The Poems of Felicia Hemans
“What! from their gentle eyes doth naught
Speak of thy childhood’s hours,
And smite thee with a tender thought
Of thy dead father’s towers?
Kind was thy boyish heart and true,
When rear’d together there,
Through the old woods like fawns ye flew--
Where is thy brother--where?
“Well didst thou love him then, and he
Still at thy side was seen!
How is it that such things can be
As though they ne’er had been?
Evil was this world’s breath, which came
Between the good and brave!
Now must the tears of grief and shame
Be offer’d to the grave.
“And let them, let them there be pour’d!
Though all unfelt below--
Thine own wrung heart, to love restored,
Shall soften as they flow.
Oh! death is mighty to make peace;
Now bid his work be done!
So many an inward strife shall cease--
Take, take these babes, my son!”
His eye was dimm’d--the strong man shook
With feelings long suppress’d;
Up in his arms the boys he took,
And strain’d them to his breast.
And a shout from all in the royal hall
Burst forth to hail the sight;
And eyes were wet midst the brave that met
At the Kaiser’s feast that night.
TASSO AND HIS SISTER.
“Devant vous est Sorrente; la demeuroit la sœur de Tasse, quand
il vint en pelerin demander a cette obscure amie un asyle contre
l’injustice des princes.--Ses longues douleurs avaient presque egare
sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que son genie.”--Corinne.
She sat, where on each wind that sigh’d
The citron’s breath went by,
While the red gold of eventide
Burn’d in the Italian sky.
Her bower was one where daylight’s close
Full oft sweet laughter found,
As thence the voice of childhood rose
To the high vineyards round.
But still and thoughtful at her knee
Her children stood that hour,
Their bursts of song and dancing glee
Hush’d as by words of power.
With bright fix’d wondering eyes, that gazed
Up to their mother’s face,
With brows through parted ringlets raised,
They stood in silent grace.
While she--yet something o’er her look
Of mournfulness was spread--
Forth from a poet’s magic book
The glorious numbers read;
The proud undying lay, which pour’d
Its light on evil years;
_His_ of the gifted pen and sword,[354]
The triumph, and the tears.
She read of fair Erminia’s flight,
Which Venice once might hear
Sung on her glittering seas at night
By many a gondolier:
Of him she read, who broke the charm
That wrapt the myrtle grove;
Of Godfrey’s deeds, of Tancred’s arm,
That slew his Paynim love.
Young cheeks around that bright page glow’d,
Young holy hearts were stirr’d;
And the meek tears of woman flow’d
Fast o’er each burning word.
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,
Came sweet, each pause between,
When a strange voice of sudden grief
Burst on the gentle scene.
The mother turn’d--a way-worn man,
In pilgrim garb, stood nigh,
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,
Of proud yet mournful eye.
But drops which would not stay for pride
From that dark eye gush’d free,
As pressing his pale brow, he cried,
“Forgotten! e’en by thee!
“Am I so changed?--and yet we two
Oft hand in hand have play’d;
This brow hath been all bathed in dew
From wreaths which thou hast made;
We have knelt down and said one prayer,
And sung one vesper strain;
My soul is dim with clouds of care--
Tell me those words again!
“Life hath been heavy on my head--
I come a stricken deer,
Bearing the heart, midst crowds that bled,
To bleed in stillness here.”
She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept
Shook all her thrilling frame--
She fell upon his neck and wept,
Murmuring her brother’s name.
Her _brother’s_ name!--and who was he,
The weary one, th’ unknown,
That came, the bitter world to flee,
A stranger to his own?
He was the bard of gifts divine
To sway the souls of men;
He of the song for Salem’s shrine,
He of the sword and pen!
[354] It is scarcely necessary to recall the well-known Italian saying,
that Tasso, with his sword and pen, was superior to all men.
ULLA; OR, THE ADJURATION.
“Yet speak to me! I have outwatch’d the stars,
And gazed o’er heaven in vain, in search of thee.
Speak to me! I have wander’d o’er the earth,
And never found thy likeness. Speak to me!
This once--once more!” Manfred.
“Thou’rt gone!--thou’rt slumbering low,
With the sounding seas above thee:
It is but a restless woe,
But a haunting dream to love thee!
Thrice the glad swan has sung
To greet the spring-time hours,
Since thine oar at parting flung
The white spray up in showers.
There’s a shadow of the grave on thy hearth and round thy home;
Come to me from the ocean’s dead!--thou’rt surely of them--come!”
’Twas Ulla’s voice! Alone she stood
In the Iceland summer night,
Far gazing o’er a glassy flood
From a dark rock’s beetling height.
“I know thou hast thy bed
Where the sea-weed’s coil hath bound thee;
The storm sweeps o’er thy head,
But the depths are hush’d around thee.
What wind shall point the way
To the chambers where thou’rt lying?
Come to me thence, and say
If thou thought’st on me in dying?
I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and cheek.
Come to me from the ocean’s dead!--thou’rt surely of them--speak!”
She listen’d--’twas the wind’s low moan,
’Twas the ripple of the wave,
’Twas the wakening osprey’s cry alone
As it startled from its cave.
“I know each fearful spell
Of the ancient Runic lay,
Whose mutter’d words compel
The tempest to obey.
But I adjure not _thee_
By magic sign or song;
My voice shall stir the sea
By love--the deep, the strong!
By the might of woman’s tears, by the passion of her sighs,
Come to me from the ocean’s dead!--by the vows we pledged, arise!”
Again she gazed with an eager glance,
Wandering and wildly bright;--
She saw but the sparkling waters dance
To the arrowy northern-light.
“By the slow and struggling death
Of hope that loathed to part,
By the fierce and withering breath
Of despair on youth’s high heart--
By the weight of gloom which clings
To the mantle of the night,
By the heavy dawn which brings
Naught lovely to the sight--
By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung of grief and fear,
Come to me from the ocean’s dead! Awake, arise, appear!”
Was it her yearning spirit’s dream?
Or did a pale form rise,
And o’er the hush’d wave glide and gleam,
With bright, still, mournful eyes?
“Have the depths heard? They have!
My voice prevails: thou’rt there,
Dim from thy watery grave--
O thou that wert so fair!
Yet take me to thy rest!
There dwells no fear with love;
Let me slumber on thy breast,
While the billow rolls above!
Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the bright ones have their
home,
We will sleep among the ocean’s dead. Stay for me, stay!--I come!”
There was a sullen plunge below,
A flashing on the main;
And the wave shut o’er that wild heart’s woe--
Shut, and grew still again.
TO WORDSWORTH.
Thine is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices,--by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.
Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken
To the still breast in sunny garden bowers,
Where vernal winds each tree’s low tones awaken,
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours.
There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day
Sinks with a golden and serene decay.
Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,
When night hath hush’d the woods with all their birds,
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet
As antique music, link’d with household words;
While in pleased murmurs woman’s lip might move,
And the raised eye of childhood shine in love.
Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews
Brood silently o’er some lone burial-ground,
Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around;
From its own glow of hope and courage high,
And steadfast faith’s victorious constancy.
True bard and holy!--thou art e’en as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,
Sees where the springs of living waters lie:
Unseen awhile they sleep--till, touch’d by thee,
Bright healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wanderer free.
[These verses, addressed “To the Author of the Excursion and the
Lyrical Ballads,” first appeared in the _Literary Magnet_ for April
1826--a clever and tasteful periodical at that time conducted by
Mr Alaric A. Watts--who appended to it the following complimentary
editorial note:--
“We have much pleasure in presenting to our readers this exquisite
address to the poet Wordsworth, with which we have been kindly
favoured by its distinguished author. Those who are acquainted with Mr
W.’s writings, will readily feel and appreciate the truth and beauty
of the tribute.”
The same little poem was afterwards inclosed by Mrs Hemans in one
of her letters to her accomplished and deeply attached friend, Miss
Jewsbury--at whose recommendation the writings of the great poet of
the Lakes had become an earnest study with our author, and with what
advantage, her compositions subsequent to this time sufficiently
testify. In the letter referred to, Mrs Hemans seems proud to avow
these obligations.
“The inclosed lines,” she says--“an effusion of deep and sincere
admiration--will give you some idea of the enjoyment, and I hope
I may say advantage, which you have been the means of imparting,
by so kindly intrusting me with your precious copy of Wordsworth’s
Miscellaneous Poems. It has opened to me such a treasure of thought
and feeling, that I shall always associate your name with some of my
pleasantest recollections, as having introduced me to the knowledge of
what I can only regret should have been so long a ‘Yarrow unvisited.’
I would not write to you sooner, because I wished to tell you that I
had really _studied_ these poems, and they have been the daily food
of my mind ever since I borrowed them. There is hardly any scene of
a happy, though serious, domestic life, or any mood of a reflective
mind, with the spirit of which some one or other of them does not
beautifully harmonise. This author is the true poet of home, and of
all the lofty feelings which have their root in the soil of home
affections. His fine sonnets to Liberty, and indeed all his pieces
which have any reference to political interest, remind me of the
spirit in which Schiller has conceived the character of William
Tell--a calm, single-hearted herdsman of the hills, breaking forth
into fiery and indignant eloquence when the sanctity of his hearth is