The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Idly and vainly woo’d the gale.
Hush’d was all else--had ocean’s breast
Rock’d e’en Eudora that hour to rest?
To rest? The waves tremble!--what piercing cry
Bursts from the heart of the ship on high?
What light through the heavens, in a sudden spire,
Shoots from the deck up? Fire! ’tis fire!
There are wild forms hurrying to and fro,
Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow;
There are shout, and signal-gun, and call,
And the dashing of water--but fruitless all!
Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame
The might and wrath of the rushing flame!
It hath twined the mast like a glittering snake,
That coils up a tree from a dusky brake;
It hath touch’d the sails, and their canvass rolls
Away from its breath into shrivell’d scrolls;
It hath taken the flag’s high place in the air,
And redden’d the stars with its wavy glare;
And sent out bright arrows, and soar’d in glee,
To a burning mount midst the moonlight sea.
The swimmers are plunging from stern and prow--
Eudora! Eudora! where, where art thou?
The slave and his master alike are gone.--
Mother! who stands on the deck alone?
The child of thy bosom!--and lo! a brand
Blazing up high in her lifted hand!
And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair
Sway’d by the flames as they rock and flare;
And her fragile form to its loftiest height
Dilated, as if by the spirit’s might;
And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught----
Oh! could this work be of woman wrought?
Yes! ’twas her deed!--by that haughty smile,
It was hers: she hath kindled her funeral pile!
Never might shame on that bright head be:
Her blood was the Greek’s, and hath made her free!
Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride
On the pyre with the holy dead beside;
But a shriek from her mother hath caught her ear,
As the flames to her marriage-robe draw near,
And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain
To the form they must never infold again.
--One moment more, and her hands are clasp’d--
Fallen is the torch they had wildly grasp’d--
Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bow’d,
And her last look raised through the smoke’s dim shroud,
And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move;--
Now the night gathers o’er youth and love!
[344] Founded on a circumstance related in the Second Series of the
_Curiosities of Literature_, and forming part of a picture in the
“Painted Biography” there described.
[345] A Greek bride, on leaving her father’s house, takes leave of
her friends and relatives frequently in extemporaneous verses.--See
Fauriel’s _Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne_.
THE SWITZER’S WIFE.
[Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confederates of the field of
Grutli, had been alarmed by the envy with which the Austrian Bailiff,
Landenberg, had noticed the appearance of wealth and comfort which
distinguished his dwelling. It was not, however, until roused by the
entreaties of his wife, a woman who seems to have been of a heroic
spirit, that he was induced to deliberate with his friends upon the
measures by which Switzerland was finally delivered.]
“Nor look nor tone revealeth aught
Save woman’s quietness of thought;
And yet around her is a light
Of inward majesty and might.” M. J. J.
“Wer solch ein herz an sienen Busen druckt
Der kann fur herd und hof mit freuden fechten.”
WILLHELM TELL.
It was the time when children bound to meet
Their father’s homeward step from field or hill,
And when the herd’s returning bells are sweet
In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still,
And the last note of that wild horn swells by
Which haunts the exile’s heart with melody.
And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home,
Touch’d with the crimson of the dying hour,
Which lit its low roof by the torrent’s foam,
And pierced its lattice through the vine-hung bower;
But one, the loveliest o’er the land that rose,
Then first look’d mournful in its green repose.
For Werner sat beneath the linden tree
That sent its lulling whispers through his door,
Even as man sits, whose heart alone would be
With some deep care, and thus can find no more
Th’ accustom’d joy in all which evening brings,
Gathering a household with her quiet wings.
His wife stood hush’d before him--sad, yet mild
In her beseeching mien!--he mark’d it not.
The silvery laughter of his bright-hair’d child
Rang from the greensward round the shelter’d spot,
But seem’d unheard; until at last the boy
Raised from his heap’d up flowers a glance of joy,
And met his father’s face. But then a change
Pass’d swiftly o’er the brow of infant glee,
And a quick sense of something dimly strange
Brought him from play to stand beside the knee
So often climb’d, and lift his loving eyes
That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise.
Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook;
But tenderly his babe’s fair mother laid
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look,
Through tears half-quivering, o’er him bent and said,
“What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its prey--
That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away?
“It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend!
Mark’st thou the wonder on thy boy’s fair brow,
Missing the smile from thine? Oh, cheer thee! bend
To his soft arms: unseal thy thoughts e’en now!
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share
Of tried affection in thy secret care.”
He look’d up into that sweet earnest face,
But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band
Was loosen’d from his soul; its inmost place
Not yet unveil’d by love’s o’ermastering hand.
“Speak low!” he cried, and pointed where on high
The white Alps glitter’d through the solemn sky:
“We must speak low amidst our ancient hills
And their free torrents; for the days are come
When tyranny lies couch’d by forest rills,
And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home.
Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear--
Keep silence by the hearth! its foes are near.
“The envy of th’ oppressor’s eye hath been
Upon my heritage. I sit to-night
Under my household tree, if not serene,
Yet with the faces best beloved in sight:
To-morrow eve may find me chain’d, and thee--
How can I bear the boy’s young smiles to see?”
The bright blood left that youthful mother’s cheek;
Back on the linden stem she lean’d her form;
And her lip trembled as it strove to speak,
Like a frail harp-string shaken by the storm.
’Twas but a moment, and the faintness pass’d,
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last.
And she, that ever through her home had moved
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile
Of woman, calmly loving and beloved,
And timid in her happiness the while,
Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour--
Her clear glance kindling into sudden power.
Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light,
And took her fair child to her holy breast,
And lifted her soft voice, that gather’d might
As it found language:--“Are we thus oppress’d?
Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod,
And man must arm, and woman call on God!
“I know what thou wouldst do;--and be it done!
Thy soul is darken’d with its fears for me.
Trust me to heaven, my husband! This, thy son,
The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free!
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth
May well give strength--if aught be strong on earth.
“Thou hast been brooding o’er the silent dread
Of my desponding tears; now lift once more,
My hunter of the hills! thy stately head,
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore!
I can bear all, but seeing _thee_ subdued--
Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood.
“Go forth beside the waters, and along
The chamois paths, and through the forests go;
And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong
To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow.
God shall be with thee, my beloved! Away!
Bless but thy child, and leave me--I can pray!”
He sprang up, like a warrior youth awaking
To clarion sounds upon the ringing air;
He caught her to his heart, while proud tears breaking
From his dark eyes fell o’er her braided hair;
And “Worthy art thou,” was his joyous cry,
“That man for thee should gird himself to die!
“My bride, my wife, the mother of my child!
Now shall thy name be armour to my heart:
And this our land, by chains no more defiled,
Be taught of thee to choose the better part!
I go--thy spirit on my words shall dwell;
Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps. Farewell!”
And thus they parted, by the quiet lake,
In the clear starlight: he the strength to rouse
Of the free hills; she, thoughtful for his sake,
To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs,
Singing its blue half-curtain’d eyes to sleep
With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep.
PROPERZIA ROSSI.
[Properzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculptor of Bologna, possessed
also of talents for poetry and music, died in consequence of an
unrequited attachment. A painting, by Ducis, represents her showing
her last work, a basso-relievo of Ariadne, to a Roman knight, the
object of her affection, who regards it with indifference.]
“Tell me no more, no more
Of my soul’s lofty gifts! Are they not vain
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness?
Have I not loved, and striven, and fail’d to bind
One true heart unto me, whereon my own
Might find a resting-place, a home for all
Its burden of affections? I depart,
Unknown, though Fame goes with me; I must leave
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death
Shall give my name a power to win such tears
As would have made life precious.”
I.
One dream of passion and of beauty more!
And in its bright fulfilment let me pour
My soul away! Let earth retain a trace
Of that which lit my being, though its race
Might have been loftier far. Yet one more dream!
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam
Ere I depart! For thee alone, for thee!
May this last work, this farewell triumph be--
Thou, loved so vainly! I would leave enshrined
Something immortal of my heart and mind,
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone,
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone
Of lost affection,--something that may prove
What she hath been, whose melancholy love
On thee was lavish’d; silent pang and tear,
And fervent song that gush’d when none were near,
And dream by night, and weary thought by day,
Stealing the brightness from her life away--
While thou----Awake! not yet within me die!
Under the burden and the agony
Of this vain tenderness--my spirit, wake!
Even for thy sorrowful affection’s sake,
Live! in thy work breathe out!--that he may yet,
Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret
Thine unrequited gift.
II.
It comes! the power
Within me born flows back--my fruitless dower
That could not win me love. Yet once again
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train
Of glorious images: they throng--they press--
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness--
I shall not perish all!
The bright work grows
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose,