The Poems of Felicia Hemans
With a light and flush of bloom:
So should one depart, who goes
Where no death can touch the rose!
THE IVY-SONG.[416]
Oh! how could fancy crown with _thee_,
In ancient days, the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the Vine?
Ivy! _thy_ home is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o’er;
Where song and beaker once went round,
But now are known no more;
Where long-fallen gods recline,
There the place is thine.
The Roman, on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
With thee, amidst exulting strains,
Shadow’d the victor’s tent.
Though, shining there in deathless green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor’s grave--
Urn and sculpture half divine
Yield their place to thine.
The cold halls of the regal dead,
Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell,
Where hollow sounds the lightest tread--
Ivy! they know thee well!
And far above the festal vine
Thou wavest where once proud banners hung,
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine--
The Rhine, still fresh and young!
Tower and rampart o’er the Rhine,
Ivy! all are thine!
High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish’d race,
Where harp, and battle, and renown,
Have pass’d, and left no trace.
But thou art there!--serenely bright,
Meeting the mountain-storms with bloom,
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or crown the lowliest tomb!
Ivy! Ivy! all are thine,
Palace, hearth, and shrine.
’Tis still the same: our pilgrim-tread
O’er classic plains, through deserts free,
On the mute path of ages fled,
Still meets decay and thee.
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, stern in power--
Days pass--thou Ivy never sere,[417]
And thou shalt have thy dower.
All are thine, or must be thine--
Temple, pillar, shrine!
[416] This song, as originally written, the reader will have met with
in an earlier part of this publication, (p. 354.) Being afterwards
completely remodelled by Mrs Hemans, perhaps no apology is requisite
for its re-insertion here.
[417] “Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”--_Lycidas._
THE MUSIC OF ST PATRICK’S.
[The choral music of St Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, is almost
unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific
skill. The majestic harmony of effect thus produced is not a little
deepened by the character of the church itself, which, though small,
yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and old
monumental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by the spirit
of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to recognise it
as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old--a place to witness the
solitary vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at the
burial of some warlike king.]
“All the choir
Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas.”--Milton.
Again! oh! send that anthem-peal again
Through the arch’d roof in triumph to the sky!
Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain,
The banners thrill as if with victory!
Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might have heard,
While arm’d for fields of chivalrous renown:
Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirr’d,
While throbbing still beneath the recent crown!
Those notes once more!--they bear my soul away,
They lend the wings of morning to its flight;
No earthly passion in th’ exulting lay
Whispers one tone to win me from that height.
All is of Heaven! Yet wherefore to mine eye
Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source,
Even while the waves of that strong harmony
Roll with my spirit on their sounding course?
Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal
Thus by the burst of sorrow’s token shower!
--Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel
Our nature’s limit in its proudest hour?
[The mention of Neukomm’s magnificent organ-playing brings to
remembrance one great enjoyment of Mrs Hemans’s residence in
Dublin--the exquisite “Music of St Patrick’s,” of which she has
recorded her impressions in the little poem so entitled. Its effect
is, indeed, such as, once heard, can never be forgotten. If ever
earthly music can be _satisfying_, it must surely be such as this,
bringing home to our bosoms the solemn beauty of our own holy
liturgy, with all its precious and endeared associations, in tones
that make the heart swell with ecstasy, and the eyes overflow with
unbidden tears. There was one anthem, frequently heard within those
ancient walls, which Mrs Hemans used to speak of with peculiar
enthusiasm--that from the 3d Psalm--“Lord, how are they increased
that trouble me!” The consummate skill exhibited in the adaptation
of sound to sense in this noble composition is, in truth, most
admirable. The symphony to the 5th verse--“I laid me down and
slept”--with its soft, dreamy vibrations, gentle as the hovering
of an angel’s wing--the utter _abandon_, the melting into slumber,
implied by the half-whispered words that came breathing as from a
world of spirits--almost “steep the senses in forgetfulness,” when a
sudden outbreak, as it were, of life and light, bursts forth with the
glad announcement, “I awaked, for the Lord sustained me;” then the
old sombre arches ring with an almost overpowering peal of triumph,
bearing to Heaven’s gate the exulting chorus of the 6th and 8th
verses.--_Memoir_, p. 260-1.]
KEENE; OR, LAMENT OF AN IRISH MOTHER OVER HER SON.
[This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the Irish
Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and deep pathos, and
other characteristics analogous to those of the national music.]
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son!
Silent and dark!
There is blood upon the threshold
Whence thy step went forth at morn
Like a dancer’s in its fleetness,
O my bright first-born!
At the glad sound of that footstep
My heart within me smiled;--
Thou wert brought me back all silent
On thy bier, my child!
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son!
Silent and dark!
I thought to see thy children
Laugh on me with thine eyes;
But my sorrow’s voice is lonely
Where my life’s flower lies.
I shall go to sit beside thee,
Thy kindred’s graves among;
I shall hear the tall grass whisper--
I shall not hear it long.
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son!
Silent and dark!
And I, too, shall find slumber
With my lost one in the earth;--
Let none light up the ashes
Again on our hearth!
Let the roof go down!--let silence
On the home for ever fall,
Where my boy lay cold, and heard not
His lone mother’s call!
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son!
Silent and dark!
FAR AWAY.[418]
Far away!--my home is far away,
Where the blue sea laves a mountain-shore;
In the woods I hear my brothers play,
Midst the flowers my sister sings once more,
Far away!
Far away!--my dreams are far away,
When at midnight stars and shadows reign:
“Gentle child!” my mother seems to say,
“Follow me where home shall smile again,
Far away!”
Far away!--my hope is far away,
Where love’s voice young gladness may restore.
--O thou dove! now soaring through the day,
Lend me wings to reach that better shore,
Far away!
[418] This, and the five following songs, have been set to music of
great merit, by J. Zeugheer Herrmann and H. F. Chorley, Esq., and
are published in a set by Mr Power, who has given permission for the
appearance of the words in this volume.
THE LYRE AND FLOWER.
A lyre its plaintive sweetness pour’d
Forth on the wild wind’s track;
The stormy wanderer jarr’d the chord,
But gave no music back.--
O child of song!
Bear hence to heaven thy fire:
What hopest thou from the reckless throng?
Be not like that lost lyre!
Not like that lyre!
A flower its leaves and odours cast
On a swift-rolling wave;
Th’ unheeding torrent darkly pass’d,
And back no treasure gave.--
O heart of love!
Waste not thy precious dower:
Turn to thine only home above!
Be not like that lost flower!
Not like that flower!
SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST.
Sister! since I met thee last,
O’er thy brow a change hath past.
In the softness of thine eyes,
Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone
Never to thy childhood known;
Through thy soul a storm hath moved,
--Gentle sister! thou hast loved!
Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught
Hues too bright from troubled thought;
Far along the wandering stream
Thou art follow’d by a dream;
In the woods and valleys lone
Music haunts thee, not thine own:
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain?
--Sister! thou hast loved in vain!
Tell me not the tale, my flower!
On my bosom pour that shower!
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted;
Tell me not of young hopes blasted;
Wring not forth one burning word,
Let thy heart no more be stirr’d!
Home alone can give thee rest.
--Weep, sweet sister! on my breast!
THE LONELY BIRD.
From a ruin thou art singing,
O lonely, lonely bird!
The soft blue air is ringing,
By thy summer music stirr’d.
But all is dark and cold beneath,
Where harps no more are heard:
Whence win’st thou that exulting breath,
O lonely, lonely bird?
Thy songs flow richly swelling
To a triumph of glad sounds,
As from its cavern-dwelling
A stream in glory bounds!
Though the castle-echoes catch no tone
Of human step or word,
Though the fires be quench’d and the feasting done,
O lonely, lonely bird?
How can that flood of gladness
Rush through thy fiery lay,
From the haunted place of sadness,
From the bosom of decay--
While the dirge-notes in the breeze’s moan,
Through the ivy garlands heard,
Come blent with thy rejoicing tone,
O lonely, lonely bird?
There’s many a heart, wild singer!
Like thy forsaken tower,
Where joy no more may linger,
Where Love hath left his bower:
And there’s many a spirit e’en like thee,
To mirth as lightly stirr’d,
Though it soar from ruins in its glee,
O lonely, lonely bird!
DIRGE AT SEA.
Sleep!--we give thee to the wave,
Red with life-blood from the brave.
Thou shalt find a noble grave.
Fare thee well!
Sleep! thy billowy field is won:
Proudly may the funeral gun,
Midst the hush at set of sun,
Boom thy knell!
Lonely, lonely is thy bed,
Never there may flower be shed,
Marble rear’d, or brother’s head
Bow’d to weep.
Yet thy record on the sea,
Borne through battle high and free,
Long the red-cross flag shall be.
Sleep! oh, sleep!