The Poems of Felicia Hemans
All lost!--and this is death!--I _cannot_ die
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye!
Away! the earth hath lost her. Was she born
To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn?
My first, my holiest love!--her broken heart
Lies low, and I--unpardon’d I depart.”
But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil
From her dark locks and features brightly pale,
And stood before him with a smile--oh! ne’er
Did aught that _smiled_ so much of sadness wear--
And said, “Cesario! look on me; I live
To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive.
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust,
As should be heaven’s alone--and heaven is just!
I bless thee--be at peace!”
But o’er his frame
Too fast the strong tide rush’d--the sudden shame,
The joy, th’ amaze! He bow’d his head--it fell
On the wrong’d bosom which had loved so well;
And love, still perfect, gave him refuge there--
His last faint breath just waved her floating hair.
MADELINE.
A DOMESTIC TALE.
“Who should it be?--Where shouldst thou look for kindness?
When we are sick, where can we turn for succour;
When we are wretched, where can we complain;
And when the world looks cold and surly on us,
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye
With such sure confidence as to a mother?”--Joanna Baillie.
“My child, my child, thou leavest me! I shall hear
The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear
With its first utterance: I shall miss the sound
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around,
And thy soft-breathing hymn at twilight’s close,
And thy ‘Good-night’ at parting for repose.
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone,
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee,
My child! and thou, along the moonlight sea,
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance,
Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France,
Fading to air. Yet blessings with thee go!
Love guard thee, gentlest! and the exile’s woe
From thy young heart be far! And sorrow not
For me, sweet daughter! in my lonely lot,
God shall be with me. Now, farewell! farewell!
Thou that hast been what words may never tell
Unto thy mother’s bosom, since the days
When thou wert pillow’d there, and wont to raise
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye
That still sought mine: these moments are gone by--
Thou too must go, my flower! Yet with thee dwell
The peace of God! One, one more gaze: farewell!”
This was a mother’s parting with her child--
A young meek bride, on whom fair fortune smiled,
And woo’d her with a voice of love away
From childhood’s home: yet there, with fond delay,
She linger’d on the threshold, heard the note
Of her caged bird through trellis’d rose-leaves float,
And fell upon her mother’s neck and wept,
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept,
Gush’d o’er her soul, and many a vanish’d day,
As in one picture traced, before her lay.
But the farewell was said; and on the deep,
When its breast heaved in sunset’s golden sleep,
With a calm’d heart, young Madeline ere long
Pour’d forth her own sweet, solemn vesper-song,
Breathing of home. Through stillness heard afar,
And duly rising with the first pale star,
That voice was on the waters; till at last
The sounding ocean solitudes were pass’d,
And the bright land was reach’d, the youthful world
That glows along the West: the sails were furl’d
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride
Look’d on the home that promised hearts untried
A bower of bliss to come. Alas! we trace
The map of our own paths, and long ere years
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface,
On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with tears!
That home was darken’d soon: the summer breeze
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas:
Death unto one, and anguish--how forlorn!
To her that, widow’d in her marriage morn,
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him,
Her bosom’s first beloved, her friend and guide,
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim,
As from the sun shut out on every side
By the close veil of misery. Oh! but ill,
When with rich hopes o’erfraught, the young high heart
Bears its first blow! It knows not yet the part
Which life will teach--to suffer and be still,
And with submissive love to count the flowers
Which yet are spared, and through the future hours
To send no busy dream! _She_ had not learn’d
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn’d
In weariness from life. Then came th’ unrest,
The heart-sick yearning of the exile’s breast,
The haunting sounds of voices far away,
And household steps: until at last she lay
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams
Of the gay vineyards and blue rushing streams
In her own sunny land; and murmuring oft
Familiar names, in accents wild yet soft,
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught.
To strangers? Oh! could strangers raise the head
Gently as hers was raised? Did strangers shed
The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow
And wasted cheek with half-unconscious flow?
Something was there that, through the lingering night,
Outwatches patiently the taper’s light--
Something that faints not through the day’s distress,
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness--
Love, true and perfect love! Whence came that power,
Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower?
Whence?--who can ask? The wild delirium pass’d,
And from her eyes the spirit look’d at last
Into her _mother’s_ face, and wakening knew
The brow’s calm grace, the hair’s dear silvery hue,
The kind sweet smile of old!--and had _she_ come,
Thus in life’s evening from her distant home,
To save her child? Even so--nor yet in vain;
In that young heart a light sprang up again,
And lovely still, with so much love to give,
Seem’d this fair world, though faded; still to live
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast
That rock’d her childhood, sinking in soft rest,
“Sweet mother! gentlest mother! can it be?”
The lorn one cried, “and do I look on thee?
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore:
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more.”
THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA’S TOMB.
[“This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburg, near Berlin. It
was not without surprise that I came suddenly, among trees, upon a
fair white Doric temple. I might and should have deemed it a mere
adornment of the grounds, but the cypress and the willow declare it
a habitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a
sheet, and the outline of the human form was plainly visible beneath
its folds. The person with me reverently turned it back, and displayed
the statue of his queen. It is a portrait statue recumbent, said to be
a perfect resemblance--not as in death, but when she lived to bless
and be blessed. Nothing can be more calm and kind than the expression
of her features. The hands are folded on the bosom; the limbs are
sufficiently crossed to show the repose of life. Here the king brings
her children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These hang
in withered mournfulness above this living image of their departed
mother.”--Sherer’s _Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany_.]
“In sweet pride upon that insult keen
She smiled; then drooping mute and brokenhearted,
To the cold comfort of the grave departed.” Milman.
It stands where northern willows weep,
A temple fair and lone;
Soft shadows o’er its marble sweep
From cypress branches thrown;
While silently around it spread,
Thou feel’st the presence of the dead.
And what within is richly shrined?
A sculptured woman’s form,
Lovely, in perfect rest reclined,
As one beyond the storm:
Yet not of death, but slumber, lies
The solemn sweetness on those eyes.
The folded hands, the calm pure face,
The mantle’s quiet flow,
The gentle yet majestic grace
Throned on the matron brow;
These, in that scene of tender gloom,
With a still glory robe the tomb.
There stands an eagle, at the feet
Of the fair image wrought;
A kingly emblem--nor unmeet
To wake yet deeper thought:
She whose high heart finds rest below,
Was royal in her birth and woe.
There are pale garlands hung above,
Of dying scent and hue;
She was a mother--in her love
How sorrowfully true!
Oh! hallow’d long be every leaf,
The record of her children’s grief!
She saw their birthright’s warrior-crown
Of olden glory spoil’d,
The standard of their sires borne down,
The shield’s bright blazon soil’d:
She met the tempest, meekly brave,
Then turn’d o’erwearied to the grave.
She slumber’d: but it came--it came,
Her land’s redeeming hour,
With the glad shout, and signal flame
Sent on from tower to tower!
Fast through the realm a spirit moved--
’Twas hers, the lofty and the loved.
Then was her name a note that rung
To rouse bold hearts from sleep;
Her memory, as a banner flung
Forth by the Baltic deep;
Her grief, a bitter vial pour’d
To sanctify th’ avenger’s sword.
And the crown’d eagle spread again
His pinion to the sun;
And the strong land shook off its chain--
So was the triumph won!
But woe for earth, where sorrow’s tone
Still blends with victory’s!--She was gone!
THE MEMORIAL PILLAR.
[On the road-side, between Penrith and Appleby, stands a small pillar,
with this inscription:--“This pillar was erected in the year 1656,
by Ann, Countess-Dowager of Pembroke, for a memorial of her last
parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret,
Countess-Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d April 1616.”--See notes to
the _Pleasures of Memory_.]
Mother and child! whose blending tears
Have sanctified the place,
Where, to the love of many years,
Was given one last embrace--
Oh! ye have shrined a spell of power
Deep in your record of that hour!
A spell to waken solemn thought--
A still, small under tone,
That calls back days of childhood, fraught
With many a treasure gone;
And smites, perchance, the hidden source,
Though long untroubled--of remorse.
For who, that gazes on the stone
Which marks your parting spot,
Who but a mother’s love hath known--
The _one_ love changing not?
Alas! and haply learn’d its worth
First with the sound of “Earth to earth!”
But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou,
O’er whose bright honour’d head
Blessings and tears of holiest flow
E’en here were fondly shed--
Thou from the passion of thy grief,
In its full burst, couldst draw relief.
For, oh! though painful be th’ excess,
The might wherewith it swells,
In nature’s fount no bitterness
Of nature’s mingling dwells;
And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride,
Poison’d the free and healthful tide.
But didst thou meet the face no more
Which thy young heart first knew?
And all--was all in this world o’er
With ties thus close and true?
It was! On earth no other eye
Could give thee back thine infancy.
No other voice could pierce the maze
Where, deep within thy breast,