The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Unto far nobler destiny Than waits the skylark’s plume! I saw him, in that thoughtful hour, Win the first knowledge of his dower. The _soul_, the awakening _soul_ I saw-- My watching eye could trace The shadows of its new-born awe Sweeping o’er that fair face: As o’er a flower might pass the shade By some dread angel’s pinion made! The soul, the mother of deep fears, Of high hopes infinite, Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears, Of sleepless inner sight; Lovely, but solemn, it arose, Unfolding what no more might close. The red-leaved tablets,[423] undefiled, As yet, by evil thought-- Oh! little dream’d the brooding child Of what within me wrought, While _his_ young heart first burn’d and stirr’d, And quiver’d to the eternal word. And reverently my spirit caught The reverence of _his_ gaze-- A sight with dew of blessing fraught To hallow after-days; To make the proud heart meekly wise, By the sweet faith in those calm eyes. It seem’d as if a temple rose Before me brightly there; And in the depths of its repose My soul o’erflow’d with prayer, Feeling a solemn presence nigh-- The power of infant sanctity! O Father! mould my heart once more By thy prevailing breath! Teach me, oh! teach me to adore E’en with that pure one’s faith-- A faith, all made of love and light, Child-like, and therefore full of might! [423] “All this, and more than this, is now engraved upon the _red-leaved tablets_ of my heart.”--Haywood. A POET’S DYING HYMN. “Be mute who will, who can, Yet I will praise thee with impassion’d voice! Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine In such a temple as we now behold, Rear’d for thy presence; therefore am I bound To worship, here and every where.”--Wordsworth. The blue, deep, glorious heavens!--I lift mine eye, And bless thee, O my God! that I have met And own’d thine image in the majesty Of their calm temple still!--that, never yet, There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night: I bless thee, O my God! That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, I see the mercy of thine aspect shine, Touching death’s features with a lovely glance Of light, serenely, solemnly divine, And lending to each holy star a ray As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away: I bless thee, O my God! That I have heard thy voice nor been afraid, In the earth’s garden--midst the mountains old, And the low thrillings of the forest-shade, And the wild sound of waters uncontroll’d-- And upon many a desert plain and shore-- No solitude--for there I felt _thee_ more: I bless thee, O my God! And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed The gift, the vision of the unseal’d eye, To pierce the mist o’er life’s deep meanings spread, To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie Far in man’s heart--if I have kept it free And pure, a consecration unto thee: I bless thee, O my God! If my soul’s utterance hath by thee been fraught With an awakening power--if thou hast made Like the wing’d seed, the breathings of my thought, And by the swift winds bid them be convey’d To lands of other lays, and there become Native as early melodies of home: I bless thee, O my God! Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath, Not for a place midst kingly minstrels dead, But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, A still small whisper, in my song hath led One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne, Or but one hope, one prayer,--for this alone I bless thee, O my God! That I have loved--that I have known the love Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs, Yet, with a colouring halo from above, Tinges and glorifies all earthly things, Whate’er its anguish or its woe may be, Still weaving links for intercourse with thee: I bless thee, O my God! That by the passion of its deep distress, And by the o’erflowing of its mighty prayer, And by the yearning of its tenderness, Too full for words upon their stream to bear, I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine, Well-spring of love, the unfathom’d, the divine, I bless thee, O my God! That hope hath ne’er my heart or song forsaken, High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread, Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed: That passing storms have only fann’d the fire Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire, I bless thee, O my God! Now art thou calling me in every gale, Each sound and token of the dying day; Thou leav’st me not--though early life grows pale, I am not darkly sinking to decay; But, hour by hour, my soul’s dissolving shroud Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud. I bless thee, O my God! And if this earth, with all its choral streams, And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies, And mountain sanctuaries for poet’s dreams, Be lovely still in my departing eyes-- ’Tis not that fondly I would linger here, But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear: I bless thee, O my God! And that the tender shadowing I behold, The tracery veining every leaf and flower, Of glories cast in more consummate mould, No longer vassals to the changeful hour; That life’s last roses to my thoughts can bring Rich visions of imperishable spring: I bless thee, O my God! Yes! the young, vernal voices in the skies Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear, Seem heralds of th’ eternal melodies, The spirit-music, imperturb’d and clear-- The full of soul, yet passionate no more: Let _me_, too, joining those pure strains, adore! I bless thee, O my God! Now aid, sustain me still. To thee I come-- Make thou my dwelling where thy children are, And for the hope of that immortal home, And for thy Son, the bright and morning star, The sufferer and the victor-king of death, I bless thee with my glad song’s dying breath! I bless thee, O my God! [“I have lately written what I consider one of my best pieces--‘A Poet’s Dying Hymn.’ It appeared in the last number of _Blackwood_,” (April 1832.)--_Letter from Mrs Hemans._ “It is impossible to read this affecting poem without feeling how distinctly it breathes the inward echoes of the soul to the frequent warnings of the Summoner; those presentiments which must have long silently possessed her, here for the first time finding utterance. Still more strongly does it evidence that subdued and serene frame of mind, into which her once vivacious temperament and painfully vibrating sensibilities were now so gently and happily subsiding.”--_Memoir_, p. 254.] THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. “Many an eye May wail the dimming of our shining star.”--_Shakspeare._ A glorious voice hath ceased! Mournfully, reverently--the funeral chant Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound, A hollow murmur of the dying year, In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad! A more Æolian, melancholy tone Than ever wail’d o’er bright things perishing! For _that_ is passing from the darken’d land, Which the green summer will not bring us back-- Though all her songs return. The funeral chant Breathe reverently! They bear the mighty forth, The kingly ruler in the realms of mind; They bear him through the household paths, the groves, Where every tree had music of its own To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love-- And he is silent! Past the living stream They bear him now; the stream whose kindly voice, On alien shores, his true heart burn’d to hear-- And he is silent! O’er the heathery hills, Which his own soul had mantled with a light Richer than autumn’s purple, now they move-- And he is silent!--he, whose flexile lips Were but unseal’d, and lo! a thousand forms, From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height, In glowing life upsprang,--vassal and chief, Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal, Fast-rushing through the brightly troubled air, Like the Wild Huntsman’s band. And still they live, To those fair scenes imperishably bound, And, from the mountain-mist still flashing by, Startle the wanderer who hath listen’d there To the seer’s voice: phantoms of colour’d thought, Surviving him who raised. O eloquence! O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead! Who shall wake _thee_? lord of the buried past! And art thou _there_--to those dim nations join’d, Thy subject-host so long? The wand is dropp’d, The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand Touch’d, and the genii came! Sing reverently The funeral chant! The mighty is borne home, And who shall be his mourners? Youth and age, For each hath felt his magic--love and grief, For he hath communed with the heart of each: Yes--the free spirit of humanity May join the august procession, for to him Its mysteries have been tributary things, And all its accents known. From field or wave, Never was conqueror on his battle-bier, By the veil’d banner and the muffled drum, And the proud drooping of the crested head, More nobly follow’d home. The last abode, The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach’d: A still, majestic spot, girt solemnly With all th’ imploring beauty of decay; A stately couch midst ruins! meet for him With his bright fame to rest in, as a king Of other days, laid lonely with his sword Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant Over the honour’d grave! The _grave_!--oh, say Rather the shrine!--an altar for the love, The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths Of years unborn--a place where leaf and flower, By that which dies not of the sovereign dead, Shall be made holy things, where every weed Shall have its portion of th’ inspiring gift From buried glory breathed. And now what strain Making victorious melody ascend High above sorrow’s dirge, befits the tomb Where he that sway’d the nations thus is laid-- The crown’d of men? A lowly, lowly song. Lowly and solemn be Thy children’s cry to thee, Father divine! A hymn of suppliant breath, Owning that life and death Alike are thine! A spirit on its way, Sceptred the earth to sway, From thee was sent: Now call’st thou back thine own-- Hence is that radiance flown-- To earth but lent. Watching in breathless awe, The bright head bow’d we saw, Beneath thy hand! Fill’d by one hope, one fear, Now o’er a brother’s bier Weeping we stand. How hath he pass’d!--the lord Of each deep bosom-chord, To meet thy sight, Unmantled and alone, On thy bless’d mercy thrown, O Infinite!