The Poems of Felicia Hemans

That which hath left our home a darken’d place, Wanting the form, the smile, now veil’d with dust, The light departed with our loveliest face. Yet from thy bonds our sorrow’s hope is free-- We have but lent the beautiful to thee. But thou, O heaven! keep, keep what _thou_ hast taken, And with our treasure keep our hearts on high; The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken, The faith, the love, the lofty constancy-- Guide us where these are with our sister flown: They were of Thee, and thou hast claim’d thine own! THE SOUND OF THE SEA. Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea! For ever and the same; The ancient rocks yet ring to thee-- Those thunders naught can tame. Oh! many a glorious voice is gone From the rich bowers of earth, And hush’d is many a lovely one Of mournfulness or mirth. The Dorian flute that sigh’d of yore Along the wave, is still; The harp of Judah peals no more On Zion’s awful hill. And Memnon’s lyre hath lost the chord That breathed the mystic tone; And the songs at Rome’s high triumphs pour’d Are with her eagles flown. And mute the Moorish horn that rang O’er stream and mountain free; And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang Hath died in Galilee. But thou art swelling on, thou deep! Through many an olden clime, Thy billowy anthem, ne’er to sleep Until the close of time. Thou liftest up thy solemn voice To every wind and sky, And all our earth’s green shores rejoice In that one harmony. It fills the noontide’s calm profound, The sunset’s heaven of gold; And the still midnight hears the sound, Even as first it roll’d. Let there be silence, deep and strange, Where sceptred cities rose! _Thou_ speak’st of One who doth not change-- So. may our hearts repose. THE CHILD AND DOVE. SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY’S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA RUSSELL. Thou art a thing on our dreams to rise, Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies, And to fling bright dew from the morning back, Fair form! on each image of childhood’s track. Thou art a thing to recall the hours When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers, When a world was our own in some dim sweet grove, And treasure untold in one captive dove. Are they gone? can we think it, while _thou_ art there, Thou joyous child with the clustering hair? Is it not spring that indeed breathes free And fresh o’er each thought, while we gaze on thee? No! never more may we smile as thou Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow; Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine A memory of beauty undimm’d as thine-- To have met the joy of thy speaking face, To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace, To have linger’d before thee, and turn’d, and borne One vision away of the cloudless morn. A DIRGE. [The two first stanzas of this dirge may be found in the last scene of “The Siege of Valencia;” but they are more particularly worthy of the reader’s consideration, as having been selected for inscription on the tablet placed above the vault beneath St Ann’s Church, Dublin, where the remains of the author repose.] Calm on the bosom of thy God, Young spirit! rest thee now! Even while with us thy footstep trod, His seal was on thy brow. Dust, to its narrow house beneath! Soul, to its place on high!-- They that have seen thy look in death, No more may fear to die. Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, Whence thy meek smile is gone; But oh!--a brighter home than ours, In heaven, is now thine own. SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE. “Oh! fondly, fervently, those two had loved, Had mingled minds in Love’s own perfect trust; Had watch’d bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful years, ----And thus they met!” “Haste, with your torches, haste! make firelight round!”-- They speed, they press: what hath the miner found? Relic or treasure--giant sword of old? Gems bedded deep--rich veins of burning gold? --Not so--the dead, the dead! An awe-struck band In silence gathering round the silent stand, Chain’d by one feeling, hushing e’en their breath, Before the thing that, in the might of death, Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay-- A sleeper, dreaming not!--a youth with hair Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair!) O’er his cold brow: no shadow of decay Had touch’d those pale, bright features--yet he wore A mien of other days, a garb of yore. Who could unfold that mystery? From the throng A woman wildly broke; her eye was dim, As if through many tears, through vigils long, Through weary strainings:--all had been for him! Those two had loved! And there he lay, the dead, In his youth’s flower--and she, the living, stood With her gray hair, whence hue and gloss had fled-- And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood Had long since ebb’d--a meeting sad and strange! --Oh! are not meetings in this world of change Sadder than partings oft! She stood there, still, And mute, and gazing--all her soul to fill With the loved face once more--the young, fair face, Midst that rude cavern, touch’d with sculpture’s grace, By torchlight and by death: until at last From her deep heart the spirit of the past Gush’d in low broken tones:--“And there thou art! And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part As for a few brief hours! My friend, my friend! First love, and only one! Is this the end Of hope deferr’d, youth blighted! Yet thy brow Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek Smiles--how unchanged!--while I, the worn, and weak, And faded--oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now, If thou couldst look on me!--a wither’d leaf, Sear’d--though for thy sake--by the blast of grief! Better to see thee thus! For thou didst go Bearing my image on thy heart, I know, Unto the dead. My Ulric! through the night How have I call’d thee! With the morning light How have I watch’d for thee!--wept, wander’d, pray’d, Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay’d, In search of thee!--bound my worn life to one-- One torturing hope! Now let me die! ’Tis gone. Take thy betrothed!” And on his breast she fell, Oh! since their youth’s last passionate farewell, How changed in all but love!--the true, the strong, Joining in death whom life had parted long! They had one grave--one lonely bridal-bed, No friend, no kinsman there a tear to shed! _His_ name had ceased--_her_ heart outlived each tie, Once more to look on that dead face, and die! ENGLISH SOLDIERS SONG OF MEMORY. TO THE AIR OF “AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN!” Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, Let song and wine be pour’d! Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, Our brethren of the sword! Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices Have mingled with our own; Fill high the cup! but when the soul rejoices, Forget not who are gone. They that stood with us, midst the dead and dying, On Albuera’s plain; They that beside us cheerily track’d the flying, Far o’er the hills of Spain; They that amidst us, when the shells were showering From old Rodrigo’s wall, The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle towering, First, first at Victory’s call; They that upheld the banners, proudly waving, In Roncesvalles’ dell, With England’s blood the southern vineyards laving-- Forget not how they fell! Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, Let song and wine be pour’d! Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, Our brethren of the sword! HAUNTED GROUND. “And slight, withal, may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever--it may be a sound, A tone of music, summer eve, or spring, A flower--the wind--the ocean--which shall wound, Striking the electric train, wherewith we are darkly bound.” Byron. Yes, it _is_ haunted, this quiet scene, Fair as it looks, and all softly green; Yet fear not thou--for the spell is thrown, And the might of the shadow, on me alone. Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays, And spirits that dwell where the water plays? Oh! in the heart there are stronger powers, That sway, though viewless, this world of ours! Have I not lived midst these lonely dells, And loved, and sorrow’d, and heard farewells, And learn’d in my own deep soul to look, And tremble before that mysterious book? Have I not, under these whispering leaves, Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves? Shadows--yet unto which life seem’d bound; And is it not--is it not haunted ground? Must I not hear what _thou_ hearest not, Troubling the air of the sunny spot? Is there not something to rouse but me, Told by the rustling of every tree? Song hath been here, with its flow of thought; Love, with its passionate visions fraught; Death, breathing stillness and sadness round; And is it not--is it not haunted ground? Are there no phantoms, but such as come By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb? A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze, Can summon up mightier far than these! But I may not linger amidst them here! Lovely they are, and yet things to fear; Passing and leaving a weight behind, And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind. Away, away!--that my soul may soar As a free bird of blue skies once more! Here from its wing it may never cast The chain by those spirits brought back from the past. Doubt it not--smile not--but go thou, too, Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew-- Where thou hast pray’d at thy mother’s knee, Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free; Go thou, when life unto thee is changed, Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged; When from the idols thy heart hath made, Thou hast seen the colours of glory fade. Oh! painfully then, by the wind’s low sigh, By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup’s dye, By a thousand tokens of sight and sound, Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground. THE CHILD OF THE FORESTS. WRITTEN AFTER READING THE MEMOIRS OF JOHN HUNTER. [On one occasion, Mrs Hemans was somewhat ludicrously disenchanted, through the medium of a _North American Review_, on the subject of a self-constituted hero, whose history (which suggested her little poem, “The Child of the Forests”) she had read with unquestioning faith and lively interest. This was the redoubtable John Dunn Hunter, whose marvellous adventures amongst the Indians--by whom he represented himself to have been carried away in childhood--were worked up into a plausible narrative, admirably calculated to excite the sympathies of its readers. But how far it was really deserving of them, may be judged by the following extract from a letter to a friend who had been similarly mystified:--“I send you a _North American Review_, which will mortify C. and you with the sad intelligence that John Hunter--even our own John Dunn--the man of the panther’s skin--the