The Poems of Felicia Hemans

She gain’d--the wave flash’d forth--’twas darkly dyed Even as from warrior-hearts; and on its edge, Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts deep, There lay, as lull’d by stream and rustling sedge, A youth, a graceful youth. “Oh! dost thou sleep? Azzo!” she cried, “my Azzo! is this rest?” But then her low tones falter’d:--“On thy breast Is the stain--yes, ’tis blood! And that cold cheek-- That moveless lip!--thou dost not slumber?--speak, Speak, Azzo, my beloved! No sound--no breath-- What hath come thus between our spirits? Death! Death?--I but dream--I dream!” And there she stood, A faint fair trembler, gazing first on blood, With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown, Her form sustain’d by that dark stem alone, And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old, Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold; When from the grass her dimm’d eye caught a gleam-- ’Twas where a sword lay shiver’d by the stream-- Her brother’s sword!--she knew it; and she knew ’Twas with a venom’d point that weapon slew! Woe for young love! But love is strong. There came Strength upon woman’s fragile heart and frame; There came swift courage! On the dewy ground She knelt, with all her dark hair floating round Like a long silken stole; she knelt, and press’d Her lips of glowing life to Azzo’s breast, Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad sight! Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night! --So the moon saw them last. The morn came singing Through the green forests of the Apennines, With all her joyous birds their free flight winging, And steps and voices out amongst the vines. What found that dayspring _here?_ Two fair forms laid Like sculptured sleepers; from the myrtle shade Casting a gleam of beauty o’er the wave, Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for the grave? Could it be so indeed? That radiant girl, Deck’d as for bridal hours!--long braids of pearl Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining, As tears might shine, with melancholy light; And there was gold her slender waist entwining; And her pale graceful arms--how sadly bright; And fiery gems upon her breast were lying, And round her marble brow red roses dying. But she died first!--the violet’s hue had spread O’er her sweet eyelids with repose oppress’d; She had bow’d heavily her gentle head, And on the youth’s hush’d bosom sunk to rest. So slept they well!--the poison’s work was done; Love with true heart had striven--but Death had won. [346] The tale of Imelda is related in Sismondi’s _Histoire des Républiques Italiennes_, vol. iii. p. 443. EDITH. A TALE OF THE WOODS.[347] “Du Heilige! rufe dein Kind zuruck Ich habe genossen das irdische Gluck, Ich habe gelebt und geliebet.” Wallenstein. The woods--oh! solemn are the boundless woods Of the great western world when day declines, And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, More deep the rustling of the ancient pines. When dimness gathers on the stilly air, And mystery seems o’er every leaf to brood, Awful it is for human heart to bear The might and burden of the solitude! Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there sate One young and fair; and oh! how desolate! But undismay’d--while sank the crimson light, And the high cedars darken’d with the night. Alone she sate; though many lay around, They, pale and silent on the bloody ground, Were sever’d from her need and from her woe, Far as death severs life. O’er that wild spot Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low, And left them, with the history of their lot, Unto the forest oaks--a fearful scene For her whose home of other days had been Midst the fair halls of England! But the love Which fill’d her soul was strong to cast out fear; And by its might upborne all else above, She shrank not--mark’d not that the dead were near. Of him alone she thought, whose languid head Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell; Memory of aught but him on earth was fled, While heavily she felt his life-blood well Fast o’er her garments forth, and vainly bound With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound-- Yet hoped, still hoped! Oh! from such hope how long Affection woos the whispers that deceive, Even when the pressure of dismay grows strong! And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne’er believe The blow indeed can fall. So bow’d she there Over the dying, while unconscious prayer Fill’d all her soul. Now pour’d the moonlight down, Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown, And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place, Cast fitful radiance o’er the warrior’s face. Whereby she caught its changes. To her eye, The eye that faded look’d through gathering haze, Whence love, o’ermastering mortal agony, Lifted a long, deep, melancholy gaze, When voice was not; that fond, sad meaning pass’d-- She knew the fulness of her woe at last! One shriek the forests heard--and mute she lay And cold, yet clasping still the precious clay To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death! Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth. Many and sad!--but airs of heavenly breath Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth Is far apart. Now light, of richer hue Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew; The pines grew red with morning; fresh winds play’d; Bright-colour’d birds with splendour cross’d the shade, Flitting on flower-like wings; glad murmurs broke From reed, and spray, and leaf--the living strings Of earth’s Æolian lyre, whose music woke Into young life and joy all happy things. And she, too, woke from that long dreamless trance, The widow’d Edith: fearfully her glance Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange, And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change Flash’d o’er her spirit, even ere memory swept The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept; Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread Her arms, as ’twere for something lost or fled, Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough, With all its whispers, waved not o’er her now. Where was she? Midst the people of the wild, By the red hunter’s fire: an aged chief, Whose home look’d sad--for therein play’d no child-- Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief, To that lone cabin of the woods; and there, Won by a form so desolately fair, Or touch’d with thoughts from some past sorrow sprung, O’er her low couch an Indian matron hung; While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye, The ancient warrior of the waste stood by, Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head, And leaning on his bow. And life return’d-- Life, but with all its memories of the dead, To Edith’s heart; and well the sufferer learn’d Her task of meek endurance--well she wore The chasten’d grief that humbly can adore Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair, Even as a breath of spring’s awakening air, Her presence was; or as a sweet wild tune Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen A daughter to the land of spirits go; And ever from that time her fading mien, And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, Had haunted their dim years: but Edith’s face Now look’d in holy sweetness from her place, And they again seem’d parents. Oh! the joy, The rich deep blessedness--though earth’s alloy, Fear, that still bodes, be there--of pouring forth The heart’s whole power of love, its wealth and worth Of strong affection, in one healthful flow, On something all its own! that kindly glow, Which to shut inward is consuming pain, Gives the glad soul its flowering time again, When, like the sunshine, freed. And gentle cares Th’ adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs Who loved her thus. Her spirit dwelt the while With the departed, and her patient smile Spoke of farewells to earth; yet still she pray’d, E’en o’er her soldier’s lowly grave, for aid _One_ purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace Brightly recording that her dwelling-place Had been among the wilds; for well she knew The secret whisper of her bosom true, Which warn’d her hence. And now, by many a word Link’d unto moments when the heart was stirr’d-- By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn, Sung when the woods at eve grew hush’d and dim-- By the persuasion of her fervent eye, All eloquent with childlike piety-- By the still beauty of her life she strove To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the love Pour’d out on her so freely. Nor in vain Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain The soul in gentle bonds; by slow degrees Light follow’d on, as when a summer breeze Parts the deep masses of the forest shade, And lets the sunbeam through. Her voice was made Even such a breeze; and she, a lowly guide, By faith and sorrow raised and purified, So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led, Until their prayers were one. When morning spread O’er the blue lake, and when the sunset’s glow Touch’d into golden bronze the cypress bough, And when the quiet of the Sabbath-time Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime Waken’d the wilderness, their prayers were one. Now might she pass in hope--her work was done: And she _was_ passing from the woods away-- The broken flower of England might not stay Amidst those alien shades. Her eye was bright Even yet with something of a starry light, But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak, A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh Of autumn through the forests had gone by, And the rich maple o’er her wanderings lone Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown, Flushing the air; and winter’s blast had been Amidst the pines; and now a softer green Fringed their dark boughs: for spring again had come, The sunny spring! but Edith to her home Was journeying fast. Alas! we think it sad To part with life when all the earth looks glad In her young lovely things--when voices break Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake: Is it not brighter, then, in that far clime Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful time, If _here_ such glory dwell with passing blooms, Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs? So thought the dying one. ’Twas early day, And sounds and odours, with the breezes’ play Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin door, Unto her couch life’s farewell sweetness bore. Then with a look where all her hope awoke, “My father!”--to the gray-hair’d chief she spoke-- “Know’st thou that I depart?” “I know, I know,” He answer’d mournfully, “that thou must go To thy beloved, my daughter!” “Sorrow not For me, kind mother!” with meek smiles once more She murmur’d in low tones: “one happy lot Awaits us, friends! upon the better shore; For we have pray’d together in one trust, And lifted our frail spirits from the dust To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own, Under the cedar shade: where he is gone,