The Poems of Felicia Hemans

With its bright smile! Elysium! what wert thou To her who wept o’er that young slumberer’s brow? ‘Thou hadst no home, green land! For the fair creature from her bosom gone, With life’s fresh flowers just opening in its hand, And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, Which in its clear eye shone Like spring’s first wakening! But that light was past-- --Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast? ‘Not where thy soft winds play’d, Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!-- Fade with thy bowers, thou land of visions! fade! From thee no voice came o’er the gloomy deep, And bade man cease to weep! Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love! ‘For the most loved are they Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice In regal halls! The shades o’erhang their way; The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, And gentle hearts rejoice Around their steps; till silently they die, As a stream shrinks from summer’s burning eye. ‘And the world knows not then-- Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled! Yet these are they, who on the souls of men Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread, The long-remember’d dead! But not with thee might aught save glory dwell-- Fade, fade away, thou shore of asphodel!’ “And the same feelings of a woman and mother dictated ‘The Evening Prayer at a Girls’ School,’--a poem which merits to be considered in connexion with Gray’s ‘Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College.’ ‘O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest, Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,” etc. “Of other spirited, and lively, and pathetic short poems of Mrs Hemans, which form some of the brightest ornaments of the lyric poetry of the language, we take no particular notice--for in what part of the United States are they not known? So general has been the attention to those of her pieces adapted to the purposes of a newspaper, we hardly fear to assert that, throughout a great part of this country, there is not a family of the middling class in which some of them have not been read. The praise which was not sparingly bestowed upon her, when her shorter first productions became generally known among us, has been often repeated on a careful examination of her works; and could we hope that our remarks might one day fall under her eye, we should hope she would not be indifferent to the good wishes which are offered her from America, but feel herself cheered and encouraged in her efforts, by the prospect of an enlarged and almost unlimited field of useful influence, opened to her among the descendants of her country in an independent land. The ocean divides us from the fashions as well as the commotions of Europe. The voice of America, deciding on the literature of England, resembles the voice of posterity more nearly than any thing else, that is contemporaneous, can do. We believe that the general attention which has been given to Mrs Hemans’s works among us, may be regarded as a pledge that they will not be received with indifference by posterity.”--_North American Review._ * * * * * [At the conclusion of “The Records” we gave the opinions of one of our most celebrated Cisatlantic critics regarding the poetry of Mrs Hemans, and we think it but right to show now (as has just been done) the general estimate in which her genius is held in America, as evidenced by the _North American Review_, the best-known and most widely-circulated of the Transatlantic periodicals. Judging from the state of feeling in America--from the ideas of practical philosophy entertained there--and from the pervading utilitarian bias of its prose literature, we must confess that, had we been asked to name any votary of the British muse more likely than another to be appreciated in that country, we should have had very little hesitation in fixing upon Crabbe. And why? Because his poetry is characterised by a stern adherence to the realities of life, as contradistinguished from romance, and because his characters and situations are taken from existing aspects of society, appreciable by all. In this theory it appears we are wrong; and Professor Norton has here done his best to account for it. We are most given to admire what is least attainable; and therefore it is that the spiritual glow which Mrs Hemans has blent with human sentiment--the imaginative beauty with which she has clothed “the shows of earth and heaven,”--and the leaven of romance which she has infused into the communications of daily life, have, as _lucus a non lucendo_, been elements of, and not the impediments to, her American popularity.] HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. [We are quite aware that the _Hymns for Childhood_ were written at a much earlier period than that which we have here chronologically assigned them. They had been sent to Professor Norton for the use of his children, and were printed under his auspices at Boston, New England, so early as 1827. Not, however, having had an opportunity of seeing the original American edition, we are in the dark as to whether the hymns in it were the same in number as those published in Dublin under the eye of the author, or whether she afterwards revised and altered them. It has been therefore judged best to place them here in the order of publication, and as they appeared in this country under the supervision of Mrs Hemans herself. The hymns (as they deserved to be) were very favourably received by the public, and it is only to be regretted that Mrs Hemans did not from time to time add to their number. She thus wrote to Mrs Lawrence with a presentation copy of her little book:--“I send you the fairy volume of hymns. You will immediately see how unpretending a little book it is; but it will give you pleasure to know that it has been received in the most gratifying manner, having seemed (as a playful child might have done) to win criticism into a benignant smile.”--_Vide_ Letter to Mrs Lawrence, _Recollections_, p. 354.] INTRODUCTORY VERSES. Oh! blest art thou whose steps may rove Through the green paths of vale and grove, Or, leaving all their charms below, Climb the wild mountain’s airy brow; And gaze afar o’er cultured plains, And cities with their stately fanes, And forests, that beneath thee lie, And ocean mingling with the sky. For man can show thee naught so fair As Nature’s varied marvels there; And if thy pure and artless breast Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest! For thee the stream in beauty flows, For thee the gale of summer blows; And, in deep glen and wood-walk free, Voices of joy still breathe for thee. But happier far, if then thy soul Can soar to Him who made the whole. If to thine eye the simplest flower Portray His bounty and His power! If, in whate’er is bright or grand, Thy mind can trace His viewless hand; If Nature’s music bid thee raise _Thy_ song of gratitude and praise; If heaven and earth, with beauty fraught, Lead to His throne thy raptured thought; If there thou lovest _His_ love to read-- Then, wanderer! thou art blest indeed. THE RAINBOW. “I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.”--Genesis, ix. 13. Soft falls the mild, reviving shower From April’s changeful skies, And rain-drops bend each trembling flower They tinge with richer dyes. Soon shall their genial influence call A thousand buds to day, Which, waiting but that balmy fall, In hidden beauty lay. E’en now full many a blossom’s bell With fragrance fills the shade; And verdure clothes each grassy dell, In brighter tints array’d. But mark! what arch of varied hue From heaven to earth is bow’d? Haste, ere it vanish!--haste to view The rainbow in the cloud! How bright its glory! there behold The emerald’s verdant rays, The topaz blends its hue of gold With the deep ruby’s blaze. Yet not alone to charm thy sight Was given the vision fair-- Gaze on that arch of colour’d light, And read God’s mercy there. It tells us that the mighty deep, Fast by the Eternal chain’d, No more o’er earth’s domain shall sweep, Awful and unrestrain’d. It tells that seasons, heat and cold, Fix’d by his sovereign will, Shall, in their course, bid man behold Seed-time and harvest still; That still the flower shall deck the field, When vernal zephyrs blow, That still the vine its fruit shall yield, When autumn sunbeams glow. Then, child of that fair earth! which yet Smiles with each charm endow’d, Bless thou His name, whose mercy set The rainbow in the cloud! THE SUN. The Sun comes forth: each mountain-height Glows with a tinge of rosy light, And flowers that slumber’d through the night Their dewy leaves unfold; A flood of splendour bursts on high, And ocean’s breast gives back a sky All steep’d in molten gold. Oh! thou art glorious, orb of day! Exulting nations hail thy ray, Creation swells a choral lay To welcome thy return; From thee all nature draws her hues, Thy beams the insect’s wing suffuse, And in the diamond burn. Yet must thou fade! When earth and heaven By fire and tempest shall be riven, Thou, from thy sphere of radiance driven, O Sun! must fall at last; Another heaven, another earth, New power, new glory shall have birth, When all we see is past. But He who gave the word of might, “Let there be light,”--and there was light, Who bade thee chase the gloom of night, And beam the world to bless; For ever bright, for ever pure, Alone unchanging shall endure, The Sun of Righteousness! THE RIVERS. Go! trace th’ unnumber’d streams, o’er earth That wind their devious course, That draw from Alpine heights their birth, Deep vale, or cavern-source. Some by majestic cities glide, Proud scenes of man’s renown; Some lead their solitary tide Where pathless forests frown. Some calmly roll o’er golden sands, Where Afric’s deserts lie; Or spread, to clothe rejoicing lands With rich fertility. These bear the bark, whose stately sail Exulting seems to swell; While these, scarce rippled by a gale, Sleep in the lonely dell. Yet on, alike, though swift or slow Their various waves may sweep, Through cities or through shades, they flow To the same boundless deep. Oh! thus, whate’er our path of life, Through sunshine or through gloom, Through scenes of quiet or of strife, Its end is still the tomb. The chief whose mighty deeds we hail, The monarch throned on high, The peasant in his native vale-- All journey on to die! But if _Thy_ guardian care, my God! The pilgrim’s course attend, I will not fear the dark abode To which my footsteps bend. For thence thine all-redeeming Son, Who died the world to save, In light, in triumph, rose, and won The victory from the grave! THE STARS. “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth his handy-work.”--Psalm xix. 1. No cloud obscures the summer sky,