About this book

The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Mrs. Hemans

is, however, only fair to repeat the remark already made, and in which all those who were accustomed to study the play of her features must concur--that there never was a countenance more difficult to transfer to canvass; so varying were its expressions, and so impossible is it to be satisfied with the _one_ which can alone be perpetuated by the artist. The great charm of Mr West’s picture is its perfect freedom from any thing set or constrained in the air; and the sweet, serious expression, so accordant with her maternal character, which recalls her own lines-- “Mother! with thine earnest eye Ever following silently;” and which made one of her children remark, in glancing from it to the bust, executed some years after by Mr Angus Fletcher[386]--“The bust is the poetess, but the picture is _all mother_.”--_Memoir_, p. 129-130.] [386] An engraving from Mr Fletcher’s admirable bust forms the frontispiece to the present volume. NO MORE. _No more!_ A harp-string’s deep and breaking tone, A last, low, summer breeze, a far-off swell, A dying echo of rich music gone, Breathe through those words--those murmurs of farewell-- No more! To dwell in peace, with home-affections bound, To know the sweetness of a mother’s voice, To feel the spirit of her love around, And in the blessing of her eye rejoice-- No more! A dirge-like sound! To greet the early friend Unto the hearth, his place of many days; In the glad song with kindred lips to blend, Or join the household laughter by the blaze-- No more! Through woods that shadow’d our first years to rove With all our native music in the air; To watch the sunset with the eyes we love, And turn, and read our own heart’s answer _there_-- No more! Words of despair!--yet earth’s, all earth’s the woe Their passion breathes--the desolately deep! That sound in heaven--oh! image then the flow Of gladness in its tones--to part, to weep-- No more! To watch, in dying hope, affection’s wane, To see the beautiful from life depart, To wear impatiently a secret chain, To waste the untold riches of the heart-- No more! Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn For human love[387]--and never quench that thirst; To pour the soul out, winning no return, O’er fragile idols, by delusion nursed-- No more! On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean, To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead; To send our troubled spirits through the unseen, Intensely questioning for treasures fled-- No more! Words of triumphant music! Bear we on The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air; Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done, To learn in joy,--to struggle, to despair-- No more! [387] “_Jamais, jamais, je ne serai aimé comme j’aime_!” was a mournful expression of Madame de Staël’s. THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN POET. Where shall I find, in all this fleeting earth, This world of changes and farewells, a friend That will not fail me in his love and worth, Tender and firm, and faithful to the end? Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest-- Long on vain idols its devotion shed; Some have forsaken, whom I loved the best, And some deceived, and some are with the dead. But _thou_, my Saviour! thou, my hope and trust, Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart; Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust, And fix on thee, th’ Unchanging One, my heart! PASSING AWAY. “‘Passing away’ is written on the world, and all the world contains.” It is written on the rose, In its glory’s full array; Read what those buds disclose-- “Passing away.” It is written on the skies Of the soft blue summer day; It is traced in sunset’s dyes-- “Passing away.” It is written on the trees, As their young leaves glistening play, And on brighter things than these-- “Passing away.” It is written on the brow Where the spirit’s ardent ray Lives, burns, and triumphs now-- “Passing away.” It is written on the _heart_; Alas! that _there_ Decay Should claim from Love a part-- “Passing away.” Friends, friends!--oh! shall we meet In a land of purer day, Where lovely things and sweet Pass not away? Shall we know each other’s eyes, And the thoughts that in them lay When we mingled sympathies “Passing away?” Oh! if this may be so, Speed, speed, thou closing day! How blest from earth’s vain show To pass away! THE ANGLER.[388] “I in these flowery meads would be; These crystal streams should solace me; To whose harmonious bubbling noise I with my angle would rejoice; ... And angle on, and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave.” Isaac Walton. Thou that hast loved so long and well The vale’s deep, quiet streams, Where the pure water-lilies dwell, Shedding forth tender gleams; And o’er the pool the May-fly’s wing Glances in golden eves of spring! Oh, lone and lovely haunts are thine! Soft, soft the river flows, Wearing the shadow of thy line, The gloom of alder-boughs; And in the midst a richer hue, One gliding vein of heaven’s own blue. And there but low sweet sounds are heard-- The whisper of the reed, The plashing trout, the rustling bird, The scythe upon the mead; Yet, through the murmuring osiers near, There steals a step which mortals fear. ’Tis not the stag, that comes to lave At noon his panting breast; ’Tis not the bittern, by the wave Seeking her sedgy nest; The air is fill’d with summer’s breath, The young flowers laugh--yet look! ’tis Death! But if, where silvery currents rove, Thy heart, grown still and sage, Hath learn’d to read the words of love That shine o’er nature’s page; If holy thoughts thy guests have been Under the shade of willows green; Then, lover of the silent hour By deep lone waters pass’d! Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power, To cheer thee through the last; And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell, May’st calmly bid thy streams farewell. [388] This, and the following poem, were originally written for a work entitled _Death’s Doings_, edited by Mr Alaric Watts. DEATH AND THE WARRIOR. “Ay, warrior, arm! and wear thy plume On a proud and fearless brow! I am the lord of the lonely tomb, And a mightier one than thou! “Bid thy soul’s love farewell, young chief-- Bid her a long farewell! Like the morning’s dew shall pass that grief: Thou comest with me to dwell! “Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep, Thy steed o’er the breezy hill; But they bear thee on to a place of sleep, Narrow, and cold, and chill!” “Was the voice I heard _thy_ voice, O Death! And is thy day so near? Then on the field shall my life’s last breath Mingle with victory’s cheer! “Banners shall float, with the trumpet’s note, Above me as I die! And the palm-tree wave o’er my noble grave, Under the Syrian sky. “High hearts shall burn in the royal hall, When the minstrel names that spot; And the eyes I love shall weep my fall.-- Death, Death, I fear thee not!” “Warrior! thou bear’st a haughty heart, But I can bend its pride! How shouldst thou know that thy soul will part In the hour of victory’s tide? “It may be far from thy steel-clad bands That I shall make thee mine; It may be lone on the desert sands, Where men for fountains pine! “It may be deep amidst heavy chains, In some deep Paynim hold; I have slow, dull steps and lingering pains Wherewith to tame the bold!” “Death, Death! I go to a doom unblest, If this indeed must be; But the Cross is bound upon my breast, And I may not shrink for thee! “Sound, clarion! sound!--for my vows are given To the cause of the holy shrine; I bow my soul to the will of heaven, O Death!--and not to thine!” SONG FOR AN AIR BY HUMMEL. Oh! if thou wilt not give thine heart, Give back my own to me; For if in thine I have no part, Why should mine dwell with thee?[389] Yet no! this mournful love of mine I will not from me cast; Let me but dream ’twill win me thine By its deep truth at last! Can aught so fond, so faithful, live Through years without reply? --Oh! if thy heart thou wilt not give, Give me a thought, a sigh! [389] The first verse of this song is a literal translation from the German. TO THE MEMORY OF LORD CHARLES MURRAY, SON OF THE DUKE OF ATHOLL, WHO DIED IN THE CAUSE AND LAMENTED BY THE PEOPLE OF GREECE. “Time cannot teach forgetfulness, When grief’s full heart is fed by fame.”--Byron. Thou shouldst have slept beneath the stately pines, And with th’ ancestral trophies of thy race; Thou that hast found, where alien tombs and shrines Speak of the past, a lonely dwelling-place! Far from thy brethren hath thy couch been spread, Thou bright young stranger midst the mighty dead! Yet to thy name a noble rite was given, Banner and dirge met proudly o’er thy grave, Under that old and glorious Grecian heaven, Which unto death so oft hath lit the brave: And thy dust blends with mould heroic there, With all that sanctifies the inspiring air. Vain voice of fame! sad sound for those that weep! For her, the mother, in whose bosom lone Thy childhood dwells--whose thoughts a record keep Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone; Of all thine early grace and gentle worth-- A vernal promise, faded now from earth! But a bright memory claims a proud regret-- A lofty sorrow finds its own deep springs Of healing balm; and she hath treasures yet Whose soul can number with love’s holy things, A name like thine! Now, past all cloud or spot, A gem is hers, laid up where change is not. THE BROKEN CHAIN. I am free!--I have burst through my galling chain, The life of young eagles is mine again; I may cleave with my bark the glad sounding sea, I may rove where the wind roves--my path is free! The streams dash in joy down the summer hill, The birds pierce the depths of the sky at will, The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze,-- And is not my spirit as one of these? Oh! the green earth with its wealth of flowers, And the voices that ring through its forest bowers, And the laughing glance of the founts that shine, Lighting the valleys--all, all are mine! I may urge through the desert my foaming steed, The wings of the morning shall lend him speed; I may meet the storm in its rushing glee-- Its blasts and its lightnings are not more free! Captive! and hast thou then rent thy chain? Art thou free in the wilderness, free on the main? Yes! there thy spirit may proudly soar,