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The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Mrs. Hemans

From the wide and restless waters Hear the sailor’s hymn arise? From his watch-fire midst the mountains, Lo! to thee the shepherd cries! Yet, when thus full hearts find voices, If o’erburden’d souls there be, Dark and silent in their anguish, Aid those captives! set them free! Touch them, every fount unsealing Where the frozen tears lie deep; Thou, the Mother of all sorrows, Aid! oh, aid to pray and weep! BIRD THAT ART SINGING ON EBRO’S SIDE! Bird that art singing on Ebro’s side! Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide, Doth sorrow dwell midst the leaves with thee? Doth song avail thy full heart to free? --Bird of the midnight’s purple sky! Teach me the spell of thy melody. Bird! is it blighted affection’s pain Whence the sad sweetness flows through thy strain? And is the wound of that arrow still’d When thy lone music the leaves hath fill’d? --Bird of the midnight’s purple sky! Teach me the spell of thy melody. MOORISH GATHERING-SONG. ZORZICO.[409] Chains on the cities! gloom in the air! Come to the hills! fresh breezes are there. Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers! Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers. Come from the Darro!--changed is its tone; Come where the streams no bondage have known; Wildly and proudly foaming they leap, Singing of freedom from steep to steep. Come from Alhambra!--garden and grove Now may not shelter beauty or love. Blood on the waters! death midst the flowers! --Only the spear and the rock are ours. [409] The Zorzico is an extremely wild and singularly antique Moorish melody. THE SONG OF MINA’S SOLDIERS. We heard thy name, O Mina! Far through our hills it rang; A sound more strong than tempests, More keen than armour’s clang. The peasant left his vintage, The shepherd grasp’d the spear-- We heard thy name, O Mina! --The mountain-bands are here. As eagles to the dayspring, As torrents to the sea, From every dark sierra So rush’d our hearts to thee. Thy spirit is our banner, Thine eye our beacon-sign, Thy name our trumpet, Mina! --The mountain-bands are thine. MOTHER! OH, SING ME TO REST. A CANCION. Mother! oh, sing me to rest As in my bright days departed: Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted, Songs for a spirit oppress’d. Lay this tired head on thy breast! Flowers from the night-dew are closing, Pilgrims and mourners reposing: Mother! oh, sing me to rest! Take back thy bird to its nest! Weary is young life when blighted, Heavy this love unrequited; --Mother, oh! sing me to rest! THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES. There are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, There are echoes on Biscay’s wild shore; There are murmurs--but not of the torrent, Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest’s roar. ’Tis a day of the spear and the banner, Of armings and hurried farewells; Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards! Or start from your old battle-dells. There are streams of unconquer’d Asturias That have roll’d with your father’s free blood: Oh! leave on the graves of the mighty Proud marks where their children have stood! SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS. AND I TOO IN ARCADIA. [A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band of shepherd-youths and maidens suddenly checked in their wanderings, and affected with various emotions, by the sight of a tomb which bears this inscription--“_Et in Arcadia ego_.”] They have wander’d in their glee With the butterfly and bee; They have climb’d o’er heathery swells, They have wound through forest dells; Mountain-moss hath felt their tread, Woodland streams their way have led; Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks, Nurslings of the loneliest brooks, Unto them have yielded up Fragrant bell and starry cup: Chaplets are on every brow-- What hath staid the wanderers now? Lo! a gray and rustic tomb, Bower’d amidst the rich wood-gloom; Whence these words their stricken spirits melt, --“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.” There is many a summer sound That pale sepulchre around; Through the shade young birds are glancing, Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing; Glimpses of blue festal skies Pouring in when soft winds rise; Violets o’er the turf below Shedding out their warmest glow; Yet a spirit not its own O’er the greenwood now is thrown! Something of an under-note Through its music seems to float, Something of a stillness gray Creeps across the laughing day: Something dimly from those old words felt, --“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.” Was some gentle kindred maid In that grave with dirges laid? Some fair creature, with the tone Of whose voice a joy is gone, Leaving melody and mirth Poorer on this alter’d earth? Is it thus? that so they stand, Dropping flowers from every hand-- Flowers, and lyres, and gather’d store Of red wild-fruit prized no more? --No! from that bright band of morn Not one link hath yet been torn: ’Tis the shadow of the tomb Falling o’er the summer-bloom-- O’er the flush of love and life Passing with a sudden strife; ’Tis the low prophetic breath Murmuring from that house of death, Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt, --“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.” THE WANDERING WIND. The Wind, the wandering Wind Of the golden summer eves-- Whence is the thrilling magic Of its tones among the leaves? Oh! is it from the waters, Or from the long tall grass? Or is it from the hollow rocks Through which its breathings pass? Or is it from the voices Of all in one combined, That it wins the tone of mastery? The Wind, the wandering Wind! No, no! the strange, sweet accents That with it come and go, They are not from the osiers, Nor the fir-trees whispering low; They are not of the waters, Nor of the cavern’d hill: ’Tis the human love within us That gives them power to thrill. They touch the links of memory Around our spirits twined, And we start, and weep, and tremble, To the Wind, the wandering Wind! YE ARE NOT MISS’D, FAIR FLOWERS! Ye are not miss’d, fair flowers, that late were spreading The summer’s glow by fount and breezy grot; There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding-- The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you not. Still plays the sparkle o’er the rippling water, O lily! whence thy cup of pearl is gone; The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter, There is no sorrow in the wind’s low tone. And thou, meek hyacinth! afar is roving The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss’d. Cradled ye were, fair flowers! ’midst all things loving, A joy to all--yet, yet, ye are not miss’d! Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness, And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list, Oh! it were breathing words too deep in sadness, To say earth’s _human_ flowers not more are miss’d. THE WILLOW SONG. Willow! in thy breezy moan, I can hear a deeper tone; Through thy leaves come whispering low, Faint, sweet sounds of long ago. Willow, sighing willow! Many a mournful tale of old Heart-sick love to thee hath told, Gathering from thy golden bough Leaves to cool his burning brow. Willow! sighing willow! Many a swan-like song to thee Hath been sung, thou gentle tree! Many a lute its last lament Down thy moonlight stream hath sent. Willow! sighing willow! Therefore, wave and murmur on! Sigh for sweet affections gone, And for tuneful voices fled, And for love, whose heart hath bled, Ever, willow! willow! LEAVE ME NOT YET. Leave me not yet! through rosy skies from far, But now the song-birds to their nests return; The quivering image of the first pale star On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn: Leave me not yet! Not yet! oh, hark! low tones from hidden streams, Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise; Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams, They are of vesper’s hymns and harmonies: Leave me not yet! My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love! By day shut up in their own still recess; They wait for dews on earth, for stars above, _Then_ to breathe out their soul of tenderness: Leave me not yet! THE ORANGE BOUGH. Oh! bring me one sweet orange-bough, To fan my cheek, to cool my brow; One bough, with pearly blossoms drest, And bind it, mother! on my breast! Go, seek the grove along the shore, Whose odours I must breathe no more; The grove where every scented tree Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. Oh! Love’s fond sighs, and fervent prayer, And wild farewell, are lingering there: Each leaf’s light whisper hath a tone My faint heart, even in death, would own. Then bear me thence one bough, to shed Life’s parting sweetness round my head; And bind it, mother! on my breast When I am laid in lonely rest. THE STREAM SET FREE. Flow on, rejoice, make music, Bright living stream set free! The troubled haunts of care and strife Were not for thee! The woodland is thy country, Thou art all its own again; The wild birds are thy kindred race, That fear no chain. Flow on, rejoice, make music Unto the glistening leaves! Thou, the beloved of balmy winds And golden eaves! Once more the holy starlight Sleeps calm upon thy breast, Whose brightness bears no token more Of man’s unrest. Flow, and let freeborn music Flow with thy wavy line, While the stock-dove’s lingering, loving voice Comes blent with thine. And the green reeds quivering o’er thee, Strings of the forest-lyre, All fill’d with answering spirit-sounds, In joy respire. Yet, midst thy song’s glad changes, Oh! keep one pitying tone For gentle hearts, that bear to thee Their sadness lone. One sound, of all the deepest, To bring, like healing dew, A sense that nature ne’er forsakes The meek and true. Then, then, rejoice, make music, Thou stream, thou glad and free! The shadows of all glorious flowers Be set in thee! THE SUMMER’S CALL.[410] Come away! The sunny hours Woo thee far to founts and bowers! O’er the very waters now, In their play, Flowers are shedding beauty’s glow-- Come away! Where the lily’s tender gleam Quivers on the glancing stream, Come away! All the air is fill’d with sound, Soft, and sultry, and profound; Murmurs through the shadowy grass Lightly stray; Faint winds whisper as they pass-- Come away! Where the bee’s deep music swells From the trembling foxglove bells, Come away! In the skies the sapphire blue Now hath won its richest hue; In the woods the breath of song Night and day