The Poems of Felicia Hemans

my own boys, who are enjoying themselves greatly. Of myself, what can I say to you?... When I look back on the short time that has elapsed since I left this place, I am astonished; I seem in it to have lived an age of deep, strong, vain feeling.” --_Memoir_, p. 151-3.] WE RETURN NO MORE![395] “When I stood beneath the fresh green tree, And saw around me the wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise; and the Spring Come forth, her work of gladness to contrive, With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turn’d from all she brought to all she could not bring.” Childe Harold. “We return!--we return!--we return no more!” So comes the song to the mountain shore, From those that are leaving their Highland home For a world far over the blue sea’s foam: “We return no more!” and through cave and dell Mournfully wanders that wild farewell. “We return!--we return!--we return no more!” So breathe sad voices our spirits o’er; Murmuring up from the depths of the heart, Where lovely things with their light depart: And the inborn sound hath a prophet’s tone, And we feel that a joy is for ever gone. “We return!--we return!--we return no more!” Is it heard when the days of flowers are o’er? When the passionate soul of the night-bird’s lay Hath died from the summer woods away? When the glory from sunset’s robe hath pass’d, Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast? No! It is not the rose that returns no more;-- A breath of spring shall its bloom restore; And it is not the voice that o’erflows the bowers With a stream of love through the starry hours; Nor is it the crimson of sunset hues, Nor the frail flush’d leaves which the wild wind strews. “We return!--we return!--we return no more!” Doth the bird sing thus from a brighter shore? Those wings that follow the southern breeze, Float they not homeward o’er vernal seas? Yes! from the lands of the vine and palm They come, with the sunshine, when waves grow calm. “But we!--we return!--we return no more!” The heart’s young dreams, when their spring is o’er; The love it hath pour’d so freely forth-- The boundless trust in ideal worth; The faith in affection--deep, fond, yet vain-- _These_ are the lost that return not again! [395] _Ha til!--ha til!--ha til mi tulidle!_--“we return!--we return!--we return no more!”--the burden of the Highland song of emigration. TO A WANDERING FEMALE SINGER. Thou hast loved and thou hast suffer’d! Unto feeling deep and strong, Thou hast trembled like a harp’s frail string-- I know it by thy song! Thou hast loved--it may be vainly-- But well--oh, but too well! Thou hast suffer’d all that woman’s breast May bear--but must not tell. Thou hast wept, and thou hast parted, Thou hast been forsaken long, Thou hast watch’d for steps that came not back-- I know it by thy song! By the low, clear silvery gushing Of its music from thy breast; By the quivering of its flute-like swell-- A sound of the heart’s unrest; By its fond and plaintive lingering On each word of grief so long. Oh! thou hast loved and suffer’d much-- I know it by thy song! LIGHTS AND SHADES. The gloomiest day hath gleams of light; The darkest wave hath light foam near it; And twinkles through the cloudiest night Some solitary star to cheer it. The gloomiest soul is not all gloom; The saddest heart is not all sadness; And sweetly o’er the darkest doom There shines some lingering beam of gladness. Despair is never _quite_ despair; Nor life nor death the future closes; And round the shadowy brow of Care Will Hope and Fancy twine their roses. [These spirited and graceful stanzas appeared in the “For-get-me-Not” for 1829, and are here for the first time admitted into the general collection of the author’s works. In all probability, they are an early effusion, and poured forth when the poetry of Moore was fresh in her mind.] THE PALMER. “The faded palm-branch in his hand Show’d pilgrim from the Holy Land.” Scott. Art thou come from the far-off land at last? Thou that hast wander’d long! Thou art come to a home whence the smile hath pass’d With the merry voice of song. For the sunny glance and the bounding heart Thou wilt seek--but all are gone; They are parted, e’en as waters part, To meet in the deep alone! And thou--from thy lip is fled the glow, From thine eye the light of morn; And the shades of thought o’erhang thy brow, And thy cheek with life is worn. Say what hast thou brought from the distant shore For thy wasted youth to pay? Hast thou treasure to win thee joys once more? Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way? “I have brought but the palm-branch in my hand, Yet I call not my bright youth lost! I have won but high thought in the Holy Land, Yet I count not too dear the cost! “I look on the leaves of the deathless tree-- These records of my track; And better than youth in its flush of glee, Are the memories they give me back! “They speak of toil, and of high emprise, As in words of solemn cheer; They speak of lonely victories O’er pain, and doubt, and fear. “They speak of scenes which have now become Bright pictures in my breast; Where my spirit finds a glorious home, And the love of my heart can rest. “The colours pass not from _these_ away, Like tints of shower or sun; Oh! beyond all treasures that know decay, Is the wealth my soul hath won! “A rich light thence o’er my life’s decline, An inborn light is cast; For the sake of the palm from the holy shrine, I bewail not my bright days past!” THE CHILD’S FIRST GRIEF. Oh! call my brother back to me! I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flower and bee-- Where is my brother gone? “The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam’s track; I care not now to chase its flight-- Oh! call my brother back! “The flowers run wild--the flowers we sow’d Around our garden tree; Our vine is drooping with its load-- Oh! call him back to me!” “He would not hear thy voice, fair child! He may not come to thee; The face that once like spring-time smiled, On earth no more thou’lt see. “A rose’s brief, bright life of joy, Such unto him was given: Go--thou must play alone, my boy! Thy brother is in heaven.” “And has he left his birds and flowers; And must I call in vain? And through the long, long summer hours, Will he not come again? “And by the brook and in the glade Are all our wanderings o’er? Oh! while my brother with me play’d, _Would I had loved him more_!” TO THE NEW-BORN.[396] A blessing on thy head, thou child of many hopes and fears! A rainbow-welcome thine hath been, of mingled smiles and tears. Thy father greets thee unto life with a full and chasten’d heart, For a solemn gift from God thou comest, all precious as thou art! I see thee not asleep, fair boy! upon thy mother’s breast, Yet well I know how guarded there shall be thy rosy rest; And how her soul with love, and prayer, and gladness, will o’erflow, While bending o’er thy soft-seal’d eyes, thou dear one! well I know. A blessing on thy gentle head! and bless’d thou _art_ in truth, For a home where God is felt awaits thy childhood and thy youth: Around thee pure and holy thoughts shall dwell as light and air, And steal unto thine heart, and wake the germs now folded there. Smile on thy mother! while she feels that unto her is given, In that young day-spring glance, the pledge of a soul to rear for heaven! Smile! and sweet peace be o’er thy sleep, joy o’er thy wakening shed! Blessings and blessings evermore, fair boy! upon thy head! [396] Addressed to the child of her eldest brother. THE DEATH-SONG OF ALCESTIS. She came forth in her bridal robes array’d, And midst the graceful statues, round the hall Shedding the calm of their celestial mien, Stood pale yet proudly beautiful as they: Flowers in her bosom, and the star-like gleam Of jewels trembling from her braided hair, And _death_ upon her brow!--but glorious death! Her own heart’s choice, the token and the seal Of love, o’ermastering love; which, till that hour, Almost an anguish in the brooding weight Of its unutterable tenderness, Had burden’d her full soul. But now, oh! now, Its time was come--and from the spirit’s depths, The passion and the mighty melody Of its immortal voice in triumph broke, Like a strong rushing wind! The soft pure air Came floating through that hall--the Grecian air, Laden with music--flute-notes from the vales, Echoes of song--the last sweet sounds of life And the glad sunshine of the golden clime Stream’d, as a royal mantle, round her form-- The glorified of love! But she--she look’d Only on _him_ for whom ’twas joy to die, Deep--deepest, holiest joy! Or if a thought Of the warm sunlight, and the scented breeze, And the sweet Dorian songs, o’erswept the tide Of her unswerving soul--’twas but a thought That own’d the summer loveliness of life For _him_ a worthy offering! So she stood, Wrapt in bright silence, as entranced awhile; Till her eye kindled, and her quivering frame With the swift breeze of inspiration shook, As the pale priestess trembles to the breath Of inborn oracles! Then flush’d her cheek, And all the triumph, all the agony, Borne on the battling waves of love and death, All from her woman’s heart, in sudden song, Burst like a fount of fire. “I go, I go! Thou sun! thou golden sun! I go Far from thy light to dwell: Thou shalt not find my place below, Dim is that world--bright sun of Greece, farewell! “The laurel and the glorious rose Thy glad beam yet may see; But where no purple summer glows, O’er the dark wave _I_ haste from them and thee. “Yet doth my spirit faint to part? --I mourn thee not, O sun! Joy, solemn joy, o’erflows my heart: Sing me triumphal songs!--my crown is won! “Let not a voice of weeping rise-- My heart is girt with power! Let the green earth and festal skies Laugh, as to grace a conqueror’s closing hour! “For thee, for _thee_, my bosom’s lord! Thee, my soul’s loved! I die; Thine is the torch of life restored, Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory! “Now may the boundless love, that lay Unfathom’d still before, In one consuming burst find way-- In one bright flood all, all its riches pour! “Thou know’st, thou know’st what love is _now_! Its glory and its might-- Are they not written on my brow? And will that image ever quit thy sight? “No! deathless in thy faithful breast, There shall my memory keep Its own bright altar-place of rest, While o’er my grave the cypress branches weep.