The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest!
Ye weep, and it is well!
For tears befit earth’s partings! Yesterday,
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay,
And sunshine seem’d to dwell
Where’er he moved--the welcome and the bless’d.
Now gaze! and bear the silent unto rest!
Look yet on him whose eye
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth.
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth,
The beings born to die?--
But not where death has power may love be bless’d.
Come near! and bear ye the beloved to rest!
How may the mother’s heart
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again?
The spring’s rich promise hath been given in vain--
The lovely must depart!
Is _he_ not gone, our brightest and our best?
Come near! and bear the early-call’d to rest!
Look on him! Is he laid
To slumber from the harvest or the chase?--
Too still and sad the smile upon his face;
Yet that, even that must fade:
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest.
Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest!
His voice of mirth hath ceased
Amidst the vineyards! there is left no place
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace,
At the gay bridal-feast!
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast.
Come near! weep o’er him! bear him to his rest.
Yet mourn ye not as they
Whose spirits’ light is quench’d! For him the past
Is seal’d: he may not fall, he may not cast
His birthright’s hope away!
All is not _here_ of our beloved and bless’d.
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest!
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
I GO, SWEET FRIENDS!
I go, sweet friends! yet think of me
When spring’s young voice awakes the flowers;
For we have wander’d far and free
In those bright hours, the violet’s hours.
I go; but when you pause to hear,
From distant hills, the Sabbath-bell
On summer-winds float silvery clear,
Think on me then--I loved it well!
Forget me not around your hearth,
When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze;
For dear hath been its evening mirth
To me, sweet friends, in other days.
And oh! when music’s voice is heard
To melt in strains of parting woe,
When hearts to love and grief are stirr’d,
Think of me then!--I go, I go!
ANGEL VISITS.
“No more of talk where God or angel guest
With man, as with his friend, familiar used
To sit indulgent and with him partake
Rural repast.” Milton.
Are ye for ever to your skies departed?
Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more?
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted
Through Eden’s fresh and flowering shades of yore!
Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot,
And ye--our faded earth beholds you not.
Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken,
Man wander’d from his Paradise away;
Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken,
Came down, high guests! in many a later day,
And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak,
Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke.
From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending,
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper’s eye,
That saw your hosts ascending and descending
On those bright steps between the earth and sky:
Trembling he woke, and bow’d o’er glory’s trace,
And worshipp’d awe-struck, in that fearful place.
By Chebar’s[321] brook ye pass’d, such radiance wearing
As mortal vision might but ill endure;
Along the stream the living chariot bearing,
With its high crystal arch, intensely pure;
And, the dread rushing of your wings that hour
Was like the noise of waters in their power.
But in the Olive Mount, by night appearing,
Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done.
Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering,
Fraught with the breath of God to aid his Son?
--Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains,
Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains.
Yet one more task was Yours! your heavenly dwelling,
Ye left, and by th’ unseal’d sepulchral stone,
In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling,
That _He_ they sought had triumph’d and was gone.
Now have ye left us for the brighter shore;
Your presence lights the lonely groves no more.
But may ye not, unseen, around us hover,
With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet.
Though the fresh glory of those days be over,
When, midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met?
Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high,
When love, by strength, o’ermasters agony?
Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining,
Yields up life’s treasures unto Him who gave?
When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning,
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave?
Dreams! But a deeper thought our souls may fill:
One, One is near--a spirit holier still!
[321] Ezekiel, chap. x.
IVY SONG.
WRITTEN ON RECEIVING SOME IVY-LEAVES GATHERED FROM THE RUINED CASTLE OF
RHEINFELS, ON THE RHINE.
Oh! how could Fancy crown with _thee_
In ancient days the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine?
_Thy_ home, wild plant! is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o’er,
Where song’s full notes once peal’d around,
But now are heard no more.
The Roman on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee with exulting strains
Around the victor’s tent:
Yet there, though fresh in glossy green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor’s grave.
Where sleeps the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past;
Where, through the halls of glory gone,
Murmurs the wintry blast;
Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair;
Thou, in thy solitary grace,
Wreath of the tomb! art there.
Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath a blue Italian sky,
Hath naught of beauty left by time,
Save thy wild tapestry!
And, rear’d midst crags and clouds, ’tis thine
To wave where banners waved of yore,
O’er towers that crest the noble Rhine,
Along his rocky shore.
High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish’d race--
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath pass’d, and left no trace.
But there thou art!--thy foliage bright
Unchanged the mountain storm can brave;
Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or deck the humblest grave!
’Tis still the same! Where’er we tread,
The wrecks of human power we see--
The marvels of all ages fled
Left to decay and thee!
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, grace, and strength;
Days pass--thou ivy never sere![322]--
And all is thine at length!
[322] “Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”--Lycidas.
TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR’S CHILDREN ON HIS BIRTHDAY.
Where sucks the bee now? Summer is flying,
Leaves round the elm-tree faded are lying;
Violets are gone from their grassy dell,
With the cowslip cups, where the fairies dwell;
The rose from the garden hath pass’d away--
Yet happy, fair boy, is thy natal day!
For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled
Ever around thee, my gentle child!
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed,
And pouring out joy on thy sunny head.
Roses may vanish, but _this_ will stay--
Happy and bright is thy natal day!
ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.
Thou wakest from rosy sleep, to play
With bounding heart, my boy!
Before thee lies a long bright day
Of summer and of joy.
Thou hast no heavy thought or dream
To cloud thy fearless eye:
Long be it thus!--life’s early stream
Should still reflect the sky.
Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim
On thy young spirit’s wings,
Now in thy mom forget not Him
From whom each pure thought springs.
So, in the onward vale of tears,
Where’er thy path may be,
When strength hath bow’d to evil years,
_He_ will remember thee!
CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.
Fear was within the tossing bark
When stormy winds grew loud,
And waves came rolling high and dark,
And the tall mast was bow’d.
And men stood breathless in their dread,
And baffled in their skill;
But One was there, who rose and said
To the wild sea--_Be still!_
And the wind ceased--it ceased! that word
Pass’d through the gloomy sky:
The troubled billows knew their Lord,
And fell beneath His eye.
And slumber settled on the deep,
And silence on the blast;
They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep
When sultry day is past.
O Thou! that in its wildest hour
Didst rule the tempest’s mood,
Send thy meek spirit forth in power,
Soft on our souls to brood!
Thou that didst bow the billow’s pride
Thy mandate to fulfil!
Oh, speak to passion’s raging tide,
Speak, and say, “_Peace, be still!_”
EPITAPH
OVER THE GRAVE OF TWO BROTHERS, A CHILD AND A YOUTH.
[Amongst the numerous friends Mrs Hemans was fortunate enough to
possess in Scotland, there was one to whom she was linked by so
peculiar a bond of union, and whose unwearied kindness is so precious
an inheritance to her children, that it is hoped the owner of a name
so dear to them, (though it be a part of her nature to shrink from
publicity,) will forgive its being introduced into these pages.
This invaluable friend was Lady Wedderburn,[323] the mother of those
“two brothers, a child and a youth,” for whose monument Mrs Hemans had
written an inscription, which, with its simple pathos, has doubtless
sunk deep into the heart of many a mourner, as well as of many a yet
rejoicing parent, there called upon to remember that for them, too,
“Speaks the grave,
Where God hath seal’d the fount of hope He gave.”
Into the gentle heart, which has found relief for its own sorrows in
soothing the griefs and promoting the enjoyments of others, the author
of this sacred tribute was taken with a warmth and loving-kindness
which extended its genial influence to all belonging to her;
and during their stay in Edinburgh, whither they proceeded from
Abbotsford, Mrs Hemans and her children were cherished with a true
home welcome at the house of Sir David Wedderburn.--_Memoir_, p. 192.]
Thou, that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy,
And hear his prayer’s low murmur at thy knee,
And o’er his slumber bend in breathless joy,
Come to this tomb!--it hath a voice for thee!
Pray! Thou art blest--ask strength for sorrow’s hour:
Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken flower.
Thou that art gathering from the smile of youth
Thy thousand hopes, rejoicing to behold
All the heart’s depths before thee bright with truth,
All the mind’s treasures silently unfold,
Look on this tomb!--for thee, too, speaks the grave,
Where God hath seal’d the fount of hope He gave.
[323] The lady of Sir David Wedderburn, Bart., and sister of the late
Viscountess Hampden. The monument on which the lines are inscribed, is
at Glynde, in Sussex, near Lord Hampden’s seat. This excellent lady
only survived Mrs Hemans a few years.
MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION.
Earth! guard what here we lay in holy trust,