The Poems of Felicia Hemans

O youths and virgins of the land! O age and infancy! Praise ye His name, to whom alone All homage should be given; Whose glory from the eternal throne Spreads wide o’er earth and heaven! NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. TO MRS LAWRENCE OF WAVERTREE HALL, HER FRIEND, AND THE SISTER OF HER FRIEND COLONEL D’AGUILAR, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED IN REMEMBRANCE OF MANY BRIGHTLY ASSOCIATED HOURS, BY FELICIA HEMANS. NATIONAL LYRICS. THE THEMES OF SONG. “Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope, And melancholy fear subdued by faith.” Wordsworth. Where shall the minstrel find a theme? --Where’er, for freedom shed, Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream, Amidst the mountains, red. Where’er a rock, a fount, a grove, Bears record to the faith Of love--deep, holy, fervent love, Victor o’er fear and death. Where’er a chieftain’s crested brow Too soon hath been struck down, Or a bright virgin head laid low, Wearing its youth’s first crown. Where’er a spire points up to heaven, Through storm and summer air, Telling, that all around have striven Man’s heart, and hope, and prayer. Where’er a blessed home hath been, That now is home no more: A place of ivy, darkly green, Where laughter’s light is o’er. Where’er by some forsaken grave, Some nameless greensward heap, A bird may sing, a wild-flower wave, A star its vigil keep. Or where a yearning heart of old, A dream of shepherd men, With forms of more than earthly mould Hath peopled grot or glen. _There_ may the bard’s high themes be found-- We die, we pass away; But faith, love, pity--these are bound To earth without decay. The heart that burns, the cheek that glows, The tear from hidden springs, The thorn and glory of the rose-- _These_ are undying things. Wave after wave of mighty stream To the deep sea hath gone: Yet not the less, like youth’s bright dream, The exhaustless flood rolls on. RHINE SONG OF THE GERMAN SOLDIERS AFTER VICTORY. TO THE AIR OF “AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN.” SINGLE VOICE. It is the Rhine! our mountain vineyards laving, I see the bright flood shine! (_bis._) Sing on the march with every banner waving-- Sing, brothers! ’tis the Rhine! (_bis._) CHORUS. The Rhine! the Rhine! our own imperial river! Be glory on thy track! We left thy shores, to die or to deliver-- We bear thee freedom back! SINGLE VOICE. Hail! hail! my childhood knew thy rush of water, Even as my mother’s song; That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, And heart and arm grew strong! CHORUS. Roll proudly on!--brave blood is with thee sweeping, Pour’d out by sons of thine, Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping, Like thee, victorious Rhine! SINGLE VOICE. Home! Home! Thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting, Thy path is by my home, Even now my children count the hours till meeting: O ransom’d ones! I come. CHORUS. Go tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee never! Sound on by hearth and shrine! Sing through the hills that thou art free for ever-- Lift up thy voice, O Rhine! [“I wish you could have heard Sir Walter Scott describe a glorious sight, which had been witnessed by a friend of his!--the crossing of the Rhine, at Ehrenbreitstein, by the German army of Liberators on their victorious return from France. ‘At the first gleam of the river,’ he said, ‘they all burst forth into the national chant, _Am Rhein! Am Rhein!_’ They were two days passing over; and the rocks and the castle were ringing to the song the whole time--for each band renewed it while crossing; and even the Cossacks, with the clash and the clang, and the roll of their stormy war-music, catching the enthusiasm of the scene, swelled forth the chorus, ‘_Am Rhein! Am Rhein!_’”--_Manuscript letter._ This anecdote, (on which was founded Mrs Hemans’s own “Rhine Song,”) and the look and tone with which it was related, made an impression on her memory which nothing could efface. The very name of the “Father Rhine,” the “exulting and abounding river,” (how often would she quote that magnificent line of Lord Byron’s!) had always worked upon her like a spell, conjuring up a thousand visions of romance and beauty; and Haydn’s inspiring _Rheinweinlied_, with its fine, rich tide of flowing harmony, was one of the airs she most delighted in. “You are quite right,” she wrote to a friend who had echoed her enthusiasm, “it was the description of that noble Rhine scene which interested me more than any part of Sir Walter’s conversation; and I wished more that you could have heard it than all the high legends and solemn scenes of which we spoke that day.”] A SONG OF DELOS. [The Island of Delos was considered of such peculiar sanctity by the ancients, that they did not allow it to be desecrated by the events of birth or death. In the following poem, a young priestess of Apollo is supposed to be conveyed from its shores during the last hours of a mortal sickness, and to bid the scenes of her youth farewell in a sudden flow of unpremeditated song.] “Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce nature, Je vous dois une larme aux bords de mon tombeau; L’air est si parfume! la lumiere est si pure! Aux regards d’un Mourant le soleil est si beau!” Lamartine. A song was heard of old--a low, sweet song, On the blue seas by Delos. From that isle, The Sun-god’s own domain, a gentle girl-- Gentle, yet all inspired of soul, of mien, Lit with a life too perilously bright-- Was borne away to die. How beautiful Seems this world to the dying!--but for _her_, The child of beauty and of poesy, And of soft Grecian skies--oh! who may dream Of all that from _her_ changeful eye flash’d forth, Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears, As on her land’s rich vision, fane o’er fane Colour’d with loving light, she gazed her last, Her young life’s last, that hour! From her pale brow And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back, And bending forward, as the spirit sway’d The reed-like form still to the shore beloved, Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell O’er dancing waves:--“Oh, linger yet!” she cried, “Oh, linger, linger on the oar! Oh, pause upon the deep! That I may gaze yet once, once more, Where floats the golden day o’er fane and steep! Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore-- Oh! linger, linger on the parting oar! “I see the laurels fling back showers Of soft light still on many a shrine; I see the path to haunts of flowers Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line; I hear a sound of flutes--a swell of song-- _Mine_ is too low to reach that joyous throng! “Oh! linger, linger on the oar Beneath my native sky! Let my life part from that bright shore With day’s last crimson--gazing let me die! Thou bark, glide slowly!--slowly should be borne The voyager that never shall return. “A fatal gift hath been thy dower, Lord of the Lyre! to me; With song and wreath from bower to bower, Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free; While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart, Have lain and listen’d to my beating heart. “Now, wasted by the inborn fire, I sink to early rest; The ray that lit the incense-pyre Leaves unto death its temple in my breast. --O sunshine, skies, rich flowers! too soon I go, While round me thus triumphantly ye glow! “Bright isle! might but thine echoes keep A tone of my farewell, One tender accent, low and deep, Shrined midst thy founts and haunted rocks to dwell! Might my last breath send music to thy shore! --Oh, linger, seamen! linger on the oar!” ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTORY. “Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade.” Byron. Io! they come, they come! Garlands for every shrine! Strike lyres to greet them home; Bring roses, pour ye wine! Swell, swell the Dorian flute Through the blue triumphant sky! Let the cittern’s tone salute The sons of victory. With the offering of bright blood They have ransom’d hearth and tomb, Vineyard, and field, and flood;-- Io! they come, they come! Sing it where olives wave, And by the glittering sea, And o’er each hero’s grave-- Sing, sing, the land is free! Mark ye the flashing oars, And the spears that light the deep? How the festal sunshine pours Where the lords of battle sweep! Each hath brought back his shield;-- Maid, greet thy lover home! Mother, from that proud field, Io! thy son is come! Who murmur’d of the dead? Hush, boding voice! We know That many a shining head Lies in its glory low. Breathe not those names to-day! They shall have their praise ere long, And a power all hearts to sway, In ever-burning song. But now shed flowers, pour wine, To hail the conquerors home! Bring wreaths for every shrine-- Io! they come, they come! NAPLES. A SONG OF THE SYREN. “Then gentle winds arose, With many a mingled close Of wild Æolian sound and mountain-odour keen, Where the clear Baian ocean Welters with air-like motion Within, above, around its bowers of starry green.” Shelley. Still is the Syren warbling on thy shore, Bright city of the waves! Her magic song Still, with a dreamy sense of ecstasy, Fills thy soft summer air:--and while my glance Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay Floats thus o’er fancy’s ear; and thus to thee, Daughter of sunshine! doth the Syren sing. “Thine is the glad wave’s flashing play, Thine is the laugh of the golden day-- The golden day, and the glorious night, And the vine with its clusters all bathed in light! --Forget, forget, that thou art not free! Queen of the Summer sea. “Favour’d and crown’d of the earth and sky! Thine are all voices of melody, Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower, Floating o’er fountain and myrtle bower; Hark! how they melt o’er thy glittering sea-- Forget that thou art not free! “Let the wine flow in thy marble halls! Let the lute answer thy fountain-falls! And deck thy feasts with the myrtle bough, And cover with roses thy glowing brow! Queen of the day and the summer sea, Forget that thou art not free!” So doth the Syren sing, while sparkling waves Dance to her chant. But sternly, mournfully, O city of the deep! from Sybil grots And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore Take up the cadence of her strain alone, Murmuring--“_Thou, art not free_!” THE FALL OF D’ASSAS. A BALLAD OF FRANCE. [The Chevalier D’Assas, called the French Decius, fell nobly whilst reconnoitring a wood, near Closterkamp, by night. He had left his regiment, that of Auvergne, at a short distance, and was suddenly