The Poems of Felicia Hemans
execution, for wealth of thought, felicity of diction, and commanding
address:--The Ocean summoned to give an account of all that it has
been doing through six thousand years, and the answers dictated by
the questioner, till all the secrets of the abyss are revealed in the
light by which poetry alone, of the purest order, can discover them.
The last stanza is a crown of glory to the perfect whole.”
We beg to remind the author of “The World before the Flood,” and “The
Pelican Island,” that the lectures to which he alludes have never been
published. They were flatteringly successful, both when delivered at
the Royal Institution, and before the literary societies of several of
the principal provincial towns of England; and could not fail being
acceptable to the great reading public, as the recorded opinions
concerning the leading poets of Great Britain of past and present
times, deliberately formed by one of their own number, who has himself
written so much and so well, and who, in popularity as a lyrist, has
no superior among contemporaries.]
BRING FLOWERS.
Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreath the cup ere the wine is pour’d!
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale:
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror’s path!
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath:
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crush’d in his chariot’s track,
The turf looks red where he won the day.
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror’s way!
Bring flowers to the captive’s lonely cell!
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell--
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And the dream of his youth. Bring him flowers, wild flowers!
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood’s mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father’s hearth,
Her place is now by another’s side.
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!
Bring flowers, pale flowers, o’er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!
For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nursed!
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love’s last gift. Bring ye flowers, pale flowers!
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer--
They are nature’s offering, their place is _there_!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory. Bring flowers, bright flowers!
THE CRUSADER’S RETURN.
“Alas! the mother that him bare,
If she had been in presence there,
In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair
She had not known her child.”
Marmion.
Rest, pilgrim, rest! Thou’rt from the Syrian land,
Thou’rt from the wild and wondrous East, I know
By the long-wither’d palm-branch in thy hand,
And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow.
Alas! the bright, the beautiful, who part
So full of hope, for that far country’s bourne!
Alas! the weary and the changed in heart,
And dimm’d in aspect, who like thee return!
Thou’rt faint--stay, rest thee from thy toils at last:
Through the high chestnuts lightly plays the breeze,
The stars gleam out, the _Ave_ hour is past,
The sailor’s hymn hath died along the seas.
Thou’rt faint and worn--hear’st thou the fountain welling
By the gray pillars of yon ruin’d shrine?
Seest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelling?
--He that hath left me train’d that loaded vine!
He was a child when thus the bower he wove,
(Oh! hath a day fled since his childhood’s time?)
That I might sit and hear the sound I love,
Beneath its shade--the convent’s vesper-chime.
And sit _thou_ there!--for he was gentle ever,
With his glad voice he would have welcomed thee,
And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parch’d lips’ fever.
There in his place thou’rt resting--where is he?
If I could hear that laughing voice again,
But once again! How oft it wanders by,
In the still hours, like some remember’d strain,
Troubling the heart with its wild melody!--
Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim! hast thou seen
In that far land, the chosen land of yore,
A youth--my Guido--with the fiery mien
And the dark eye of this Italian shore?
The dark, clear, lightning eye! On heaven and earth
It smiled--as if man were not dust it smiled!
The very air seem’d kindling with his mirth,
And I--my heart grew young before my child!
My blessed child!--I had but him--yet he
Fill’d all my home even with o’erflowing joy,
Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free.
Where is he now?--my pride, my flower, my boy!
His sunny childhood melted from my sight,
Like a spring dew-drop. Then his forehead wore
A prouder look--his eye a keener light:
I knew these woods might be his world no more!
He loved me--but he left me! Thus they go
Whom we have rear’d, watch’d, bless’d, too much adored!
He heard the trumpet of the Red Cross blow,
And bounded from me with his father’s sword!
Thou weep’st--I tremble! Thou hast seen the slain
Pressing a bloody turf--the young and fair,
With their pale beauty strewing o’er the plain
Where hosts have met: speak! answer!--was _he_ there?
Oh! hath his smile departed? Could the grave
Shut o’er those bursts of bright and tameless glee?
No! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave!----
That look gives hope--I knew it could not be!
Still weep’st thou, wanderer? Some fond mother’s glance
O’er thee, too, brooded in thine early years--
Think’st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance,
Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears?
Speak, for thy tears disturb me!--what art thou?
Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on?
Look up! Oh! is it--that wan cheek and brow!--
Is it--alas! yet joy!--my son, my son!
THEKLA’S SONG; OR, THE VOICE OF A SPIRIT.
FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.
----“’Tis not merely
The human being’s pride that peoples space
With life and mystical predominance;
Since likewise for the stricken heart of love
This visible nature, and this common world,
Are all too narrow.”--Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”
[This song is said to have been composed by Schiller in answer to the
inquiries of a friend respecting the fate of _Thekla_, whose beautiful
character is withdrawn from the tragedy of _Wallenstein’s Death_,
after her resolution to visit the grave of her lover is made known.]
Ask’st thou my home?--my pathway wouldst thou know,
When from thine eye my floating shadow pass’d?
Was not my work fulfill’d and closed below?
Had I not lived and loved? My lot was cast.
Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone,
That, melting into song her soul away,
Gave the spring-breeze what witch’d thee in its tone?
But while she loved, she lived, in that deep lay!
Think’st thou my heart its lost one hath not found?
Yes! we are one: oh! trust me, we have met,
Where naught again may part what love hath bound,
Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret.
There shalt _thou_ find us, there with us be blest,
If, as _our_ love, _thy_ love is pure and true!
There dwells my father,[326] sinless and at rest,
Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue.
And well he feels, no error of the dust
Drew to the stars of heaven his mortal ken;
There it is with us even as is our trust--
He that believes is near the holy _then_.
There shall each feeling, beautiful and high,
Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day.
Oh! fear thou not to dream with waking eye!
There lies deep meaning oft in childish play.
[326] Wallenstein.
THE REVELLERS.
Ring, joyous chords!--ring out again!
A swifter, and a wilder strain!
They are here--the fair face and the careless heart,
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.----
But I met a dimly mournful glance,
In a sudden turn of the flying dance;
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh
In a pause of the thrilling melody!
And it is not well that woe should breathe
On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath!--
Ye that to thought or to grief belong,
Leave, leave the hall of song!
Ring, joyous chords!----But who art _thou_
With the shadowy locks o’er thy pale young brow,
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes?
Thou hast loved, fair girl! thou hast loved too well!
Thou art mourning now o’er a broken spell;
Thou hast pour’d thy heart’s rich treasures forth,
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth!
Mourn on!--yet come thou not _here_ the while,
It is but a pain to see thee smile!
There is not a tone in our songs for thee--
Home with thy sorrows flee!
Ring, joyous chords!--ring out again!----
But what dost thou with the revel’s train?
A silvery voice through the soft air floats,
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes;
There are bright young faces that pass thee by,
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye!
Away! there’s a void in thy yearning breast,
Thou weary man! wilt thou _here_ find rest!
Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of _thy_ spirit is with the dead:
Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth--
Back to thy silent hearth!
Ring, joyous chords!--ring forth again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!----
But _thou_, though a reckless mien be thine,
And thy cup be crown’d with the foaming wine,
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud,
By thine eye’s quick flash through its troubled cloud,
I know thee! it is but the wakeful fear
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here!
I know thee!--thou fearest the solemn night,
With her piercing stars and her deep wind’s might!
There’s a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst shun,
For it asks what the secret soul hath done!
And thou--there’s a dark weight on thine--away!--
Back to thy home, and pray!
Ring, joyous chords!--ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
And bring fresh wreaths!--we will banish all
Save the free in heart from our festive hall.
On! through the maze of the fleet dance, on!--
But where are the young and the lovely gone?
Where are the brows with the Red Rose crown’d,
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound?
And the waving locks and the flying feet,
That still should be where the mirthful meet?--
They are gone--they are fled--they are parted all:
Alas! the forsaken hall!
THE CONQUEROR’S SLEEP.
Sleep midst thy banners furl’d!
Yes! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying,
With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing,
Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the world!
Sleep, while the babe sleeps on its mother’s breast.