The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Thanks and implorings--be they not in vain! Father, which art on high! Weak is the melody Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear, Unless the heart be there, Winging the words of prayer With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear. Let, then, thy Spirit brood Over the multitude-- Be thou amidst them, thro’ that heavenly Guest! So shall their cry have power To win from thee a shower Of healing gifts for every wounded breast. What griefs that make no sign, That ask no aid but thine, Father of mercies! here before thee swell! As to the open sky, All their dark waters lie To thee reveal’d, in each close bosom-cell. The sorrow for the dead, Mantling its lonely head From the world’s glare, is, in thy sight, set free; And the fond, aching love, Thy minister to move All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee. And doth not thy dread eye Behold the agony In that most hidden chamber of the heart, Where darkly sits remorse, Beside the secret source Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart? Yes! here before thy throne Many--yet each alone-- To thee that terrible unveiling make: And still, small whispers clear Are startling many an ear, As if a trumpet bade the dead awake. How dreadful is this place! The glory of thy face Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight. Where shall the guilty flee? Over what far-off sea? What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light? Not to the cedar-shade Let his vain flight be made; Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea; What, but the Cross, can yield The hope--the stay--the shield? _Thence_ may the Atoner lead him up to thee! Be thou, be thou his aid! Oh, let thy love pervade The haunted caves of self-accusing thought! There let the living stone Be cleft--the seed be sown-- The song of fountains from the silence brought! So shall thy breath once more Within the soul restore Thine own first image--Holiest and Most High! As a clear lake is fill’d With hues of heaven, instill’d Down to the depths of its calm purity. And if, amidst the throng Link’d by the ascending song, There are whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar; Thanks, Father! that the power Of joy, man’s early dower, Thus, e’en midst tears, can fervently adore! Thanks for each gift divine! Eternal praise be thine, Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer! Let the hymn pierce the sky, And let the tombs reply! For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there. WOOD WALK AND HYMN.[421] “Move along these shades In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods.”--Wordsworth. Father--Child. _Child._ There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime And chestnut boughs, and those long arching sprays Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood Were all one picture! _Father._ Hast thou heard, my boy, The peasant’s legend of that quivering tree? _Child._ No, father: doth he say the fairies dance Amidst the branches? _Father._ Oh! a cause more deep, More solemn far, the rustic doth assign To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves! The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon The meek Redeemer bow’d his head to death, Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour, Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe, Making them tremulous, when not a breeze Disturbs the airy thistle-down, or shakes The light lines of the shining gossamer. _Child._, (_after a pause._) Dost thou believe it, father? _Father._ Nay, my child, _We_ walk in clearer light. But yet, even now, With something of a lingering love, I read The characters, by that mysterious hour, Stamp’d on the reverential soul of man In visionary days; and thence thrown back On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven, The woodman and the mountaineer can trace On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so! _They_ do not wisely that, with hurried hand, Would pluck these salutary fancies forth From their strong soil within the peasant’s breast, And scatter them--far, far too fast!--away As worthless weeds. Oh! little do we know _When_ they have soothed, when saved! But come, dear boy! My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee. Come--let us search for violets. _Child._ Know you not More of the legends which the woodmen tell Amidst the trees and flowers? _Father._ Wilt thou know more? Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-brown stains There--by the mossy roots of yon old beech, Midst the rich tuft of cowslips--see’st thou not? There is a spray of woodbine from the tree Just bending o’er it with a wild bee’s weight. _Child._ The Arum leaf? _Father._ Yes. These deep inwrought marks, The villager will tell thee, (and with voice Lower’d in his true heart’s reverent earnestness,) Are the flower’s portion from th’ atoning blood On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew; And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf, Catching from that dread shower of agony A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains, A heritage, for storm or vernal wind Never to waft away! And hast thou seen The passion-flower? It grows not in the woods, But midst the bright things brought from other climes. _Child._ What! the pale star-shaped flower, with purple streaks, And light green tendrils? _Father._ Thou hast mark’d it well. Yes! a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower, As from a land of spirits! To mine eye Those faint, wan petals--colourless, and yet Not white, but shadowy--with the mystic lines (As letters of some wizard language gone) Into their vapour-like transparence wrought, Bear something of a strange solemnity, Awfully lovely!--and the Christian’s thought Loves, in their cloudy penciling, to find Dread symbols of his Lord’s last mortal pangs Set by God’s hand--the coronal of thorns-- The cross, the wounds--with other meanings deep Which I will teach thee when we meet again That flower, the chosen for the martyr’s wreath, The Saviour’s holy flower. But let us pause: Now have we reach’d the very inmost heart Of the old wood. How the green shadows close Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round, A luxury of gloom! Scarce doth one ray, Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal O’er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades; Or if it doth, ’tis with a mellow’d hue Of glow-worm colour’d light. Here, in the days Of pagan visions, would have been a place For worship of the wood-nymphs! Through these oaks A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown The quivering image of its Dorian shafts On the stream’s bosom, or a sculptured form, Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom, Have bow’d its head o’er that dark crystal down, Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops Under bright rain. But _we_, my child, are here With God, our God, a Spirit, who requires Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth; And this high knowledge--deep, rich, vast enough To fill and hallow all the solitude-- Makes consecrated earth where’er we move, Without the aid of shrines. What! dost thou feel The solemn whispering influence of the scene Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw More closely to my side, and clasp my hand Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child! ’Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here, Where brooding violets mantle this green slope With dark exuberance; and beneath these plumes Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds In its pure, crimson goblets, fresh and bright, The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile, And let me hear once more the woodland verse I taught thee late--’twas made for such a scene. _Child speaks._ [421] “It is not often we find the superstitions of dark and ignorant ages dealt with in so gentle and agreeable a manner as by Mrs Hemans. She seizes, in common with others, the poetic aspect these present, but diffuses over them, at the same time, a refinement of sentiment gathered entirely from her own feelings. A subject which, from another pencil, would have been disagreeable and offensive to us, is made by her graceful touches to win upon our imagination. Witness the poem called ‘The Wood Walk and Hymn;’ we will quote the commencement of it-- ‘There are the aspens with their silvery leaves,’” etc. _Blackwood’s Magazine_, Dec. 1848. WOOD HYMN. Broods there some spirit here? The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud; And o’er the pools, all still and darkly clear, The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow’d; And something of a tender cloistral gloom Deepens the violet’s bloom. The very light that streams Through the dim, dewy veil of foliage round Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams-- As if it knew the place were holy ground; And would not startle, with too bright a burst, Flowers, all divinely nursed. _Wakes_ there some spirit here? A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by; And leaves and waters, in its wild career, Shed forth sweet voices--each a mystery! Surely some awful influence must pervade These depths of trembling shade! Yes! lightly, softly move! There _is_ a power, a presence in the woods; A viewless being that, with life and love, Informs the reverential solitudes: The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod-- Thou--_thou_ art here, my God! And if with awe we tread The minster-floor, beneath the storied pane, And, midst the mouldering banners of the dead, Shall the green, voiceful wild seem _less_ thy fane, Where thou alone hast built?--where arch and roof Are of thy living woof? The silence and the sound, In the lone places, breathe alike of thee; The temple-twilight of the gloom profound, The dew-cup of the frail anemone, The reed by every wandering whisper thrill’d-- All, all with thee are fill’d! Oh! purify mine eyes, More and yet more, by love and lowly thought, Thy presence, holiest One! to recognise In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought And, midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear Ever thy voice to hear! And sanctify my heart To meet the awful sweetness of that tone With no faint thrill or self-accusing start, But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own-- Joy, such as dwelt in Eden’s glorious bowers