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The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Mrs. Hemans

surrounded by an ambuscade of the enemy, who threatened him with instant death if he made the least sign of their vicinity. With their bayonets at his breast, he raised his voice, and calling aloud “A moi, Auvergne! ces sont les ennemis!” fell, pierced with mortal blows.] Alone through gloomy forest-shades A soldier went by night; No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades, No star shed guiding light. Yet on his vigil’s midnight round The youth all cheerly pass’d; Uncheck’d by aught of boding sound That mutter’d in the blast. Where were his thoughts that lonely hour? --In his far home, perchance; His father’s hall, his mother’s bower, Midst the gay vines of France: Wandering from battles lost and won, To hear and bless again The rolling of the wide Garonne, Or murmur of the Seine. Hush! hark!--did stealing steps go by? Came not faint whispers near? No! the wild wind hath many a sigh, Amidst the foliage sere. Hark, yet again!--and from his hand, What grasp hath wrench’d the blade? --Oh, single midst a hostile band, Young soldier! thou’rt betray’d! “Silence!” in under-tones they cry-- “No whisper--not a breath! The sound that warns thy comrades nigh Shall sentence thee to death.” Still, at the bayonet’s point he stood, And strong to meet the blow; And shouted, midst his rushing blood, “Arm, arm, Auvergne! the foe!” The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call-- He heard their tumults grow; And sent his dying voice through all-- “_Auvergne, Auvergne! the foe!_” THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR, AT CAEN IN NORMANDY--1087. [“At the day appointed for the king’s interment, Prince Henry, his third son, the Norman prelates, and a multitude of clergy and people, assembled in the church of St Stephen, which the Conqueror had founded. The mass had been performed, the corpse was placed on the bier, and the Bishop of Evreux had pronounced the panegyric on the deceased, when a voice from the crowd exclaimed,--‘He whom you have praised was a robber. The very land on which you stand is mine. By violence he took it from my father; and, in the name of God, I forbid you to bury him in it.’ The speaker was Asceline Fitz-Arthur, who had often, but fruitlessly, sought reparation from the justice of William. After some debate, the prelates called him to them, paid him sixty shillings for the grave, and promised that he should receive the full value of his land. The ceremony was then continued, and the body of the king deposited in a coffin of stone.”--Lingard, vol. ii. p. 98.] Lowly upon his bier The royal conqueror lay; Baron and chief stood near, Silent in war-array. Down the long minster’s aisle Crowds mutely gazing stream’d; Altar and tomb the while Through mists of incense gleam’d. And, by the torches’ blaze, The stately priest had said High words of power and praise To the glory of the dead. They lower’d him, with the sound Of requiems, to repose; When from the throngs around A solemn voice arose:-- “Forbear! forbear!” it cried; “In the holiest name, forbear! He hath conquer’d regions wide, But he shall not slumber _there_! “By the violated hearth Which made way for yon proud shrine; By the harvests which this earth Hath borne for me and mine; “By the house e’en here o’erthrown, On my brethren’s native spot; Hence! with his dark renown, Cumber our birthplace not! “Will my sire’s unransom’d field, O’er which your censers wave, To the buried spoiler yield Soft slumbers in the grave! “The tree before him fell Which we cherish’d many a year; But its deep root yet shall swell, And heave against his bier. “The land that I have till’d Hath yet its brooding breast With my home’s white ashes fill’d, And it shall not give him rest! “Each pillar’s massy bed Hath been wet by weeping eyes-- Away! bestow your dead Where no wrong against him cries.” Shame glow’d on each dark face Of those proud and steel-girt men, And they bought with gold a place For their leader’s dust e’en then. A little earth for him Whose banner flew so far! And a peasant’s tale could dim The name, a nation’s star! _One_ deep voice thus arose From a heart which wrongs had riven: Oh! who shall number those That were but heard in heaven? SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE![408] Near thee, still near thee!--o’er thy pathway gliding, Unseen I pass thee with the wind’s low sigh; Life’s veil enfolds thee still, our eyes dividing, Yet viewless love floats round thee silently! Not midst the festal throng, In halls of mirth and song; But when thy thoughts are deepest, When holy tears thou weepest, Know then _that_ love is nigh! When the night’s whisper o’er thy harp-strings creeping, Or the sea-music on the sounding shore, Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping, Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore; When every thought and prayer We loved to breathe and share, On thy full heart returning, Shall wake its voiceless yearning; Then feel me near once more! Near thee, still near thee!--trust thy soul’s deep dreaming! Oh! love is not an earthly rose to die! Even when I soar where fiery stars are beaming, Thine image wanders with me through the sky. The fields of air are free, Yet lonely, wanting thee; But when thy chains are falling, When heaven its own is calling, Know then, thy guide is nigh! [408] This piece has been set to music of most impressive beauty by John Lodge, Esq., for whose compositions several of the author’s songs were written. OH! DROOP THOU NOT. “They sin who tell us love can die! With life all other passions fly-- All others are but vanity. In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell; Earthly these passions, as of earth-- They perish where they drew their birth. But love is indestructible! Its holy flame for ever burneth-- From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.” Southey. Oh! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love! Mine still to be! I bore through death, to brighter lands above, My thoughts of thee. Yes! the deep memory of our holy tears, Our mingled prayer, Our suffering love, through long devoted years, Went with me there. It was not vain, the hallow’d and the tried-- It was not vain! Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side, I watch again! From our own paths, our love’s attesting bowers, I am not gone; In the deep calm of midnight’s whispering hours, Thou art not lone: Not lone, when by the haunted stream thou weepest --That stream whose tone Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest, We two have known: Not lone, when mournfully some strain awaking Of days long past, From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking, Silent and fast: Not lone, when upwards in fond visions turning Thy dreamy glance, Thou seek’st my home, where solemn stars are burning O’er night’s expanse. My home is near thee, loved one! and around thee, Where’er thou art; Though still mortality’s thick cloud hath bound thee, Doubt not thy heart! Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken: Let faith be given To the still tones which oft our being waken-- They are of heaven. SONGS OF SPAIN. [Written for a set of airs, entitled _Peninsular Melodies_, selected by Colonel Hodges, and published by Messrs Goulding and D’Almaine, who have permitted the reappearance of the words in this volume.] ANCIENT BATTLE-SONG. Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again! Let the high word _Castile!_ go resounding through Spain! And thou, free Asturias! encamp’d on the height, Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight! Wake, wake! the old soil where thy children repose Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes! The voices are mighty that swell from the past, With Arragon’s cry on the shrill mountain-blast; The ancient sierras give strength to our tread, Their pines murmur song where bright blood hath been shed. --Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again, And shout ye “Castile! to the rescue for Spain!” THE ZEGRI MAID. [The Zegris were one of the most illustrious Moorish tribes. Their exploits and feuds with their celebrated rivals, the Abencerrages, form the subject of many ancient Spanish romances.] The summer leaves were sighing Around the Zegri maid, To her low, sad song replying As it fill’d the olive shade. “Alas! for her that loveth Her land’s, her kindred’s foe! Where a Christian Spaniard roveth, Should a Zegri’s spirit go? “From thy glance, my gentle mother! I sink, with shame oppress’d, And the dark eye of my brother Is an arrow to my breast.”-- Where summer leaves were sighing Thus sang the Zegri maid, While the crimson day was dying In the whispery olive shade. “And for all this heart’s wealth wasted, This woe in secret borne, This flower of young life blasted, Should I win back aught but scorn? By aught but daily dying Would my lone truth be repaid?”-- Where the olive leaves were sighing, Thus sang the Zegri maid. THE RIO VERDE SONG. [The Rio Verde, a small river of Spain, is celebrated in the old ballad romances of that country for the frequent combats on its banks between Moor and Christian. The ballad referring to this stream in _Percy’s Reliques_ will be remembered by many readers. “Gentle river, gentle river! Lo! thy streams are stain’d with gore.”] Flow, Rio Verde! In melody flow; Win her that weepeth To slumber from woe; Bid thy wave’s music Roll through her dreams-- Grief ever loveth The kind voice of streams. Bear her lone spirit Afar on the sound Back to her childhood, Her life’s fairy ground; Pass like the whisper Of love that is gone-- Flow, Rio Verde! Softly flow on! Dark glassy water So crimson’d of yore! Love, death, and sorrow Know thy green shore. Thou shouldst have echoes For grief’s deepest tone-- Flow, Rio Verde! Softly flow on! SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO. Seek by the silvery Darro, Where jasmine flowers have blown: There hath she left no footsteps? --Weep, weep! the maid is gone! Seek where Our Lady’s image Smiles o’er the pine-hung steep: Hear ye not there her vespers? --Weep for the parted, weep! Seek in the porch where vine-leaves O’ershade her father’s head: Are _his_ gray hairs left lonely? --Weep! her bright soul is fled. SPANISH EVENING HYMN. Ave! now let prayer and music Meet in love on earth and sea! Now, sweet Mother! may the weary Turn from this cold world to thee!