The Poems of Felicia Hemans
And harps were there--I heard their sounding strings,
As the waste echo’d to the mirth of kings.
The bright mask faded. Unto life’s worn track,
What call’d me from its flood of glory back?
A voice of happy childhood!--and they pass’d,
Banner, and harp, and Paynim’s trumpet’s blast.
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendours gone,
My heart so leap’d to that sweet laughter’s tone.[363]
[362] _The Talisman--Tales of the Crusaders._
[363] See Annotation on “Dramatic Scene between Bronwylfa and Rhyllon,”
p. 385.
A VOYAGER’S DREAM OF LAND.
“His very heart athirst
To gaze at nature in her green array,
Upon the ship’s tall side he stands possess’d
With visions prompted by intense desire;
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find:
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.”
Cowper.
The hollow dash of waves!--the ceaseless roar!--
Silence, ye billows!--vex my soul no more.
There’s a spring in the woods by my sunny home,
Afar from the dark sea’s tossing foam;
Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear,
As a song from the shore to the sailor’s ear!
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws
Through the feathery fern and the olive boughs,
And the gleam on its path as it steals away
Into deeper shades from the sultry day,
And the large water-lilies that o’er its bed
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread,
They haunt me! I dream of that bright spring’s flow,
I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe!
Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry!
My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by.
Know ye my home, with the lulling sound
Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round
Know ye it, brethren! where bower’d it lies
Under the purple of southern skies?
With the streamy gold of the sun that shines
In through the cloud of its clustering vines,
And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers,
Borne from the mountain in dewy hours,
And the fire-fly’s glance through the darkening shades,
Like shooting stars in the forest glades,
And the scent of the citron at eve’s dim fall--
Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all?
The heavy-rolling surge! the rocking mast!--
Hush! give my dream’s deep music way, thou blast!
Oh, the glad sounds of the joyous earth!
The notes of the singing cicala’s mirth,
The murmurs that live in the mountain pines,
The sighing of reeds as the day declines,
The wings flitting home through the crimson glow
That steeps the wood when the sun is low,
The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still--
I hear them!--around me they rise, they swell,
They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell--
They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time,
And waken my youth in its hour of prime.
The white foam dashes high--away, away!
Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray!
It is there!--down the mountains I see the sweep
Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep,
With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear
Floating upborne on the blue summer air,
And the light pouring through them in tender gleams,
And the flashing forth of a thousand streams!
Hold me not, brethren! I go, I go
To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow,
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest,
Massy and still, on the greensward’s breast,
To the rocks that resound with the water’s play--
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount--give way!
Give way!--the booming surge, the tempest’s roar,
The sea-bird’s wail shall vex my soul no more.
THE EFFIGIES.
“Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann:
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied.
Allein die Thränen, die unendlichen
Der überbliebnen, der verlass’nen Frau,
Zählt keine Nachwelt.” Goethe.
Warrior! whose image on thy tomb,
With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom
By the stain’d window shed;
The records of thy name and race
Have faded from the stone,
Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace
What thou hast been and done.
A banner, from its flashing spear,
Flung out o’er many a fight;
A war-cry ringing far and clear,
And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance
On for the holy shrine;
A haughty heart and a kingly glance--
Chief! were not these things thine?
A lofty place where leaders sate
Around the council board;
In festive halls a chair of state
When the blood-red wine was pour’d;
A name that drew a prouder tone
From herald, harp, and bard:
Surely these things were all thine own--
So hadst thou thy reward.
Woman! whose sculptured form at rest
By the arm’d knight is laid,
With meek hands folded o’er a breast
In matron robes array’d;
What was _thy_ tale?--O gentle mate
Of him, the bold and free,
Bound unto his victorious fate,
What bard hath sung of _thee_?
_He_ woo’d a bright and burning star--
_Thine_ was the void, the gloom,
The straining eye that follow’d far
His fast-receding plume;
The heart-sick listening while his steed
Sent echoes on the breeze;
The pang--but when did _Fame_ take heed
Of griefs obscure as these?
Thy silent and secluded hours
Through many a lonely day
While bending o’er thy broider’d flowers,
With spirits far away;
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him
Who fought on Syrian plains,
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim--
_These_ fill no minstrel strains.
A still, sad life was thine!--long years
With tasks unguerdon’d fraught--
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,
Vigils of anxious thought;
Prayer at the cross in fervour pour’d,
Alms to the pilgrim given--
Oh! happy, happier than thy lord,
In that lone path to heaven!
THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND.
“Look now abroad! Another race has fill’d
Those populous borders--wide the wood recedes,
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till’d;
The land is full of harvests and green meads.” Bryant.
The breaking waves dash’d high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches toss’d;
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o’er,
When a band of exiles moor’d their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear;--
They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard and the sea;
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free!
The ocean eagle soar’d
From his nest by the white wave’s foam;
And the rocking pines of the forest roar’d--
This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band;--
Why had _they_ come to wither there,
Away from their childhood’s land?
There was woman’s fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love’s truth;
There was manhood’s brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?--
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?--
They sought a faith’s pure shrine!
Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trode.
They have left unstain’d what there they found--
Freedom to worship God.
THE SPIRIT’S MYSTERIES.
“And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever;--it may be a sound--
A tone of music--summer’s breath, or spring--
A flower--a leaf--the ocean--which may wound--
Striking th’ electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.”
Childe Harold.
The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken
Vague yearnings, like the sailor’s for the shore,
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken
From some bright former state, our own no more;
Is not this all a mystery? Who shall say
Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?
The sudden images of vanish’d things,
That o’er the spirit flash, we know not why;
Tones from some broken harp’s deserted strings,
Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by;
A rippling wave--the dashing of an oar--
A flower-scent floating past our parents’ door;
A word--scarce noted in its hour perchance,
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone;
A smile--a sunny or a mournful glance,
Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown;
Are not these mysteries when to life they start,
And press vain tears in gushes from the heart?
And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams,
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead,
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,
Familiar objects brightly to o’erspread;
And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear--
These are night’s mysteries--who shall make them clear?
And the strange inborn sense of coming ill,
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast,
In a low tone which naught can drown or still,
Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest;
Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall?
Why shakes the spirit thus? ’Tis mystery all!
Darkly we move--we press upon the brink
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not;
Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think
Are those whom death has parted from our lot!
Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made--
Let us walk humbly on, but undismay’d!
Humbly--for knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind;
Yet undismay’d--for do they not reveal
Th’ immortal being with our dust entwin’d?--
So let us deem! and e’en the tears they wake
Shall then be blest, for that high nature’s sake.
THE DEPARTED.
“Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings,
The powerful of the earth--the wise--the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.” Bryant.
And shrink ye from the way
To the spirit’s distant shore?--
Earth’s mightiest men, in arm’d array,
Are thither gone before.
The warrior-kings, whose banner
Flew far as eagles fly,
They are gone where swords avail them not,
From the feast of victory.
And the seers who sat of yore
By Orient palm or wave,
They have pass’d with all their starry lore--
Can _ye_ still fear the grave?
We fear! we fear! The sunshine
Is joyous to behold,
And we reck not of the buried kings,
Nor the awful seers of old.
Ye shrink! The bards whose lays
Have made your deep hearts burn,
They have left the sun, and the voice of praise,
For the land whence none return.
And the beautiful, whose record
Is the verse that cannot die,
They too are gone, with their glorious bloom,
From the love of human eye.
Would ye not join that throng