The Poems of Felicia Hemans
The feeling of this analogy, obscure and inexplicable as the theory of
it may be, is so deep and universal in our nature, that it has stamped
itself on the ordinary language of men of every kindred and speech:
and that to such an extent, that one-half of the epithets by which we
familiarly designate moral and physical qualities, are in reality so
many metaphors, borrowed reciprocally, upon this analogy, from those
opposite forms of existence. The very familiarity, however, of the
expression, in these instances, takes away its poetical effect--and
indeed, in substance, its metaphorical character. The original sense
of the word is entirely forgotten in the derivative one to which it
has succeeded; and it requires some etymological recollection to
convince us that it was originally nothing else than a typical or
analogical illustration. Thus we talk of a penetrating understanding,
and a furious blast--a weighty argument, and a gentle stream--without
being at all aware that we are speaking in the language of poetry,
and transferring qualities from one extremity of the sphere of being
to another. In these cases, accordingly, the metaphor, by ceasing
to be felt, in reality ceases to exist; and the analogy, being no
longer intimated, of course can produce no effect. But whenever it is
intimated, it does produce an effect; and that effect, we think, is
poetry.
“It has substantially two functions, and operates in two directions.
In the _first_ place, it strikes vividly out, and flashes at once on
our minds, the conception of an inward feeling or emotion, which it
might otherwise have been difficult to convey, by the presentment
of some bodily form or quality, which is instantly felt to be its
true representative; and enables us to fix and comprehend it with a
force and clearness not otherwise attainable: and, in the _second_
place, it vivifies dead and inanimate matter with the attributes
of living and sentient mind; and fills the whole visible universe
around us with objects of interest and sympathy, by tinging them
with the hues of life, and associating them with our own passions
and affections. This magical operation the poet, too, performs, for
the most part, in one of two ways--either by the direct agency of
similes and metaphors, more or less condensed or developed, or by the
mere graceful presentment of such visible objects on the scene of
his passionate dialogues or adventures, as partake of the character
of the emotion he wishes to excite, and thus form an appropriate
accompaniment or preparation for its direct indulgence or display. The
former of those methods has perhaps been most frequently employed, and
certainly has most attracted attention. But the latter, though less
obtrusive, and perhaps less frequently resorted to of set purpose,
is, we are inclined to think, the most natural and efficacious
of the two, and is often adopted, we believe unconsciously, by
poets of the highest order--the predominant emotion of their minds
overflowing spontaneously on all the objects which present themselves
to their fancy, and calling out from them, and colouring with its
own hues, those that are naturally emblematic of its character, and
in accordance with its general expression. It would be easy to show
how habitually this is done by Shakspeare and Milton especially, and
how much many of their finest passages are indebted, both for force
and richness of effect, to this general and diffusive harmony of the
external character of their scenes with the passions of their living
agents--this harmonising and appropriate glow with which they kindle
the whole surrounding atmosphere, and bring all that strikes the sense
into unison with all that touches the heart.
“But it is more to our present purpose to say, that we think the fair
writer before us is eminently a mistress of this poetical secret;
and, in truth, it was solely for the purpose of illustrating this
great charm and excellence in her imagery, that we have ventured upon
this little dissertation. Almost all her poems are rich with fine
descriptions, and studded over with images of visible beauty. But
these are never idle ornaments: all her pomps have a meaning; and
her flowers and her gems are arranged, as they are said to be among
Eastern lovers, so as to speak the language of truth and of passion.
This is peculiarly remarkable in some little pieces, which seem at
first sight to be purely descriptive, but are soon found to tell upon
the heart, with a deep moral and pathetic impression. But it is a
truth nearly as conspicuous in the greater part of her productions,
where we scarcely meet with any striking sentiment that is not ushered
in by some such symphony of external nature, and scarcely a lovely
picture that does not serve as a foreground to some deep or lofty
emotion. We may illustrate this proposition, we think, by opening
either of these little volumes at random, and taking what they first
present to us. The following exquisite lines, for example, on a
Palm-tree in an English garden:--
‘It waved not through an Eastern sky,
Beside a fount of Araby,’ etc.
“The following, which the author has named, ‘Graves of a Household,’
has rather less of external scenery, but serves, like the others, to
show how well the graphic and pathetic may be made to set off each
other:--
‘They grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill’d one home with glee,’ etc.
“We have taken these pieces chiefly on account of their shortness; but
it would not be fair to Mrs Hemans not to present our readers with
one longer specimen, and to give a portion of her graceful narrative
along with her pathetic descriptions. This story, of ‘The Lady of the
Castle,’ is told, we think, with great force and sweetness:--.
‘Thou see’st her pictured with her shining hair,
(Famed were these tresses in Provençal song,)’ etc.
“The following sketch of ‘Joan of Arc in Rheims,’ is in a loftier and
more ambitious vein, but sustained with equal grace, and as touching
in its solemn tenderness. We can afford to extract but a part of it:--
----‘Within, the light,
Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing,’ etc.
“There are several strains of a more passionate character, especially
in the two poetical epistles from Lady Arabella Stuart and Properzia
Rossi. We shall venture to give a few lines from the former. The
Lady Arabella was of royal descent; and having excited the fears of
our pusillanimous James by a secret union with the Lord Seymour, was
detained in a cruel captivity, by that heartless monarch, till the
close of her life--during which she is supposed to have indited this
letter to her lover from her prison-house:--
‘My friend, my friend! where art thou? Day by day,
Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away,’ etc.
“The following, though it has no very distinct object or moral,
breathes, we think, the very spirit of poetry, in its bright and vague
picturings, and is well entitled to the name it bears--‘An Hour of
Romance:’
‘There were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood’s sleep,’ etc.
“There is great sweetness in the following portion of a little poem on
a ‘Girl’s School:’--
‘Oh! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,’ etc.
“There is a fine and stately solemnity in these lines on ‘The Lost
Pleiad:’
‘Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,’ etc.
“The following on ‘The Dying Improvisatore,’ have a rich lyrical
cadence, and glow of deep feeling:--
‘Never, oh! never more,
On thy Rome’s purple heaven mine eye shall dwell,’ etc.
“But we must stop here. There would be no end of our extracts, if
we were to yield to the temptation of noting down every beautiful
passage which arrests us in turning over the leaves of the volumes
before us. We ought to recollect, too, that there are few to whom our
pages are likely to come, who are not already familiar with their
beauties; and, in fact, we have made these extracts, less with the
presumptuous belief that we are introducing Mrs Hemans for the first
time to the knowledge or admiration of our readers, than from a desire
of illustrating, by means of them, the singular felicity in the choice
and employment of her imagery, of which we have already spoken so much
at large;--that fine accord she has established between the world of
sense and of soul--that delicate blending of our deep inward emotions
with their splendid symbols and emblems without.”]
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
They tell but dreams--a lonely spirit’s dreams;
Yet ever through their fleeting imagery
Wanders a vein of melancholy love,
An aimless thought of home; as in the song
Of the caged skylark ye may deem there dwells
A passionate memory of blue skies and flowers.
And living streams--far off!
A SPIRIT’S RETURN.
“This is to be a mortal.
And seek the things beyond mortality!” Manfred.
Thy voice prevails--dear friend, my gentle friend!
This long-shut heart for thee shall be unseal’d;
And though thy soft eye mournfully will bend
Over the troubled stream, yet once reveal’d
Shall its freed waters flow; then rocks must close
For evermore, above their dark repose.
Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky
Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie;
Come to the woods, where all strange wandering sound
Is mingled into harmony profound;
Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind
Fills with a viewless being, unconfined,
The trembling reeds and fountains. Our own dell,
With its green dimness and Æolian breath,
Shall suit th’ unveiling of dark records well--
Hear me in tenderness and silent faith!
Thou knew’st me not in life’s fresh vernal morn--
I would thou hadst!--for then my heart on thine
Had pour’d a worthier love; now, all o’erworn
By its deep thirst for something too divine,
It hath but fitful music to bestow,
Echoes of harp-strings broken long ago.
Yet even in youth companionless I stood,
As a lone forest-bird midst ocean’s foam;
For me the silver cords of brotherhood
Were early loosed; the voices from my home
Pass’d one by one, and melody and mirth
Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth.
But, with the fulness of a heart that burn’d
For the deep sympathies of mind, I turn’d
From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought
In all wild scenes with thrilling murmurs fraught,
In every still small voice and sound of power,
And flute-note of the wind through cave and bower,
A perilous delight!--for then first woke
My life’s lone passion, the mysterious quest
Of secret knowledge; and each tone that broke
From the wood-arches or the fountain’s breast,
Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre,
But minister’d to that strange inborn fire.
Midst the bright silence of the mountain dells,
In noontide-hours or golden summer-eves,
My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells
Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves
Shakes out response. O thou rich world unseen!
Thou curtain’d realm of spirits!--thus my cry
Hath troubled air and silence--dost thou lie
Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen
Shut from us ever? The resounding woods,
Do their depths teem with marvels?--and the floods,
And the pure fountains, leading secret veins
Of quenchless melody through rock and hill,