The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Oh! strong is night--for thou too art at rest! Stillness hath smooth’d thy brow, And now might love keep timid vigils by thee, Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh thee, Alike unconscious and defenceless thou! Tread lightly, watchers! Now the field is won, Break not the rest of nature’s weary son! Perchance some lovely dream Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing, To the green places of thy boyish daring, And all the windings of thy native stream. Why, this were joy! Upon the tented plain, Dream on, thou Conqueror!--be a child again! But thou wilt wake at morn, With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping, And thy dark troubled thoughts all earth o’ersweeping; So wilt thou rise, O thou of woman born! And put thy terrors on, till none may dare Look upon thee--the tired one, slumbering there! Why, so the peasant sleeps Beneath his vine!--and man must kneel before thee, And for his birthright vainly still implore thee! Shalt thou be stay’d because thy brother weeps?-- Wake! and forget that midst a dreaming world, Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furl’d! Forget that thou, even thou, Hast feebly shiver’d when the wind pass’d o’er thee, And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee, And felt the night-dew chill thy fever’d brow! Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press on!-- Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son. OUR LADY’S WELL.[327] Fount of the woods! thou art hid no more From heaven’s clear eye, as in time of yore. For the roof hath sunk from thy mossy walls, And the sun’s free glance on thy slumber falls; And the dim tree-shadows across thee pass, As the boughs are sway’d o’er thy silvery glass; And the reddening leaves to thy breast are blown, When the autumn wind hath a stormy tone; And thy bubbles rise to the flashing rain-- Bright Fount! thou art nature’s own again! Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more By the pilgrim’s foot, as in time of yore, When he came from afar, his beads to tell, And to chant his hymn at Our Lady’s Well. There is heard no _Ave_ through thy bowers, Thou art gleaming lone midst thy water-flowers! But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave, And there may the reaper his forehead lave, And the woodman seeks thee not in vain-- Bright Fount! thou art nature’s own again! Fount of the Virgin’s ruin’d shrine! A voice that speaks of the past is thine! It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh With the notes that ring through the laughing sky; Midst the mirthful song of the summer bird, And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard!-- Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee, To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free? ’Tis that all on earth is of _Time’s_ domain-- He hath made thee nature’s own again! Fount of the chapel with ages gray! Thou art springing freshly amidst decay; Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low, And the changeful hours breathe o’er thee now. Yet if at thine altar one holy thought In man’s deep spirit of old hath wrought; If peace to the mourner hath here been given, Or prayer, from a chasten’d heart, to heaven-- Be the spot still hallow’d while Time shall reign, Who hath made thee nature’s own again! [327] A beautiful spring in the woods near St Asaph, formerly covered in with a chapel, now in ruins. It was dedicated to the Virgin, and, according to Pennant, much the resort of pilgrims. [Those who only know the neighbourhood of St Asaph from travelling along its highways, can be little aware how much delightful scenery is attainable within walks of two or three miles’ distance from Mrs Hemans’s residence. The placid beauty of the Clwyd, and the wilder graces of the sister stream, the Elwy, particularly in the vicinity of “Our Lady’s Well,” and the interesting rocks and caves at Cefn, are little known to general tourists; though, by the lovers of her poetry, it will be remembered how sweetly she has apostrophised the “Fount of the chapel with ages gray;” and how tenderly, amid far different scenes, her thoughts reverted to the “Cambrian river with slow music gliding, By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin’d towers.” --(Sonnet to the River Clwyd.) --_Memoir_, p. 92-3.] THE PARTING OF SUMMER. Thou’rt bearing hence thy roses, Glad summer, fare thee well! Thou’rt singing thy last melodies In every wood and dell. But ere the golden sunset Of thy latest lingering day, Oh! tell me, o’er this checker’d earth, How hast thou pass’d away? Brightly, sweet Summer! brightly Thine hours have floated by, To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, The rangers of the sky; And brightly in the forests, To the wild deer wandering free; And brightly, ’midst the garden flowers, To the happy murmuring bee: But how to human bosoms, With all their hopes and fears, And thoughts that make them eagle-wings, To pierce the unborn years? Sweet Summer! to the captive Thou hast flown in burning dreams Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves, And the blue rejoicing streams;-- To the wasted and the weary On the bed of sickness bound, In swift delirious fantasies, That changed with every sound;-- To the sailor on the billows, In longings, wild and vain, For the gushing founts and breezy hills, And the homes of earth again! And unto me, glad Summer! How hast thou flown to me? _My_ chainless footstep naught hath kept From thy haunts of song and glee. Thou hast flown in wayward visions, In memories of the dead-- In shadows from a troubled heart, O’er thy sunny pathway shed: In brief and sudden strivings To fling a weight aside-- Midst these thy melodies have ceased, And all thy roses died. But oh! thou gentle Summer! If I greet thy flowers once more, Bring me again the buoyancy Wherewith my soul should soar! Give me to hail thy sunshine With song and spirit free; Or in a purer air than this May that next meeting be! THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. ----“Sing aloud Old songs, the precious music of the heart.” Wordsworth Sing them upon the sunny hills, When days are long and bright, And the blue gleam of shining rills Is loveliest to the sight! Sing them along the misty moor, Where ancient hunters roved, And swell them through the torrent’s roar, The songs our fathers loved!-- The songs their souls rejoiced to hear When harps were in the hall, And each proud note made lance and spear Thrill on the banner’d wall: The songs that through our valleys green, Sent on from age to age, Like his own river’s voice, have been The peasant’s heritage. The reaper sings them when the vale Is fill’d with plumy sheaves; The woodman, by the starlight pale, Cheer’d homeward through the leaves: And unto them the glancing oars A joyous measure keep, Where the dark rocks that crest our shores Dash back the foaming deep. So let it be! a light they shed O’er each old fount and grove; A memory of the gentle dead, A lingering spell of love. Murmuring the names of mighty men, They bid our streams roll on, And link high thoughts to every glen Where valiant deeds were done. Teach them your children round the hearth, When evening fires burn clear, And in the fields of harvest mirth, And on the hills of deer. So shall each unforgotten word, When far those loved ones roam, Call back the hearts which once it stirr’d, To childhood’s holy home. The green woods of their native land Shall whisper in the strain, The voices of their household band Shall breathe their names again; The heathery heights in vision rise, Where, like the stag, they roved. Sing to your sons those melodies, The songs your fathers loved! THE WORLD IN THE OPEN AIR. Come, while in freshness and dew it lies, To the world that is under the free blue skies! Leave ye man’s home, and forget his care-- There breathes no sigh on the dayspring’s air. Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells A light, all made for the poet dwells-- A light, colour’d softly by tender leaves, Whence the primrose a mellower glow receives. The stock-dove is there in the beechen tree, And the lulling tone of the honey-bee; And the voice of cool waters midst feathery fern, Shedding sweet sounds from some hidden urn. There is life, there is youth, there is tameless mirth, Where the streams, with the lilies they wear, have birth; There is peace where the alders are whispering low: Come from man’s dwellings with all their woe! Yes! we will come--we will leave behind The homes and the sorrows of human kind. It is well to rove where the river leads Its bright blue vein along sunny meads: It is well through the rich wild woods to go, And to pierce the haunts of the fawn and doe; And to hear the gushing of gentle springs, When the heart has been fretted by worldly stings; And to watch the colours that flit and pass, With insect-wings, through the wavy grass; And the silvery gleams o’er the ash-tree’s bark, Borne in with a breeze through the foliage dark. Joyous and far shall our wanderings be, As the flight of birds o’er the glittering sea: To the woods, to the dingles where violets blow, We will bear no memory of earthly woe. But if, by the forest-brook, we meet A line like the pathway of former feet; If, midst the hills, in some lonely spot, We reach the gray ruins of tower or cot;-- If the cell, where a hermit of old hath pray’d, Lift up its cross through the solemn shade; Or if some nook, where the wild flowers wave, Bear token sad of a mortal grave,-- Doubt not but _there_ will our steps be stay’d, There our quick spirits awhile delay’d; There will thought fix our impatient eyes, And win back our hearts to their sympathies. For what though the mountains and skies be fair, Steep’d in soft hues of the summer air? ’Tis the soul of man, by its hopes and dreams, That lights up all nature with living gleams. Where it hath suffer’d and nobly striven, Where it hath pour’d forth its vows to heaven; Where to repose it hath brightly pass’d, O’er this green earth there is glory cast. And by that soul, midst groves and rills, And flocks that feed on a thousand hills, Birds of the forest, and flowers of the sod, _We_, only _we_, may be link’d to God! KINDRED HEARTS. Oh! ask not, hope thou not too much Of sympathy below! Few are the hearts whence one same touch Bids the sweet fountains flow-- Few, and by still conflicting powers Forbidden here to meet: Such ties would make this life of ours Too fair for aught so fleet. It may be that thy brother’s eye Sees not as thine, which turns In such deep reverence to the sky, Where the rich sunset burns: It may be that the breath of spring,