The Poems of Felicia Hemans

As on that eve when the fair boy died: She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell O’er her weary heart with the day’s farewell; She spoke, and her voice, in its dying tone, Had an echo of feelings that long seem’d flown. She murmur’d a low sweet cradle-song, Strange midst the din of a warrior throng-- A song of the time when her boy’s young cheek Had glow’d on her breast in its slumber meek. But something which breathed from that mournful strain Sent a fitful gust o’er her soul again; And starting, as if from a dream, she cried-- “Give him proud burial at my side! There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave, When the temples are fallen, make there our grave.” And the temples fell, though the spirit pass’d, That stay’d not for victory’s voice at last; When the day was won for the martyr dead, For the broken heart and the bright blood shed. Through the gates of the vanquish’d the Tartar steed Bore in the avenger with foaming speed; Free swept the flame through the idol fanes, And the streams glow’d red, as from warrior veins; And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay, Like the panther leapt on its flying prey, Till a city of ruin begirt the shade Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid. Palace and tower on that plain were left, Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft; The wild vine mantled the stately square, The Rajah’s throne was the serpent’s lair, And the jungle grass o’er the altar sprung-- This was the work of one deep heart wrung! THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE. ----“There is but one place in the world-- Thither, where he lies buried! ... There, there is all that still remains of him: That single spot is the whole earth to me.” Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.” “Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert.”--Childe Harold. There went a warrior’s funeral through the night, A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone, Far down the waters. Heavily and dead, Under the moaning trees, the home-hoof’s tread In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell, As chieftains pass’d; and solemnly the swell Of the deep requiem, o’er the gleaming river Borne with the gale, and with the leaves’ low shiver, Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale, Wore man’s mute anguish sternly;--but of _one_, Oh, who shall speak? What words _his_ brow unveil? A father following to the grave his son!-- That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow, Through the wood-shadows, moved the knightly train, With youth’s fair form upon the bier laid low-- Fair even when found amidst the bloody slain, Stretch’d by its broken lance. They reach’d the lone Baronial chapel, where the forest-gloom Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb. Stately they trode the hollow-ringing aisle, A strange deep echo shudder’d through the pile, Till crested heads at last in silence bent Round the De Coucis’ antique monument, When dust to dust was given:--and Aymer slept Beneath the drooping banners of his line, Whose broider’d folds the Syrian wind had swept Proudly and oft o’er fields of Palestine. So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave; And the pale image of a youth, array’d As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid In slumber on his shield. Then all was done-- All still around the dead. His name was heard Perchance when wine-cups flow’d, and hearts were stirr’d By some old song, or tale of battle won Told round the hearth. But in his father’s breast Manhood’s high passions woke again, and press’d On to their mark; and in his friend’s clear eye There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by; And with the brethren of his fields, the feast Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceased Mingled with theirs. Even thus life’s rushing tide Bears back affection from the grave’s dark side; Alas! to think of this!--the heart’s void place Fill’d up so soon!--so like a summer cloud, All that we loved to pass and leave no trace!-- He lay forgotten in his early shroud. Forgotten?--not of all! The sunny smile Glancing in play o’er that proud lip erewhile, And the dark locks, whose breezy waving threw A gladness round, whene’er their shade withdrew From the bright brow; and all the sweetness lying Within that eagle eye’s jet radiance deep, And all the music with that young voice dying, Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap As at a hunter’s bugle--these things lived Still in one breast, whose silent love survived The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day by day, On Aymer’s tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay, Through the dim fane soft summer odours breathing, And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing, And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing Through storied windows down. The violet there Might speak of love--a secret love and lowly; And the rose image all things fleet and fair; And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy, Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand, As for an altar, wove the radiant band? Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells, That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells, To blush through every season? Blight and chill Might touch the changing woods; but duly still For years those gorgeous coronals renew’d, And brightly clasping marble spear and helm, Even through mid-winter, fill’d the solitude With a strange smile--a glow of summer’s realm. Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring Its youth’s vain worship on the dust, adoring In lone devotedness! One spring morn rose, And found, within that tomb’s proud shadow laid-- Oh! not as midst the vineyards, to repose From the fierce noon--a dark-hair’d peasant maid. Who could reveal her story? That still face Had once been fair; for on the clear arch’d brow And the curved lip there linger’d yet such grace As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low The deep black lashes, o’er the half-shut eye-- For death was on its lids--fell mournfully. But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair Dimm’d, the slight form all wasted, as by care. Whence came that early blight? _Her_ kindred’s place Was not amidst the high De Couci race; Yet there her shrine had been! She grasp’d a wreath, The tomb’s last garland!--This was love in death. INDIAN WOMAN’S DEATH-SONG. [An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband’s desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with her children, and rowed it down the Mississippi towards a cataract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing a mournful death-song, until overpowered by the sound of the waters in which she perished. The tale is related in Long’s “Expedition to the Source of St Peter’s River.”] “Non, je ne puis vivre avec un cœur brise. Il faut que je retrouve la joie, et que je m’unisse aux esprits libres de l’air.” “Bride of Messina.” Translated by Madame de Stael. “Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman.” “The Prairie.” Down a broad river of the western wilds, Piercing thick forest-glooms, a light canoe Swept with the current: fearful was the speed Of the frail bark, as by a tempest’s wing Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray Rose with the cataract’s thunder. Yet within, Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone, Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast, A woman stood! Upon her Indian brow Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved As if triumphantly. She press’d her child, In its bright slumber, to her beating heart, And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile Above the sound of waters, high and clear, Wafting a wild proud strain--a song of death. “Roll swiftly to the spirits’ land, thou mighty stream and free! Father of ancient waters,[349] roll! and bear our lives with thee! The weary bird that storms have toss’d would seek the sunshine’s calm, And the deer that hath the arrow’s hurt flies to the woods of balm. “Roll on!--my warrior’s eye hath look’d upon another’s face, And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moonbeam’s trace: My shadow comes not o’er his path, my whisper to his dream-- He flings away the broken reed. Roll swifter yet, thou stream! “The voice that spoke of other days is hush’d within _his_ breast, But _mine_ its lonely music haunts, and will not let me rest; It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that is gone-- I cannot live without that light. Father of waves! roll on! “Will he not miss the bounding step that met him from the chase? The heart of love that made his home an ever-sunny place? The hand that spread the hunter’s board, and deck’d his couch of yore?-- He will not! Roll, dark foaming stream, on to the better shore! “Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright land must flow, Whose waters from my soul may lave the memory of this woe; Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose breath may waft away The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the day. “And thou, my babe! though born, like me, for woman’s weary lot, Smile!--to that wasting of the heart, my own! I leave thee not; Too bright a thing art _thou_ to pine in aching love away-- Thy mother bears thee far, young fawn! from sorrow and decay. “She bears thee to the glorious bowers where none are heard to weep, And where th’ unkind one hath no power again to trouble sleep; And where the soul shall find its youth, as wakening from a dream: One moment, and that realm is ours. On, on, dark-rolling stream!” [349] “Father of waters,” the Indian name for the Mississippi. JOAN OF ARC IN RHEIMS. [“Jeanne d’Arc avait eu la joie de voir à Chalons quelques amis de son enfance. Une joie plus ineffable encore l’attendait à Rheims, au sein de son triomphe: Jacques d’Arc, son père, y se trouva, aussitôt que de troupes de Charles VII. y furent entrées; et comme les deux frères de notre héroine l’avaient accompagnée, elle se vit pour un instant au milieu de sa famille, dans les bras d’un père vertueux.”--_Vie de Jeanne d’Arc_.] Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame! A draught that mantles high, And seems to lift this earth-born frame Above mortality: Away! to me--a woman--bring Sweet waters from affection’s spring! That was a joyous day in Rheims of old, When peal on peal of mighty music roll’d Forth from her throng’d cathedral; while around, A multitude, whose billows made no sound, Chain’d to a hush of wonder, though elate With victory, listen’d at their temple’s gate. And what was done within? Within, the light, Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing, Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight-- The chivalry of France their proud heads bowing In martial vassalage! While midst that ring, And shadow’d by ancestral tombs, a king