The Poems of Felicia Hemans

The pure intelligence, the chaste repose-- All that a poet’s dream around Minerva throws. LXXVII. Bright age of Pericles! let fancy still Through time’s deep shadows all thy splendour trace, And in each work of art’s consummate skill Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race: That spirit, roused by every proud reward That hope could picture, glory could bestow, Foster’d by all the sculptor and the bard Could give of immortality below. Thus were thy heroes form’d, and o’er their name, Thus did thy genius shed imperishable fame. LXXVIII. Mark in the throng’d Ceramicus, the train Of mourners weeping o’er the martyr’d brave: Proud be the tears devoted to the slain, Holy the amaranth strew’d upon their grave![45] And hark! unrivall’d eloquence proclaims Their deeds, their trophies, with triumphant voice! Hark! Pericles records their honour’d names![46] Sons of the fallen, in their lot rejoice: What hath life brighter than so bright a doom? What power hath fate to soil the garlands of the tomb? LXXIX. Praise to the valiant dead! for them doth art Exhaust her skill, their triumphs bodying forth; Theirs are enshrinèd names, and every heart Shall bear the blazon’d impress of their worth. Bright on the dreams of youth their fame shall rise, Their fields of fight shall epic song record; And, when the voice of battle rends the skies, Their name shall be their country’s rallying word! While fane and column rise august to tell How Athens honours those for her who proudly fell. LXXX. City of Theseus! bursting on the mind, Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled! Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind, Thus hallow’d by the memory of the dead: Alone in beauty and renown--a scene Whose tints are drawn from freedom’s loveliest ray. ’Tis but a vision now--yet thou hast been More than the brightest vision might portray; And every stone, with but a vestige fraught Of thee, hath latent power to wake some lofty thought. LXXXI. Fall’n are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung To choral melodies and tragic lore; Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung, The song that hail’d Harmodius peals no more. Thy proud Piræus is a desert strand, Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their hill, Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor’s hand, The magic voice of eloquence is still; Minerva’s veil is rent[47]--her image gone; Silent the sage’s bower--the warrior’s tomb o’erthrown. LXXXII. Yet in decay thine exquisite remains Wondering we view, and silently revere, As traces left on earth’s forsaken plains By vanish’d beings of a nobler sphere! Not all the old magnificence of Rome, All that dominion there hath left to time-- Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome, Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime, Can bid such reverence o’er the spirit steal, As aught by thee imprest with beauty’s plastic seal. LXXXIII. Though still the empress of the sunburnt waste, Palmyra rises, desolately grand-- Though with rich gold[48] and massy sculpture graced, Commanding still, Persepolis may stand In haughty solitude--though sacred Nile The first-born temples of the world surveys, And many an awful and stupendous pile Thebes of the hundred gates e’en yet displays; City of Pericles! oh who, like thee, Can teach how fair the works of mortal hand may be? LXXXIV. Thou led’st the way to that illumined sphere Where sovereign beauty dwells; and thence didst bear, Oh, still triumphant in that high career! Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair. And still to thee th’ enlighten’d mind hath flown As to her country,--thou hast been to earth A cynosure,--and, e’en from victory’s throne, Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth; And nations, rising to their fame afar, Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star. LXXXV. Glory to those whose relics thus arrest The gaze of ages! Glory to the free! For they, they only, could have thus imprest Their mighty image on the years to be! Empires and cities in oblivion lie, Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot,-- To leave on earth renown that cannot die, Of high-soul’d genius is th’ unrivall’d lot. Honour to thee, O Athens! thou hast shown What mortals may attain, and seized the palm alone. LXXXVI. Oh! live there those who view with scornful eyes All that attests the brightness of thy prime? Yes; they who dwell beneath thy lovely skies, And breathe th’ inspiring ether of thy clime! Their path is o’er the mightiest of the dead, Their homes are midst the works of noblest arts; Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread, Not one proud thrill of loftier thought imparts. Such are the conquerors of Minerva’s land, Where Genius first reveal’d the triumphs of his hand! LXXXVII. For them in vain the glowing light may smile O’er the pale marble, colouring’s warmth to shed, And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile Still o’er the dust of heroes lift its head. No patriot feeling binds them to the soil, Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have not rear’d; Their glance is cold indifference, and their toil But to destroy what ages have revered-- As if exulting sternly to erase Whate’er might prove _that_ land had nursed a nobler race. LXXXVIII. And who may grieve that, rescued from their hands, Spoilers of excellence and foes to art, Thy relics, Athens! borne to other lands, Claim homage still to thee from every heart Though now no more th’ exploring stranger’s sight, Fix’d in deep reverence on Minerva’s fane, Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light, All that remain’d of forms adored in vain; A few short years--and, vanish’d from the scene, To blend with classic dust their proudest lot had been. LXXXIX. Fair Parthenon! yet still must Fancy weep For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown. Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o’er thee sleep In all their beauty still--and thine is gone! Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered, And varying rights have sanctified thy shrine. The dust is round thee of the race that rear’d Thy walls; and thou--their fate must soon be thine! But when shall earth again exult to see Visions divine like theirs renew’d in aught like thee? XC. Lone are thy pillars now--each passing gale Sighs o’er them as a spirit’s voice, which moan’d That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale Of the bright synod once above them throned. Mourn, graceful ruin! on thy sacred hill, Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared: Yet art thou honour’d in each fragment still That wasting years and barbarous hands had spared; Each hallow’d stone, from rapine’s fury borne, Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet unborn. XCI. Yes! in those fragments, though by time defaced And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains All that may charm th’ enlighten’d eye of taste, On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. As vital fragrance breathes from every part Of the crush’d myrtle, or the bruisèd rose, E’en thus th’ essential energy of art There in each wreck imperishably glows![49] The soul of Athens lives in every line, Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine. XCII. Mark on the storied frieze the graceful train, The holy festival’s triumphal throng, In fair procession to Minerva’s fane, With many a sacred symbol, move along. There every shade of bright existence trace, The fire of youth, the dignity of age; The matron’s calm austerity of grace, The ardent warrior, the benignant sage; The nymph’s light symmetry, the chief’s proud mien-- Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the scene. XCIII. Art unobtrusive there ennobles form,[50] Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows; There e’en the steed, withhold expression warm,[51] Is clothed with majesty, with being glows. One mighty mind hath harmonised the whole; Those varied groups the same bright impress bear; One beam and essence of exalting soul Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair; And well that pageant of the glorious dead Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled. XCIV. O conquering Genius! that couldst thus detain The subtle graces, fading as they rise, Eternalise expression’s fleeting reign, Arrest warm life in all its energies, And fix them on the stone--thy glorious lot Might wake ambition’s envy, and create Powers half divine: while nations are forgot, A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquish’d fate! And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth, The realms that hail them now scarce claim’d a name on earth. XCV. Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere But once beheld, and never to return? No--we may hail again thy bright career, Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn! Though thy least relics, e’en in ruin, bear A stamp of heaven, that ne’er hath been renew’d-- A light inherent--let not man despair: Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued; For still is nature fair, and thought divine, And art hath won a world in models pure as thine.[52] XCVI. Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced-- Yet there the germ of future glory lies! Their virtual grandeur could not be erased; It clothes them still, though veil’d from common eyes. They once were gods and heroes[53]--and beheld As the blest guardians of their native scene; And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, have swell’d With awe that own’d their sovereignty of mien. Ages have vanish’d since those hearts were cold, And still those shatter’d forms retain their godlike mould. XCVII. Midst their bright kindred, from their marble throne They have look’d down on thousand storms of time; Surviving power, and fame, and freedom flown, They still remain’d, still tranquilly sublime! Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave marr’d. The Olympian groups have sunk, and are forgot-- Not e’en their dust could weeping Athens guard; But these were destined to a nobler lot! And they have borne, to light another land, The quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously expand. XCVIII. Phidias! supreme in thought! what hand but thine, In human works thus blending earth and heaven, O’er nature’s truth had spread that grace divine, To mortal form immortal grandeur given? What soul but thine, infusing all its power In these last monuments of matchless days, Could from their ruins bid young Genius tower, And Hope aspire to more exalted praise; And guide deep Thought to that secluded height Where excellence is throned in purity of light? XCIX. And who can tell how pure, how bright a flame, Caught from these models, may illume the west?