The Poems of Felicia Hemans

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young-- A fair-hair’d bride the Funeral Chant amidst her weeping sung:-- “Ianthis! look’st thou not on _me_? Can love indeed be fled? When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head? I would that I had follow’d thee, Ianthis, my beloved! And stood as woman oft hath stood where faithful hearts are proved; That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at thy side!-- It would have been a blessed thing together had we died! “But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword? Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board? Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the vine, Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine? And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart Fast gushing, like a mountain-spring! And couldst thou thus depart? Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath?-- Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death! “Yes! I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings was led, And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was spread; But not where noble blood flow’d forth, where sounding javelins flew-- Why did I hear love’s first sweet words, and not its last adieu? What now can breathe of gladness more,--what scene, what hour, what tone? The blue skies fade with all their lights; they fade, since thou art gone! Even _that_ must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved: Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis! my beloved!” A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young-- Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful sister sung:-- “Ianthis! brother of my soul!--oh! where are now the days That laugh’d among the deep-green hills, on all our infant plays? When we two sported by the streams, or track’d them to their source, And like a stag’s, the rocks along, was thy fleet, fearless course!-- I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend, But see thy bounding step no more--my brother and my friend! “I come with flowers--for spring is come! Ianthis! art thou _here_? I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy bier. Thou shouldst be crown’d with victory’s crown--but oh! more meet _they_ seem, The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream-- More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early low. Alas! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine’s glow-- The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy to send: Woe! that it smiles, and not for thee!--my brother and my friend!” GREEK PARTING SONG. [This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel, in his “Chansons Populaires de la Grèce Moderne,” and accompanied by some very interesting particulars respecting the extempore parting songs, or songs of expatriation, as he informs us they are called, in which the modern Greeks are accustomed to pour forth their feelings on bidding farewell to their country and friends.] A Youth went forth to exile, from a home Such as to early thought gives images, The longest treasured, and most oft recall’d, And brightest kept, of love;--a mountain-home, That, with the murmur of its rocking pines, And sounding waters, first in childhood’s heart Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy, And half-unconscious prayer;--a Grecian home, With the transparence of blue skies o’erhung, And, through the dimness of its olive shades, Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam Of shining pillars from the fanes of old. And this was what he left! Yet many leave Far more--the glistening eye, that first from theirs Call’d out the soul’s bright smile; the gentle hand, Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps To where the violets lay; the tender voice That earliest taught them what deep melody Lives in affection’s tones. _He_ left not these. Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part With all a mother’s love! A bitterer grief Was his--to part _unloved_!--of her unloved That should have breathed upon his heart like spring, Fostering its young faint flowers! Yet had he friends, And they went forth to cheer him on his way Unto the parting spot; and she too went, That mother, tearless for her youngest-born. The parting spot was reach’d--a lone deep glen, Holy, perchance, of yore; for cave and fount Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes; and above, The silence of the blue still upper heaven Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore Their crowning snows. Upon a rock he sprung, The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze Through the wild laurels back; but then a light Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye, A sudden quivering light, and from his lips A burst of passionate song. “Farewell, farewell! I hear thee, O thou rushing stream!--thou’rt from my native dell, Thou’rt bearing thence a mournful sound--a murmur of farewell! And fare _thee_ well--flow on, my stream!--flow on, thou bright and free! I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me; But I have been a thing unloved from childhood’s loving years, And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears! The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known: The woods can tell where _he_ hath wept, that ever wept alone! “I see thee once again, my home! thou’rt there amidst thy vines, And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer shines. It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through thy groves-- The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves. The hour _the mother_ loves!--for _me_ beloved it hath not been; Yet ever in its purple smile, _thou_ smilest, a blessed scene! Whose quiet beauty o’er my soul through distant years will come-- Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home? “Not as the dead!--no, not the dead! We speak of _them_--we keep _Their_ names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep: We hallow even the lyre they touch’d, we love the lay they sung, We pass with softer step the place _they_ fill’d our band among! But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth! I go!--the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell When mine is a forgotten voice. Woods, mountains, home, farewell! “And farewell, mother! I have borne in lonely silence long, But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong; And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the sky, And but the dark, deep-rustling pines and rolling streams reply. Yes! I will speak! Within my breast, whate’er hath seem’d to be, There lay a hidden fount of love that would have gush’d for thee! Brightly it would have gush’d--but thou, my mother! thou hast thrown Back on the forests and the wilds, what should have been thine own! “Then fare thee well! I leave thee not in loneliness to pine, Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow than mine. Forgive me that thou couldst not love!--it may be that a tone Yet from my burning heart may pierce through thine, when I am gone; And thou, perchance, mayst weep for him on whom thou ne’er hast smiled, And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected child! Might but my spirit _then_ return, and midst its kindred dwell, And quench its thirst with love’s free tears! ’Tis all a dream--farewell!” “Farewell!”--the echo died with that deep word; Yet died not so the late repentant pang By the strain quicken’d in the mother’s breast! There had pass’d many changes o’er her brow, And cheek, and eye; but into one bright flood Of tears at last all melted; and she fell On the glad bosom of her child, and cried, “Return, return, my son!” The echo caught A lovelier sound than song, and woke again, Murmuring, “Return, my son!” THE SULIOTE MOTHER. [It is related, in a French life of Ali Pasha, that several of the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troops into the mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, and, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves, with their children, into the chasm below, to avoid becoming the slaves of the enemy.] She stood upon the loftiest peak, Amidst the clear blue sky; A bitter smile was on her cheek, And a dark flash in her eye. “Dost thou see them, boy?--through the dusky pines Dost thou see where the foeman’s armour shines? Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror’s crest? My babe, that I cradled on my breast! Wouldst thou spring from thy mother’s arms with joy? --That sight hath cost thee a father, boy!” For in the rocky strait beneath, Lay Suliote sire and son: They had heap’d high the piles of death Before the pass was won. “They have cross’d the torrent, and on they come: Woe for the mountain hearth and home! There, where the hunter laid by his spear, There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear, There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep, Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!” And now the horn’s loud blast was heard, And now the cymbal’s clang, Till even the upper air was stirr’d, As cliff and hollow rang. “Hark! they bring music, my joyous child! What saith the trumpet to Suli’s wild? Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire, As if at a glance of thine armèd sire? Still!--be thou still!--there are brave men low: Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now!” But nearer came the clash of steel, And louder swell’d the horn, And farther yet the tambour’s peal Through the dark pass was borne. “Hear’st thou the sound of their savage mirth? Boy! thou wert free when I gave thee birth,-- Free, and how cherish’d, my warrior’s son! He too hath bless’d thee, as I have done! Ay, and unchain’d must his loved ones be-- Freedom, young Suliote! for thee and me!” And from the arrowy peak she sprung, And fast the fair child bore:-- A veil upon the wind was flung, A cry--and all was o’er! THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. [The following piece is founded on a beautiful part of the Greek funeral service, in which relatives and friends are invited to embrace the deceased (whose face is uncovered) and to bid their final adieu.--See _Christian Researches in the Mediterranean_.] “’Tis hard to lay into the earth A countenance so benign! a form that walk’d But yesterday so stately o’er the earth!” Wilson. Come near! Ere yet the dust Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, Look on your brother; and embrace him now, In still and solemn trust! Come near!--once more let kindred lips be press’d On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest! Look yet on this young face! What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, Leave of its image, even where most it shone, Gladdening its hearth and race? Dim grows the semblance on man’s heart impress’d.