About this book

The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Mrs. Hemans

The record of one happy hour! Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone Can bid each life-pulse beat, As when a trumpet’s note hath blown, Calling the brave to meet: But mine, let mine--a woman’s breast, By words of home-born love be bless’d. A hollow sound is in thy song, A mockery in thine eye, To the sick heart that doth but long For aid, for sympathy-- For kindly looks to cheer it on, For tender accents that are gone. Fame! Fame! thou canst not be the stay Unto the drooping reed, The cool, fresh fountain in the day Of the soul’s feverish need: Where must the lone one turn or flee!-- Not unto thee--oh! not to thee! A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. Dreamer! and wouldst thou know If love goes with us to the viewless bourne? Wouldst thou bear hence th’ unfathom’d source of woe In thy heart’s lonely urn? What hath it been to thee, That power, the dweller of thy secret breast? A dove sent forth across a stormy sea, Finding no place of rest: A precious odour cast On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by; A voice of music utter’d to the blast, And winning no reply. Even were such answer thine, Wouldst thou be bless’d? Too sleepless, too profound, Are the soul’s hidden springs; there is no line Their depth of love to sound. Do not words faint and fail When thou wouldst fill them with that ocean’s power? As thine own cheek, before high thoughts grows pale In some o’erwhelming hour. Doth not thy frail form sink Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot, When thy heart strives, held down by many a link, Where thy beloved are not? Is not thy very soul Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed, Till a vain tenderness, beyond control, Bows down thy weary head? And wouldst thou bear all _this_-- The burden and the shadow of thy life-- To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss With earthly feelings’ strife? Not thus, not thus--oh, no! Not veil’d and mantled with dim clouds of care, That spirit of my soul should with me go To breathe celestial air. But as the skylark springs To its own sphere, where night afar is driven, As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings, So must love mount to heaven! Vainly it shall not strive There on weak words to pour a stream of fire; Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give, As light might wake a lyre. And oh! its blessings _there_, Shower’d like rich balsam forth on some dear head, Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear, A joy of sunlight shed. Let me, then--let me dream That love goes with us to the shore unknown; So o’er its burning tears a heavenly gleam In mercy shall be thrown! THE VOICE OF MUSIC. “Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.” Childe Harold. Whence is the might of thy master-spell? Speak to me, voice of sweet sound! and tell: How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath, Passionate visions of love and death? How call’st thou back, with a note, a sigh, Words and low tones from the days gone by-- A sunny glance, or a fond farewell?-- Speak to me, voice of sweet sound! and tell. What is thy power, from the soul’s deep spring In sudden gushes the tears to bring? Even midst the swells of thy festal glee, Fountains of sorrow are stirr’d by thee! Vain are those tears!--vain and fruitless all-- Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall; For a purer bliss while the full heart burns, For a brighter home while the spirit yearns! Something of mystery there surely dwells, Waiting thy touch, in our bosom-cells; Something that finds not its answer here-- A chain to be clasp’d in another sphere. Therefore a current of sadness deep Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep, Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky-- Like a name of the dead when the wind foams high! Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught With vain remembrance and troubled thought; Speak! for thou tellest my soul that its birth Links it with regions more bright than earth. THE ANGEL’S GREETING. “Hark!--they whisper!--Angels say, Sister spirit! come away.” Pope. Come to the land of peace! Come where the tempest hath no longer sway, The shadow passes from the soul away, The sounds of weeping cease. Fear hath no dwelling there! Come to the mingling of repose and love, Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove Through the celestial air. Come to the bright, and blest, And crown’d for ever! Midst that shining band, Gather’d to heaven’s own wreath from every land, Thy spirit shall find rest! Thou hast been long alone: Come to thy mother! On the Sabbath shore, The heart that rock’d thy childhood, back once more Shall take its wearied one. In silence wert thou left: Come to thy sisters! Joyously again All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain, Shall greet their long bereft. Over thine orphan head The storm hath swept, as o’er a willow’s bough: Come to thy father! It is finish’d now; Thy tears have all been shed. In thy divine abode, Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace, And, oh! bright victory--death by love no place. Come, spirit! to thy God. A FAREWELL TO WALES, FOR THE MELODY CALLED “THE ASH GROVE,” ON LEAVING THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDREN. The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear-- Farewell, and a blessing be with thee, green land! On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air, On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel’s free hand, From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed, As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead! I bless thee!--yet not for the beauty which dwells In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy shore; And not for the memory set deep in thy dells, Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore; And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled-- Green land, poet-land of my home and my dead! I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat Where’er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies; For thy cottage-hearths burning the stranger to greet, For the soul that shines forth from thy children’s kind eyes! May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be spread, Green land of my childhood, my home, and my dead! [“It was about this time (1828) that ‘The Farewell to Wales’ was written. ‘I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat Where’er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies; For thy cottage-hearths burning the stranger to greet, For the soul that shines forth from thy children’s kind eyes.’ Mrs Hemans always spoke of this ‘land of her childhood, her home, and her dead,’ with interest and affection. When she sailed from its shore, she covered her face in her cloak, desiring her boys to tell her when the hills were out of sight, that she might then look up. She would often, too, refer to the pain she had suffered--in addition to the sorrow of parting from her kindred and friends, for the first time since her birth, to make actual acquaintance with the daily cares of life--upon taking leave of the simple and homely peasantry of the neighbourhood, by whom she was beloved with that old-fashioned heartiness which yet lingers in some of the nooks and remote places of England. Many of them rushed forward to touch the posts of the gate through which the poetess had passed; and when, three years afterwards, she paid a visit to St Asaph, came and wept over her, and entreated her to return and make her home among them again.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 206-7.] IMPROMPTU LINES, ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVING FROM HER SOME FLOWERS WHEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS. Ye tell me not of birds and bees, Not of the summer’s murmuring trees, Not of the streams and woodland bowers-- A sweeter tale is yours, fair flowers! Glad tidings to my couch ye bring, Of one still bright, still flowing spring-- A fount of kindness ever new, In a friend’s heart, the good and true. A PARTING SONG. “O mes amis! rapellez-vous quelquefois mes vers! mon ame y est empreinte.”--Corinne. When will ye think of me, my friends? When will ye think of me?-- When the last red light, the farewell of day, From the rock and the river is passing away-- When the air with a deepening hush is fraught, And the heart grows burden’d with tender thought, Then let it be! When will ye think of me, kind friends? When will ye think of me?-- When the rose of the rich midsummer-time Is fill’d with the hues of its glorious prime-- When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled, From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread-- Then let it be! When will ye think of me, sweet friends? When will ye think of me?-- When the sudden tears o’erflow your eye At the sound of some olden melody-- When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, When ye feel the charm of a poet’s dream-- Then let it be! Thus let my memory be with you, friends! Thus ever think of me! Kindly and gently, but as of one For whom ’tis well to be fled and gone-- As of a bird from a chain unbound, As of a wanderer whose home is found-- So let it be. [“The description of her feelings, when the actual parting took place, proves that there was no exaggeration in the affectionate sadness of her ‘Farewell to Wales,’ and the blessing she thus fondly left with it:-- ‘The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear-- Farewell! and a blessing be with thee, green land! On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air, On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel’s free hand, From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed, As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead! ‘Oh! that Tuesday morning!’ (thus she wrote in her first letter to St Asaph.) ‘I literally covered my face all the way from Bronwylfa, until the boys told me we had passed the Clwyd range of hills. Then something of the bitterness was over. ‘Miss P. met me at Bagillt, and on board the packet we found Mr D., who was kinder to me than I can possibly tell you. He really watched over me all the way with a care I shall not soon forget; and notwithstanding all you may say of _female_ protection, I felt that of a gentleman to be a great comfort, for we had a difficult and disagreeable landing. As we entered the port, a vessel, coming out, struck against ours, and caused a great concussion: there was no danger, I imagine, but it gave one a faint notion of what the meeting must have been between the Comet and the Aire. We had a pretty sight on the water; another packet, loaded, clustered all over with blue-coat boys, sailed past. It was their annual holiday, on which they have a water excursion; and as they went by, all the little fellows waved their hats, and sent forth three cheers, which made our vessel ring again. Only imagine a ship-load of happiness! That word reminds me of