The Poems of Felicia Hemans

descriptive recitative (to borrow a word from the opera) introduces a lyrical burst of passion or regret, or lamentation. This form of composition became so especially popular in America, that hardly a poet has arisen, since the influence of Mrs Hemans’ genius made itself felt on the other side of the Atlantic, who has not attempted something of a similar subject and construction. ‘The Hebrew Mother’ has been followed by an infinite number of sketches from Scripture: this lyric, too, should be particularised as having made friends for its authoress among those of the ancient faith in England. Among the last strangers who visited her, eager to thank her for the pleasure her writings had afforded them, were a Jewish gentleman and lady, who entreated to be admitted by the author of the ‘Hebrew Mother.’”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 114-15. “Her ‘Voice of Spring,’ her ‘Hour of Death,’ her ‘Treasures of the Deep,’ her ‘Graves of a Household,’ her ‘England’s Dead,’ her ‘Trumpet,’ her ‘Hebrew Mother,’ and a host of similar pieces--these are the undying lays, the lumps of pure gold. We do not think thus with reference to Mrs Hemans’ lyrics only; it strikes us that nearly all our present poets must depend for future fame on their shorter pieces.”--_Literary Magnet_, 1826.] THE WRECK. All night the booming minute-gun Had peal’d along the deep, And mournfully the rising sun Look’d o’er the tide-worn steep. A bark from India’s coral strand, Before the raging blast, Had vail’d her topsails to the sand, And bow’d her noble mast. The queenly ship!--brave hearts had striven, And true ones died with her! We saw her mighty cable riven, Like floating gossamer. We saw her proud flag struck that morn-- A star once o’er the seas,-- Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn, And sadder things than these! We saw her treasures cast away, The rocks with pearls were sown; And, strangely sad, the ruby’s ray Flash’d out o’er fretted stone. And gold was strewn the wet sands o’er, Like ashes by a breeze; And gorgeous robes--but oh! that shore Had sadder things than these! We saw the strong man still and low, A crush’d reed thrown aside; Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, Not without strife he died. And near him on the sea-weed lay-- Till then we had not wept-- But well our gushing hearts might say, That there a _mother_ slept! For her pale arms a babe had press’d With such a wreathing grasp, Billows had dash’d o’er that fond breast, Yet not undone the clasp. Her very tresses had been flung To wrap the fair child’s form, Where still their wet long streamers hung All tangled by the storm. And beautiful, midst that wild scene, Gleam’d up the boy’s dead face, Like slumber’s, trustingly serene, In melancholy grace. Deep in her bosom lay his head, With half-shut violet-eye-- _He_ had known little of her dread, Naught of her agony! O human love! whose yearning heart, Through all things vainly true, So stamps upon thy mortal part Its passionate adieu-- Surely thou hast another lot: There is some home for thee, Where thou shalt rest, remembering not The moaning of the sea! THE TRUMPET.[334] The trumpet’s voice hath roused the land-- Light up the beacon pyre! A hundred hills have seen the brand, And waved the sign of fire. A hundred banners to the breeze Their gorgeous folds have cast-- And, hark! was that the sound of seas? A king to war went past. The chief is arming in his hall, The peasant by his hearth; The mourner hears the thrilling call, And rises from the earth. The mother on her first-born son Looks with a boding eye-- _They_ come not back, though all be won, Whose young hearts leap so high. The bard hath ceased his song, and bound The falchion to his side; E’en, for the marriage altar crown’d, The lover quits his bride. And all this haste, and change, and fear, By _earthly_ clarion spread!-- How will it be when kingdoms hear The blast that wakes the dead? [334] “We cannot refrain quoting another poem by the same distinguished writer. It has something sublime.”--_Blackwood’s Magazine_, Jan. 1826. EVENING PRAYER, AT A GIRLS’ SCHOOL. “Now in thy youth, beseech of Him Who giveth, upbraiding not, That His light in thy heart become not dim, And his love be unforgot; And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee.” Bernard Barton. Hush! ’tis a holy hour. The quiet room Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads, With all their clustering locks, untouch’d by care, And bow’d, as flowers are bow’d with night, in prayer. Gaze on--’tis lovely! Childhood’s lip and cheek, Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought! Gaze--yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?-- Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity! O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest Lightly, when those pure orisons are done As birds with slumber’s honey-dew opprest, Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun-- Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. Though fresh within your breasts th’ untroubled springs Of hope make melody where’er ye tread, And o’er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman’s tenderness--how soon her woe! Her lot is on you--silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering’s hour, And sumless riches, from affection’s deep, To pour on broken reeds--a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship. Therefore pray! Her lot is on you--to be found untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain; Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And, oh! to love through all things. Therefore pray! And take the thought of this calm vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from their prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight! Earth will forsake--Oh! happy to have given Th’ unbroken heart’s first fragrance unto heaven. THE HOUR OF DEATH. “Il est dans la Nature d’aimer à se livrer à l’idée même qu’on redoute.”--Corinne. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath, And stars to set--but all, Thou hast _all_ seasons for thine own, O Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer-- But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. The banquet hath its hour-- Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief’s o’erwhelming power, A time for softer tears--but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee--but thou art not of those That wait the ripen’d bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath, And stars to set--but all, Thou hast _all_ seasons for thine own, O Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn’s hue shall tinge the golden grain-- But who shall teach us when to look for thee! Is it when spring’s first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?-- They have _one_ season--_all_ are ours to die! Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth--and thou art there. Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest-- Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath, And stars to set--but all-- Thou hast _all_ seasons for thine own, O Death! THE LOST PLEIAD. “Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below.”--Byron. And is there glory from the heavens departed? O void unmark’d!--thy sisters of the sky Still hold their place on high, Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye! Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night? She wears her crown of old magnificence, Though thou art exiled thence-- No desert seems to part those urns of light, Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense. They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning-- The shepherd greets them on his mountains free; And from the silvery sea To them the sailor’s wakeful eye is turning-- Unchanged they rise, they have not mourn’d for thee. Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, Even as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray, Swept by the wind away? Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, And was there power to smite them with decay? Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? Bow’d be our hearts to think on what we are, When from its height afar A world sinks thus--and yon majestic heaven Shines not the less for that one vanish’d star! THE CLIFFS OF DOVER. “The inviolate Island of the sage and free.”--Byron. Rocks of my country! let the cloud Your crested heights array, And rise ye like a fortress proud Above the surge and spray! My spirit greets you as ye stand, Breasting the billow’s foam: Oh! thus for ever guard the land, The sever’d land of home! I have left rich blue skies behind, Lighting up classic shrines, And music in the southern wind, And sunshine on the vines. The breathings of the myrtle flowers Have floated o’er my way; The pilgrim’s voice, at vesper hours, Hath soothed me with its lay. The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain, The purple heavens of Rome-- Yes, all are glorious,--yet again I bless thee, land of home! For thine the Sabbath peace, my land! And thine the guarded hearth; And thine the dead--the noble band, That make thee holy earth. Their voices meet me in thy breeze, Their steps are on thy plains; Their names, by old majestic trees, Are whisper’d round thy fanes. Their blood hath mingled with the tide Of thine exulting sea; Oh, be it still a joy, a pride, To live and die for thee! THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS. The kings of old have shrine and tomb In many a minster’s haughty gloom; And green, along the ocean side,