The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Her voice the forest pines hath stirr’d,
As if a storm went past;
Her thousand hills the call have heard,
And forth their fire-flags cast.
Arm, arm, free hunters! for the chase,
The kingly chase of foes!
’Tis not the bear or wild wolf’s race
Whose trampling shakes the snows:
Arm, arm! ’tis on a nobler trace
The northern spearman goes.
Our hills have dark and strong defiles,
With many an icy bed;
Heap there the rocks for funeral piles
Above the invader’s head!
Or let the seas, that guard our isles,
Give burial to his dead!
COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP!
[“Mrs Hemans writes for all tastes and for all ages, as well as for
all nations, and therefore she may do well to write in all sorts
of style and manner. And, at all events, she who pleases others so
well, may be allowed at times to please herself. Such strains as the
following might soothe the ear of Rhadamanthus, and charm Cerberus to
slumber.”--_Eclectic Review_, 1834.]
Come to me, gentle Sleep!
I pine, I pine for thee;
Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep,
And set my spirit free!
Each lonely, burning thought
In twilight languor steep--
Come to the full heart, long o’erwrought,
O gentle, gentle Sleep!
Come with thine urn of dew,
Sleep, gentle Sleep! yet bring
No voice, love’s yearning to renew,
No vision on thy wing!
Come, as to folding flowers,
To birds in forests deep--
Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours,
O gentle, gentle Sleep!
SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE,
TO
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ.,
IN TOKEN OF DEEP RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND FERVENT GRATITUDE FOR
MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL BENEFIT DERIVED FROM REVERENTIAL COMMUNION WITH
THE SPIRIT OF HIS POETRY, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY
FELICIA HEMANS.[420]
Preface.--I trust I shall not be accused of presumption for the
endeavour which I have here made to enlarge, in some degree, the
sphere of religious poetry, by associating with its themes more of the
emotions, the affections, and even the purer imaginative enjoyments of
daily life, than may have been hitherto admitted within the hallowed
circle.
It has been my wish to portray the religious spirit, not alone in
its meditative joys and solitary aspirations, (the poetic embodying
of which seems to require from the reader a state of mind already
separated and exalted,) but likewise in those active influences upon
human life, so often called into victorious energy by trial and
conflict, though too often also, like the upward-striving flame of a
mountain watch-fire, borne down by tempest-showers, or swayed by the
current of opposing winds.
I have sought to represent that spirit as penetrating the gloom of the
prison and the deathbed, bearing “healing on its wings” to the agony
of parting love--strengthening the heart of the wayfarer for “perils
in the wilderness”--gladdening the domestic walk through field and
woodland--and springing to life in the soul of childhood, along with
its earliest rejoicing perceptions of natural beauty.
Circumstances not altogether under my own control have, for the
present, interfered to prevent the fuller development of a plan which
I yet hope more worthily to mature; and I lay this little volume
before the public with that deep sense of deficiency which cannot be
more impressively taught to human powers than by their reverential
application to things divine.--Felicia Hemans.
1834.
[420] The long-contemplated collection of _Scenes and Hymns of Life_
was published soon after the two little volumes above alluded to. In
her original dedication of this work to Mr Wordsworth, Mrs Hemans
had given free scope to the expression of her sentiments, not only
of veneration for the poet, but of deep and grateful regard for the
friend. From a fear, however, that delicacy on Mr Wordsworth’s part
might prevent his wishing to receive, in a public form, a testimonial
of so much private feeling from a living individual, the intended
letter was suppressed, and its substantial ideas conveyed in the brief
inscription which was finally prefixed to the volume. It is now hoped
that all such objections to its publication have vanished, and that
the revered friend to whom it was addressed will receive it as the
heart-tribute of one to whom flattery was unknown--as consecrated by
the solemn truth of a voice from the grave.
_Intended Dedication of the “Scenes and Hymns of Life,” to William
Wordsworth, Esq._
“My dear Sir,
“I earnestly wish that the little volume here inscribed to you, in
token of affectionate veneration, were pervaded by more numerous
traces of those strengthening and elevating influences which breathe
from all your poetry ‘a power to virtue friendly.’ I wish, too, that
such a token could more adequately convey my deep sense of gratitude
for moral and intellectual benefit long derived from the study of
that poetry--for the perpetual fountains of ‘serious faith and inward
glee’ which I have never failed to discover amidst its pure and lofty
regions--for the fresh green places of refuge which it has offered me
in many an hour, when
‘The fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart;’
and when I have found in your thoughts and images such relief as the
vision of your ‘Sylvan Wye’ may, at similar times, have afforded to
yourself.
“May I be permitted, on the present occasion, to record my unfading
recollections of enjoyment from your society--of delight in having
heard from your own lips, and amidst your own lovely mountain-land,
many of those compositions, the remembrance of which will ever spread
over its hills and waters a softer colouring of spiritual beauty? Let
me also express to you, as to a dear and most honoured friend, my
fervent wishes for your long enjoyment of a widely-extended influence,
which cannot but be blessed--of a domestic life, encircling you with
yet nearer and deeper sources of happiness; and of those eternal hopes,
on whose foundation you have built, as a Christian poet, the noble
structure of your works.
“I rely upon your kindness, my dear Sir, for an indulgent reception
of my offering, however lowly, since you will feel assured of the
sincerity with which it is presented by your ever grateful and
affectionate Felicia Hemans.”
THE ENGLISH MARTYRS;
A SCENE OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY.
“Thy face
Is all at once spread over with a calm
More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy!
I am no more disconsolate.” Wilson.
Scene I.--_A Prison._
Edith _alone_.
_Edith._ Morn once again! Morn in the lone, dim cell,
The cavern of the prisoner’s fever-dream;
And morn on all the green, rejoicing hills,
And the bright waters round the prisoner’s home,
Far, far away! Now wakes the early bird,
That in the lime’s transparent foliage sings,
Close to my cottage-lattice--he awakes,
To stir the young leaves with his gushing soul,
And to call forth rich answers of delight
From voices buried in a thousand trees
Through the dim, starry hours. Now doth the lake
Darken and flash in rapid interchange
Unto the matin breeze; and the blue mist
Rolls, like a furling banner, from the brows
Of the forth-gleaming hills and woods that rise
As if new-born. Bright world! and I am here!
And thou, O thou! the awakening thought of whom
Was more than dayspring, dearer than the sun,
Herbert! the very glance of whose clear eye
Made my soul melt away to one pure fount
Of living, bounding gladness!--where art _thou_?
My friend! my only and my blessed love!
Herbert, my soul’s companion!
Gomez, _a Spanish Priest, enters_.
_Gom._ Daughter, hail!
I bring thee tidings.
_Ed._ Heaven will aid my soul
Calmly to meet whate’er thy lips announce.
_Gom._ Nay, lift a song of thanksgiving to heaven,
And bow thy knee down for deliverance won!
Hast thou not pray’d for life? and wouldst thou not
Once more be free!
_Ed._ Have I not pray’d for life?
I, that am so beloved! that love again
With such a heart of tendrils? Heaven! _thou_ know’st
The gushings of my prayer! And would I not
Once more be free? I that have been a child
Of breezy hills, a playmate of the fawn
In ancient woodlands from mine infancy!
A watcher of the clouds and of the stars,
Beneath the adoring silence of the night;
And a glad wanderer with the happy streams,
Whose laughter fills the mountains! Oh! to hear
Their blessed sounds again!
_Gom._ Rejoice, rejoice!
Our queen hath pity, maiden! on thy youth;
She wills not thou shouldst perish. I am come
To loose thy bonds.
_Ed._ And shall I see _his_ face,
And shall I listen to _his_ voice again,
And lay my head upon his faithful breast,
Weeping there in my gladness? _Will_ this be?
Blessings upon thee, father! my quick heart
Hath deem’d thee stern--say, wilt thou not forgive
The wayward child, too long in sunshine rear’d--
Too long unused to chastening? Wilt thou not?
But Herbert, Herbert! Oh, my soul hath rush’d
On a swift gust of sudden joy away,
Forgetting all beside! Speak, father! speak!
Herbert--is he, too, free?
_Gom._ His freedom lies
In his own choice--a boon like thine.
_Ed._ Thy words
Fall changed and cold upon my boding heart.
Leave not this dim suspense o’ershadowing me;
Let all be told.
_Gom._ The monarchs of the earth
Shower not their mighty gifts without a claim
Unto some token of true vassalage,
Some mark of homage.
_Ed._ Oh! unlike to _Him_
Who freely pours the joy of sunshine forth,
And the bright, quickening rain, on those who serve
And those who heed Him not!
_Gom._ (_laying a paper before her._) Is it so much
That thine own hand should set the crowning seal
To thy deliverance? Look, thy task is here!
Sign but these words for liberty and life.
_Ed._ (_examining and then throwing it from her._)
Sign but these words! and wherefore saidst thou not
--“Be but a traitor to God’s light within?”
Cruel, oh cruel! thy dark sport hath been
With a young bosom’s hope! Farewell, glad life!
Bright opening path to love and home, farewell!
And thou--now leave me with my God alone!
_Gom._ Dost thou reject heaven’s mercy?
_Ed._ Heaven’s! doth _heaven_
Woo the free spirit for dishonour’d breath
To sell its birthright?--doth _heaven_ set a price
On the clear jewel of unsullied faith,
And the bright calm of conscience? Priest, away!
God hath been with me midst the holiness
Of England’s mountains. Not in sport alone
I trod their heath-flowers; but high thoughts rose up
From the broad shadow of the enduring rocks,
And wander’d with me into solemn glens,
Where my soul felt the beauty of His word.
I have heard voices of immortal truth,
Blent with the everlasting torrent-sounds
That make the deep hills tremble.--Shall I quail?
Shall England’s daughter sink? No! He who there
Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm,
Will not forsake His child!
_Gom._ (_turning from her._) Then perish! lost
In thine own blindness!
_Ed._ (_suddenly throwing herself at his feet._)
Father! hear me yet!
Oh! if the kindly touch of human love
Hath ever warm’d thy breast----
_Gom._ Away--away!
I know not love.