The Poems of Felicia Hemans
THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE CROSS.
Like those pale stars of tempest-hours, whose gleam
Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast.
Such by the cross doth your bright lingering seem,
Daughters of Zion! faithful to the last!
Ye, through the darkness o’er the wide earth cast
By the death-cloud within the Saviour’s eye,
E’en till away the heavenly spirit pass’d,
Stood in the shadow of his agony.
O blessed faith! a guiding lamp, that hour
Was lit for woman’s heart! To her, whose dower
Is all of love and suffering from her birth,
Still hath your act a voice--through fear, through strife,
Bidding her bind each tendril of her life
To that which her deep soul hath proved of holiest worth.
MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE.
Weeper! to thee how bright a morn was given
After thy long, long vigil of despair,
When that high voice which burial-rocks had riven
Thrill’d with immortal tones the silent air!
Never did clarion’s royal blast declare
Such tale of victory to a breathless crowd,
As the deep sweetness of _one_ word could bear
Into thy heart of hearts, O woman! bow’d
By strong affection’s anguish! one low word--
“_Mary!_” and all the triumph wrung from death
Was thus reveal’d; and thou, that so hadst err’d,
So wept, and been forgiven, in trembling faith
Didst cast thee down before the all-conquering Son,
Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had won!
MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS OF THE RESURRECTION.
Then was a task of glory all thine own,
Nobler than e’er the still, small voice assign’d
To lips in awful music making known
The stormy splendours of some prophet’s mind.
“_Christ is arisen!_”--by thee, to wake mankind,
First from the sepulchre those words were brought!
Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind
First on its way, with those high tidings fraught--
“_Christ is arisen!_” Thou, _thou_, the sin-enthrall’d!
Earth’s outcast, heaven’s own ransom’d one, wert call’d
In human hearts to give that rapture birth:
Oh raised from shame to brightness! _there_ doth lie
The tenderest meaning of _His_ ministry,
Whose undespairing love still own’d the spirit’s worth.
SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL.
THE SACRED HARP.
How shall the harp of poesy regain
That old victorious tone of prophet-years--
A spell divine o’er guilt’s perturbing fears,
And all the hovering shadows of the brain?
Dark, evil wings took flight before the strain,
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall,
Sank on the soul. Oh! who may now recall
The mighty music’s consecrated reign?
Spirit of God! whose glory once o’erhung
A throne, the ark’s dread cherubim between,
So let thy presence brood, though now unseen,
O’er those two powers by whom the harp is strung,
Feeling and Thought! till the rekindled chords
Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words.
TO A FAMILY BIBLE.
What household thoughts around thee, as their shrine,
Cling reverently? Of anxious looks beguiled,
My mother’s eyes upon thy page divine
Each day were bent--her accents, gravely mild,
Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child,
Wander’d on breeze-like fancies oft away,
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild,
Some fresh-discover’d nook for woodland play,
Some secret nest. Yet would the solemn Word,
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard,
Fall on thy waken’d spirit, there to be
A seed not lost,--for which, in darker years,
O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears,
Heart-blessings on the holy dead and thee!
REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY.
FROM AN OLD ITALIAN PICTURE.
Under a palm-tree, by the green, old Nile,
Lull’d on his mother’s breast, the fair child lies,
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile
Brooding above the slumber of his eyes;
While, through the stillness of the burning skies,
Lo! the dread works of Egypt’s buried kings,
Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise,
Regal and still as everlasting things.
Vain pomps! from him, with that pure, flowery cheek,
Soft shadow’d by his mother’s drooping head,
A new-born spirit, mighty, and yet meek,
O’er the whole world like vernal air shall spread;
And bid all earthly grandeurs cast the crown,
Before the suffering and the lowly, down.
PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS.
All the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing,
Round the young child luxuriantly are spread;
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing
In adoration, o’er his cradle shed.
Roses, deep-fill’d with rich midsummer’s red,
Circle his hands: but, in his grave, sweet eye,
Thought seems e’en now to wake, and prophesy
Of ruder coronals for that meek head.
And thus it was! a diadem of thorn
Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers;
To Him who pour’d forth blessings in soft showers
O’er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn!
And _we_ repine, for whom that cup He took,
O’er blooms that mock’d our hope, o’er idols that forsook!
ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST.
AN ECCE HOMO, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI.
I met that image on a mirthful day
Of youth; and, sinking with a still’d surprise,
The pride of life, before those holy eyes,
In my quick heart died thoughtfully away,
Abash’d to mute confession of a sway
Awful, though meek. And now that, from the strings
Of my soul’s lyre, the tempest’s mighty wings
Have struck forth tones which then unwaken’d lay;
Now that, around the deep life of my mind,
Affections, deathless as itself, have twined,
Oft does the pale, bright vision still float by;
But more divinely sweet, and speaking _now_
Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow,
Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, humanity!
THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLESSED.
Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight
Ye grew, fair children! hallow’d from that hour
By your Lord’s blessing. Surely thence a shower
Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light
Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright,
Through all the after years, which saw ye move
Lowly, yet still majestic, in the might,
The conscious glory of the Saviour’s love!
And honour’d be all childhood, for the sake
Of that high love! Let reverential care
Watch to behold the immortal spirit wake.
And shield its first bloom from unholy air;
Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the sign
Of claims upon a heritage divine.
MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES.
“He went up to a mountain apart to pray.”
A child midst ancient mountains I have stood,
Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest
On high. The spirit of the solitude
Fell solemnly upon my infant breast,
Though then I pray’d not; but deep thoughts have press’d
Into my being since it breathed that air,
Nor could I _now_ one moment live the guest
Of such dread scenes, without the springs of prayer
O’erflowing all my soul. No minsters rise
Like them in pure communion with the skies,
Vast, silent, open unto night and day;
So might the o’erburden’d Son of Man have felt,
When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt,
He sought high mountains, there apart to pray.
THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.
“Consider the lilies of the field.”
Flowers! when the Saviour’s calm, benignant eye
Fell on your gentle beauty--when from you
That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew,
Eternal, universal, as the sky--
Then, in the bosom of your purity,
A voice He set, as in a temple-shrine,
That life’s quick travellers ne’er might pass you by
Unwarn’d of that sweet oracle divine.
And though, too oft its low, celestial sound
By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drown’d,
And the loud steps of vain, unlistening Haste,
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought’s hush’d hour,
Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced!
THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.
“And behold the birds of the air.”
Ye too, the free and fearless birds of air,
Were charged that hour, on missionary wing,
The same bright lesson o’er the seas to bear,
Heaven-guided wanderers, with the winds of spring.
Sing on, before the storm and after, sing!
And call us to your echoing woods away
From worldly cares; and bid our spirits bring
Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay.
So may those blessed vernal strains renew
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true
E’en than the first, within th’ awaken’d mind;
While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life,
That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife,
But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resign’d.
THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW’S SON.
“And he that was dead sat up and began to speak.”
_He that was dead rose up and spoke_--He spoke!
Was it of that majestic world unknown?
Those words, which first the bier’s dread silence broke,
Came they with revelation in each tone?
Were the far cities of the nations gone,
The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep,
For man uncurtain’d by that spirit lone,
Back from their portal summon’d o’er the deep?
Be hush’d, my soul! the veil of darkness lay
Still drawn: thy Lord call’d back the voice departed
To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted,
Not to reveal the mysteries of its way.
Oh! take that lesson home in silent faith,
Put on submissive strength to _meet_, not _question_, death!
THE OLIVE TREE.
The palm--the vine--the cedar--each hath power
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by;
And each quick glistening of the laurel bower
Wafts Grecian images o’er fancy’s eye.
But thou, pale Olive! in _thy_ branches lie
Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old
Might e’er enshrine: I could not hear the sigh
To the wind’s faintest whisper, nor behold
One shiver of thy leaves’ dim, silvery green,
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene
When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray’d--
When pale stars look’d upon his fainting head,
And angels, ministering in silent dread,
Trembled, perchance, within _thy_ trembling shade.
THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION.
On Judah’s hills a weight of darkness hung,
Felt shudderingly at noon: the land had driven
A Guest divine back to the gates of heaven--
A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung,
All grace, all truth. And when, to anguish wrung,
From the sharp cross th’ enlightening spirit fled,
O’er the forsaken earth a pall of dread
By the great shadow of that death was flung.
O Saviour! O Atoner!--thou that fain
Wouldst make thy temple in each human heart,
Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign;
Ne’er may thy presence from its depths depart,
Chased thence by guilt! Oh! turn not _thou_ away,
The bright and Morning Star, my guide to perfect day!
PLACES OF WORSHIP.
“God is a spirit.”
Spirit! whose life-sustaining presence fills
Air, ocean, central depths by man untried,
Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified
All place, all time! The silence of the hills
Breathes veneration,--founts and choral rills
Of thee are murmuring,--to its inmost glade