The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Of the earth’s departed flowers, And the masters of the mighty song, In their far and fadeless bowers? Those songs are high and holy, But they vanquish not our fear: Not from _our_ path those flowers are gone-- We fain would linger here! Linger then yet awhile, As the last leaves on the bough!-- Ye have loved the light of many a smile That is taken from you now. There have been sweet singing voices In your walks, that now are still; There are seats left void in your earthly homes, Which none again may fill. Soft eyes are seen no more, That made spring-time in your heart; Kindred and friends are gone before-- And _ye_ still fear to part? We fear not now, we fear not! Though the way through darkness bends; Our souls are strong to follow _them_, Our own familiar friends! THE PALM-TREE.[364] It waved not through an eastern sky, Beside a fount of Araby; It was not fann’d by southern breeze In some green isle of Indian seas; Nor did its graceful shadow sleep O’er stream of Afric, lone and deep. But fair the exiled palm-tree grew Midst foliage of no kindred hue; Through the laburnum’s dropping gold Rose the light shaft of orient mould, And Europe’s violets, faintly sweet, Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. Strange look’d it there! The willow stream’d Where silvery waters near it gleam’d; The lime-bough lured the honey-bee To murmur by the desert’s tree, And showers of snowy roses made A lustre in its fan-like shade. There came an eve of festal hours-- Rich music fill’d that garden’s bowers; Lamps, that from flowering branches hung, On sparks of dew soft colour flung; And bright forms glanced--a fairy show-- Under the blossoms to and fro. But one, a lone one, midst the throng, Seem’d reckless all of dance or song: He was a youth of dusky mien, Whereon the Indian sun had been, Of crested brow and long black hair-- A stranger, like the palm-tree, there. And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, Glittering athwart the leafy glooms. He pass’d the pale-green olives by, Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye; But when to that sole palm he came, Then shot a rapture through his frame! To him, to him its rustling spoke-- The silence of his soul it broke! It whisper’d of his own bright isle, That lit the ocean with a smile; Ay, to his ear that native tone Had something of the sea-wave’s moan? His mother’s cabin-home, that lay Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay; The dashing of his brethren’s oar-- The conch-note heard along the shore; All through his wakening bosom swept-- He clasp’d his country’s tree, and wept! Oh! scorn him not! The strength whereby The patriot girds himself to die, Th’ unconquerable power which fills The freeman battling on his hills, These have one fountain deep and clear-- The same whence gush’d that childlike tear! [364] This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of _Les Jardins_. THE CHILD’S LAST SLEEP. SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREY’S. Thou sleepest--but when wilt thou wake, fair child? When the fawn awakes in the forest wild? When the lark’s wing mounts with the breeze of morn? When the first rich breath of the rose is born?-- Lovely thou sleepest! yet something lies Too deep and still on thy soft-seal’d eyes; Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see-- When will the hour of thy rising be? Not when the fawn wakes--not when the lark On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark. Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet; Love, with sad kisses unfelt, hath press’d Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast; And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee, Shall colour all blossoms, fair child! but thee. Thou’rt gone from us, bright one!--that _thou_ shouldst die, And life be left to the butterfly![365] Thou’rt gone as a dewdrop is swept from the bough: Oh! for the world where thy home is now! How may we love but in doubt and fear, How may we anchor our fond hearts here; How should e’en joy but a trembler be, Beautiful dust! when we look on thee? [365] A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on the monument. THE SUNBEAM. Thou art no lingerer in monarch’s hall-- A joy thou art, and a wealth to all! A bearer of hope unto land and sea-- Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee? Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles; Thou hast touch’d with glory his thousand isles; Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam, And gladden’d the sailor like words from home. To the solemn depths of the forest-shades, Thou art streaming on through their green arcades; And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. I look’d on the mountains--a vapour lay Folding their heights in its dark array: Thou brakest forth, and the mist became A crown and a mantle of living flame. I look’d on the peasant’s lowly cot-- Something of sadness had wrapt the spot; But a gleam of _thee_ on its lattice fell, And it laugh’d into beauty at that bright spell. To the earth’s wild places a guest thou art, Flushing the waste like the rose’s heart; And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed A tender smile on the ruin’s head. Thou tak’st through the dim church-aisle thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold. And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave; Thou scatter’st its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. Sunbeam of summer! oh, what is like thee? Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea!-- _One_ thing is like thee to mortals given, The faith touching all things with hues of heaven! BREATHINGS OF SPRING. Thou givest me flowers, thou givest me songs; bring back The love that I have lost! What wakest thou, Spring? Sweet voices in the woods, And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute: Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes, The lark’s clear pipe, the cuckoo’s viewless flute, Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, E’en as our hearts may be. And the leaves greet thee, Spring!--the joyous leaves, Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery shade, And happy murmurs, running through the grass, Tell that thy footsteps pass. And the bright waters--they too hear thy call, Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep! Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall Makes melody, and in the forests deep, Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray Their windings to the day. And flowers--the fairy-peopled world of flowers! Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours, And penciling the wood anemone: Silent they seem--yet each to thoughtful eye Glows with mute poesy. But what awakest thou in the _heart_, O Spring! The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs? Thou that givest back so many a buried thing, Restorer of forgotten harmonies! Fresh songs and scents break forth where’er thou art-- What wakest thou in the heart? Too much, oh! there too much! We know not well Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee, What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul’s deep cell, Gush for the faces we no more may see! How are we haunted, in the wind’s low tone, By voices that are gone! Looks of familiar love, that never more, Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, Past words of welcome to our household door, And vanish’d smiles, and sounds of parted feet-- Spring! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, Why, why revivest thou these? Vain longings for the dead!--why come they back With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms? Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs? Yes, gentle Spring! no sorrow dims thine air, Breathed by our loved ones _there_! THE ILLUMINATED CITY. The hills all glow’d with a festive light, For the royal city rejoiced by night: There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree, Banners were lifted and streaming free; Every tall pillar was wreath’d with fire; Like a shooting meteor was every spire; And the outline of many a dome on high Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky. I pass’d through the streets. There were throngs on throngs-- Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs; There was music forth from each palace borne-- A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn; The forests heard it, the mountains rang, The hamlets woke to its haughty clang; Rich and victorious was every tone, Telling the land of her foes o’erthrown. Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain? Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain! Gallant and true were the hearts that fell-- Grief in the homes they have left must dwell: Grief o’er the aspect of childhood spread, And bowing the beauty of woman’s head! Didst thou hear, midst the songs, not one tender moan For the many brave to their slumbers gone? I saw not the face of a weeper there-- Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamps’ glare! I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd-- The music of victory was all too loud! Mighty it roll’d on the winds afar, Shaking the streets like a conqueror’s car-- Through torches and streamers its flood swept by: How could I listen for moan or sigh? Turn then away from life’s pageants--turn, If its deep story thy heart would learn! Ever too bright is that outward show, Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe. But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true; Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal:-- So must thy spirit be taught to feel! THE SPELLS OF HOME. “There blend the ties that strengthen Our hearts in hours of grief, The silver links that lengthen Joy’s visits when most brief.” Bernard Barton. By the soft green light in the woody glade, On the banks of moss where thy childhood play’d, By the household tree through which thine eye First look’d in love to the summer sky, By the dewy gleam, by the very breath Of the primrose-tufts in the grass beneath, Upon thy heart there is laid a spell, Holy and precious--oh, guard it well! By the sleepy ripple of the stream, Which hath lull’d thee into many a dream, By the shiver of the ivy leaves To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves, By the bee’s deep murmur in the limes, By the music of the Sabbath chimes, By every sound of thy native shade, Stronger and dearer the spell is made.