The Poems of Felicia Hemans

invaded. Then what power Wordsworth condenses into single lines, like Lord Byron’s ‘curdling a long life into one hour!’ ‘The still, sad music of humanity’-- ‘The river glideth at his own sweet will’-- ‘Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods’-- and a thousand others, which we must some time (and I hope not a very distant one) talk over together. Many of these lines quite haunt me: and I have a strange feeling, as if I must have known them in my childhood; they come over me so like old melodies. I can hardly speak of favourites among so many things that delight me; but I think ‘The Narrow Glen,’ the ‘Lines on Corra Linn,’ the ‘Song for the Feast of Brougham Castle,’ ‘Yarrow Visited,’ and ‘The Cuckoo,’ are among those which take hold of imagination the soonest, and recur most frequently to memory. * * * * * “I know not how I can have so long omitted to mention the _Ecclesiastical Sketches_, which I have read, and do constantly read, with deep interest. Their beauty grows upon you, and develops as you study it, like that of the old pictures by the Italian masters.”] A MONARCH’S DEATH-BED. [The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the wayside, and only supported in his last moments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing.] A monarch on his deathbed lay-- Did censers waft perfume, And soft lamps pour their silvery ray, Through his proud chamber’s gloom? He lay upon a greensward bed, Beneath a darkening sky-- A lone tree waving o’er his head, A swift stream rolling by. Had he then fallen as warriors fall, Where spear strikes fire with spear? Was there a banner for his pall, A buckler for his bier? Not so--nor cloven shields nor helms Had strewn the bloody sod, Where he, the helpless lord of realms, Yielded his soul to God. Were there not friends with words of cheer, And princely vassals nigh? And priests, the crucifix to rear Before the glazing eye? A peasant girl that royal head Upon her bosom laid, And, shrinking not for woman’s dread, The face of death survey’d. Alone she sat: from hill and wood Red sank the mournful sun; Fast gush’d the fount of noble blood-- Treason its worst had done. With her long hair she vainly press’d The wounds, to stanch their tide-- Unknown, on that meek humble breast, Imperial Albert died! TO THE MEMORY OF HEBER. “Umile in tanta gloria.”--Petrarch. If it be sad to speak of treasures gone, Of sainted genius call’d too soon away, Of light from this world taken, while it shone Yet kindling onward to the perfect day-- How shall our grief, if mournful these things be, Flow forth, O thou of many gifts! for thee? Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard And that deep soul of gentleness and power, Have we not felt its breath in every word Wont from thy lip as Hermon’s dew to shower? Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn’d-- Of heaven they were, and thither have return’d. How shall we mourn thee? With a lofty trust, Our life’s immortal birthright from above! With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just, Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love, And yet can weep!--for nature thus deplores The friend that leaves us, though for happier shores. And one high tone of triumph o’er thy bier, One strain of solemn rapture, be allow’d! Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career, Not to decay, but unto death hast bow’d, In those bright regions of the rising sun, Where victory ne’er a crown like thine had won. Praise! for yet one more name with power endow’d To cheer and guide us, onward as we press; Yet one more image on the heart bestow’d To dwell there, beautiful in holiness! Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from the dead Shines as the star which to the Saviour led! THE ADOPTED CHILD. “Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child? Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, A straw-roof’d cabin, with lowly wall-- Mine is a fair and a pillar’d hall, Where many an image of marble gleams, And the sunshine of picture for ever streams.” “Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play, Through the long bright hours of the summer day; They find the red cup-moss where they climb, And they chase the bee o’er the scented thyme, And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know-- Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!” “Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell-- Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well; Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, Harps which the wandering breezes tune, And the silvery wood-note of many a bird Whose voice was ne’er in thy mountains heard.” “Oh! my mother sings, at the twilight’s fall, A song of the hills far more sweet than all; She sings it under our own green tree To the babe half slumbering on her knee: I dreamt last night of that music low-- Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!” “Thy mother is gone, from her cares to rest-- She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast; Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy! no more, Nor hear the song at the cabin door. Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, And we’ll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.” “Is my mother gone from her home away? But I know that my brothers are there at play-- I know they are gathering the foxglove’s bell, Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well; Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow-- Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!” “Fair child! thy brothers are wanderers now, They sport no more on the mountain’s brow; They have left the fern by the spring’s green side, And the streams where the fairy barks were tried. Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, For thy cabin home is a lonely spot.” “Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill?-- But the bird and the blue-fly rove o’er it still; And the red-deer bound in their gladness free, And the heath is bent by the singing bee, And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow-- Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!” INVOCATION. “I call’d on dreams and visions, to disclose That which is veil’d from waking thought; conjured Eternity, as men constrain a ghost To appear and answer.” Wordsworth. Answer me, burning stars of night! Where is the spirit gone, That past the reach of human sight As a swift breeze hath flown? And the stars answer’d me--“We roll In light and power on high; But, of the never-dying soul, Ask that which cannot die.” O many-toned and chainless wind! Thou art a wanderer free; Tell me if thou its place canst find, Far over mount and sea? And the wind murmur’d in reply-- “The blue deep I have cross’d, And met its barks and billows high, But not what thou hast lost.” Ye clouds that gorgeously repose Around the setting sun, Answer! have ye a home for those Whose earthly race is run? The bright clouds answer’d--“We depart, We vanish from the sky; Ask what is deathless in thy heart, For that which cannot die.” Speak then, thou voice of God within, Thou of the deep low tone! Answer me, through life’s restless din-- Where is the spirit flown? And the voice answer’d--“Be thou still! Enough to know is given: Clouds, winds, and stars _their_ part fulfil-- _Thine_ is, to trust in Heaven.” KÖRNER AND HIS SISTER. [“Charles Theodore Körner, the celebrated young German poet and soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a detachment of French troops on the 20th of August 1813, a few hours after the composition of his popular piece, _The Sword-Song_. He was buried at the village of Wöbbelin in Mecklenburg, under a beautiful oak, in a recess of which he had frequently deposited verses composed by him while campaigning in its vicinity. The monument erected to his memory is of cast-iron; and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and sword, a favourite emblem of Körner’s, from which one of his works had been entitled. Near the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for his loss, having only survived him long enough to complete his portrait and a drawing of his burial-place. Over the gate of the cemetery is engraved one of his own lines:-- ‘Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht.’ (Forget not the faithful dead.)” --See Richardson’s _Translation of Körner’s Life and Works_, and Downe’s _Letters from Mecklenburg_.] Green wave the oak for ever o’er thy rest, Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, And, in the stillness of thy country’s breast, Thy place of memory as an altar keepest; Brightly thy spirit o’er her hills was pour’d, Thou of the Lyre and Sword! Rest, bard! rest, soldier! By the father’s hand Here shall the child of after years be led, With his wreath-offering silently to stand In the hush’d presence of the glorious dead-- Soldier and bard! for thou thy path hast trod With freedom and with God. The oak waved proudly o’er thy burial rite, On thy crown’d bier to slumber warriors bore thee, And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight Wept as they veil’d their drooping banners o’er thee; And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token That Lyre and Sword were broken. _Thou_ hast a hero’s tomb: a lowlier bed Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying-- The gentle girl that bow’d her fair young head When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. Brother, true friend! the tender and the brave!-- She pined to share thy grave. Fame was thy gift from others;--but for her, To whom the wide world held that only spot, _She_ loved thee!--lovely in your lives ye were, And in your early deaths divided not. Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy,--what hath she? Her own bless’d place by thee! It was thy spirit, brother! which had made The bright earth glorious to her youthful eye, Since first in childhood midst the vines ye play’d, And sent glad singing through the free blue sky. Ye were but two--and when that spirit pass’d, Woe to the one, the last! Woe, yet not long! She linger’d but to trace Thine image from the image in her breast-- Once, once again to see that buried face But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. Too sad a smile! its living light was o’er-- It answer’d hers no more. The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, The home too lonely whence thy step had fled; What then was left for her the faithful-hearted? Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead! Softly she perish’d: be the Flower deplored Here with the Lyre and Sword! Have ye not met ere now?--so let those trust That meet for moments but to part for years-- That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust-- That love, where love is but a fount of tears. Brother! sweet sister! peace around ye dwell: Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell![355] [355] The following lines, addressed to the author of the above, by the