golden hair!
The Rhine flows bright; but its waves ere long
Must hear a voice of war,
And a clash of spears our hills among,
And a trumpet from afar;
And the brave on a bloody turf must lie--
For the Huntsman hath gone by!
[319] Minnesinger, _love-singer_--the wandering minstrels of Germany
were so called in the middle ages.
BRANDENBURG HARVEST-SONG.[320]
FROM THE GERMAN OF LA MOTTE FOUQUE.
The corn in golden light
Waves o’er the plain;
The sickle’s gleam is bright;
Full swells the grain.
Now send we far around
Our harvest lay!--
Alas! a heavier sound
Comes o’er the day!
Earth shrouds with burial sod
Her soft eyes blue,--
Now o’er the gifts of God
Fall tears like dew!
On every breeze a knell
The hamlets pour:
We know its cause too well--
_She is no more_!
[320] For the year of the Queen of Prussia’s death.
THE SHADE OF THESEUS.
AN ANCIENT GREEK TRADITION.
Know ye not when our dead
From sleep to battle sprung?--
When the Persian charger’s tread
On their covering greensward rung;
When the trampling march of foes
Had crush’d our vines and flowers,
When jewel’d crests arose
Through the holy laurel bowers;
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
There was one, a leader crown’d,
And arm’d for Greece that day;
But the falchions made no sound
On his gleaming war-array.
In the battle’s front he stood,
With his tall and shadowy crest;
But the arrows drew no blood,
Though their path was through his breast.
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
His sword was seen to flash
Where the boldest deeds were done;
But it smote without a clash--
The stroke was heard by none!
His voice was not of those
That swell’d the rolling blast,
And his steps fell hush’d like snows--
’Twas the Shade of Theseus pass’d!
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
Far sweeping through the foe,
With a fiery charge he bore;
And the Mede left many a bow
On the sounding ocean-shore.
And the foaming waves grew red,
And the sails were crowded fast,
When the sons of Asia fled,
As the Shade of Theseus pass’d!
When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.
ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE.
Where is the summer with her golden sun?--
That festal glory hath not pass’d from earth:
For me alone the laughing day is done!
Where is the summer with her voice of mirth?
--Far in my own bright land?
Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die
On the green hills?--the founts, from sparry caves
Through the wild places bearing melody?--
The reeds, low whispering o’er the river waves?
--Far in my own bright land!
Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining,
The virgin dances, and the choral strains?
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining
The spring’s first roses for their sylvan fanes?
--Far in my own bright land!
Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs,
The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades?
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs,
And the pine forests, and the olive shades?
--Far in my own bright land!
Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers,
The Dryad’s footsteps, and the minstrel’s dreams?--
Oh, that my life were as a southern flower’s!--
I might not languish then by these chill streams,
Far from my own bright land!
GREEK FUNERAL CHANT, OR MYRIOLOGUE.
[“Les Chants Funèbres par lesquels on déplore en Grèce la mort de ses
proches, prennent le nom particulier de Myriologia--comme qui dirait,
Discours de lamentation, complaintes. Un malade vient-il de rendre
le dernier soupir, sa femme, sa mère, ses filles, ses sœurs, celles,
en un mot, de ses plus proches parentes qui sont là, lui ferment les
yeux et la bouche, en épanchant librement, chacune selon son naturel
et sa mesure de tendresse pour le défunt, la douleur qu’elle ressent
de sa perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirent toutes
chez une de leurs parentes ou de leurs amies. Là elles changent de
vêtemens, s’habillent de blanc, comme pour la cérémonie nuptiale,
avec cette différence, qu’elles gardent la tête nue, les cheveux
épars et pendants. Ces apprêts terminés, les parentes reviennent
dans leur parure de deuil; toutes se rangent en cercle autour du
mort, et leur douleur s’exhale de nouveau, et comme la première
fois, sans règle et sans contrainte. A ces plaintes spontanées
succèdent bientôt des lamentations d’une autre espèce: ce sont les
_Myriologues_. Ordinairement c’est la plus proche parente qui prononce
le sien la première; après elle les autres parentes, les amies, les
simples voisines. Les Myriologues sont toujours composés et chantés
par les femmes. Ils sont toujours improvisés, toujours en vers, et
toujours chantés sur un air qui diffère d’un lieu à un autre, mais
qui, dans un lieu donné, reste invariablement consacré à ce genre de
poésie.”--_Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne, par_ C. Fauriel.]
A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young--
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung:--
“Ianthis! dost thou sleep? Thou sleep’st--but this is not the rest,
The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillow’d on my breast:
I lull’d thee not to _this_ repose, Ianthis! my sweet son!
As, in thy glowing childhood’s time, by twilight I have done.
How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee now?
And that I die not, seeking death on thy pale glorious brow?
“I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave!
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave.
Though mournfully thy smile is fix’d, and heavily thine eye
Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie;
And fast is bound the springing step, that seem’d on breezes borne,
When to thy couch I came and said,--‘Wake, hunter, wake! ’tis morn!’
Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouch’d by slow decay,--
And I, the wither’d stem, remain. I would that grief might slay!
“Oh! ever, when I met thy look, I knew that _this_ would be!
I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee!
I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high;--
A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou must die!
That thou must die, my fearless one! where swords were flashing
red.--
Why doth a mother live to say--My first-born and my dead!
They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won:
Speak _thou_, and I will hear, my child! Ianthis! my sweet son!”