The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Those glories to outlast! And childhood’s fragile image, Thus fearfully enshrined, Survives the proud memorials rear’d By conquerors of mankind. Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering Upon thy mother’s breast When suddenly the fiery tomb Shut round each gentle guest? A strange, dark fate o’ertook you, Fair babe and loving heart! One moment of a thousand pangs-- Yet better than to part! Haply of that fond bosom On ashes here impress’d, Thou wert the only treasure, child! Whereon a hope might rest. Perchance all vainly lavish’d Its other love had been, And where it trusted, naught remain’d But thorns on which to lean. Far better, then, to perish, Thy form within its clasp, Than live and lose thee, precious one! From that impassion’d grasp. Oh! I could pass all relics Left by the pomps of old, To gaze on this rude monument Cast in affection’s mould. Love! human love! what art thou? Thy print upon the dust Outlives the cities of renown Wherein the mighty trust! Immortal, oh! immortal Thou art, whose earthly glow Hath given these ashes holiness-- It must, it _must_ be so! [366] The impression of a woman’s form, with an infant clasped to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum. CHRISTMAS CAROL. O lovely voices of the sky, That hymn’d the Saviour’s birth! Are ye not singing still on high, Ye that sang “Peace on earth?” To us yet speak the strains Wherewith, in days gone by, Ye bless’d the Syrian swains, O voices of the sky! O clear and shining light! whose beams That hour heaven’s glory shed Around the palms, and o’er the streams, And on the shepherd’s head; Be near, through life and death, As in that holiest night Of Hope, and Joy, and Faith, O clear and shining light! O star! which led to Him whose love Brought down man’s ransom free; Where art thou?--Midst the hosts above May we still gaze on thee? In heaven thou art not set, Thy rays earth might not dim-- Send them to guide us yet, O star which led to Him! A FATHER READING THE BIBLE. ’Twas early day, and sunlight stream’d Soft through a quiet room, That hush’d, but not forsaken seem’d, Still, but with naught of gloom. For there, serene in happy age Whose hope is from above, A father communed with the page Of heaven’s recorded love. Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, On his gray holy hair, And touch’d the page with tenderest light, As if its shrine were there! But oh! that patriarch’s aspect shone With something lovelier far-- A radiance all the spirit’s own, Caught not from sun or star. Some word of life e’en then had met His calm, benignant eye; Some ancient promise, breathing yet Of immortality! Some martyr’s prayer, wherein the glow Of quenchless faith survives: While every feature said--“_I know_ _That my Redeemer lives!_” And silent stood his children by, Hushing their very breath, Before the solemn sanctity Of thoughts o’ersweeping death. Silent--yet did not each young breast With love and reverence melt? Oh! blest be those fair girls, and blest That home where God is felt! [This little poem, which, as its Author herself expressed in a letter to Mrs Joanna Baillie, was to her “a thing set apart,” as being the last of her productions ever read to her beloved mother, was written at the request of a young lady, who thus made known her wish “that Mrs Hemans would embody in poetry a picture that so warmed a daughter’s heart:”-- “Upon going into our dear father’s sitting-room this morning, my sister and I found him deeply engaged reading his Bible, and, being unwilling to interrupt such a holy occupation, we retired to the further end of the apartment, to gaze unobserved upon the serene picture. The bright morning sun was beaming on his venerable silver hair, while his defective sight increased the earnestness with which he perused the blessed book. Our fancy led us to believe that some immortal thought was engaging his mind, for he raised his fine open brow to the light, and we felt we had never loved him more deeply. After an involuntary prayer had passed from our hearts, we whispered to each other, ‘Oh! if Mrs Hemans could only see our father at this moment, her glowing pen would detain the scene; for even as we gaze upon it, the bright gleam is vanishing.’ “_December 9, 1826._” THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS.[367] ----“His early days Were with him in his heart.” Wordsworth. The voices of two forest boys, In years when hearts entwine, Had fill’d with childhood’s merry noise A valley of the Rhine: To rock and stream that sound was known, Gladsome as hunter’s bugle-tone. The sunny laughter of their eyes, There had each vineyard seen; Up every cliff whence eagles rise, Their bounding step had been: Ay! their bright youth a glory threw O’er the wild place wherein they grew. But this, as day-spring’s flush, was brief As early bloom or dew; Alas! ’tis but the wither’d leaf That wears th’ enduring hue! Those rocks along the Rhine’s fair shore Might girdle in their world no more. For now on manhood’s verge they stood, And heard life’s thrilling call, As if a silver clarion woo’d To some high festival; And parted as young brothers part, With love in each unsullied heart. They parted. Soon the paths divide Wherein our steps were one, Like river branches, far and wide, Dissevering as they run; And making strangers in their course, Of waves that had the same bright source. Met they no more? Once more they met, Those kindred hearts and true! ’Twas on a field of death, where yet The battle-thunders flew, Though the fierce day was wellnigh past, And the red sunset smiled its last. But as the combat closed, they found For tender thoughts a space, And e’en upon that bloody ground Room for one bright embrace, And pour’d forth on each other’s neck Such tears as warriors need not check. The mists o’er boyhood’s memory spread All melted with those tears, The faces of the holy dead Rose as in vanish’d years; The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever-blest, Lifted its voice in each full breast! Oh! was it _then_ a time to die? It was!--that not in vain The soul of childhood’s purity And peace might turn again. A ball swept forth--’twas guided well-- Heart unto heart those brothers fell! Happy, yes, happy thus to go! Bearing from earth away Affections, gifted ne’er to know A shadow--a decay-- A passing touch of change or chill, A breath of aught whose breath can kill. And they, between whose sever’d souls, Once in close union tied, A gulf is set, a current rolls For ever to divide; Well may _they_ envy such a lot, Whose hearts yearn on--but mingle not. [367] For the tale on which this little poem is founded, see _L’Hermite en Italie_. THE LAST WISH. Go to the forest-shade, Seek thou the well-known glade, Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie, Gleaming through moss-tufts deep, Like dark eyes fill’d with sleep, And bathed in hues of summer’s midnight sky. Bring me their buds, to shed Around my dying bed A breath of May and of the wood’s repose; For I, in sooth, depart With a reluctant heart, That fain would linger where the bright sun glows. Fain would I stay with thee!-- Alas! this may not be; Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours! Go where the fountain’s breast Catches, in glassy rest, The dim green light that pours through laurel bowers. I know how softly bright, Steep’d in that tender light, The water-lilies tremble there e’en now; Go to the pure stream’s edge, And from its whispering sedge Bring me those flowers to cool my fever’d brow! Then, as in Hope’s young days, Track thou the antique maze Of the rich garden to its grassy mound; There is a lone white rose, Shedding, in sudden snows, Its faint leaves o’er the emerald turf around. Well know’st thou that fair tree-- A murmur of the bee Dwells ever in the honey’d lime above: Bring me one pearly flower Of all its clustering shower-- For on that spot we first reveal’d our love. Gather one woodbine bough, Then, from the lattice low Of the bower’d cottage which I bade thee mark, When by the hamlet last Through dim wood-lanes we pass’d, While dews were glancing to the glowworm’s spark. Haste! to my pillow bear Those fragrant things and fair; My hand no more may bind them up at eve-- Yet shall their odour soft One bright dream round me waft Of life, youth, summer--all that I must leave! And oh! if thou wouldst ask Wherefore thy steps I task, The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace-- ’Tis that some thought of me, When I am gone, may be The spirit bound to each familiar place. I bid mine image dwell (Oh! break not thou the spell!) In the deep wood and by the fountain-side; Thou must not, my beloved! Rove where we two have roved, Forgetting her that in her spring-time died! FAIRY FAVOURS. [This little poem was written in the winter of 1827. In writing to a friend shortly afterwards, Mrs Hemans herself thus alludes to it: “I am so glad you liked ‘Fairy Favours.’ It is, indeed, filled with my own true and ever-yearning feeling--that longing for more affection, more confidence, more entire interchange of thought, than I am ever likely to meet with. However, I will not repine whilst I have friends who love me as you do.”] ----Give me but Something whereunto I may bind my heart; Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp Affection’s tendrils round. Wouldst thou wear the gift of immortal bloom? Wouldst thou smile in scorn at the shadowy tomb? Drink of this cup! it is richly fraught With balm from the gardens of Genii brought; Drink! and the spoiler shall pass thee by, When the young all scatter’d like rose-leaves lie. And would not the youth of my soul be gone, If the loved had left me, one by one? Take back the cup that may never bless, The gift that would make me brotherless. How should I live, with no kindred eye To reflect mine immortality! Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell, Over the mighty in air that dwell? Wouldst thou call the spirits of shore and steep To fetch thee jewels from ocean’s deep? Wave but this rod, and a viewless band, Slaves to thy will, shall around thee stand. And would not fear, at my coming, then Hush every voice in the homes of men?