The Poems of Felicia Hemans

There the falcon pierced the cloud, While the fiery heart was bow’d. But this might not long endure, Where the mountain-homes were pure; And a valiant voice arose, Thrilling all the silent snows; _His_--now singing far and lone, Where the young breeze ne’er was known; Singing of the glad blue sky, Wildly--and how mournfully! Are none but the Wind and the Lammer-Geyer To be free where the hills unto heaven aspire? Is the soul of song from the deep glens past, Now that their poet is chain’d at last?-- Think of the mountains, and deem not so! Soon shall each blast like a clarion blow! Yes! though forbidden be every word Wherewith that spirit the Alps hath stirr’d, Yet even as a buried stream through earth Rolls on to another and brighter birth, So shall the voice that hath seem’d to die Burst forth with the anthem of liberty! And another power is moving In a bosom fondly loving: Oh! a sister’s heart is deep, And her spirit strong to keep Each light link of early hours, All sweet scents of childhood’s flowers! Thus each lay by Erni sung, Rocks and crystal caves among, Or beneath the linden-leaves, Or the cabin’s vine-hung eaves, Rapid though as bird-notes gushing, Transient as a wan cheek’s flushing, Each in young Teresa’s breast Left its fiery words impress’d; Treasured there lay every line, As a rich book on a hidden shrine. Fair was that lone girl, and meek, With a pale, transparent cheek, And a deep-fringed violet eye Seeking in sweet shade to lie, Or, if raised to glance above, Dim with its own dews of love; And a pure Madonna brow, And a silvery voice and low, Like the echo of a flute, Even the last, ere all be mute. But a loftier soul was seen In the orphan sister’s mien, From that hour when chains defiled Him, the high Alps’ noble child. Tones in her quivering voice awoke, As if a harp of battle spoke; Light, that seem’d born of an eagle’s nest, Flash’d from her soft eyes unrepress’d; And her form, like a spreading water-flower, When its frail cup swells with a sudden shower, Seem’d all dilated with love and pride, And grief for that brother, her young heart’s guide. Well might they love!--those two had grown Orphans together and alone: The silence of the Alpine sky Had hush’d their hearts to piety; The turf, o’er their dead mother laid, Had been their altar when they pray’d; There, more in tenderness than woe, The stars had seen their young tears flow; The clouds, in spirit-like descent, Their deep thoughts by one touch had blent, And the wild storms link’d them to each other-- How dear can peril make a brother! Now is their hearth a forsaken spot, The vine waves unpruned o’er their mountain cot: Away, in that holy affection’s might, The maiden is gone, like a breeze of the night. She is gone forth alone, but her lighted face, Filling with soul every secret place, Hath a dower from heaven, and a gift of sway, To arouse brave hearts in its hidden way, Like the sudden flinging forth on high Of a banner, that startleth silently! She hath wander’d through many a hamlet-vale, Telling its children her brother’s tale; And the strains by his spirit pour’d away Freely as fountains might shower their spray, From her fervent lip a new life have caught, And a power to kindle yet bolder thought; While sometimes a melody, all her own, Like a gush of tears in its plaintive tone, May be heard midst the lonely rocks to flow, Clear through the water-chimes--clear, yet low “Thou’rt not where wild-flowers wave O’er crag and sparry cave; Thou’rt not where pines are sounding, Or joyous torrents bounding-- Alas, my brother! “Thou’rt not where green, on high, The brighter pastures lie; Ev’n those, thine own wild places, Bear of our chain dark traces: Alas, my brother! “Far hath the sunbeam spread, Nor found thy lonely bed; Long hath the fresh wind sought thee, Nor one sweet whisper brought thee-- Alas, my brother! “Thou, that for joy wert born, Free as the wings of morn! Will aught thy young life cherish, Where the Alpine rose would perish?-- Alas, my brother! “Canst thou be singing still, As once on every hill? Is not thy soul forsaken, And the bright gift from thee taken?-- Alas, alas, my brother!” And _was_ the bright gift from the captive fled? Like the fire on his hearth, was his spirit dead? Not so!--but as rooted in stillness deep, The pure stream-lily its place will keep, Though its tearful urns to the blast may quiver, While the red waves rush down the foaming river; So freedom’s faith in his bosom lay, Trembling, yet not to be borne away! He thought of the Alps and their breezy air, And felt that his country no chains might bear; He thought of the hunter’s haughty life, And knew there must yet be noble strife. But, oh! when he thought of that orphan maid, His high heart melted--he wept and pray’d! For he saw her not as she moved e’en then, A wakener of heroes in every glen, With a glance inspired which no grief could tame, Bearing on hope like a torch’s flame; While the strengthening voice of mighty wrongs Gave echoes back to her thrilling songs. But his dreams were fill’d by a haunting tone, Sad as a sleeping infant’s moan; And his soul was pierced by a mournful eye, Which look’d on it--oh! how beseechingly! And there floated past him a fragile form, With a willowy droop, as beneath the storm; Till wakening in anguish, his faint heart strove In vain with its burden of helpless love! Thus woke the dreamer one weary night-- There flash’d through his dungeon a swift strong light; He sprang up--he climb’d to the grating-bars. --It was not the rising of moon or stars, But a signal-flame from a peak of snow, Rock’d through the dark skies to and fro! There shot forth another--another still-- A hundred answers of hill to hill! Tossing like pines in the tempest’s way, Joyously, wildly, the bright spires play, And each is hail’d with a pealing shout, For the high Alps waving their banners out! Erni! young Erni! the land hath risen!-- Alas! to be lone in thy narrow prison! Those free streamers glancing, and thou not there! --Is the moment of rapture, or fierce despair? --Hark! there’s a tumult that shakes his cell, At the gates of the mountain citadel! Hark! a clear voice through the rude sounds ringing! Doth he know the strain, and the wild, sweet singing? “There may not long be fetters, Where the cloud is earth’s array, And the bright floods leap from cave and steep, Like a hunter on the prey! “There may not long be fetters, Where the white Alps have their towers; Unto Eagle-homes, if the arrow comes, The chain is not for ours!” It is she! She is come like a dayspring beam, She that so mournfully shadow’d his dream! With her shining eyes and her buoyant form, She is come! her tears on his cheek are warm; And oh! the thrill in that weeping voice! “My brother! my brother! come forth, rejoice!” Poet! the land of thy love is free,-- Sister! thy brother is won by thee! TO THE MOUNTAIN WINDS. ----“How divine The liberty, for frail, for mortal man, To roam at large among unpeopled glens, And mountainous retirements, only trod By devious footsteps!--Regions consecrate To oldest time! And reckless of the storm That keeps the raven quiet in his nest, Be as a presence or a motion--One Among the many there.” Wordsworth. Mountain winds! oh, whither do ye call me? Vainly, vainly would my steps pursue! Chains of care to lower earth enthrall me, Wherefore thus my weary spirit woo? Oh! the strife of this divided being! Is there peace where ye are born on high? Could we soar to your proud eyries fleeing, In our hearts would haunting memories die? Those wild places are not as a dwelling Whence the footsteps of the loved are gone! Never from those rocky halls came swelling Voice of kindness in familiar tone! Surely music of oblivion sweepeth In the pathway of your wanderings free; And the torrent, wildly as it leapeth, Sings of no lost home amidst its glee. There the rushing of the falcon’s pinion Is not from some hidden pang to fly; All things breathe of power and stern dominion-- Not of hearts that in vain yearnings die. Mountain winds! oh! is it, is it only Where man’s trace hath been that so we pine! Bear me up, to grow in thought less lonely, Even at nature’s deepest, loneliest shrine! Wild, and mighty, and mysterious singers! At whose tone my heart within me burns; Bear me where the last red sunbeam lingers, Where the waters have their secret urns! There to commune with a loftier spirit Than the troubling shadows of regret; There the wings of freedom to inherit, Where the enduring and the wing’d are met. Hush, proud voices! gentle be your falling! Woman’s lot thus chainless may not be; Hush! the heart your trumpet-sounds are calling, Darkly still may grow--but never free! THE PROCESSION. “‘The peace which passeth all understanding,’ disclosed itself in her looks and movements. It lay on her countenance like a steady unshadowed moonlight.”--Coleridge. There were trampling sounds of many feet, And music rush’d through the crowded street: Proud music, such as tells the sky Of a chief return’d from victory. There were banners to the winds unroll’d, With haughty words on each blazon’d fold; High battle-names, which had rung of yore When lances clash’d on the Syrian shore. Borne from their dwellings, green and lone, There were flowers of the woods on the pathway strown; And wheels that crush’d as they swept along;-- Oh! what doth the violet amidst the throng? I saw where a bright procession pass’d The gates of a minster old and vast; And a king to his crowning-place was led, Through a sculptured line of the warrior-dead. I saw, far gleaming, the long array Of trophies, on those high tombs that lay, And the colour’d light, that wrapp’d them all, Rich, deep, and sad, as a royal pall. But a lowlier grave soon won mine eye Away from th’ ancestral pageantry-- A grave by the lordly minster’s gate, Unhonour’d, and yet not desolate. It was a dewy greensward bed, Meet for the rest of a peasant head; But Love--oh, lovelier than all beside!-- That lone place guarded and glorified. For a gentle form stood watching there, Young--but how sorrowfully fair! Keeping the flowers of the holy spot, That reckless feet might profane them not. Clear, pale and clear, was the tender cheek, And her eye, though tearful, serenely meek;