The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where shiver’d helmets lie, And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a clarion in the sky; A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy drums,-- All these are in thy music met, as when a leader comes. Thou hast been o’er solitary seas, and from their wastes brought back Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery of thy track-- The chime of low, soft, southern waves on some green palmy shore, The hollow roll of distant surge, the gather’d billows’ roar. Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou mighty rushing Wind! And thou bearest all their unisons in one full swell combined; The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hidden things and free, Of the dim, old, sounding wilderness, have lent their soul to thee. Thou art come from cities lighted up for the conqueror passing by, Thou art wafting from their streets a sound of haughty revelry; The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings in the hall, The far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise and fall. Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, from ancient minsters vast, Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy lonely wing hath pass’d; Thou hast caught the anthem’s billowy swell, the stately dirge’s tone, For a chief, with sword, and shield, and helm, to his place of slumber gone. Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, wherein our young days flew, Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the loved, the kind, the true; Thou callest back those melodies, though now all changed and fled-- Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music from the dead! Are all these notes in _thee_, wild wind? these many notes in _thee_? Far in our own unfathom’d souls their fount must surely be; Yes! buried, but unsleeping, _there_ thought watches, memory lies, From whose deep urn the tones are pour’d through all earth’s harmonies. THE VIGIL OF ARMS.[380] A sounding step was heard by night In a church where the mighty slept, As a mail-clad youth, till morning’s light, Midst the tombs his vigil kept. He walk’d in dreams of power and fame, He lifted a proud bright eye, For the hours were few that withheld his name From the roll of chivalry. Down the moonlit aisles he paced alone, With a free and stately tread; And the floor gave back a muffled tone From the couches of the dead: The silent many that round him lay, The crown’d and helm’d that were, The haughty chiefs of the war array-- Each in his sepulchre! But no dim warning of time or fate That youth’s flush’d hopes could chill; He moved through the trophies of buried state With each proud pulse throbbing still. He heard, as the wind through the chancel sung, A swell of the trumpet’s breath; He look’d to the banners on high that hung, And not to the dust beneath. And a royal masque of splendour seem’d Before him to unfold; Through the solemn arches on it stream’d, With many a gleam of gold: There were crested knight, and gorgeous dame, Glittering athwart the gloom; And he follow’d, till his bold step came To his warrior-father’s tomb. But there the still and shadowy might Of the monumental stone, And the holy sleep of the soft lamp’s light That over its quiet shone, And the image of that sire, who died In his noonday of renown-- _These_ had a power unto which the pride Of fiery life bow’d down. And a spirit from his early years Came back o’er his thoughts to move, Till his eye was fill’d with memory’s tears, And his heart with childhood’s love! And he look’d, with a change in his softening glance, To the armour o’er the grave-- For there they hung, the shield and lance, And the gauntlet of the brave. And the sword of many a field was there, With its cross for the hour of need, When the knight’s bold war-cry hath sunk in prayer, And the spear is a broken reed! --Hush! did a breeze through the armour sigh? Did the folds of the banner shake? Not so!--from the tomb’s dark mystery There seem’d a voice to break! He had heard that voice bid clarions blow, He had caught its last blessing’s breath-- ’Twas the same--but its awful sweetness now Had an under-tone of death! And it said--“The sword hath conquer’d kings, And the spear through realms hath pass’d; But the cross, alone, of all these things, Might aid me at the last.” [380] The candidate for knighthood was under the necessity of keeping watch, the night before his inauguration, in a church, and completely armed. This was called “the Vigil of Arms.” THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE ABBEY. Heart! that didst press forward still,[381] Where the trumpet’s note rang shrill, Where the knightly swords were crossing, And the plumes like sea-foam tossing, Leader of the charging spear, Fiery heart!--and liest thou _here_? May this narrow spot inurn Aught that so could beat and burn? Heart! that lovedst the clarion’s blast, Silent is thy place at last; Silent--save when early bird Sings where once the mass was heard; Silent--save when breeze’s moan Comes through flowers or fretted stone; And the wild-rose waves around thee, And the long dark grass hath bound thee, --Sleep’st thou, as the swain might sleep, In his nameless valley deep? No! brave heart! though cold and lone, Kingly power is yet thine own! Feel I not thy spirit brood O’er the whispering solitude? Lo! at one high thought of thee, Fast they rise, the bold, the free, Sweeping past thy lowly bed, With a mute, yet stately tread. Shedding their pale armour’s light Forth upon the breathless night, Bending every warlike plume In the prayer o’er saintly tomb. Is the noble Douglas nigh, Arm’d to follow thee, or die? Now, true heart! as thou wert wont Pass thou to the peril’s front! Where the banner-spear is gleaming, And the battle’s red wine streaming, Till the Paynim quail before thee, Till the cross wave proudly o’er thee. --Dreams! the falling of a leaf Wins me from their splendours brief; Dreams, yet bright ones! scorn them not, Thou that seek’st the holy spot; Nor, amidst its lone domain, Call the faith in relics vain! [381] “Now pass thou forward, as thou wert wont, and Douglas will follow thee or die!”--with these words Douglas threw from him the heart of Bruce into mid-battle against the Moors of Spain. NATURE’S FAREWELL. “The beautiful is vanish’d, and returns not.” Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.” A youth rode forth from his childhood’s home, Through the crowded paths of the world to roam; And the green leaves whisper’d, as he pass’d, “Wherefore, thou dreamer! away so fast? “Knew’st thou with what thou art parting here, Long wouldst thou linger in doubt and fear; Thy heart’s light laughter, thy sunny hours, Thou hast left in our shades with the spring’s wild flowers. “Under the arch by our mingling made, Thou and thy brother have gaily play’d; Ye may meet again where ye roved of yore, But as ye _have_ met there--oh! never more!” On rode the youth--and the boughs among, Thus the free birds o’er his pathway sung: “Wherefore so fast unto life away? Thou art leaving for ever thy joy in our lay! “Thou may’st come to the summer woods again, And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain; Afar from the foliage its love will dwell-- A change must pass o’er thee. Farewell, farewell!” On rode the youth--and the founts and streams Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams: “We have been thy playmates through many a day, Wherefore thus leave us?--oh! yet delay! “Listen but once to the sound of our mirth! For thee ’tis a melody passing from earth; Never again wilt thou find in its flow The peace it could once on thy heart bestow. “Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood’s glee, With the breath of the world on thy spirit free; Passion and sorrow its depths will have stirr’d, And the singing of waters be vainly heard. “Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part-- What should it do for a burning heart? Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill, Thirst which no fountain on earth may still. “Farewell!--when thou comest again to thine own, Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone; Mournfully true is the tale we tell-- Yet on, fiery dreamer! farewell, farewell!” And a something of gloom on his spirit weigh’d As he caught the last sounds of his native shade; But he knew not, till may a bright spell broke, How deep were the oracles Nature spoke! THE BEINGS OF THE MIND. “The beings of the mind are not of clay; Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray, And more beloved existence; that which Fate Prohibits to dull life, in this our state Of mortal bondage.” Byron. Come to me with your triumphs and your woes, Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought! I sit alone with flowers, and vernal boughs, In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought; Midst the glad music of the spring alone, And sorrowful for visions that are gone! Come to me! make your thrilling whispers heard, Ye, by those masters of the soul endow’d With life, and love, and many a burning word, That bursts from grief like lightning from a cloud, And smites the heart, till all its chords reply, As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by. Come to me! visit my dim haunt!--the sound Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath; The stock-dove’s note above; and all around, The poesy that with the violet’s breath Floats through the air, in rich and sudden streams, Mingling, like music, with the soul’s deep dreams. Friends, friends!--for such to my lone heart ye are-- Unchanging ones! from whose immortal eyes The glory melts not as a waning star, And the sweet kindness never, never dies; Bright children of the bard! o’er this green dell Pass once again, and light it with your spell! Imogen! fair Fidele! meekly blending, In patient grief, “a smiling with a sigh;”[382] And thou, Cordelia! faithful daughter, tending That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky; Thou of the soft low voice!--thou art not gone! Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone. And come to me!--sing me thy willow-strain, Sweet Desdemona! with the sad surprise In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain, Undimm’d, unquenchable affection lies; Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and scorn, As a frail hyacinth by showers o’erborne. And thou, too, fair Ophelia! flowers are here, That well might win thy footstep to the spot-- Pale cowslips, meet for maiden’s early bier, And pansies for sad thoughts,[383]--but needed not! Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light In that wild eye still tremulously bright. And Juliet, vision of the south! enshrining All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong;