The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Though deep, yet brief and low: “In the vigil, in the conflict, love! My prayer shall with thee go!” “Come forth! come as the torrent comes when the winter’s chain is burst! So rushes on the land’s revenge, in night and silence nursed. The night is pass’d, the silence o’er--on all our hills we rise: We wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of battle cries.” There were sad hearts in a darken’d home, When the brave had left their bower; But the strength of prayer and sacrifice Was with them in that hour. MIGNON’S SONG. TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE. [Mignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character in one of Goethe’s romances, from which Sir Walter Scott’s Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in early childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons, are perpetually haunting her, and at times break forth into the following song. The original has been set to exquisite music, by Zelter, the friend of Goethe.] “Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhn?” Know’st thou the land where bloom the citron bowers, Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove? High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers, And through a still blue heaven the sweet winds rove. Know’st thou it well? There, there, with thee, O friend! O loved one! fain my steps would flee. Know’st thou the dwelling? There the pillars rise, Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow; And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes To say--“Poor child! what thus hath wrought thee woe?” Know’st thou it well? There, there with thee, O my protector! homewards might I flee! Know’st thou the mountain? High its bridge is hung, Where the mule seeks through mist and cloud his way; There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among, O’er beetling rocks there foams the torrent-spray. Know’st thou it well? With thee, with thee, There lies my path, O father! let us flee! THE SISTERS.[412] A BALLAD. “I go, sweet sister! yet, my heart would linger with thee fain, And unto every parting gift some deep remembrance chain: Take, then, the braid of Eastern pearls which once I loved to wear, And with it bind for festal scenes the dark waves of thy hair! Its pale, pure brightness will beseem those raven tresses well, And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone convent-cell.” “Oh, speak not thus, my Leonor! why part from kindred love? Through festive scenes, when thou art gone, my steps no more shall move! How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless throng? I should but miss earth’s dearest voice in every tone of song. Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me proudly twine Its wreath once more around that brow, that queenly brow of thine.” “Oh, wouldst thou strive a wounded bird from shelter to detain? Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed to weary life again? Sweet sister! take the golden cross that I have worn so long, And bathed with many a burning tear for secret woe and wrong. It could not still _my_ beating heart! but may it be a sign Of peace and hope, my gentle one! when meekly press’d to thine.” “Take back, take back the cross of gold, our mother’s gift to thee-- It would but of this parting hour a bitter token be; With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but sadly shine, And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer mine. O sister! if thy heart be thus with buried grief oppress’d, Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well as on my faithful breast?” “Urge me no more! A blight hath fallen upon my summer years! I should but darken _thy_ young life with fruitless pangs and fears. But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for my sake, And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone of memory wake! Sing to those chords by starlight’s gleam our own sweet vesper-hymn, And think that I too chant it then, far in my cloister dim.” “Yes! I _will_ take the silvery lute--and I will sing to thee A song we heard in childhood’s days, even from our father’s knee. O sister! sister! are these notes amid forgotten things? Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar strings? Seems not our sainted mother’s voice to murmur in the strain? Kind sister! gentlest Leonor! say shall it plead in vain?” [412] This ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recitative, relieved by music. It was thus performed by two graceful and highly accomplished sisters. SONG. “Leave us not, leave us not! Say not adieu! Have we not been to thee Tender and true? “Take not thy sunny smile Far from our hearth! With that sweet light will fade Summer and mirth. “Leave us not, leave us not! Can thy heart roam? Wilt thou not pine to hear Voices from home? “Too sad our love would be If thou wert gone! Turn to us, leave us not! Thou art our own!” “O sister! hush that thrilling lute!--oh, cease that haunting lay! Too deeply pierce those wild, sweet notes--yet, yet I cannot stay: For weary, weary is my heart! I hear a whisper’d call In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the blossom fall. I cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines to dwell Where the world’s voice can reach no more! Oh, calm thee!--Fare thee well!” [“Mrs Hemans played very pleasingly, and was passionately fond of music. She has described in--perhaps the finest of her lyrics--the ‘Requiem of Mozart’ the manner in which she herself felt its thrilling influences. “It was after having listened with great delight one evening to some sweet and loved voices (that are now but very seldom heard within these walls) singing those words of hers, composed from Sir Walter Scott’s dictation, for one of the old _Rhine songs_, that she brought with her, on the next, her lines on ‘Triumphant Music;’ and triumphant they really were, in the splendour of their effect, as she repeated them. She wrote, for these same voices, the little drama, or rather scena, ‘The Sisters,’ which formed, as it was represented[413] with extraordinary research and elegance, and with the advantage of Mr Lodge’s music, one of the most perfect private exhibitions of the kind that can be imagined. One could not help reverting to the times of Ludlow Castle, and the Bridgewater family, when the youthful performers in Milton’s exquisite masque were as pure, and as noble, and as beautiful, as the ideal personages they represented.”--_Recollections of Mrs Hemans_, by Mrs Lawrence of Wavertree Hall, p. 339-340.] [413] At a beautiful residence in Needwood Forest. THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. [Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the younger Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock above the sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There is a desolate grace about the whole figure, which seems penetrated with the feeling of utter abandonment.] Sound on, thou dark, unslumbering sea! My dirge is in thy moan; My spirit finds response in thee To its own ceaseless cry--“Alone, alone!” Yet send me back one other word, Ye tones that never cease! Oh! let your secret caves be stirr’d, And say, dark waters! will ye give me _peace_? Away! my weary soul hath sought In vain one echoing sigh, One answer to consuming thought In human hearts--and will the _wave_ reply? Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea! Sound in thy scorn and pride! I ask not, alien world! from thee What my own kindred earth hath still denied. And yet I loved that earth so well, With all its lovely things! Was it for this the death-wind fell On my rich lyre, and quench’d its living strings? Let them lie silent at my feet! Since, broken even as they, The heart whose music made them sweet Hath pour’d on desert sands its wealth away. Yet glory’s light hath touch’d my name, The laurel-wreath is mine-- With a lone heart, a weary frame-- O restless deep! I come to make them thine! Give to that crown, that burning crown, Place in thy darkest hold! Bury my anguish, my renown, With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold. Thou sea-bird on the billow’s crest! _Thou_ hast thy love, thy home; They wait thee in the quiet nest, And I, th’ unsought, unwatch’d-for--I too come! I, with this wingèd nature fraught, These visions wildly free, This boundless love, this fiery thought-- _Alone_ I come--oh! give me peace, dark sea! DIRGE. Where shall we make her grave? Oh! where the wild-flowers wave In the free air! Where shower and singing-bird Midst the young leaves are heard-- There--lay her there! Harsh was the world to her-- Now may sleep minister Balm for each ill: Low on sweet nature’s breast Let the meek heart find rest, Deep, deep and still! Murmur, glad waters! by; Faint gales! with happy sigh, Come wandering o’er That green and mossy bed, Where, on a gentle head, Storms beat no more! What though for her in vain Falls now the bright spring-rain, Plays the soft wind? Yet still, from where she lies, Should blessed breathings rise, Gracious and kind. Therefore let song and dew Thence in the heart renew Life’s vernal glow! And o’er that holy earth Scents of the violet’s birth Still come and go! Oh! then, where wild flowers wave Make ye her mossy grave, In the free air! Where shower and singing-bird Midst the young leaves are heard-- There--lay her there! A SONG OF THE ROSE. “Cosi fior diverrai che non soggiace All ’acqua, al gelo, al vento ed allo scherno D’ una stagion volubile e fugace; E a piu fido Cultor posto in governo, Unir potrai nella tranquilla pace, Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno.” Metastasio. Rose! what dost thou here? Bridal, royal rose! How, midst grief and fear, Canst thou thus disclose That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf glows? Rose! too much array’d For triumphal hours, Look’st thou through the shade Of these mortal bowers, Not to disturb my soul, thou crown’d one of all flowers! As an eagle soaring Through a sunny sky, As a clarion pouring Notes of victory, So dost _thou_ kindle thoughts, for earthly life too high. Thoughts of rapture, flushing Youthful poet’s cheek; Thoughts of glory, rushing Forth in song to break, But finding the spring-tide of rapid song too weak. Yet, O festal rose! I have seen thee lying In thy bright repose Pillow’d with the dying, _Thy_ crimson by the lip whence life’s quick blood was flying. Summer, hope, and love O’er that bed of pain, Met in thee, yet wove Too, too frail a chain In its embracing links the lovely to detain.