The Poems of Felicia Hemans

PILGRIM’S SONG TO THE EVENING STAR. O soft star of the west! Gleaming far, Thou’rt guiding all things home, Gentle star! Thou bring’st from rock and wave The sea-bird to her nest, The hunter from the hills, The fisher back to rest. Light of a thousand streams, Gleaming far! O soft star of the west! Blessed star! No bowery roof is mine, No hearth of love and rest, Yet guide me to my shrine, O soft star of the west! There, there my home shall be, Heaven’s dew shall cool my breast, When prayer and tear gush free, O soft star of the west! O soft star of the west, Gleaming far! Thou’rt guiding all things home, Gentle star! Shine from thy rosy heaven, Pour joy on earth and sea! Shine on, though no sweet eyes Look forth to watch for me! Light of a thousand streams, Gleaming afar! O soft star of the west! Blessed star! THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. “We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short moments: and then days, months, years intervene, and we see and know nothing of each other.”--Washington Irving. Two barks met on the deep mid-sea, When calms had still’d the tide; A few bright days of summer glee There found them side by side. And voices of the fair and brave Rose mingling thence in mirth; And sweetly floated o’er the wave The melodies of earth. Moonlight on that lone Indian main Cloudless and lovely slept; While dancing step, and festive strain Each deck in triumph swept. And hands were link’d, and answering eyes With kindly meaning shone; Oh! brief and passing sympathies, Like leaves together blown! A little while such joy was cast Over the deep’s repose, Till the loud singing winds at last Like trumpet-music rose. And proudly, freely on their way The parting vessels bore; In calm or storm, by rock or bay, To meet--oh, never more! Never to blend in victory’s cheer, To aid in hours of woe: And thus bright spirits mingle here, Such ties are form’d below! COME AWAY. Come away!--the child, where flowers are springing Round its footsteps on the mountain-slope, Hears a glad voice from the upland singing, Like the skylark’s with its tone of hope: Come away! Bounding on, with sunny lands before him, All the wealth of glowing life outspread, Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o’er him, By that strain the youth in joy is led: Come away! Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling O’er the sweetness of the voice within; Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling, Urge the hunter still to chase, to win: Come away! Come away!--the heart at last forsaken, Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue; Yet a breath can still those words awaken, Though to other shores far hence they woo: Come away! In the light leaves, in the reed’s faint sighing, In the low, sweet sounds of early spring, Still their music wanders--till the dying Hears them pass, as on a spirit’s wing: Come away! FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL. [“Fair Helen of Kirkconnel,” as she is called in the Scottish Minstrelsy, throwing herself between her betrothed lover and a rival by whom his life was assailed, received a mortal wound, and died in the arms of the former.] Hold me upon thy faithful heart, Keep back my flitting breath; ’Tis early, early to depart, Beloved!--yet this is death! Look on me still--let that kind eye Be the last light I see! Oh! sad it is in spring to die, But yet I die for thee! For thee, my own!--thy stately head Was never thus to bow: Give tears when with me love hath fled, True love, thou know’st it now! Oh, the free streams look’d bright, where’er We in our gladness roved; And the blue skies were very fair, O friend! because we loved. Farewell!--I bless thee--live thou on When this young heart is low! Surely my blood thy life hath won-- Clasp me once more--I go! MUSIC FROM SHORE. A sound comes on the rising breeze, A sweet and lovely sound! Piercing the tumult of the seas That wildly dash around. From land, from sunny land it comes, From hills with murmuring trees, From paths by still and happy homes-- That sweet sound on the breeze. Why should its faint and passing sigh Thus bid my quick pulse leap? No part in earth’s glad melody Is mine upon the deep. Yet blessing, blessing on the spot Whence those rich breathings flow! Kind hearts, although they know me not, Like mine there beat and glow. And blessing, from the bark that roams O’er solitary seas, To those that far in happy homes Give sweet sounds to the breeze! LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS EYES. Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, Truth in their dark transparence lies; Their sweetness gives me back the tears And the free trust of early years, My gentle child! The spirit of my infant prayer Shines in the depths of quiet there; And home and love once more are mine. Found in that dewy calm divine, My gentle child! Oh! heaven is with thee in thy dreams, Its light by day around thee gleams-- Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies: Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, My gentle child! IF THOU HAST CRUSH’D A FLOWER. “Oh, cast thou not Affection from thee! In this bitter world Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast; Watch--guard it--suffer not a breath to dim The bright gem’s purity!” If thou hast crush’d a flower, The root may not be blighted; If thou hast quench’d a lamp, Once more it may be lighted: But on thy harp, or on thy lute, The string which thou hast broken Shall never in sweet sound again Give to thy touch a token! If thou hast loosed a bird Whose voice of song could cheer thee, Still, still he may be won From the skies to warble near thee: But if upon the troubled sea Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, Hope not that wind or wave will bring The treasure back when needed. If thou hast bruised a vine, The summer’s breath is healing, And its clusters yet may glow Through the leaves their bloom revealing: But if thou hast a cup o’erthrown With a bright draught fill’d--oh! never Shall earth give back that lavish’d wealth To cool thy parch’d lip’s fever! The heart is like that cup, If thou waste the love it bore thee; And like that jewel gone, Which the deep will not restore thee; And like that string of harp or lute Whence the sweet sound is scatter’d,-- Gently, oh! gently touch the chords, So soon for ever shatter’d! BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED. Brightly, brightly hast thou fled! Ere one grief had bow’d thy head! Brightly didst thou part! With thy young thoughts pure from spot, With thy fond love wasted not, With thy bounding heart. Ne’er by sorrow to be wet, Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet, Ere with dust o’erspread: Lilies ne’er by tempest blown, White rose which no stain hath known, Be about thee shed! So we give thee to the earth, And the primrose shall have birth O’er thy gentle head; Thou that, like a dewdrop borne On a sudden breeze of morn, Brightly thus hast fled! THE BED OF HEATH. “Soldier, awake! the night is past; Hear’st thou not the bugle’s blast? Feel’st thou not the dayspring’s breath? Rouse thee from thy bed of heath! Arm, thou bold and strong! Soldier! what deep spell hath bound thee? Fiery steeds are neighing round thee-- Banners to the fresh wind play: Rise, and arm--’tis day,’tis day! And thou hast slumber’d long.” “Brother! on the heathery lea Longer yet my sleep must be; Though the morn of battle rise, Darkly night rolls o’er my eyes-- Brother, this is death! Call me not when bugles sound, Call me not when wine flows round; Name me but amidst the brave, Give me but a soldier’s grave-- But my bed of heath!” FAIRY SONG. Have ye left the greenwood lone, Are your steps for ever gone? Fairy King and Elfin Queen, Come ye to the sylvan scene, From your dim and distant shore, Never more? Shall the pilgrim never hear With a thrill of joy and fear, In the hush of moonlight hours, Voices from the folded flowers, Faint, sweet flute-notes as of yore, Never more? “Mortal! ne’er shall bowers of earth Hear again our midnight mirth: By our brooks and dingles green Since unhallow’d steps have been, Ours shall thread the forests hoar Never more. “Ne’er on earth-born lily’s stem Will we hang the dewdrop’s gem; Ne’er shall reed or cowslip’s head Quiver to our dancing tread, By sweet fount or murmuring shore-- Never more!” WHAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND. What woke the buried sound that lay In Memnon’s harp of yore? What spirit on its viewless way Along the Nile’s green shore? Oh! not the night, and not the storm, And not the lightning’s fire; But sunlight’s torch, the kind, the warm-- This, this awoke the lyre. What wins the heart’s deep chords to pour Thus music forth on life-- Like a sweet voice prevailing o’er The truant sounds of strife? Oh! not the conflict midst the throng, Not e’en the trumpet’s hour; Love is the gifted and the strong, To wake that music’s power! SING TO ME, GONDOLIER! Sing to me, Gondolier! Sing words from Tasso’s lay; While blue, and still, and clear, Night seems but softer day. The gale is gently falling, As if it paused to hear Some strain the past recalling-- Sing to me, Gondolier! “Oh, ask me not to wake The memory of the brave; Bid no high numbers break The silence of the wave. Gone are the noble-hearted, Closed the bright pageants here; And the glad song is departed From the mournful Gondolier!” LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE. It is thy pity makes me weep, My soul was strong before; Silent, yet strong its griefs to keep From vainly gushing o’er. Turn from me, turn those gentle eyes! In this fond gaze my spirit dies: Look on me thus no more! Too late that softness comes to bless, My heart’s glad life is o’er; It will but break with tenderness, Which cannot now restore! The lyre-strings have been jarr’d too long, Winter hath touch’d the source of song! Look on me thus no more! O’ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS. O’er the far blue mountains, O’er the white sea-foam, Come, thou long-parted one! Back to thine home. When the bright fire shineth, Sad looks thy place, While the true heart pineth Missing thy face.