The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Linking our hearts to nature! By the love
Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first
Into her deep recesses are beguiled--
Her minster-cells--dark glen and forest bower,
Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee,
Amidst the low, religious whisperings
And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude,
The spirit wakes to worship, and is made
Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers,
Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares,
Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain-streams,
That sing of thee! back to free childhood’s heart,
Fresh with the dews of tenderness! Thou bidd’st
The lilies of the field with placid smile
Reprove man’s feverish strivings, and infuse
Through his worn soul a more unworldly life,
With their soft, holy breath. Thou hast not left
His purer nature, with its fine desires,
Uncared for in this universe of thine!
The glowing rose attests it, the beloved
Of poet-hearts, touch’d by their fervent dreams
With spiritual light, and made a source
Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E’en to faint age
Thou lend’st the vernal bliss: the old man’s eye
Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul
Remembers youth and love, and hopefully
Turns unto thee, who call’st earth’s buried germs
From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed
Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up
To put on glory, to be girt with power,
And fill’d with immortality. Receive
Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons,
And, most of all, their heavenward influences,
O Thou that gavest us flowers!
Return, my boy!--
With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return!
See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch’d
And glorified the ruin!--glow-worm light
Will twinkle on the dewdrops, ere we reach
Our home again. Come! with thy last sweet prayer
At thy bless’d mother’s knee, to-night shall thanks
Unto our Father in his heaven arise,
For all the gladness, all the beauty shed
O’er one rich day of flowers.
HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER’S HOUSEHOLD ON HIS RETURN,
IN THE OLDEN TIME.
Joy! the lost one is restored!
Sunshine comes to hearth and board.
From the far-off countries old
Of the diamond and red gold;
From the dusky archer-bands,
Roamers of the fiery sands;
From the desert winds, whose breath
Smites with sudden, silent death;
He hath reach’d his home again,
Where we sing
In thy praise a fervent strain,
God our King!
Mightiest! unto thee he turn’d
When the noon-day fiercest burn’d:
When the fountain-springs were far,
And the sounds of Arab war
Swell’d upon the sultry blast,
And the sandy columns past,
Unto thee he cried; and thou,
Merciful! didst hear his vow!
Therefore unto thee again
Joy shall sing
Many a sweet and thankful strain,
God our King!
Thou wert with him on the main,
And the snowy mountain-chain,
And the rivers, dark and wide,
Which through Indian forests glide:
Thou didst guard him from the wrath
Of the lion in his path,
And the arrows on the breeze,
And the dropping poison-trees.
Therefore from our household train
Oft shall spring
Unto thee a blessing strain,
God our King!
Thou to his lone, watching wife
Hast brought back the light of life!
Thou hast spared his loving child
Home to greet him from the wild.
Though the suns of Eastern skies
On his cheek have set their dyes,
Though long toils and sleepless cares
On his brow have blanch’d the hairs,
Yet the night of fear is flown--
He is living, and our own!
Brethren! spread his festal board,
Hang his mantle and his sword,
With the armour, on the wall--
While this long, long silent hall
Joyfully doth hear again
Voice and string
Swell to thee the exulting strain,
God our King!
THE PAINTER’S LAST WORK.
[Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter Blake,
which is beautifully related by Allan Cunningham.]
“Clasp me a little longer on the brink
Of life, while I can feel thy dear caress;
And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh! think,
And let it mitigate thy woe’s excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship just--
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,
And by the hope of an immortal trust,
God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust!”--Campbell.
_The Scene is an English Cottage. The lattice opens upon a
Landscape at sunset._
Eugene, Teresa.
_Teresa._ The fever’s hue hath left thy cheek, beloved!
Thine eyes, that make the dayspring in my heart,
Are clear and still once more! Wilt thou look forth?
Now, while the sunset with low streaming light--
The light thou lovest--hath made the elm-wood stems
All burning bronze, the river molten gold!
Wilt thou be raised upon thy couch, to meet
The rich air fill’d with wandering scents and sounds?
Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more
On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest
With our own evening hymn?
_Eugene._ Not now, dear love!
My soul is wakeful--lingering to look forth,
Not on the sun, but thee! Doth the light sleep
On the stream tenderly? and are the stems
Of our own elm-trees, by its alchemy,
So richly changed? and is the sweetbrier-scent
Floating around? But I have said farewell,
Farewell to earth, Teresa!--not to thee;
Nor yet to our deep love--nor yet awhile
Unto the spirit of mine art, which flows
Back on my soul in mastery. One last work!
And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts,
Clinging affections, and undying hopes,
All, all in that memorial!
_Teresa._ Oh, what dream
Is this, mine own Eugene? Waste thou not thus
Thy scarce-returning strength; keep thy rich thoughts
For happier days--they will not melt away
Like passing music from the lute. Dear friend!
Dearest of friends! thou canst win back at will
The glorious visions.
_Eugene._ Yes! the unseen land
Of glorious visions hath sent forth a voice
To call me hence. Oh, be thou not deceived!
Bind to thy heart no _earthly_ hope, Teresa!
I must, _must_ leave thee! Yet be strong, my love!
As thou hast still been gentle.
_Teresa._ O Eugene!
What will this dim world be to me, Eugene!
When wanting thy bright soul, the life of all--
My only sunshine? How can I bear on?
How can we part?--we that have loved so well,
With clasping spirits link’d so long by grief,
By tears, by prayer?
_Eugene._ E’en _therefore_ we can part,
With an immortal trust, that such high love
Is not of things to perish.
Let me leave
One record still of its ethereal flame
Brightening through death’s cold shadow. Once again,
Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast,
And eyes half veil’d, in thine own soul absorb’d,
As in thy watchings ere I sink to sleep;
And I will give the bending, flower-like grace
Of that soft form, and the still sweetness throned
On that pale brow, and in that quivering smile
Of voiceless love, a life that shall outlast
Their delicate earthly being. There! thy head
Bow’d down with beauty, and with tenderness,
And lowly thought--even thus--my own Teresa!
Oh! the quick-glancing radiance and bright bloom,
That once around thee hung, have melted now
Into more solemn light--but holier far,
And dearer, and yet lovelier in mine eyes,
Than all that summer-flush! For by my couch,
In patient and serene devotedness,
Thou hast made those rich hues and sunny smiles
Thine offering unto me. Oh! I may give
Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow,
And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye,
Unto the canvass; I may catch the flow
Of all those drooping locks, and glorify,
With a soft halo, what is imaged thus--
But how much rests unbreathed, my faithful one!
What thou hast been to me! This bitter world!
This cold, unanswering world, that hath no voice
To greet the gentle spirit, that drives back
All birds of Eden, which would sojourn here
A little while--how have I turn’d away
From its keen, soulless air, and in thy heart
Found ever the sweet fountain of response
To quench my thirst for home!
The dear work grows
Beneath my hand,--the last!
_Teresa_, (_falling on his neck in tears._)
Eugene! Eugene!
Break not my heart with thine excess of love!--
Oh! must I lose thee--thou that hast been still
The tenderest--best!
_Eugene._ Weep, weep not thus, beloved!
Let my true heart o’er thine retain its power
Of soothing to the last! Mine own Teresa!
Take strength from strong affection! Let our souls,
Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain
Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God’s rich boon--
Our perfect love! Oh, blessed have we been
In that high gift! thousands o’er earth may pass,
With hearts unfreshen’d by the heavenly dew,
Which hath kept _ours_ from withering. Kneel, true wife!
And lay thy hands in mine.
_(She kneels beside the couch--he prays.)_
Oh, thus receive
Thy children’s thanks, Creator! for the love
Which thou hast granted, through all earthly woes,
To spread heaven’s peace around them--which hath bound
Their spirits to each other and to thee,
With links whereon unkindness ne’er hath breathed,
Nor wandering thought. We thank thee, gracious God!
For all its treasured memories, tender cares,
Fond words, bright, bright sustaining looks, unchanged
Through tears and joy! O Father! most of all,
We thank, we bless thee, for the priceless trust,
Through thy redeeming Son vouchsafed to those
That love in thee, of union, in thy sight
And in thy heavens, immortal! Hear our prayer!
Take home our fond affections, purified
To spirit-radiance from all earthly stain;
Exalted, solemnised, made fit to dwell,
Father! where all things that are lovely meet,
And all things that are pure--for evermore
With thee and thine!
A PRAYER OF AFFECTION.
Blessings, O Father! shower--
Father of Mercies! round his precious head!
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour,
And the pure visions of his midnight bed,
Blessings be shed!
Father! I pray thee not
For earthly treasure to that most beloved--
Fame, fortune, power: oh! be his spirit proved
By these, or by their absence, at thy will!
But let thy peace be wedded to his lot,
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill,
With its dove-pinion still!
Let such a sense of thee,
Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love,
His bosom-guest inalienably be,
That wheresoe’er he move,
A heavenly light serene
Upon his heart and mien
May sit undimm’d! a gladness rest his own,
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown!
Such as from childhood’s morning land of dreams,
Remember’d faintly, gleams--
Faintly remember’d, and too swiftly flown!
So let him walk with thee,
Made by thy Spirit free;
And when thou call’st him from his mortal place,
To his last hour be still that sweetness given,