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The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Mrs. Hemans

Rose! ever wearing beauty for thy dower! The bridal-day--the festival--the tomb-- Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower! Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by A thousand images of love and grief, Dreams, fill’d with tokens of mortality, Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief. Not such thy spells o’er those that hail’d thee first, In the clear light of Eden’s golden day! There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst, Link’d with no dim remembrance of decay. Rose! for the banquet gather’d, and the bier; Rose! colour’d now by human hope and pain Surely where death is not--nor change, nor fear, Yet may we meet thee, joy’s own flower again! DREAMS OF HEAVEN. “We colour heaven with our own human thoughts, Our vain aspirings, fond remembrances, Our passionate love, that seems unto itself An Immortality.” Dream’st _thou_ of heaven? What dreams are thine? Fair child, fair gladsome child? With eyes that like the dewdrop shine, And bounding footsteps wild! Tell me what hues th’ immortal shore Can wear, my bird! to thee? Ere yet one shadow hath pass’d o’er Thy glance and spirit free? “Oh! beautiful is heaven, and bright With long, long summer days; I see its lilies gleam in light Where many a fountain plays. “And there uncheck’d, methinks, I rove, And seek where young flowers lie, In vale and golden-fruited grove-- Flowers that are not to die!” Thou poet of the lonely thought, Sad heir of gifts divine! Say with what solemn glory fraught Is heaven in dreams of thine? “Oh! where the living waters flow Along that radiant shore, My soul, a wanderer here, shall know The exile-thirst no more. “The burden of the stranger’s heart Which here alone I bear, Like the night-shadow shall depart, With my first wakening _there_. “And borne on eagle wings afar, Free thought shall claim its dower, From every realm, from every star, Of glory and of power.” O woman! with the soft sad eye, Of spiritual gleam, Tell me of those bright worlds on high, How doth _thy_ fond heart dream? By the sweet mournful voice I know, On thy pale brow I see, That thou hast loved, in fear, and woe-- Say what is heaven to thee? “Oh! heaven is where no secret dread May haunt love’s meeting hour, Where from the past no gloom is shed O’er the heart’s chosen bower: “Where every sever’d wreath is bound-- Where none have heard the knell That smites the heart with that deep sound-- _Farewell, beloved!--farewell!_” THE WISH. Come to me, when my soul Hath but a few dim hours to linger here; When earthly chains are as a shrivel’d scroll, Oh! let me feel thy presence! be but near! That I may look once more Into thine eyes, which never changed for me; That I may speak to thee of that bright shore Where, with our treasure, we have long’d to be. Thou friend of many days! Of sadness and of joy, of home and hearth! Will not thy spirit aid me then to raise The trembling pinions of my hope from earth? By every solemn thought Which on our hearts hath sunk in days gone by, From the deep voices of the mountains caught, O’er all th’ adoring silence of the sky; By every lofty theme Whereon, in low-toned reverence we have spoken; By our communion in each fervent dream That sought from realms beyond the grave a token; And by our tears for those Whose loss hath touch’d our world with hues of death; And by the hopes that with their dust repose, As flowers await the south-wind’s vernal breath; Come to me in that day-- The one--the sever’d from all days--O friend! Even then, if human thought may then have sway My soul with thine shall yet rejoice to blend. Nor then, nor _there_ alone: I ask my heart if all indeed must die-- All that of holiest feelings it hath known? And my heart’s voice replies--Eternity? WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB, NEAR WOODSTOCK, IN THE COUNTY OF KILKENNY.[400] “Yes! hide beneath the mouldering heap, The undelighted, slighted thing; There in the cold earth, buried deep, In silence let it wait the Spring.” Mrs Tighe’s “Poem on the Lily.” I stood where the lip of song lay low, Where the dust had gather’d on Beauty’s brow; Where stillness hung on the heart of Love, And a marble weeper kept watch above. I stood in the silence of lonely thought, Of deep affections that inly wrought, Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear-- They knew themselves exiled spirits here! Then didst _thou_ pass me in radiance by, Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly! Thou that dost bear, on thy fairy wings, No burden of mortal sufferings. Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb, Over a bright world of joy and bloom; And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine, The all that sever’d _thy_ life and _mine_. _Mine_, with its inborn mysterious things, Of love and grief its unfathom’d springs; And quick thoughts wandering o’er earth and sky, With voices to question eternity! _Thine_, in its reckless and joyous way, Like an embodied breeze at play! Child of the sunlight!--thou wing’d and free! One moment, _one_ moment, I envied thee! Thou art not lonely, though born to roam, Thou hast no longings that pine for home; Thou seek’st not the haunts of the bee and bird, To fly from the sickness of hope deferr’d: In thy brief being no strife of mind, No boundless passion, is deeply shrined; While I, as I gazed on thy swift flight by, One hour of my soul seem’d infinity! And she, that voiceless below me slept, Flow’d not her song from a heart that wept? --O Love and Song! though of heaven your powers, Dark is your fate in this world of ours. Yet, ere I turn’d from that silent place, Or ceased from watching thy sunny race, Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings, Didst waft me visions of brighter things! Thou that dost image the freed soul’s birth, And its flight away o’er the mists of earth, Oh! fitly thy path is through flowers that rise Round the dark chamber where Genius lies! [400] See the “Grave of a Poetess,” p. 411, on the same subject, and written several years previously to visiting the scene. EPITAPH. Farewell, beloved and mourn’d! We miss awhile Thy tender gentleness of voice and smile, And that bless’d gift of heaven, to cheer us lent-- That thrilling touch, divinely eloquent, Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent, high, Through thy rich strains of sacred harmony. Yet from those very memories there is born A soft light, pointing to celestial morn: Oh! bid it guide us where _thy_ footsteps trode, To meet at last “the pure in heart” with God! PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF FIESCO, AS TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER, BY COLONEL D’AGUILAR, AND PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, DUBLIN, DECEMBER 1832. Too long apart, a bright but sever’d band, The mighty minstrels of the Rhine’s fair land Majestic strains, but not for us, had sung-- Moulding to melody a stranger tongue. Brave hearts leap’d proudly to their words of power, As a true sword bounds forth in battle’s hour; Fair eyes rain’d homage o’er th’ impassion’d lays, In loving tears, more eloquent than praise; While we, far distant, knew not, dream’d not aught Of the high marvels by that magic wrought. But let the barriers of the sea give way, When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror’s sway! And let the Rhine divide high souls no more From mingling on its old heroic shore, Which, e’en like ours, brave deeds through many an age Have made the poet’s own free heritage! To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone Of the far minstrelsy at last be known; Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear, Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here. And if by one, more used on march and heath To the shrill bugle than the muse’s breath, With a warm heart the offering hath been brought, And in a trusting loyalty of thought, So let it be received!--a soldier’s hand Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land A seed of foreign shores. O’er this fair clime, Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time, Hath song held empire; then, if not with _fame_, Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim, The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread, Where once that harp “the soul of music shed!” TO GIULIO REGONDI, THE BOY GUITARIST. Blessing and love be round thee still, fair boy! Never may suffering wake a deeper tone Than genius now, in its first fearless joy, Calls forth exulting from the chords which own Thy fairy touch! Oh! may’st thou ne’er be taught The power whose fountain is in troubled thought! For in the light of those confiding eyes, And on th’ ingenuous calm of that clear brow, A dower, more precious e’en than genius lies, A pure mind’s worth, a warm heart’s vernal glow! God, who hath graced thee thus, O gentle child! Keep midst the world thy brightness undefiled! O YE HOURS! O ye hours! ye sunny hours! Floating lightly by, Are ye come with birds and flowers, Odours and blue sky? “Yes! we come, again we come, Through the wood-paths free: Bringing many a wanderer home, With the bird and bee.” O ye hours! ye sunny hours! Are ye wafting song? Doth wild music stream in showers All the groves among? “Yes! the nightingale is there While the starlight reigns, Making young leaves and sweet air Tremble with her strains.” O ye hours! ye sunny hours! In your silent flow, Ye are mighty, mighty powers! Bring ye bliss or woe? “Ask not this--oh! seek not this! Yield your hearts awhile To the soft wind’s balmy kiss, And the heavens’ bright smile. “Throw not shades of anxious thought O’er the glowing flowers! We are come with sunshine fraught, Question not the hours!” THE FREED BIRD. Return, return, my bird! I have dress’d thy cage with flowers; ’Tis lovely as a violet bank In the heart of forest bowers. “I am free, I am free--I return no more! The weary time of the cage is o’er; Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high, The sky is around me--the blue, bright sky! The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear, With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding deer; I see the waves flash on the sunny shore-- I am free, I am free--I return no more!” Alas, alas! my bird! Why seek’st thou to be free? Wert thou not bless’d in thy little bower, When thy song breathed naught but glee? “Did my song of the summer breathe naught but glee? Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee? --Oh! hadst thou known its deep meaning well, It had tales of a burning heart to tell! From a dream of the forest that music sprang, Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang;