The Poems of Felicia Hemans

A frail and drooping form is mine--a cold unsmiling cheek-- Oh! I have but a woman’s heart wherewith _thy_ heart to seek. “But when thou wakest, my prince, my lord! and hear’st how I have kept A lonely vigil by thy side, and o’er thee pray’d and wept-- How in one long deep dream of thee my nights, and days have past-- Surely that humble patient love _must_ win back love at last! “And thou wilt smile--my own, my own, shall be the sunny smile, Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all _but_ me erewhile! No more in vain affection’s thirst my weary soul shall pine-- Oh! years of hope deferr’d were paid by one fond glance of thine! “Thou’lt meet me with that radiant look when thou comest from the chase-- For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o’er thy face! Thou’lt reck no more though beauty’s gift mine aspect may not bless; In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love shall give me loveliness. “But wake! my heart within me burns, yet once more to rejoice In the sound to which it ever leap’d, the music of thy voice. Awake! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and tone, And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all be mine alone.” In the still chambers of the dust, thus pour’d forth day by day, The passion of that loving dream from a troubled soul found way, Until the shadows of the grave had swept o’er every grace, Left midst the awfulness of death on the princely form and face. And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watcher’s breast, And they bore away the royal dead with requiems to his rest, With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the wind-- But a woman’s broken heart was left in its lone despair behind. THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL. A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid, Woman!--a power to suffer and to love; Therefore thou so canst pity. Wildly and mournfully the Indian drum On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke-- “Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come”-- So the red warriors to their captive spoke. Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, A youth, a fair-hair’d youth of England stood, Like a king’s son; though from his cheek had flown The mantling crimson of the island blood, And his press’d lips look’d marble. Fiercely bright And high around him blazed the fires of night, Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro, As the wind pass’d, and with a fitful glow Lighting the victim’s face: but who could tell Of what within his secret heart befell, Known but to heaven that hour? Perchance a thought Of his far home then so intensely wrought, That its full image, pictured to his eye On the dark ground of mortal agony, Rose clear as day!--and he might _see_ the band Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, Where the laburnums droop’d; or haply binding The jasmine up the door’s low pillars winding; Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth, Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth, Where sat their mother; and that mother’s face Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place Where so it ever smiled! Perchance the prayer Learn’d at her knee came back on his despair; The blessing from her voice, the very tone Of her “_Good-night_” might breathe from boyhood gone! --He started and look’d up: thick cypress boughs, Full of strange sound, waved o’er him, darkly red In the broad stormy firelight; savage brows, With tall plumes crested and wild hues o’erspread, Girt him like feverish phantoms; and pale stars Look’d through the branches as through dungeon bars, Shedding no hope. He knew, he felt his doom-- Oh! what a tale to shadow with its gloom That happy hall in England. Idle fear! Would the winds tell it? Who might dream or hear The secret of the forests? To the stake They bound him; and that proud young soldier strove His father’s spirit in his breast to wake, Trusting to die in silence! He, the love Of many hearts!--the fondly rear’d--the fair, Gladdening all eyes to see! And fetter’d there He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand Flamed up to light it in the chieftain’s hand. He thought upon his God. Hush! hark! a cry Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity-- A step hath pierced the ring! Who dares intrude On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood? A girl--a young slight girl--a fawn-like child Of green savannas and the leafy wild, Springing unmark’d till then, as some lone flower, Happy because the sunshine is its dower; Yet one that knew how early tears are shed, For _hers_ had mourn’d a playmate-brother dead. She had sat gazing on the victim long, Until the pity of her soul grew strong; And, by its passion’s deepening fervour sway’d, Even to the stake she rush’d, and gently laid His bright head on her bosom, and around His form her slender arms to shield it wound Like close Liannes; then raised her glittering eye, And clear-toned voice, that said, “He shall not die!” “He shall not die!”--the gloomy forest thrill’d To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell On the fierce throng; and heart and hand were still’d, Struck down as by the whisper of a spell. They gazed: their dark souls bow’d before the maid, She of the dancing step in wood and glade! And, as her cheek flush’d through its olive hue, As her black tresses to the night-wind flew, Something o’ermaster’d them from that young mien-- Something of heaven in silence felt and seen; And seeming, to their childlike faith, a token That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken. They loosed the bonds that held their captive’s breath; From his pale lips they took the cup of death; They quench’d the brand beneath the cypress tree: “Away,” they cried, “young stranger, thou art free!” COSTANZA. Art thou then desolate? Of friends, of hopes forsaken? Come to me! I am thine own. Have trusted hearts proved false? Flatterers deceived thee? Wanderer, come to me! Why didst thou ever leave me? Know’st thou all I would have borne, and call’d it joy to bear, For thy sake? Know’st thou that thy voice hath power To shake me with a thrill of happiness By one kind tone?--to fill mine eyes with tears Of yearning love? And thou--oh! thou didst throw That crush’d affection back upon my heart Yet come to me!--it died not. She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell Through the stain’d window of her lonely cell, And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow, Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna brow, While o’er her long hair’s flowing jet it threw Bright waves of gold--the autumn forest’s hue-- Seem’d all a vision’s mist of glory, spread By painting’s touch around some holy head, Virgin’s or fairest martyr’s. In her eye Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, What solemn fervour lived! And yet what woe, Lay like some buried thing, still seen below The glassy tide! Oh! he that could reveal What life had taught that chasten’d heart to feel, Might speak indeed of woman’s blighted years, And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears! But she had told her griefs to heaven alone, And of the gentle saint no more was known, Than that she fled the world’s cold breath, and made A temple of the pine and chestnut shade, Filling its depths with soul, whene’er her hymn Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim, And ancient solitude; where hidden streams Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in dreams-- Music for weary hearts! Midst leaves and flowers She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers, All nature’s balms, wherewith her gliding tread To the sick peasant on his lowly bed Came and brought hope! while scarce of mortal birth He deem’d the pale fair form that held on earth Communion but with grief. Ere long, a cell, A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone Gleam’d through the dark trees o’er a sparkling well; And a sweet voice, of rich yet mournful tone, Told the Calabrian wilds that duly there Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. And now ’twas prayer’s own hour. That voice again Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, That made the cypress quiver where it stood, In day’s last crimson soaring from the wood Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, Other and wilder sounds in tumult met The floating song. Strange sounds!--the trumpet’s peal, Made hollow by the rocks; the clash of steel; The rallying war-cry. In the mountain pass There had been combat; blood was on the grass, Banners had strewn the waters; chiefs lay dying, And the pine branches crash’d before the flying. And all was changed within the still retreat, Costanza’s home: there enter’d hurrying feet, Dark looks of shame and sorrow--mail-clad men, Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen, Scaring the ringdoves from the porch roof, bore A wounded warrior in. The rocky floor Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword, As there they laid their leader, and implored The sweet saint’s prayers to heal him: then for flight, Through the wide forest and the mantling night, Sped breathlessly again. They pass’d; but he, The stateliest of a host--alas! to see What mother’s eyes have watch’d in rosy sleep, Till joy, for very fulness, turn’d to weep, Thus changed!--a fearful thing! His golden crest Was shiver’d, and the bright scarf on his breast-- Some costly love-gift--rent: but what of these? There were the clustering raven locks--the breeze, As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers, Might scarcely lift them; steep’d in bloody showers, So heavily upon the pallid clay Of the damp cheek they hung. The eyes’ dark ray, Where was it? And the lips!--they gasp’d apart, With their light curve, as from the chisel’s art, Still proudly beautiful! But that white hue-- Was it not death’s?--that stillness--that cold dew On the scarr’d forehead? No! his spirit broke From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke To wander in wild dreams; and there he lay, By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken, The haughty chief of thousands--the forsaken Of all save one. _She_ fled not. Day by day-- Such hours are woman’s birthright--she, unknown, Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone; Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving His brow with tears that mourn’d the strong man’s raving. He felt them not, nor mark’d the light veil’d form Still hovering nigh! yet sometimes, when that storm Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low As a young mother’s by the cradle singing, Would soothe him with sweet _aves_, gently bringing Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow Ebb’d from his hollow cheek. At last faint gleams Of memory dawn’d upon the cloud of dreams; And feebly lifting, as a child, his head, And gazing round him from his leafy bed, He murmur’d forth, “Where am I? What soft strain Pass’d like a breeze across my burning brain? Back from my youth it floated, with a tone Of life’s first music, and a thought of one-- Where is she now? and where the gauds of pride, Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side?