The Poems of Felicia Hemans
And hush’d is every silvery voice
That lightly here hath laugh’d.
O mirror--lonely mirror!
Thou of the silent hall!
Thou hast been flush’d with beauty’s bloom--
Is this, too, vanish’d all?
It is, with the scatter’d garlands
Of triumphs long ago,
With the melodies of buried lyres,
With the faded rainbow’s glow.
And for all the gorgeous pageants--
For the glance of gem and plume,
For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath,
And vase of rich perfume--
Now, dim, forsaken mirror!
Thou givest but faintly back
The quiet stars, and the sailing moon,
On her solitary track.
And thus with man’s proud spirit
Thou tellest me ’twill be,
When the forms and hues of this world fade
From his memory, as from thee:
And his heart’s long-troubled waters
At last in stillness lie,
Reflecting but the images
Of the solemn world on high.
TO THE DAUGHTER OF BERNARD BARTON, THE QUAKER POET.
Happy thou art, the child of one
Who in each lowly flower,
Each leaf that glances to the sun,
Or trembles with the shower;
In each soft shadow of the sky,
Or sparkle of the stream,
Will guide thy kindling spirit’s eye
To trace the Love Supreme.
So shall deep quiet fill thy breast,
A joy in wood and wild;
And e’en for this I call thee blest,
The gentle poet’s child!
THE STAR OF THE MINE.
From the deep chambers of a mine,
With heavy gloom o’erspread,
I saw a star at noontide shine
Serenely o’er my head.
I had not seen it midst the glow
Of the rich upper day;
But in that shadowy world below,
How my heart bless’d its ray!
And still, the farther from my sight
Torches and lamps were borne,
The purer, lovelier, seem’d the light
That wore its beams unshorn.
Oh! what is like that heavenly spark?
--A friend’s kind, steadfast eye;
Where, brightest when the world grows dark,
Hope, cheer, and comfort lie!
WASHINGTON’S STATUE.
SENT FROM ENGLAND TO AMERICA.
Yes! rear thy guardian hero’s form
On thy proud soil, thou western world!
A watcher through each sign of storm,
O’er freedom’s flag unfurl’d.
There, as before a shrine, to bow,
Bid thy true sons their children lead:
The language of that noble brow
For all things good shall plead.
The spirit rear’d in patriot fight,
The virtue born of home and hearth,
There calmly throned, a holy light
Shall pour o’er chainless earth.
And let that work of England’s hand,
Sent through the blast and surge’s roar,
So girt with tranquil glory stand
For ages on thy shore!
Such, through all time, the greetings be,
That with the Atlantic billow sweep!
Telling the mighty and the free
Of brothers o’er the deep.
A THOUGHT OF HOME AT SEA.
WRITTEN FOR MUSIC.
’Tis lone on the waters
When eve’s mournful bell
Sends forth to the sunset
A note of farewell;
When, borne with the shadows
And winds as they sweep,
There comes a fond memory
Of home o’er the deep;
When the wing of the sea-bird
Is turn’d to her nest,
And the thought of the sailor
To all he loves best!
’Tis lone on the waters--
That hour hath a spell
To bring back sweet voices,
With words of farewell!
TO THE MEMORY OF A SISTER-IN-LAW.
We miss thy voice while early flowers are blowing,
And the first flush of blossom clothes each bough,
And the spring sunshine round our home is glowing
Soft as thy smile: thou shouldst be with us now.
With _us_? We wrong thee by the earthly thought:
Could our fond gaze but follow where thou art,
Well might the glories of this world seem naught
To the one promise given the pure in heart.
Yet wert thou blest e’en here--oh! ever blest
In thine own sunny thoughts and tranquil faith!
The silent joy that still o’erflow’d thy breast
Needed but guarding from all change, by death.
So is it seal’d to peace! On thy clear brow
Never was care one fleeting shade to cast;
And thy calm days in brightness were to flow
A holy stream, untroubled to the last.
Farewell! thy life hath left surviving love
A wealth of records, and sweet “feelings given,”
From sorrow’s heart the faintness to remove
By whispers breathing “less of earth than heaven.”[385]
Thus rests thy spirit still on those with whom
Thy step the path of joyous duty trode,
Bidding them make an altar of thy tomb,
Where chasten’d thought may offer praise to God.
[385] Alluding to the lines she herself quoted but an hour before her
death:--
“Some feelings are to mortals given
With less of earth in them than heaven.”
TO AN ORPHAN.
Thou hast been rear’d too tenderly,
Beloved too well and long,
Watch’d by too many a gentle eye:
Now look on life--be strong!
Too quiet seem’d thy joys for change,
Too holy and too deep;
Bright clouds, through summer skies that range
Seem ofttimes thus to sleep,--
To sleep in silvery stillness bound,
As things that ne’er may melt;
Yet gaze again--no trace is found
To show thee where they dwelt.
This world hath no more love to give
Like that which thou hast known;
Yet the heart breaks not--we survive
Our treasures--and bear on.
But oh! too beautiful and blest
Thy home of youth hath been!
Where shall thy wing, poor bird! find rest,
Shut out from that sweet scene?
Kind voices from departed years
Must haunt thee many a day;
Looks that will smite the source of tears
Across thy soul must play.
Friends--now the alter’d or the dead,
And music that is gone,
A gladness o’er thy dreams will shed,
And thou shalt wake--alone.
Alone! it is in that deep word
That all thy sorrow lies;
How is the heart to courage stirr’d
By smiles from kindred eyes!
And are these lost?--and have I said
To aught like _thee_--be strong?
--So bid the willow lift its head,
And brave the tempest’s wrong!
Thou reed! o’er which the storm hath pass’d--
Thou shaken with the wind!
On one, _one_ friend thy weakness cast--
There is but One to bind!
HYMN BY THE SICKBED OF A MOTHER.
Father! that in the olive-shade,
When the dark hour came on,
Didst, with a breath of heavenly aid,
Strengthen thy Son;
Oh! by the anguish of that night,
Send us down bless’d relief;
Or to the chasten’d, let thy might
Hallow this grief!
And Thou, that when the starry sky
Saw the dread strife begun,
Didst teach adoring faith to cry,
“Thy will be done;”
By thy meek spirit, Thou, of all
That e’er have mourn’d, the chief--
Thou Saviour! if the stroke _must_ fall,
Hallow this grief!
WHERE IS THE SEA?
SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE.
[A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon
to admire its beauty, only replied--“_The sea--where is it?_”]
Where is the sea?--I languish here--
Where is my own blue sea?
With all its barks in fleet career,
And flags, and breezes free?
I miss that voice of waves which first
Awoke my childhood’s glee;
The measured chime--the thundering burst--
Where is my own blue sea?
Oh! rich your myrtle’s breath may rise,
Soft, soft your winds may be;
Yet my sick heart within me dies--
Where is my own blue sea?
I hear the shepherd’s mountain flute,
I hear the whispering tree;
The echoes of my soul are mute,
--Where is my own blue sea?
[All this time, her imagination was at work more busily than ever;
new thoughts and fresh fancies seemed to spring up “as willows by the
water-courses:” and the facility with which her lyrics were poured
forth, approached, in many instances, to actual improvisation. When
confined to her bed, and unable to use a pen, she would often employ
the services of those about her, to write down what she had composed.
“Felicia has just sent for me,” wrote her amanuensis on one of these
occasions, “with pencil and paper, to put down a little song, (‘Where
is the Sea?’) which, she said, had come to her like a strain of music,
whilst lying in the twilight under the infliction of a blister; and
as I really think ‘a scrap’ (as our late eccentric visitor would
call it) composed under such circumstances, is, to use the words of
Coleridge, a ‘psychological curiosity,’ I cannot resist copying it for
you. It was suggested by a story she somewhere read lately, of a Greek
islander, carried off to the Vale of Tempe, and pining amidst all its
beauties for the sight and sound of his native sea.”--_Memoir_, p.
134.]
TO MY OWN PORTRAIT.
How is it that before mine eyes,
While gazing on thy mien,
All my past years of life arise,
As in a mirror seen?
What spell within thee hath been shrined
To image back my own deep mind?
Even as a song of other times
Can trouble memory’s springs;
Even as a sound of vesper-chimes
Can wake departed things;
Even as a scent of vernal flowers
Hath records fraught with vanish’d hours,--
Such power is thine! They come, the dead,
From the grave’s bondage free,
And smiling back the changed are led
To look in love on thee;
And voices that are music flown
Speak to me in the heart’s full tone:
Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress--
The thoughts of happier years--
And a vain gush of tenderness
O’erflows in child-like tears;
A passion which I may not stay,
A sudden fount that must have way.
But thou, the while--oh! almost strange,
Mine imaged self! it seems
That on _thy_ brow of peace no change
Reflects my own swift dreams;
Almost I marvel not to trace
Those lights and shadows in _thy_ face.
To see _thee_ calm, while powers thus deep--
Affection, Memory, Grief--
Pass o’er my soul as winds that sweep
O’er a frail aspen leaf!
Oh, that the quiet of thine eye
Might sink there when the storm goes by!
Yet look thou still serenely on,
And if sweet friends there be
That when my song and soul are gone
Shall seek my form in thee,--
Tell them of one for whom ’twas best
To flee away and be at rest!
[In the autumn of 1827, at the urgent request of Mr Alaric Watts,
who was then forming a gallery of portraits of the living authors of
Great Britain, Mrs Hemans was prevailed upon to sit for her picture.
The artist selected on this occasion was Mr W. E. West, an American
by birth, who had passed some time in Italy, and painted the last
likeness ever taken of Lord Byron, and also one of Madame Guiccioli,
which was engraved in one of the annuals. During his stay at Rhyllon,
where he remained for some weeks, he finished three several portraits
of Mrs Hemans--one for Mr Alaric Watts, one which is now in the
possession of Professor Norton, and a third, which he most courteously
presented to Mrs Hemans’ sister, to whom it was even then a treasure,
and is now become one of inestimable value. This likeness, considered
by her family as the best ever taken of her, is the one which
suggested Mrs Hemans’s affecting lines, “To my own Portrait.” ... It