The Poems of Felicia Hemans

So, from his harvest-home, Must the tired peasant come; So, in one trust, Leader and king must yield The naked soul reveal’d To thee, All Just! The sword of many a fight-- What _then_ shall be its might? The lofty lay That rush’d on eagle wing-- What shall its memory bring? What hope, what stay? O Father! in that hour, When earth all succouring power Shall disavow; When spear, and shield, and crown In faintness are cast down-- Sustain us, Thou! By Him who bow’d to take The death-cup for our sake, The thorn, the rod; From whom the last dismay Was not to pass away-- Aid us, O God! Tremblers beside the grave, We call on thee to save, Father divine! Hear, hear our suppliant breath! Keep us, in life and death, Thine, only thine! THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS. SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGGIO’S. In the deep wilderness unseen she pray’d, The daughter of Jerusalem; alone With all the still, small whispers of the night, And with the searching glances of the stars, And with her God, alone: she lifted up Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o’er her head, The dark leaves thrill’d with prayer--the tearful prayer Of woman’s quenchless, yet repentant love. Father of Spirits, hear! Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal’d, Look on the fountain of the burning tear, Before thy sight in solitude unseal’d! Hear, Father! hear, and aid! If I have loved too well, if I have shed, In my vain fondness, o’er a mortal head, Gifts on thy shrine, my God! more fitly laid; If I have sought to live But in _one_ light, and made a human eye The lonely star of mine idolatry, Thou that art Love! oh, pity and forgive! Chasten’d and school’d at last, No more, no more my struggling spirit burns, But, fix’d on thee, from that wild worship turns-- What have I said?--the deep dream is not past! Yet hear!--if _still_ I love, Oh! still too fondly--if, for ever seen, An earthly image comes my heart between And thy calm glory, Father! throned above; If still a voice is near, (E’en while I strive these wanderings to control,) An earthly voice disquieting my soul With its deep music, too intensely dear; O Father! draw to thee My lost affections back!--the dreaming eyes Clear from their mist--sustain the heart that dies, Give the worn soul once more its pinions free! I must love on, O God! This bosom must love on!--but let thy breath Touch and make pure the flame that knows not death, Bearing it up to heaven--love’s own abode! Ages and ages past, the wilderness, With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night, With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds, That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers. How many such hath woman’s bursting heart _Since then_, in silence and in darkness breathed, Like the dim night-flower’s odour, up to God! PRISONERS’ EVENING SERVICE. A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.[424] “From their spheres The stars of human glory are cast down. Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms Of all the mighty, wither’d and consumed! Nor is power given to lowliest innocence Long to protect her own.” Wordsworth. Scene--_Prison of the Luxembourg in Paris, during the Reign of Terror._ D’Aubigné, _an aged Royalist_--Blanche, _his daughter, a young girl._ _Blanche._ What was your doom, my father? In thine arms I lay unconsciously through that dread hour. Tell me the sentence! Could our judges look, Without relenting, on thy silvery hair? Was there not mercy, father? Will they not Restore us to our home? _D’Aubigné._ Yes, my poor child! They send us home. _Blanche._ Oh! shall we gaze again On the bright Loire? Will the old hamlet spire, And the gray turret of our own chateau, Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms? Will the kind voices of our villagers, The loving laughter in their children’s eyes, Welcome us back at last? But how is this? Father! thy glance is clouded--on thy brow There sits no joy! _D’Aubigné._ Upon my brow, dear girl! There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace As may befit the Christian who receives, And recognises in submissive awe, The summons of his God. _Blanche._ Thou dost not mean---- No, no! it cannot be! Didst thou not say They sent us _home_? _D’Aubigné._ Where is the spirit’s home? Oh! most of all, in these dark, evil days, Where should it be--but in that world serene, Beyond the sword’s reach and the tempest’s power, --Where, but in heaven? _Blanche._ My father! _D’Aubigné._ _We must die._ We must look up to God, and calmly die. Come to my heart, and weep there! For awhile Give nature’s passion way; then brightly rise In the still courage of a woman’s heart. Do I not know thee? Do I ask too much From mine own noble Blanche? _Blanche_, (_falling on his bosom._) Oh! clasp me fast! Thy trembling child! Hide, hide me in thine arms-- Father! _D’Aubigné._ Alas! my flower, thou’rt young to go-- Young, and so fair! Yet were it worse, methinks, To leave thee where the gentle and the brave, The loyal-hearted and the chivalrous, And they that loved their God, have all been swept, Like the sere leaves, away. For them no hearth Through the wide land was left inviolate, No altar holy; therefore did they fall, Rejoicing to depart. The soil is steep’d In noble blood; the temples are gone down; The voice of prayer is hush’d, or fearfully Mutter’d, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would live Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee, To quit for ever the dishonour’d soil, The burden’d air! Our God upon the cross-- Our king upon the scaffold[425]--let us think Of _these_--and fold endurance to our hearts, And bravely die! _Blanche._ A dark and fearful way! An evil doom for thy dear, honour’d head! O thou, the kind, the gracious! whom all eyes Bless’d as they look’d upon! Speak yet again-- Say, will they part us? _D’Aubigné._ No, my Blanche; in death, We shall not be divided. _Blanche._ Thanks to God! He, by thy glance, will aid me--I shall see His light before me to the last. And when-- Oh, pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child!-- When shall the hour befall? _D’Aubigné._ Oh! swiftly now, And suddenly, with brief, dread interval, Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that hour As yet I know not. Each low throbbing pulse Of the quick pendulum may usher in Eternity! _Blanche_, (_kneeling before him._) My father! lay thy hand On thy poor Blanche’s head, and once again Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness-- Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul, Ere we are call’d. _D’Aubigné._ If I may speak through tears!-- Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently, Child of my heart!--thou who dost look on me With thy lost mother’s angel eyes of love! Thou, that hast been a brightness in my path, A guest of heaven unto my lonely soul, A stainless lily in my widow’d house, There springing up, with soft light round thee shed, For immortality! Meek child of God! I bless thee--He will bless thee! In his love He calls thee now from this rude stormy world To thy Redeemer’s breast! And thou wilt die, As thou hast lived--my duteous, holy Blanche! In trusting and serene submissiveness, Humble, yet full of heaven. _Blanche_, (_rising._) Now is there strength Infused through all my spirit. I can rise And say, “Thy will be done!” _D’Aubigné_, (_pointing upwards._) See’st thou, my child! Yon faint light in the west? The signal star Of our due vesper-service, gleaming in Through the close dungeon-grating! Mournfully It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass, _This_ night alone, without the lifted voice Of adoration in our narrow cell, As if unworthy fear or wavering faith Silenced the strain? No! let it waft to heaven The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality, In its dark hour once more! And we will sleep, Yes--calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed. [_They sing together._ [424] The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her _Letters from France_, gave rise to this little scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, which they sang together in a low and restrained voice every night. [425] A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and hearing some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamentations, turned towards the sufferer, and thus addressed him:--“My friend, whoever you may be, remember that your God expired upon the cross--your king upon the scaffold--and he who now speaks to you has had his limbs shot from under him. Meet your fate as becomes a man.” PRISONER’S EVENING SONG. We see no more in thy pure skies, How soft, O God! the sunset dies; How every colour’d hill and wood Seems melting in the golden flood: Yet, by the precious memories won From bright hours now for ever gone, Father! o’er all thy works, we know, Thou still art shedding beauty’s glow; Still touching every cloud and tree With glory, eloquent of thee; Still feeding all thy flowers with light, Though man hath barr’d it from our sight. We know thou reign’st, the Unchanging One, the All-just! And bless thee still with free and boundless trust! We read no more, O God! thy ways On earth, in these wild, evil days. The red sword in the oppressor’s hand Is ruler of the weeping land; Fallen are the faithful and the pure, No shrine is spared, no hearth secure. Yet, by the deep voice from the past, Which tells us these things cannot last-- And by the hope which finds no ark Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark-- We trust thee! As the sailor knows That in its place of bright repose His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud May veil it with a midnight shroud, We know thou reign’st, All-holy One, All-just! And bless thee still with love’s own boundless trust. We feel no more that aid is nigh, When our faint hearts within us die. We suffer--and we know our doom Must be one suffering till the tomb. Yet, by the anguish of thy Son When his last hour came darkly on; By his dread cry, the air which rent In terror of abandonment; And by his parting word, which rose Through faith victorious o’er all woes-- We know that thou may’st wound, may’st break The spirit, but wilt ne’er forsake! Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn, In our deep need to thee we turn! To whom but thee? All-merciful, All-just!