The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Go from my bosom now to other rest!
With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow,
And on thy pale, calm cheek these contrite tears,
I yield thee to thy Maker!
_Husband._ Now, my wife!
Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more
A light upon my path. Now shall I bear,
From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose--
With a calm, trustful heart.
_Agnes._ My Edmund! where--
Where wilt thou lay him?
_Husband._ See’st thou where the spire
Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun
To burning gold?--there--o’er yon willow-tuft?
Under that native desert monument
Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn,
With the gray mosses of the wilderness
Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth,
E’en from the fulness of his own pure heart,
A wild, sad forest hymn--a song of tears,
Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy
Chanting it o’er his solitary task,
As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves,
Perchance unconsciously.
_Agnes._ My gentle son!
The affectionate, the gifted! With what joy--
Edmund, rememberest thou?--with what bright joy
His baby brother ever to his arms
Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair
In that kind, useful breast! Oh! now no more!
But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart,
Even to a well-spring of adoring tears,
For many a blessing left.
(_Bending over the child._) Once more, farewell!
Oh, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look!
How can it be sustain’d? Away, away!
(_After a short pause._)
Edmund! my woman’s nature still is weak--
I cannot see thee render dust to dust!
Go thou, my husband! to thy solemn task;
I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer
Till thy return.
_Husband._ Then strength be with thy prayer!
Peace on thy bosom! Faith and heavenly hope
Unto thy spirit! Fare thee well a while!
We must be pilgrims of the woods again,
After this mournful hour.
(_He goes out with the child._--Agnes, _kneels in
prayer.--After a time, voices without are heard singing._)
FUNERAL HYMN.
Where the long reeds quiver,
Where the pines make moan,
By the forest-river,
Sleeps our babe alone.
England’s field-flowers may not deck his grave,
Cypress shadows o’er him darkly wave.
Woods unknown receive him,
Midst the mighty wild;
Yet with God we leave him,
Blessed, blessed child!
And our tears gush o’er his lovely dust,
Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust.
Though his eye hath brighten’d
Oft our weary way,
And his clear laugh lighten’d
Half our hearts’ dismay;
Still in hope we give back what was given,
Yielding up the beautiful to heaven.
And to her who bore him,
Her who long must weep,
Yet shall heaven restore him
From his pale, sweet sleep!
Those blue eyes of love and peace again
Through her soul will shine, undimm’d by pain.
Where the long reeds quiver,
Where the pines make moan,
Leave we by the river
Earth to earth alone!
God and Father! may our journeyings on
Lead to where the blessed boy is gone!
From the exile’s sorrow,
From the wanderer’s dread
Of the night and morrow,
Early, brightly fled;
Thou hast call’d him to a sweeter home
Than our lost one o’er the ocean’s foam.
Now let thought behold him,
With his angel look,
Where those arms enfold him,
Which benignly took
Israel’s babes to their Good Shepherd’s breast
When his voice their tender meekness blest.
Turn thee now, fond mother!
From thy dead, oh, turn!
Linger not, young brother,
Here to dream and mourn:
Only kneel once more around the sod,
Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God!
EASTER-DAY IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD.
There is a wakening on the mighty hills,
A kindling with the spirit of the morn!
Bright gleams are scatter’d from the thousand rills,
And a soft visionary hue is born
On the young foliage, worn
By all the embosom’d woods--a silvery green,
Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously serene.
And lo! where, floating through a glory, sings
The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky!
Lo! where the darkness of his buoyant wings,
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high,
Trembles with melody!
While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice
To the rich laugh of music in that voice.
But purer light than of the early sun
Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth!
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark’s mirth,
By this glad morning’s birth!
And gifts more precious by its breath are shed
Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet’s head.
Gifts for the _soul_, from whose illumined eye
O’er nature’s face the colouring glory flows;
Gifts from the fount of immortality,
Which, fill’d with balm, unknown to human woes,
Lay hush’d in dark repose,
Till thou, bright dayspring! madest its waves our own,
By thine unsealing of the burial stone.
Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills!
And let a full victorious tone be given,
By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills
Your urn-like depths with sound! The tomb is riven,
The radiant gate of heaven
Unfolded--and the stern, dark shadow cast
By death’s o’ersweeping wing, from the earth’s bosom past.
And you, ye graves! upon whose turf I stand,
Girt with the slumber of the hamlet’s dead,
Time, with a soft and reconciling hand,
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread
O’er every narrow bed:
But not by time, and not by nature sown
Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown.
Christ hath arisen! Oh, not one cherish’d head
Hath, midst the flowery sods, been pillow’d here
Without a hope, (howe’er the heart hath bled
In its vain yearnings o’er the unconscious bier,)
A hope, upspringing clear
From those majestic tidings of the morn,
Which lit the living way to all of woman born.
Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love!
E’en on this greensward: night hath heard thy cry,
Heart-stricken one! thy precious dust above--
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply
Unto thine agony!
But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide,
Christ hath arisen, O love! thy tears shall all be dried.
Dark must have been the gushing of those tears,
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb
On thine impassion’d soul, in elder years,
When, burden’d with the mystery of its doom,
Mortality’s thick gloom
Hung o’er the sunny world, and with the breath
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death.
By thee, sad Love! and by thy sister, Fear,
Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought
To vail that haunting shadow, still too near,
Still ruling secretly the conqueror’s thought,
And where the board was fraught
With wine and myrtles in the summer bower,
Felt, e’en when disavow’d, a presence and a power.
But that dark night is closed: and o’er the dead,
_Here_, where the gleamy primrose-tufts have blown,
And where the mountain-heath a couch has spread,
And, settling oft on some gray, letter’d stone,
The redbreast warbles lone;
And the wild-bee’s deep drowsy murmurs pass,
Like a low thrill of harp-strings, through the grass:
Here, midst the chambers of the Christian’s sleep,
_We_ o’er death’s gulf may look with trusting eye;
For Hope sits, dove-like, on the gloomy deep,
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie
Seem all one sanctuary
Of holiest thought--nor needs their fresh, bright sod,
Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God.
Christ hath arisen! O mountain-peaks! attest--
Witness, resounding glen and torrent-wave!
The immortal courage in the human breast
Sprung from that victory--tell how oft the brave
To camp midst rock and cave,
Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne,
Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn!
The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day--
Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone
Have thrill’d their pines, when those that knelt to pray
Rose up to arm! The pure, high snows have known
A colouring not their own,
But from true hearts, which, by that crimson stain,
Gave token of a trust that call’d no suffering vain.
Those days are past--the mountains wear no more
The solemn splendour of the martyr’s blood;
And may that awful record, as of yore,
Never again be known to field or flood!
E’en though the faithful stood,
A noble army, in the exulting sight
Of earth and heaven, which bless’d their battle for the right!
But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken
Is yet home silently in homes obscure;
And many a bitter cup is meekly taken;
And, for the strength whereby the just and pure
Thus steadfastly endure,
Glory to Him whose victory won that dower!
Him from whose rising stream’d that robe of spirit-power.
Glory to Him! Hope to the suffering breast!
Light to the nations! He hath roll’d away
The mists which, gathering into deathlike rest,
Between the soul and heaven’s calm ether lay--
His love hath made it day
With those that sat in darkness. Earth and sea!
Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made free!
THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.
“A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, to waylay.
...
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death.” Wordsworth.
I saw him at his sport erewhile,
The bright, exulting boy!
Like summer’s lightning came the smile
Of his young spirit’s joy--
A flash that, wheresoe’er it broke,
To life undreamt-of beauty woke.
His fair locks waved in sunny play,
By a clear fountain’s side,
Where jewel-colour’d pebbles lay
Beneath the shallow tide;
And pearly spray at times would meet
The glancing of his fairy feet.
He twined him wreaths of all spring-flowers,
Which drank that streamlet’s dew;
He flung them o’er the wave in showers,
Till, gazing, scarce I knew
Which seem’d more pure, or bright, or wild,
The singing fount or laughing child.
To look on all that joy and bloom
Made earth one festal scene,
Where the dull shadow of the tomb
Seem’d as it ne’er had been.
How could one image of decay
Steal o’er the dawn of such clear day?
I saw once more that aspect bright--
The boy’s meek head was bow’d
In silence o’er the Book of Light,
And, like a golden cloud--
The still cloud of a pictured sky--
His locks droop’d round it lovingly.
And if my heart had deem’d him fair,
When, in the fountain-glade,
A creature of the sky and air,
Almost on wings he play’d;
Oh! how much holier beauty now
Lit the young human being’s brow!
The being born to toil, to die,
To break forth from the tomb