The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, Burden’d with agony. “There is no crimson on thy cheek, And on thy lip no breath; I call thee, and thou dost not speak-- They tell me this is death! And fearful things are whispering That I the deed have done-- For the honour of thy father’s name, Look up, look up, my son! “Well might I know death’s hue and mien-- But on _thine_ aspect, boy! What, till this moment, have I seen Save pride and tameless joy? Swiftest thou wert to battle, And bravest there of all-- How could I think a warrior’s frame Thus like a flower should fall? “I will not bear that still cold look-- Rise up, thou fierce and free! Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook All, save this calm, from thee! Lift brightly up, and proudly, Once more thy kindling eyes! Hath my word lost its power on earth? I say to thee, arise! “Didst thou not know I loved thee well? Thou didst not! and art gone, In bitterness of soul, to dwell Where man must dwell alone. Come back, young fiery spirit! If but one hour, to learn The secrets of the folded heart That seem’d to thee so stern. “Thou wert the first, the first, fair child That in mine arms I press’d: Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled Like summer on my breast! I rear’d thee as an eagle, To the chase thy steps I led, I bore thee on my battle-horse, I look upon thee--dead! “Lay down my warlike banners here, Never again to wave, And bury my red sword and spear, Chiefs! in my first-born’s grave! And leave me!--I have conquer’d, I have slain: my work is done! Whom have I slain? Ye answer not-- _Thou_ too art mute, my son!” And thus his wild lament was pour’d Through the dark resounding night, And the battle knew no more his sword, Nor the foaming steed his might. He heard strange voices moaning In every wind that sigh’d; From the searching stars of heaven he shrank-- Humbly the conqueror died. CAROLAN’S PROPHECY. [“It is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish bard, even in his gayest mood, never could compose a planxty for a Miss Brett, in the county of Sligo, whose father’s house he frequented, and where he always met with a reception due to his exquisite taste and mental endowments. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to compose something in a sprightly strain for this lady, he threw aside his harp with a mixture of rage and grief; and addressing himself in Irish to her mother, ‘Madam,’ said he, ‘I have often, from my great respect to your family, attempted a planxty in order to celebrate your daughter’s perfections, but to no purpose. Some evil genius hovers over me; there is not a string in my harp that does not vibrate a melancholy sound when I set about this task. I fear she is not doomed to remain long among us; nay,’ said he emphatically, ‘she will not survive twelve months.’ The event verified the prediction, and the young lady died within the period limited by the unconsciously prophetic bard.”--_Percy Anecdotes_.] Thy cheek too swiftly flushes, o’er thine eye The lights and shadows come and go too fast; Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice Are sounds of tenderness too passionate For peace on earth: oh! therefore, child of song! ’Tis well thou shouldst depart. A sound of music, from amidst the hills, Came suddenly, and died; a fitful sound Of mirth, soon lost in wail. Again it rose, And sank in mournfulness. There sat a bard By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept Flashing through rock and wood: the sunset’s light Was on his wavy, silver-gleaming hair, And the wind’s whisper in the mountain ash, Whose clusters droop’d above. His head was bow’d, His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch Had drawn but broken strains; and many stood Waiting around, in silent earnestness, Th’ unchaining of his soul, the gush of song-- Many and graceful forms!--yet one alone Seem’d present to his dream; and she, indeed, With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek, And the clear starlight of her serious eyes, Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful, E’en painfully!--a creature to behold With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth Too dim without its brightness! Did such fear O’ershadow in that hour the gifted one, By his own rushing stream? Once more he gazed Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out A few short festive notes, an opening strain Of bridal melody, soon dash’d with grief-- As if some wailing spirit in the strings Met and o’ermaster’d him; but yielding then To the strong prophet impulse, mournfully, Like moaning waters o’er the harp he pour’d The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang-- “Voice of the grave! I hear thy thrilling call; It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, In the sere leaf’s trembling fall! In the shiver of the tree, I hear thee, O thou voice! And I would thy warning were but for me, That my spirit might rejoice. “But thou art sent For the sad earth’s young and fair, For the graceful heads that have not bent To the wintry hand of care! They hear the wind’s low sigh, And the river sweeping free, And the green reeds murmuring heavily, And the woods--but they hear not thee! “Long have I striven With my deep-foreboding soul, But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, And darkly on must roll. There’s a young brow smiling near, With a bridal white-rose wreath-- Unto _me_ it smiles from a flowery bier, Touch’d solemnly by death! “Fair art thou, Morna! The sadness of thine eye Is beautiful as silvery clouds On the dark-blue summer sky! And thy voice comes like the sound Of a sweet and hidden rill, That makes the dim woods tuneful round-- But soon it must be still! “Silence and dust On thy sunny lips must lie-- Make not the strength of love thy trust, A stronger yet is nigh! No strain of festal flow That my hand for thee hath tried, But into dirge-notes wild and low Its ringing tones have died. “Young art thou, Morna! Yet on thy gentle head, Like heavy dew on the lily’s leaves, A spirit hath been shed! And the glance is thine which sees Through nature’s awful heart-- But bright things go with the summer breeze, And thou too must depart! “Yet, shall I weep? I know that in thy breast There swells a fount of song too deep, Too powerful for thy rest! And the bitterness I know, And the chill of this world’s breath-- Go--all undimm’d in thy glory, go! Young and crown’d bride of death! “Take hence to heaven Thy holy thoughts and bright, And soaring hopes, that were not given For the touch of mortal blight! Might we follow in thy track, This parting should not be! But the spring shall give us violets back, And every flower but thee!” There was a burst of tears around the bard: All wept but one--and she serenely stood, With her clear brow and dark religious eye Raised to the first faint star above the hills, And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek Was paler than before. So Morna heard The minstrel’s prophecy. And spring return’d, Bringing the earth her lovely things again-- All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile, A young sweet spirit gone. THE LADY OF THE CASTLE. FROM THE “PORTRAIT GALLERY,” AN UNFINISHED POEM. If there be but one spot on thy name, One eye thou fear’st to meet, one human voice Whose tones thou shrink’st from--Woman! veil thy face, And bow thy head--and die! Thou see’st her pictured with her shining hair, (Famed were those tresses in Provençal song,) Half braided, half o’er cheek and bosom fair Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along Her gorgeous vest. A child’s light hand is roving Midst the rich curls; and, oh! how meekly loving Its earnest looks are lifted to the face Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace! Yet that bright lady’s eye, methinks, hath less Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness, Than might beseem a mother’s; on her brow Something too much there sits of native scorn, And her smile kindles with a conscious glow As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. These may be dreams--but how shall woman tell Of woman’s shame, and not with tears? She fell! That mother left that child!--went hurrying by Its cradle--haply not without a sigh, Haply one moment o’er its rest serene She hung. But no! it could not thus have been, For _she went on!_--forsook her home, her hearth, All pure affection, all sweet household mirth, To live a gaudy and dishonour’d thing, Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king. Her lord, in very weariness of life, Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife. He reck’d no more of glory: grief and shame Crush’d out his fiery nature, and his name Died silently. A shadow o’er his halls Crept year by year: the minstrel pass’d their walls; The warder’s horn hung mute. Meantime the child On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled, A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew Into sad youth; for well, too well, she knew Her mother’s tale! Its memory made the sky Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye; Check’d on her lip the flow of song, which fain Would there have linger’d; flush’d her cheek to pain, If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone, E’en to the spring’s glad voice. Her own was low And plaintive. Oh! there lie such depths of woe In a _young_ blighted spirit! Manhood rears A haughty brow, and age has done with tears; But youth bows down to misery, in amaze At the dark cloud o’ermantling its fresh days;-- And thus it was with her. A mournful sight In one so fair--for she indeed was fair; Not with her mother’s dazzling eyes of light-- _Hers_ were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer, And with long lashes o’er a white-rose cheek Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek, Still that fond child’s--and oh! the brow above So pale and pure! so form’d for holy love To gaze upon in silence! But she felt That love was not for her, though hearts would melt Where’er she moved, and reverence mutely given Went with her; and low prayers, that call’d on heaven To bless the young Isaure. One sunny morn With alms before her castle-gate she stood, Midst peasant groups: when, breathless and o’erworn, And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, A stranger through them broke. The orphan maid, With her sweet voice and proffer’d hand of aid, Turn’d to give welcome; but a wild sad look Met hers--a gaze that all her spirit shook; And that pale woman, suddenly subdued By some strong passion, in its gushing mood,