The Poems of Felicia Hemans

And I deem’d, by its lifted gaze of love, That her sad heart’s treasure was all above. For alone she seem’d midst the throng to be, Like a bird of the waves far away at sea; Alone, in a mourner’s vest array’d, And with folded hands, e’en as if she pray’d. It faded before me, that mask of pride, The haughty swell of the music died; Banner, and armour, and tossing plume, All melted away in the twilight’s gloom. But that orphan form, with its willowy grace, And the speaking prayer in that pale, calm face, Still, still o’er my thoughts in the night-hour glide-- --Oh! Love is lovelier than all beside! THE BROKEN LUTE. “When the lamp is shatter’d, The light in the dust lies dead; When the cloud is scatter’d, The rainbow’s glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet sounds are remember’d not; When the words are spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot. As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and lute, The heart’s echoes render No song when the spirit is mute.” Shelley. She dwelt in proud Venetian halls, Midst forms that breathed from the pictured walls But a glow of beauty like her own, There had no dream of the painter thrown. Lit from within was her noble brow, As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow; Her young, clear cheek, had a changeful hue, As if ye might see how the soul wrought through, And every flash of her fervent eye Seem’d the bright wakening of Poesy. Even thus it was! From her childhood’s years A being of sudden smiles and tears-- Passionate visions, quick light and shade-- Such was that high-born Italian maid! And the spirit of song in her bosom-cell Dwelt, as the odours in violets dwell, Or as the sounds in Æolian strings, Or in aspen-leaves the quiverings; There, ever there, with the life enshrined, Waiting the call of the faintest wind. Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea, In the city’s hour of moonlight glee-- Oft would that gift of the southern sky O’erflow from her lips in melody; Oft amid festal halls it came, Like the springing forth of a sudden flame-- Till the dance was hush’d, and the silvery tone Of her inspiration was heard alone. And fame went with her, the bright, the crown’d, And music floated her steps around; And every lay of her soul was borne Through the sunny land, as on wings of morn. And was the daughter of Venice blest, With a power so deep in her youthful breast? Could she be happy, o’er whose dark eye So many changes and dreams went by? And in whose cheek the swift crimson wrought As if but born from the rush of thought? Yes! in the brightness of joy awhile She moved as a bark in the sunbeam’s smile; For her spirit, as over her lyre’s full chord, All, all on a happy love was pour’d! How loves a heart whence the stream of song Flows, like the life-blood, quick, bright, and strong? How loves a heart, which hath never proved One breath of the world? Even so she loved; Bless’d, though the lord of her soul, afar, Was charging the foremost in Moslem war, Bearing the flag of St Mark’s on high, As a ruling star in the Grecian sky. Proud music breathed in her song, when fame Gave a tone more thrilling to his name; And her trust in his love was a woman’s faith-- Perfect, and fearing no change but death. But the fields are won from the Othman host, In the land that quell’d the Persian’s boast, And a thousand hearts in Venice burn For the day of triumph and return! The day is come! the flashing deep Foams where the galleys of victory sweep; And the sceptred city of the wave With her festal splendour greets the brave; Cymbal, and clarion, and voice, around, Make the air one stream of exulting sound; While the beautiful, with their sunny smiles, Look from each hall of the hundred isles. But happiest and brightest that day of all, Robed for her warrior’s festival, Moving a queen midst the radiant throng, Was she, th’ inspired one, the maid of song! The lute he loved on her arm she bore, As she rush’d in her joy to the crowded shore; With a hue on her cheek like the damask glow By the sunset given unto mountain snow, And her eye all fill’d with the spirit’s play, Like the flash of a gem to the changeful day, And her long hair waving in ringlets bright-- So came that being of hope and light! One moment, Erminia! one moment more, And life, all the beauty of life, is o’er! The bark of her lover hath touch’d the strand-- Whom leads he forth with a gentle hand? --A young fair form, whose nymph-like grace Accorded well with the Grecian face, And the eye, in its clear, soft darkness meek, And the lashes that droop’d o’er a pale rose cheek, And he look’d on that beauty with tender pride-- The warrior hath brought back an Eastern bride! But how stood she, the forsaken, there, Struck by the lightning of swift despair? Still, as amazed with grief, she stood, And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood; And there came from her quivering lip no word, Only the fall of her lute was heard, As it dropp’d from her hand at her rival’s feet, Into fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet! What more remaineth? Her day was done; Her fate and the Broken Lute’s were one! The light, the vision, the gift of power, Pass’d from her soul in that mortal hour, Like the rich sound from the shatter’d string Whence the gush of sweetness no more might spring! As an eagle struck in his upward flight. So was her hope from its radiant height; And her song went with it for evermore, A gladness taken from sea and shore! She had moved to the echoing sound of fame-- Silently, silently, died her name! Silently melted her life away, As ye have seen a young flower decay, Or a lamp that hath swiftly burn’d expire, Or a bright stream shrink from the summer’s fire, Leaving its channel all dry and mute-- Woe for the Broken Heart and Lute! THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT. “How weeps yon gallant band O’er him their valour could not save! For the bayonet is red with gore, And he, the beautiful and brave, Now sleeps in Egypt’s sand.” Wilson. In the shadow of the Pyramid Our brother’s grave we made, When the battle-day was done, And the desert’s parting sun A field of death survey’d. The blood-red sky above us Was darkening into night, And the Arab watching silently Our sad and hurried rite; The voice of Egypt’s river Came hollow and profound; And one lone palm-tree, where we stood, Rock’d with a shivery sound: While the shadow of the Pyramid Hung o’er the grave we made, When the battle-day was done, And the desert’s parting sun A field of death survey’d. The fathers of our brother Were borne to knightly tombs, With torch-light and with anthem-note, And many waving plumes: But he, the last and noblest Of that high Norman race, With a few brief words of soldier-love Was gather’d to his place; In the shadow of the Pyramid, Where his youthful form we laid, When the battle-day was done, And the desert’s parting sun A field of death survey’d. But let him, let him slumber By the old Egyptian wave! It is well with those who bear their fame Unsullied to the grave! When brightest names are breathed on, When loftiest fall so fast, We would not call our brother back On dark days to be cast,-- From the shadow of the Pyramid, Where his noble heart we laid, When the battle-day was done, And the desert’s parting sun A field of death survey’d. [“Mrs Hemans’ funeral poems are among her most impressive works: the music of her verse, through which an under-current of sadness may always be traced, was never more happily employed than in lamenting the beloved and early called, or in bidding ‘Hope to the world to look beyond the tombs.’ I need only mention a few lyrics, ‘The Farewell to the Dead,’ (in the Lays of Many Lands;) ‘The Exile’s Dirge,’ (in the Songs of the Affections;) ‘The Burial of an Emigrant’s Child in the Forest,’ (in the Scenes and Hymns of Life;) and the ‘Burial in the Desert,’ a noble poem, published among her poetical remains. The introduction of the two following stanzas of a more concise and monumental character,[399] though they have already appeared in print, will not, I am sure, be objected to as illustrating the above remark.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 26-7.] [399] Vide “Monumental Inscription,” p. 356. TO A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA. “Ave Maria! May our spirits dare Look up to thine, and to thy Son’s above?” Byron. Fair vision! thou’rt from sunny skies, Born where the rose hath richest dyes; To thee a southern heart hath given That glow of love, that calm of heaven, And round thee cast th’ ideal gleam, The light that is but of a dream. Far hence, where wandering music fills The haunted air of Roman hills, Or where Venetian waves of yore Heard melodies, they hear no more, Some proud old minster’s gorgeous aisle Hath known the sweetness of thy smile. Or haply, from a lone, dim shrine Mid forests of the Apennine, Whose breezy sounds of cave and dell Pass like a floating anthem-swell, Thy soft eyes o’er the pilgrim’s way Shed blessings with their gentle ray. Or gleaming through a chestnut wood, Perchance thine island-chapel stood, Where from the blue Sicilian sea The sailor’s hymn hath risen to thee, And bless’d thy power to guide, to save, Madonna! watcher of the wave! Oh! might a voice, a whisper low, Forth from those lips of beauty flow! Couldst thou but speak of all the tears, The conflicts, and the pangs of years, Which, at thy secret shrine reveal’d, Have gush’d from human hearts unseal’d! Surely to thee hath woman come, As a tired wanderer back to home! Unveiling many a timid guest And treasured sorrow of her breast, A buried love--a wasting care-- Oh! did those griefs win peace from prayer? And did the poet’s fervid soul To thee lay bare its inmost scroll? Those thoughts, which pour’d their quenchless fire And passion o’er th’ Italian lyre, Did they to still submission die Beneath thy calm, religious eye? And hath the crested helmet bow’d Before thee, midst the incense-cloud? Hath the crown’d leader’s bosom lone To thee its haughty griefs made known? Did thy glance break their frozen sleep, And win th’ unconquer’d one to weep? Hush’d is the anthem, closed the vow, The votive garland wither’d now; Yet holy still to me thou art, Thou that hath soothed so many a heart! And still must blessed influence flow From the meek glory of thy brow. Still speak to suffering woman’s love, Of rest for gentle hearts above; Of hope, that hath its treasure there, Of home, that knows no changeful air. Bright form! lit up with thoughts divine, Ave! such power be ever thine! A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE. How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom,