The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief,
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb;
His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief,
And his arms folded in majestic gloom;
And his bow lay unstrung, beneath the mound
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.
For a pale cross above its greensward rose,
Telling the cedars and the pines that there
Man’s heart and hope had struggled with his woes,
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer.
Now all was hush’d--and eve’s last splendour shone
With a rich sadness on th’ attesting stone.
There came a lonely traveller o’er the wild,
And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave,
Asking the tale of its memorial, piled
Between the forest and the lake’s bright wave;
Till, as a wind might stir a wither’d oak,
On the deep dream of age his accents broke.
And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said--
“I listen’d for the words, which, years ago,
Pass’d o’er these waters. Though the voice is fled
Which made them as a singing fountain’s flow,
Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track,
Sometimes the forest’s murmur gives them back.
“Ask’st thou of him whose house is lone beneath?
I was an eagle in my youthful pride,
When o’er the seas he came, with summer’s breath,
To dwell amidst us, on the lake’s green side.
Many the times of flowers have been since then--
Many, but bringing naught like _him_ again!
“Not with the hunter’s bow and spear he came,
O’er the blue hills to chase the flying roe;
Not the dark glory of the woods to tame,
Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low;
But to spread tidings of all holy things,
Gladdening our souls, as with the morning’s wings.
“Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met,
I and my brethren that from earth are gone,
Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet
Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone?
He told of One the grave’s dark bonds who broke,
And our hearts burn’d within us as he spoke.
“He told of far and sunny lands, which lie
Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell:
Bright must they be! for _there_ are none that die,
And none that weep, and none that say ‘Farewell!’
He came to guide us thither; but away
The Happy call’d him, and he might not stay.
“We saw him slowly fade--athirst, perchance,
For the fresh waters of that lovely clime;
Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance,
And on his gleaming hair no touch of time--
Therefore we hoped: but now the lake looks dim,
For the green summer comes--and finds not him!
“We gather’d round him in the dewy hour
Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree;
From his clear voice, at first, the words of power
Came low, like moanings of a distant sea;
But swell’d and shook the wilderness ere long,
As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.
“And then once more they trembled on his tongue,
And his white eyelids flutter’d, and his head
Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hung----
Know’st thou not how we pass to join the dead?
It is enough! he sank upon my breast--
Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest!
“We buried him where he was wont to pray,
By the calm lake, e’en here, at eventide;
We rear’d this cross in token where he lay,
For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died!
Now hath he surely reach’d, o’er mount and wave,
That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave.
“But I am sad! I mourn the clear light taken
Back from my people, o’er whose place it shone,
The pathway to the better shore forsaken,
And the true words forgotten, save by one,
Who hears them faintly sounding from the past,
Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast.”
Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye:
“Son of the wilderness! despair thou not,
Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by,
And the cloud settled o’er thy nation’s lot!
Heaven darkly works--yet, where the seed hath been,
There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen.
“Hope on, hope ever!--by the sudden springing
Of green leaves which the winter hid so long;
And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing,
After cold silent months the woods among;
And by the rending of the frozen chains,
Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains.
“Deem not the words of light that here were spoken,
But as a lovely song, to leave no trace;
Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken,
And the full dayspring rise upon thy race!
And fading mists the better path disclose,
And the wide desert blossom as the rose.”
So by the cross they parted, in the wild,
Each fraught with musings for life’s after day,
Memories to visit _one_, the forest’s child,
By many a blue stream in its lonely way;
And upon _one_, midst busy throngs to press
Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness.
[“‘The Cross in the Wilderness,’ by Mrs Hemans, is in every way worthy
of her delightful genius; and nothing but want of room prevents us
from quoting it entire. Mrs Hemans is, indeed, the star that shines
most brightly in the hemisphere; and in every thing she writes, there
is, along with a fine spirit of poetry, a still finer spirit of moral
and religious truth. Of all the female poets of the day, Mrs Hemans
is, in the best sense of the word, the most truly feminine--no false
glitter about her--no ostentatious display--no gaudy and jingling
ornaments--but, as an English matron ought to be, simple, sedate,
cheerful, elegant, and religious.”--Professor Wilson in _Blackwood’s
Magazine_. Dec. 1826.
LAST RITES.
By the mighty minster’s bell,
Tolling with a sudden swell;
By the colours half-mast high,
O’er the sea hung mournfully;
Know, a prince hath died!
By the drum’s dull muffled sound,
By the arms that sweep the ground,
By the volleying muskets’ tone,
Speak ye of a soldier gone
In his manhood’s pride.
By the chanted psalm that fills
Reverently the ancient hills,[332]
Learn, that from his harvests done,
Peasants hear a brother on
To his last repose.
By the pall of snowy white
Through the yew-trees gleaming bright;
By the garland on the bier,
Weep! a maiden claims thy tear--
Broken is the rose!
Which is the tenderest rite of all?--
Buried virgin’s coronal,
Requiem o’er the monarch’s head,
Farewell gun for warrior dead,
Herdsman’s funeral hymn?
Tells not each of human woe?
Each of hope and strength brought low?
Number each with holy things,
If one chastening thought it brings
Ere life’s day grow dim!
[332] A custom still retained at rural funerals in some parts of
England and Wales.
THE HEBREW MOTHER.[333]
The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon’s plain,
When a young mother, with her first-born, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow’d
Unto the Temple service. By the hand
She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful was hers,
To bring before her God. So pass’d they on
O’er Judah’s hills; and wheresoe’er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs,
With their cool dimness, cross’d the sultry blue
Of Syria’s heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weigh’d their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o’er his cheek’s repose,
As at a red flower’s heart. And where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades,
Making its bank green gems along the wild,
There, too, she linger’d, from the diamond wave
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips,
And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reach’d,
The earth’s one sanctuary--and rapture hush’d
Her bosom, as before her, through the day,
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep’d
In light like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear,
Turn’d from the white-robed priest, and round her arm
Clung even as joy clings--the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swell’d high, and o’er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song. “Alas!” she cried,--
“Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes;
And now fond thoughts arise,
And silver cords again to earth have won me,
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart--
How shall I hence depart?
“How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing
So late, along the mountains, at my side?
And I, in joyous pride,
By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, e’en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,
Beholding thee so fair!
“And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted,
Will it not seem as if the sunny day
Turn’d from its door away?
While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted,
I languish for thy voice, which past me still
Went like a singing rill?
“Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me,
When from the fount at evening I return,
With the full water-urn;
Nor will thy sleep’s low dove-like breathings greet me,
As midst the silence of the stars I wake,
And watch for thy dear sake.
“And thou, will slumber’s dewy cloud fall round thee,
Without thy mother’s hand to smooth thy bed?
Wilt thou not vainly spread
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee,
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,
A cry which none shall hear?
“What have I said, my child! Will _He_ not hear thee,
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?
Shall He not guard thy rest,
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o’er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy.
“I give thee to thy God--the God that gave thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!
And, precious as thou art,
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!
And thou shalt be His child.
“Therefore, farewell! I go--my soul may fail me,
As the hart panteth for the water brooks,
Yearning for thy sweet looks.
But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me;
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,
The Rock of Strength.--Farewell!”
[333] “It is long since we have read any thing more beautiful than the
following poem by Mrs Hemans.”--_Blackwood’s Magazine._ Jan. 1826.
[“It would be wearisomely superfluous to enumerate the long series
of lyrics which she now poured forth with increasing earnestness and
rapidity, and without which none of the lighter periodicals of the
day made its appearance. One or two, however, must be mentioned, as
certain to survive so long as the short poem shall be popular in
England. ‘The Treasures of the Deep,’ ‘The Hour of Death,’ ‘The Graves
of a Household,’ ‘The Cross in the Wilderness,’ are all admirable.
With these, too, may be mentioned those poems in which a short