The Poems of Felicia Hemans

THE GUERILLA LEADER’S VOW. “All my pretty ones! Did you say all? ... Let us make medicine of this great revenge, To cure this deadly grief!” Macbeth. My battle-vow!--no minster walls Gave back the burning word, Nor cross nor shrine the low deep tone Of smother’d vengeance heard: But the ashes of a ruin’d home Thrill’d as it sternly rose, With the mingling voice of blood that shook The midnight’s dark repose. I breathed it not o’er kingly tombs, But where my children lay, And the startled vulture at my step Soar’d from their precious clay. I stood amidst my dead alone-- I kiss’d their lips--I pour’d, In the strong silence of that hour, My spirit on my sword. The roof-tree fallen, the smouldering floor, The blacken’d threshold-stone, The bright hair torn, and soil’d with blood, Whose fountain was my own-- These, and the everlasting hills, Bore witness that wild night; Before them rose th’ avenger’s soul In crush’d affection’s might. The stars, the searching stars of heaven, With keen looks would upbraid If from my heart the fiery vow, Sear’d on it then, could fade. They have no cause! Go, ask the streams That by my paths have swept, The red waves that unstain’d were born-- How hath my faith been kept? And other eyes are on my soul, That never, never close, The sad, sweet glances of the lost-- They leave me no repose. Haunting my night-watch midst the rocks, And by the torrent’s foam, Through the dark-rolling mists they shine, Full, full of love and home! Alas! the mountain eagle’s heart, When wrong’d, may yet find rest; Scorning the place made desolate, He seeks another nest. But I--your soft looks wake the thirst That wins no quenching rain; Ye drive me back, my beautiful! To the stormy fight again. THEKLA AT HER LOVER’S GRAVE. “Thither where he lies buried! That single spot is the whole world to me.” Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.” Thy voice was in my soul! it call’d me on; O my lost friend! thy voice was in my soul. From the cold, faded world whence thou art gone, To hear no more life’s troubled billows roll, I come! I come! Now speak to me again! we loved so well-- We _loved_!--oh! still, I know that still we love! I have left all things with thy dust to dwell, Through these dim aisles in dreams of _thee_ to rove: This is my home! Speak to me in the thrilling minster’s gloom! Speak! thou hast died, and sent me no farewell! I will not shrink--oh! mighty is the tomb, But one thing mightier, which it cannot quell-- This woman’s heart! This lone, full, fragile heart!--the strong alone In love and grief--of both the burning shrine! Thou, my soul’s friend! with grief hast surely done, But with the love which made thy spirit mine, Say, couldst thou part? I hear the rustling banners; and I hear The wind’s low singing through the fretted stone. I hear not _thee_; and yet I feel thee near-- What is this bound that keeps thee from thine own? Breathe it away. I wait thee--I adjure thee! Hast thou known How I have loved thee? couldst thou dream it all? Am I not here, with night and death alone, And fearing not? And hath my spirit’s call O’er thine no sway? Thou _canst_ not come! or thus I should not weep! Thy love is deathless--but no longer free! Soon would its wing triumphantly o’ersweep The viewless barrier, if such power might be, Soon, soon, and fast! But I shall come to thee! our souls’ deep dreams, Our young affections, have not gush’d in vain; Soon in one tide shall blend the sever’d streams, The worn heart break its bonds--and death and pain Be with the past! THE SISTERS OF SCIO. “As are our hearts, our way is one, And cannot be divided. Strong affection Contends with all things, and o’ercometh all things. Will I not live with thee? will I not cheer thee? Wouldst thou be lonely then? wouldst thou be sad?” Joanna Baillie. “Sister, sweet sister! let me weep awhile! Bear with me--give the sudden passion way! Thoughts of our own lost home, our sunny isle, Come as a wind that o’er a reed hath sway; Till my heart dies with yearnings and sick fears-- Oh! could my life melt from me in these tears! “Our father’s voice, our mother’s gentle eye, Our brother’s bounding step--where are they, where? Desolate, desolate our chambers lie! --How hast _thou_ won thy spirit from despair? O’er _mine_ swift shadows, gusts of terror, sweep: I sink away--bear with me--let me weep!” “Yes! weep my sister! weep, till from thy heart The weight flow forth in tears; yet sink thou not. I bind my sorrow to a lofty part, For thee, my gentle one! our orphan lot To meet in quenchless trust. My soul is strong: Thou, too, wilt rise in holy might ere long. “A breath of our free heavens and noble sires, A memory of our old victorious dead-- These mantle me with power; and though their fires In a frail censer briefly may be shed, Yet shall they light us onward, side by side-- Have the wild birds, and have not _we_, a guide? “Cheer, then, beloved! on whose meek brow is set Our mother’s image--in whose voice a tone, A faint, sweet sound of hers is lingering yet, An echo of our childhood’s music gone. Cheer thee! thy sister’s heart and faith are high: Our path is one--with thee I live and die!” [“But who are they that sit, mourning in their loveliness, beneath the shadow of a rock on the surf-beaten shore? The Sisters of Scio ... by Felicia Dorothea Hemans sung. Die--rather let them die in famine amongst sea-sand shells, than ere their virgin charms be polluted in the harem of the barbarian who has desolated their native isle. Bowed down and half dead, beneath what a load of anguish hangs the orphan’s dishevelled head on the knee of a sister, in pensive resignation, and holy faith triumphant over despair, as Felicia happily singeth!”--Professor Wilson, _Blackwood’s Magazine_. Dec. 1829.] BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. [The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio, having made many ineffectual efforts to procure the release of his father, the Count Saldana, who had been imprisoned by King Alfonso of Asturias, almost from the time of Bernardo’s birth, at last took up arms in despair. The war which he maintained proved so destructive, that the men of the land gathered round the King, and united in demanding Saldana’s liberty. Alfonso, accordingly, offered Bernardo immediate possession of his father’s person in exchange for his castle of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesitation, gave up his stronghold, with all his captives; and being assured that his father was then on his way from prison, rode forth with the King to meet him. “And when he saw his father approaching, he exclaimed,” says the ancient chronicle, “‘Oh, God! is the Count of Saldana indeed coming?’--‘Look where he is,’ replied the cruel King; ‘and now go and greet him whom you have so long desired to see.’” The remainder of the story will be found related in the ballad. The chronicles and romances leave us nearly in the dark as to Bernardo’s history after this event.] The warrior bow’d his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprison’d sire: “I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!--oh, break my father’s chain!” “Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransom’d man this day: Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way.” Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger’s foamy speed. And lo! from far, as on they press’d, there came a glittering band, With one that midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land; “Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn’d so long to see.” His dark eye flash’d, his proud breast heaved, his cheek’s blood came and went; He reach’d that gray-hair’d chieftain’s side, and there, dismounting, bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father’s hand he took,-- What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? That hand was cold--a frozen thing--it dropp’d from his like lead: He look’d up to the face above--the face was of the dead! A plume waved o’er the noble brow--the brow was fix’d and white; He met at last his father’s eyes--but in them was no sight! Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? They hush’d their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze; They might have chain’d him, as before that stony form he stood, For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. “Father!” at length he murmur’d low, and wept like childhood then-- Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!-- He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown,-- He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down. Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow, “No more, there is no more,” he said, “to lift the sword for now.-- My king is false, my hope betray’d, my father--oh! the worth, The glory and the loveliness, are pass’d away from earth! “I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire! beside thee yet-- I would that _there_ our kindred blood on Spain’s free soil had met! Thou wouldst have known my spirit then--for thee my fields were won,-- And thou hast perish’d in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!” Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch’s rein, Amidst the pale and wilder’d looks of all the courtier train; And with a fierce, o’ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face--the king before the dead!-- “Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father’s hand to kiss?-- Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this! The voice, the glance, the heart I sought--give answer, where are they?-- If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay! “Into these glassy eyes put light----Be still! keep down thine ire,-- Bid these white lips a blessing speak--this earth is _not_ my sire! Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed,-- Thou canst not--and a king! His dust be mountains on thy head!” He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell--upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look--then turn’d from that sad place: His hope was crush’d, his after-fate untold in martial strain,-- His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain. THE TOMB OF MADAME LANGHANS. “To a mysteriously consorted pair This place is consecrate; to death and life, And to the best affections that proceed From this conjunction.” Wordsworth.