The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Leaf after leaf, to beauty--line by line, Through the pale marble’s veins. It grows!--and now I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine: I give my own life’s history to thy brow, Forsaken Ariadne!--thou shalt wear My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair, Touch’d into lovelier being by the glow Which in me dwells, as by the summer light All things are glorified. From thee my woe Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight, When I am pass’d away. Thou art the mould, Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th’ untold, The self-consuming! Speak to him of me, Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea, With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye-- Speak to him, lorn one! deeply, mournfully, Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throw Into thy frame a voice--a sweet, and low, And thrilling voice of song! when he came nigh, To send the passion of its melody Through his pierced bosom--on its tones to bear My life’s deep feeling, as the southern air Wafts the faint myrtle’s breath--to rise, to swell, To sink away in accents of farewell, Winning but one, _one_ gush of tears, whose flow Surely my parted spirit yet might know, If love be strong as death! III. Now fair thou art, Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart! Yet all the vision that within me wrought, I cannot make thee. Oh! I might have given Birth to creations of far nobler thought; I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven, Things not of such as die! But I have been Too much alone! A heart whereon to lean, With all these deep affections that o’erflow My aching soul, and find no shore below; An eye to be my star; a voice to bring Hope o’er my path like sounds that breathe of spring? These are denied me--dreamt of still in vain. Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain Are ever but as some wild fitful song, Rising triumphantly, to die ere long In dirge-like echoes. IV. Yet the world will see Little of this, my parting work! in thee. Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the reed From storms a shelter--give the drooping vine Something round which its tendrils may entwine-- Give the parch’d flower a rain-drop, and the meed Of love’s kind words to woman! Worthless fame! That in _his_ bosom wins not for my name Th’ abiding place it ask’d! Yet how my heart, In its own fairy world of song and art, Once beat for praise! Are those high longings o’er? That which I have been can I be no more? Never! oh, never more! though still thy sky Be blue as then, my glorious Italy! And though the music, whose rich breathings fill Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still; And though the mantle of thy sunlight streams Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet-dreams. Never! oh, never more! Where’er I move, The shadow of this broken-hearted love Is on me and around! Too well _they_ know Whose life is all within, too soon and well, When there the blight hath settled! But I go Under the silent wings of peace to dwell; From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain, The inward burning of those words--“_in vain_,” Sear’d on the heart--I go. ’Twill soon be past! Sunshine and song, and bright Italian heaven, And thou, oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast Unvalued wealth--who know’st not what was given In that devotedness--the sad, and deep, And unrepaid--farewell! If I could weep Once, only once, beloved one! on thy breast, Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest! But that were happiness!--and unto me Earth’s gift is _fame_. Yet I was form’d to be So richly bless’d! With thee to watch the sky, Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh; With thee to listen, while the tones of song Swept even as part of our sweet air along-- To listen silently; with thee to gaze On forms, the deified of olden days-- This had been joy enough; and hour by hour, From its glad well-springs drinking life and power, How had my spirit soar’d, and made its fame A glory for thy brow! Dreams, dreams!--The fire Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name-- As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre When its full chords are hush’d--awhile to live, And one day haply in thy heart revive Sad thoughts of me. I leave it, with a sound, A spell o’er memory, mournfully profound; I leave it, on my country’s air to dwell-- Say proudly yet--“_’Twas hers who loved me well_!” GERTRUDE; OR, FIDELITY TILL DEATH. [The Baron Von der Wart, accused--though it is believed unjustly--as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonising hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled _Gertrude Von der Wart; or, Fidelity unto Death_.] “Dark lowers our fate, And terrible the storm that gathers o’er us; But nothing, till that latest agony Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose This fix’d and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house, In the terrific face of armed law, Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, I never will forsake thee.” Joanna Baillie. Her hands were clasp’d, her dark eyes raised, The breeze threw back her hair; Up to the fearful wheel she gazed-- All that she loved was there. The night was round her clear and cold, The holy heaven above, Its pale stars watching to behold The might of earthly love. “And bid me not depart,” she cried; “My Rudolph, say not so! This is no time to quit thy side-- Peace! peace! I cannot go. Hath the world aught for _me_ to fear, When death is on thy brow? The world! what means it? _Mine is here_-- I will not leave thee now. “I have been with thee in thine hour Of glory and of bliss; Doubt not its memory’s living power To strengthen me through _this_! And thou, mine honour’d love and true, Bear on, bear nobly on! We have the blessed heaven in view, Whose rest shall soon be won.” And were not these high words to flow From woman’s breaking heart? Through all that night of bitterest woe She bore her lofty part; But oh! with such a glazing eye, With such a curdling cheek-- Love, Love! of mortal agony Thou, only _thou_, shouldst speak! The wind rose high--but with it rose Her voice, that he might hear:-- Perchance that dark hour brought repose To happy bosoms near; While she sat striving with despair Beside his tortured form, And pouring her deep soul in prayer Forth on the rushing storm. She wiped the death-damps from his brow With her pale hands and soft, Whose touch upon the lute-chords low Had still’d his heart so oft. She spread her mantle o’er his breast, She bathed his lips with dew, And on his cheek such kisses press’d As hope and joy ne’er knew. Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, Enduring to the last! She had her meed--one smile in death-- And his worn spirit pass’d! While even as o’er a martyr’s grave She knelt on that sad spot, And, weeping, bless’d the God who gave Strength to forsake it not. IMELDA. “Sometimes The young forgot the lessons they had learnt, And loved when they should hate--like thee, Imelda!”[346] Italy; a Poem. “Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma.”--Tasso. We have the myrtle’s breath around us here, Amidst the fallen pillars: this hath been Some Naiad’s fane of old. How brightly clear, Flinging a vein of silver o’er the scene, Up through the shadowy grass the fountain wells, And music with it, gushing from beneath The ivied altar! That sweet murmur tells The rich wild-flowers no tale of woe or death; Yet once the wave was darken’d, and a stain Lay deep, and heavy drops--but not of rain-- On the dim violets by its marble bed, And the pale-shining water-lily’s head. Sad is that legend’s truth.--A fair girl met One whom she loved, by this lone temple’s spring. Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set, And eve’s low voice in whispers woke, to bring All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair, With the blue heaven of Italy above, And citron-odours dying on the air, And light leaves trembling round, and early love Deep in each breast. What reck’d _their_ souls of strife Between their fathers? Unto them young life Spread out the treasures of its vernal years; And if they wept, they wept far other tears Than the cold world brings forth. They stood, that hour, Speaking of hope; while tree, and fount, and flower, And star, just gleaming through the cypress boughs, Seem’d holy things, as records of their vows. But change came o’er the scene. A hurrying tread Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew The footstep of her brother’s wrath, and fled Up where the cedars make yon avenue Dim with green twilight: pausing there, she caught-- Was it the clash of swords? A swift dark thought Struck down her lip’s rich crimson as it pass’d, And from her eye the sunny sparkle took One moment with its fearfulness, and shook Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once more, She still’d her heart to listen--all was o’er; Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh, Bearing the nightingale’s deep spirit by. That night Imelda’s voice was in the song-- Lovely it floated through the festive throng Peopling her father’s halls. That fatal night Her eye look’d starry in its dazzling light, And her cheek glow’d with beauty’s flushing dyes, Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies-- A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze Follow’d her form beneath the clear lamp’s blaze, And marvell’d at its radiance. But a few Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue With something of dim fear; and in that glance Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest, Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance, Where Thought, if present, an unbidden guest, Comes not unmask’d. Howe’er this were, the time Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime Alike: and when the banquet’s hall was left Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft; When trembling stars look’d silvery in their wane, And heavy flowers yet slumber’d, once again There stole a footstep, fleet, and light, and lone, Through the dim cedar shade--the step of one That started at a leaf, of one that fled, Of one that panted with some secret dread. What did Imelda there? She sought the scene Where love so late with youth and hope had been. Bodings were on her soul; a shuddering thrill Ran through each vein, when first the Naiad’s rill Met her with melody--sweet sounds and low: We hear them yet, they live along its flow-- _Her_ voice is music lost! The fountain-side