The Poems of Felicia Hemans

_Mother._ And wherefore _night_, my child? Thou art a creature all of life and dawn, And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise, And walk forth with the dayspring. _Lilian._ Hope it not! Dream it no more, my mother!--there are things Known but to God, and to the parting soul, Which feels His thrilling summons. But my words Too much o’ershadow those kind, loving eyes. Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step, Well do I see, hath not alone explored The garden bowers, but freely visited Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet Is from the cool, green, shadowy river-nook, Where the stream chimes around th’ old mossy stones With sounds like childhood’s laughter. Is that spot Lovely as when our glad eyes hail’d it first? Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep The clear brown wave with every passing wind? And through the shallower waters, where they lie Dimpling in light, do the vein’d pebbles gleam Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies, From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still Among the poplar-boughs? _Jessy._ All, all is there Which glad midsummer’s wealthiest hours can bring; All, save the _soul_ of all, thy lightning-smile! Therefore I stood in sadness midst the leaves, And caught an under-music of lament In the stream’s voice. But Nature waits thee still, And for thy coming piles a fairy throne Of richest moss. _Lilian._ Alas! it may not be! My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly To all these blessed haunts of song and thought; Yet not the less I love to look on these, Their dear memorials,--strew them o’er my couch Till it grow like a forest-bank in spring, All flush’d with violets and anemones. Ah! the pale brier-rose! touch’d so tenderly, As a pure ocean-shell, with faintest red, Melting away to pearliness! I know How its long, light festoons o’erarching hung From the gray rock that rises altar-like, With its high, waving crown of mountain-ash, Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough Of honey’d woodbine tells me of the oak, Whose deep, midsummer gloom sleeps heavily, Shedding a verdurous twilight o’er the face Of the glade’s pool. Methinks I see it now; I look up through the stirring of its leaves Unto the intense blue, crystal firmament. The ringdove’s wing is flitting o’er my head, Casting at times a silvery shadow down Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful! How beautiful is all this fair, free world Under God’s open sky! _Mother._ Thou art o’erwrought Once more, my child! The dewy, trembling light Presaging tears, again is in thine eye. Oh, hush, dear Lilian! turn thee to repose. _Lilian._ Mother! I cannot. In my soul the thoughts Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire; Importunately to my lips they throng, And with their earthly kindred seek to blend Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone-- (For I _must_ go)--then the remember’d words Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth, Will to thy fond heart be as amulets Held there, with life and love. And weep not thus, Mother! dear sister!--kindest, gentlest ones! Be comforted that now _I_ weep no more For the glad earth and all the golden light Whence I depart. No! God hath purified my spirit’s eye, And in the folds of this consummate rose I read bright prophecies. I see not there, Dimly and mournfully, the word “_farewell_” On the rich petals traced. No--in soft veins And characters of beauty, I can read-- “_Look up, look heavenward!_” Blessed God of Love! I thank Thee for these gifts, the precious links Whereby my spirit unto Thee is drawn! I thank Thee that the loveliness of earth Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these But germs of things unperishing, that bloom Beside th’ immortal streams? Shall I not find The lily of the field, the Saviour’s flower, In the serene and never-moaning air, And the clear starry light of angel eyes, A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far Will not the violet’s dusky purple glow, When it hath ne’er been press’d to broken hearts, A record of lost love? _Mother._ My Lilian! thou Surely in _thy_ bright life hast little known Of lost things or of changed! _Lilian._ Oh! little yet, For _thou_ hast been my shield! But had it been My lot on this world’s billows to be thrown Without thy love, O mother! there are hearts So perilously fashion’d, that for them God’s touch alone hath gentleness enough To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!-- We will not speak of this! By what strange spell Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers, I dream of music? Something in their hues, All melting into colour’d harmonies, Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords, Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die In tenderest falls away. Oh, bring thy harp, Sister! A gentle heaviness at last Hath touch’d mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep Will come again. _Jessy._ What wouldst thou hear?--the Italian peasant’s lay, Which makes the desolate Campagna ring With “_Roma! Roma!_” or the madrigal Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily? Or the old ditty left by troubadours To girls of Languedoc? _Lilian._ Oh, no! not these. _Jessy._ What then?--the Moorish melody still known Within the Alhambra city? or those notes Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile’s heart Even unto death? _Lilian._ No, sister! nor yet these-- Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret, Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes In the caressing sweetness of their tones, For one who dies. They would but woo me back To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds-- And vainly, vainly. No! a loftier strain, A deeper music!--something that may bear The spirit upon slow yet mighty wings, Unsway’d by gusts of earth; something all fill’d With solemn adoration, tearful prayer. Sing me that antique strain which once I deem’d Almost too sternly simple, too austere In its grave majesty! I love it now-- _Now_ it seems fraught with holiest power to hush All billows of the soul, e’en like His voice That said of old--“Be still!” Sing me that strain, “The Saviour’s dying hour.” Jessy _sings to the Harp_. O Son of Man! In thy last mortal hour Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully! All that on us is laid, All the deep gloom, The desolation and the abandonment, The dark amaze of death-- All upon _thee_ too fell, Redeemer! Son of Man! But the keen pang Wherewith the silver cord Of earth’s affection from the soul is wrung; The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown Into the quick, strong heart; This, _this_--the passion and the agony Of battling love and death, Surely was not for _thee_, Holy One! Son of God! Yes, my Redeemer! E’en this cup was thine! Fond, wailing voices call’d thy spirit back: E’en midst the mighty thoughts Of that last crowning hour-- E’en on thine awful way to victory, Wildly they call’d thee back! And weeping eyes of love Unto thy heart’s deep core Pierced through the folds of death’s mysterious veil. Suffer! thou Son of Man! Mother-tears were mingled With thy costly blood-drops, In the shadow of the atoning cross; And the friend, the faithful, He that on thy bosom Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain-- He, a pale sad watcher, Met with looks of anguish All the anguish in _thy_ last meek glance-- Dying Son of Man! Oh! therefore unto thee, Thou that hast known all woes Bound in the girdle of mortality! Thou that wilt lift the reed Which storms have bruised, To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry, And, in that tempest-hour, when love and life Mysteriously must part, When tearful eyes Are passionately bent To drink earth’s last fond meaning from our gaze, Then, then forsake us not! Shed on our spirits then The faith and deep submissiveness of thine! Thou that didst love Thou that didst weep and die-- Thou that didst rise a victor glorified; Conqueror! thou Son of God! CATHEDRAL HYMN. “They dreamt not of a perishable home Who thus could build. Be mine in hours of fear Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here.” Wordsworth. A dim and mighty minster of old time! A temple shadowy with remembrances Of the majestic past! The very light Streams with a colouring of heroic days In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back To other years!--and the rich fretted roof, And the wrought coronals of summer leaves, Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose-- The tenderest image of mortality-- Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves;--all these things Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly, On their heart’s worship pour’d a wealth of love! Honour be with the dead! The people kneel Under the helms of antique chivalry, And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, And midst the forms, in pale, proud slumber carved, Of warriors on their tombs. The people kneel Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell’d crowns On the flush’d brows of conquerors have been set; Where the high anthems of old victories Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain thoughts! Memories of power and pride, which long ago, Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk In twilight-depths away. Return, my soul! The Cross recalls thee. Lo! the blessed Cross! High o’er the banners and the crests of earth, Fix’d in its meek and still supremacy! And lo! the throng of beating human hearts, With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, All their full treasures of immortal hope, Gather’d before their God! Hark! how the flood Of the rich organ-harmony bears up Their voice on its high waves!--a mighty burst! A forest-sounding music! Every tone Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings From gulfs of tossing foliage, there is blent: And the old minster--forest-like itself-- With its long avenues of pillar’d shade, Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain O’erflows its dim recesses, leaving not One tomb unthrill’d by the strong sympathy Answering the electric notes. Join, join, my soul! In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness, And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn. Rise like an altar-fire! In solemn joy aspire, Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain! On thy strong rushing wind Bear up from humankind