The Poems of Felicia Hemans

By the gathering round the winter hearth, When twilight call’d unto household mirth, By the fairy tale or the legend old In that ring of happy faces told, By the quiet hour when hearts unite In the parting prayer and the kind “Good-night!” By the smiling eye, and the loving tone, Over thy life has the spell been thrown. And bless that gift!--it hath gentle might, A guardian power and a guiding light. It hath led the freeman forth to stand In the mountain-battles of his land; It hath brought the wanderer o’er the seas To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze; And back to the gates of his father’s hall It hath led the weeping prodigal. Yes! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray From the pure first-loves of its youth away-- When the sullying breath of the world would come O’er the flowers it brought from its childhood’shome-- Think thou again of the woody glade, And the sound by the rustling ivy made-- Think of the tree at thy father’s door, And the kindly spell shall have power once more! ROMAN GIRL’S SONG. “Roma, Roma, Roma! Non e piu come era prima.” Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! On thy seven hills of yore Thou sat’st a queen. Thou hadst thy triumphs then Purpling the street, Leaders and sceptred men Bow’d at thy feet. They that thy mantle wore, As gods were seen-- Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! Rome! thine imperial brow Never shall rise: What hast thou left thee now?-- Thou hast thy skies! Blue, deeply blue, they are, Gloriously bright! Veiling thy wastes afar With colour’d light. Thou hast the sunset’s glow, Rome! for thy dower, Flushing tall cypress-bough, Temple and tower! And all sweet sounds are thine, Lovely to hear, While night, o’er tomb and shrine, Rests darkly clear. Many a solemn hymn, By starlight sung, Sweeps through the arches dim, Thy wrecks among. Many a flute’s low swell, On thy soft air Lingers and loves to dwell With summer there. Thou hast the south’s rich gift Of sudden song-- A charm’d fountain, swift, Joyous and strong. Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread; Thou hast proud fanes above Thy mighty dead. Yet wears thy Tiber’s shore A mournful mien:-- Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! THE DISTANT SHIP. The sea-bird’s wing o’er ocean’s breast Shoots like a glancing star, While the red radiance of the west Spreads kindling fast and far; And yet that splendour wins thee not-- Thy still and thoughtful eye Dwells but on one dark distant spot Of all the main and sky. Look round thee! O’er the slumbering deep A solemn glory broods; A fire hath touch’d the beacon-steep, And all the golden woods; A thousand gorgeous clouds on high Burn with the amber light!-- What spell from that rich pageantry Chains down thy gazing sight? A softening thought of human cares, A feeling link’d to earth! Is not yon speck a bark which bears The loved of many a hearth? Oh! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear, Crowd her frail world even now, And manhood’s prayer and woman’s tear Follow her venturous prow? Bright are the floating clouds above, The glittering seas below; But we are bound by cords of love To kindred weal and woe. Therefore, amidst this wide array Of glorious things and fair, My soul is on that bark’s lone way-- For human hearts are there. THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing! Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring? “We come from the shores of the green old Nile, From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby. “We have swept o’er cities in song renown’d-- Silent they lie with the deserts round! We have cross’d proud rivers, whose tide hath roll’d All dark with the warrior-blood of old; And each worn wing hath regain’d its home, Under peasant’s roof-trees or monarch’s dome.” And what have ye found in the monarch’s dome, Since last ye traversed the blue sea’s foam?-- “We have found a change, we have found a pall, And a gloom o’ershadowing the banquet’s hall, And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt-- Naught looks the same, save the nest we built!” O joyous birds! it hath still been so; Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go! But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep, And the hills o’er their quiet a vigil keep: Say what have ye found in the peasant’s cot, Since last ye parted from that sweet spot?-- “A change we have found there--and many a change! Faces and footsteps, and all things strange! Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, And the young that were have a brow of care, And the place is hush’d where the children play’d-- Naught looks the same, save the nest we made!” Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, Birds that o’ersweep it in power and mirth! Yet through the wastes of the trackless air _Ye_ have a guide, and shall we despair? Ye over desert and deep have pass’d-- So may _we_ reach our bright home at last! THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. They grew in beauty side by side, They fill’d one home with glee;-- Their graves are sever’d far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent at night O’er each fair sleeping brow: She had each folded flower in sight-- Where are those dreamers now? One, midst the forest of the West, By a dark stream is laid-- The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar-shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-- He lies where pearls lie deep; _He_ was the loved of all, yet none O’er his low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain: He wrapt his colours round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. And one--o’er _her_ the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann’d; She faded ’midst Italian flowers-- The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who play’d Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they pray’d Around one parent knee! They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheer’d with song the hearth!-- Alas, for love! if _thou_ wert all, And naught beyond, O Earth! MOZART’S REQUIEM. [A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger of remarkable appearance, and dressed in deep mourning, called at his house, and requested him to prepare a requiem, in his best style, for the funeral of a distinguished person. The sensitive imagination of the composer immediately seized upon the circumstance as an omen of his own fate; and the nervous anxiety with which he laboured to fulfil the task, had the effect of realising his impression. He died within a few days after completing this magnificent piece of music, which was performed at his interment.] “These birds of Paradise but long to flee Back to their native mansion.” “Prophecy of Dante.” A requiem!--and for whom? For beauty in its bloom? For valour fallen--a broken rose or sword? A dirge for king or chief, With pomp of stately grief, Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored? Not so--it is not so! The warning voice I know, From other worlds a strange mysterious tone; A solemn funeral air It call’d me to prepare, And my heart answer’d secretly--my own! One more then, one more strain, In links of joy and pain, Mighty the troubled spirit to enthrall! And let me breathe my dower Of passion and of power Full into that deep lay--the last of all! The last!--and I must go From this bright world below, This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound! Must leave its festal skies, With all their melodies, That ever in my breast glad echoes found! Yet have I known it long: Too restless and too strong Within this clay hath been th’ o’ermastering flame; Swift thoughts, that came and went, Like torrents o’er me sent, Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame. Like perfumes on the wind, Which none may stay or bind, The beautiful comes floating through my soul; I strive with yearnings vain The spirit to detain Of the deep harmonies that past me roll! Therefore disturbing dreams Trouble the secret streams And founts of music that o’erflow my breast; Something far more divine Than may on earth be mine, Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest. Shall I then _fear_ the tone That breathes from worlds unknown?-- Surely these feverish aspirations _there_ Shall grasp their full desire, And this unsettled fire Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. One more then, one more strain; To earthly joy and pain A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell! I pour each fervent thought, With fear, hope, trembling, fraught, Into the notes that o’er my dust shall swell. [One of the peculiar features of the increased sensitiveness of her temperament at this time, was an awakened enthusiasm for music, which amounted to an absolute passion. “I do not think,” she wrote, “that I can bear the burden of my life without music for more than two or three days.” Yet, with sensibilities so exquisite as hers, this melomania was a source of far more pain than pleasure; it was so impossible for any earthly strains to approach that ideal and unattainable standard of perfection which existed within her mind, and which she has shadowed forth with a mournful energy in “Mozart’s Requiem.” From time to time, however, she had enjoyment of music of a very high character, for much of which she was indebted to her acquaintance with Mr Lodge, the distinguished amateur, by whom so many of her songs have been set to melodies of infinite beauty and feeling. At a somewhat later period she derived much delight from the talents of Mr James Zengheer Herrmann, from whom, for a time, she took lessons, for the express purpose of studying, and fully understanding, the _Stabat Mater_ of Pergolesi, which had taken an extraordinary hold of her imagination. This fine composition was first brought to her notice by Mr Lodge, to whom she thus expressed her appreciation of it:--“It is quite impossible for me to tell you the impression I have received from that most spiritual music of Pergolesi’s, which really haunted me the whole night. How much I have to thank you for introducing me, in such a manner, to so new and glorious a world of musical thought and feeling!”--_Memoir_, p. 167-8.] THE IMAGE IN LAVA.[366] Thou thing of years departed! What ages have gone by Since here the mournful seal was set By love and agony? Temple and tower have moulder’d, Empires from earth have pass’d, And woman’s heart hath left a trace