The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Have they bright dwellers?--are their lone domains Peopled with beauty, which may never still _Our_ weary thirst of soul? Cold, weak and cold, Is earth’s vain language, piercing not one fold Of our deep being! Oh, for gifts more high! For a seer’s glance to rend mortality! For a charm’d rod, to call from each dark shrine The oracles divine! I woke from those high fantasies, to know My kindred with the earth--I woke to love. O gentle friend! to love in doubt and woe, Shutting the heart the worshipp’d name above, Is to love deeply; and _my_ spirit’s dower Was a sad gift, a melancholy power Of so adoring--with a buried care, And with the o’erflowing of a voiceless prayer, And with a deepening dream, that day by day, In the still shadow of its lonely sway, Folded me closer, till the world held naught Save the _one_ being to my centred thought. There was no music but his voice to hear, No joy but such as with _his_ step drew near; Light was but where he look’d--life where he moved: Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved. Oh! but such love is fearful!--and I knew Its gathering doom: the soul’s prophetic sight Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw O’er all things round a full, strong, vivid light, Too sorrowfully clear!--an under-tone Was given to Nature’s harp, for me alone Whispering of grief. Of grief?--be strong, awake! Hath not thy love been victory, O my soul? Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake Death’s fastnesses?--a magic to control Worlds far removed?--from o’er the grave to thee Love hath made answer; and _thy_ tale should be Sung like a lay of triumph! Now return And take thy treasure from its bosom’d urn, And lift it once to light! In fear, in pain, I said I loved--but yet a heavenly strain Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream, A joy flash’d through the trouble of my dream! I knew myself beloved! We breathed no vow, No mingling visions might our fate allow, As unto happy hearts; but still and deep, Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave, Like golden sand in some dark river’s wave, So did my soul that costly knowledge keep, So jealously!--a thing o’er which to shed, When stars alone beheld the drooping head, Lone tears! yet ofttimes burden’d with the excess Of our strange nature’s quivering happiness. But, oh! sweet friend! we dream not of love’s might Till death has robed with soft and solemn light The image we enshrine! Before _that_ hour, We have but glimpses of the o’ermastering power Within us laid!--_then_ doth the spirit-flame With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame; The wings of that which pants to follow fast Shake their clay-bars, as with a prison’d blast-- The sea is in our souls! He died--_he_ died On whom my lone devotedness was cast! I might not keep one vigil by his side, _I_, whose wrung heart watch’d with him to the last! I might not once his fainting head sustain, Nor bathe his parch’d lips in the hour of pain, Nor say to him, “Farewell!” He pass’d away-- Oh! had _my_ love been there, its conquering sway Had won him back from death! But thus removed, Borne o’er th’ abyss no sounding line hath proved, Join’d with the unknown, the viewless--he became Unto my thoughts another, yet the same-- Changed--hallow’d--glorified!--and his low grave Seem’d a bright mournful altar--mine, all mine: Brother and friend soon left me _that_ sole shrine, The birthright of the faithful!--_their_ world’s wave Soon swept them from its brink. Oh! deem thou not That on the sad and consecrated spot My soul grew weak! I tell thee that a power There kindled heart and lip--a fiery shower My words were made--a might was given to prayer, And a strong grasp to passionate despair, And a dread triumph! Know’st thou what I sought? For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought? --Communion with the dead! I sent a cry Through the veil’d empires of eternity-- A voice to cleave them! By the mournful truth, By the lost promise of my blighted youth. By the strong chain a mighty love can bind On the beloved, the spell of mind o’er mind; By words, which in themselves are magic high, Armed, and inspired, and wing’d with agony; By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem To bear the heart’s blood in their passion-stream; I summon’d, I adjured!--with quicken’d sense, With the keen vigil of a life intense. I watch’d, an answer from the winds to wring, I listen’d, if perchance the stream might bring Token from worlds afar; I taught _one_ sound Unto a thousand echoes--one profound Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky-- One prayer to night--“Awake! appear! reply!” Hast thou been told that from the viewless bourne The dark way never hath allow’d return? That all, which tears can move, with life is fled-- That earthly love is powerless on the dead? Believe it not!--There is a large lone star Now burning o’er yon western hill afar, And under its clear light there lies a spot Which well might utter forth--Believe it not! I sat beneath that planet. I had wept My woe to stillness; every night-wind slept; A hush was on the hills; the very streams Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams; And the dark tree o’ershadowing me that hour, Stood motionless, even as the gray church-tower Whereon I gazed unconsciously. There came A low sound, like the tremor of a flame, Or like the light quick shiver of a wing, Flitting through twilight woods, across the air; And I look’d up! Oh! for strong words to bring Conviction o’er thy thought! Before me there, He, the departed, stood! Ay, face to face, So near, and yet how far! His form, his mien, Gave to remembrance back each burning trace Within:--Yet something awfully serene, Pure, sculpture-like, on the pale brow, that wore Of the once beating heart no token more; And stillness on the lip--and o’er the hair A gleam, that trembled through the breathless air; And an unfathom’d calm, that seem’d to lie In the grave sweetness of th’ illumined eye, Told of the gulfs between our being set, And, as that unsheath’d spirit-glance I met, Made my soul faint:--with _fear_? Oh! _not_ with fear! With the sick feeling that in _his_ far sphere _My_ love could be as nothing! But he spoke-- How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill My bosom’s infinite? O friend! I woke _Then_ first to heavenly life! Soft, solemn, clear, Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear, Yet strangely seem’d as if the while they rose From depths of distance, o’er the wide repose Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo-cells. But, as they murmur’d on, the mortal chill Pass’d from me, like a mist before the morn; And, to that glorious intercourse upborne By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still, Possess’d my frame. I sought that lighted eye-- From its intense and searching purity I drank in _soul_!--I question’d of the dead-- Of the hush’d, starry shores their footsteps tread, And I was answer’d. If remembrance there With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air; If thought, here piled from many a jewel-heap, Be treasure in that pensive land to keep; If love, o’ersweeping change, and blight, and blast, Find _there_ the music of his home at last: I ask’d, and I was answer’d. Full and high Was that communion with eternity-- Too rich for aught so fleeting! Like a knell Swept o’er my sense its closing words, “Farewell! On earth we meet no more!” And all was gone-- The pale, bright settled brow--the thrilling tone, The still and shining eye! and never more May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore That radiant guest! One full-fraught hour of heaven, To earthly passion’s wild implorings given, Was made my own--the ethereal fire hath shiver’d The fragile censer in whose mould it quiver’d, Brightly, consumingly! What now is left? A faded world, of glory’s hues bereft-- A void, a chain! I dwell midst throngs, apart, In the cold silence of the stranger’s heart; A fix’d immortal shadow stands between My spirit and life’s fast-receding scene; A gift hath sever’d me from human ties, A power is gone from all earth’s melodies, Which never may return: their chords are broken, The music of another land hath spoken-- No after-sound is sweet! This weary thirst! And I have heard celestial fountains burst! What _here_ shall quench it? Dost thou not rejoice, When the spring sends forth an awakening voice Through the young woods? Thou dost! And in that birth Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth, Thousands, like thee, find gladness! Couldst thou know How every breeze then summons _me_ to go! How all the light of love and beauty shed By those rich hours, but woos me to the dead! The _only_ beautiful that change no more-- The only loved!--the dwellers on the shore Of spring fulfill’d! The dead! _whom_ call we so? They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know Things wrapt from us! Away! within me pent, That which is barr’d from its own element Still droops or struggles! But the day _will_ come-- Over the deep the free bird finds its home; And the stream lingers midst the rocks, yet greets The sea at last; and the wing’d flower-seed meets A soil to rest in: shall not _I_, too, be, My spirit-love! upborne to dwell with thee? Yes! by the power whose conquering anguish stirr’d The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard, Whose agony of triumph won thee back Through the dim pass no mortal step may track, Yet shall we meet! that glimpse of joy divine Proved thee for ever and for ever mine! [“It was towards the close of the year 1829, that Mrs Hemans began to contemplate the publication of a new volume of poems. She had already made some preparation for this by contributing a series of lyrics under the title of “Songs of the Affections,” to Blackwood’s Magazine, together with the long ballad, “The Lady of Provence,” which, for the glowing pictures it contains, the lofty yet tender affection to which it is consecrated, and the striking but never uncouth changes of its versification, must be considered as one of its author’s finest chivalresque poems. She had still, however, to produce some work of greater importance than these, suitable for the commencement of a volume. The subject at length fixed upon by her, as peculiar as it was almost dangerously fascinating, was suggested by a fireside conversation. It had long been a favourite amusement to wind up our evenings by telling ghost-stories. One night, however, the store of thrilling narratives was exhausted, and we began to talk of the feelings with which the presence and the speech of a visitant from another world, (if indeed a spirit could return,) would be most likely to impress the person so visited. After having exhausted all the common varieties of fear and terror in our speculations, Mrs Hemans said that she thought the predominant sensation at the time