The Poems of Felicia Hemans

The living forest with thy whisper thrills, And there is holiness in every shade. Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest With dearer consecration those pure fanes, Which, sever’d from all sound of earth’s unrest, Hear naught but suppliant or adoring strains Rise heavenward. Ne’er may rock or cave possess _Their_ claim on human hearts to solemn tenderness. OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK.[426] Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound, Caressingly, about the holy ground; And warbled, with a never-dying tone, Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone Seem’d, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam Of tower and cross, pale-quivering on the stream, O’er all th’ ancestral woodlands to be thrown-- And something yet more deep. The air was fraught With noble memories, whispering many a thought Of England’s fathers: loftily serene, They that had toil’d, watch’d, struggled, to secure, Within such fabrics, worship free and pure, Reign’d there, the o’ershadowing spirit of the scene. [426] Fawsley Park, near Daventry. A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES.[427] Blessings be round it still! that gleaming fane, Low in its mountain-glen! Old, mossy trees Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane; And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze, The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas, Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone, There meets the voice of psalms! Yet not alone For memories lulling to the heart as these, I bless thee, midst thy rocks, gray house of prayer! But for _their_ sakes who unto thee repair From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore. Oh! may the fisher and the mountaineer Words to sustain earth’s toiling children hear, Within thy lowly walls, for evermore! [427] That of Aber, near Bangor. LOUISE SCHEPLER. [Louise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of the pastor Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his children for their perusal after his decease, affectingly commemorates her unwearied zeal in visiting and instructing the children of the mountain hamlets, through all seasons, and in all circumstances of difficulty and danger.] A fearless journeyer o’er the mountain-snow Wert thou, Louise! The sun’s decaying light Oft, with its latest, melancholy glow, Redden’d thy steep, wild way: the starry night Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle’s height, Piercing some dark ravine: and many a dell Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well, Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright Oft in mid-storms--oh! not with beauty’s eye, Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning; No! pilgrim of unwearying charity! Thy spell was _love_--the mountain-deserts turning To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving voice! TO THE SAME. For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind, Through the pine forests, by the upland rills, Didst roam to seek the children of the hills, A wild, neglected flock! to seek, and find, And meekly win! there feeding each young mind With balms of heavenly eloquence: not _thine_, Daughter of Christ! but His, whose love divine Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined, A burning light! Oh! beautiful, in truth, Upon the mountains are the feet of those Who bear His tidings! From thy morn of youth, For this were all thy journeyings; and the close Of that long path, heaven’s own bright sabbath-rest, Must wait thee, wanderer! on thy Saviour’s breast MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE TWO MONUMENTS.[428] “Oh! bless’d are they who live and die like ‘him,’ Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn’d!” Wordsworth. Banners hung drooping from on high In a dim cathedral’s nave, Making a gorgeous canopy O’er a noble, noble grave! And a marble warrior’s form beneath, With helm and crest array’d, As on his battle-bed of death, Lay in their crimson shade. Triumph yet linger’d in his eye, Ere by the dark night seal’d; And his head was pillow’d haughtily On standard and on shield. And shadowing that proud trophy-pile, With the glory of his wing, An eagle sat--yet seem’d the while Panting through heaven to spring. He sat upon a shiver’d lance, There by the sculptor bound; But in the light of his lifted glance Was _that_ which scorn’d the ground. And a burning flood of gem-like hues, From a storied window pour’d, There fell, there centred, to suffuse The conqueror and his sword. A flood of hues--but _one_ rich dye O’er all supremely spread, With a purple robe of royalty Mantling the mighty dead. Meet was that robe for _him_ whose name Was a trumpet-note in war, His pathway still the march of fame, His eye the battle-star. But faintly, tenderly was thrown, From the colour’d light, one ray, Where a low and pale memorial-stone By the couch of glory lay. Few were the fond words chisell’d _there_, Mourning for parted worth; But the very heart of love and prayer Had given their sweetness forth. They spoke of one whose life had been As a hidden streamlet’s course, Bearing on health and joy unseen From its clear mountain-source: Whose young, pure memory, lying deep Midst rock, and wood, and hill, Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,[429] A soft light, meek and still: Whose gentle voice, too early call’d Unto Music’s land away, Had won for God the earth’s, enthrall’d By words of silvery sway. These were _his_ victories--yet, enroll’d In no high song of fame, The pastor of the mountain-fold Left but to heaven his name. To heaven, and to the peasant’s hearth, A blessed household-sound; And finding lowly love on earth, Enough, enough, he found! Bright and more bright before me gleam’d That sainted image still, Till one sweet moonlight memory seem’d The regal fane to fill. Oh! how my silent spirit turn’d From those proud trophies nigh! How my full heart within me burn’d Like _Him_ to live and die! [428] Suggested by a passage in Captain Sherer’s “Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.” [429] “Love had he seen in huts where poor men lie.” Wordsworth. THE COTTAGE GIRL. A child beside a hamlet’s fount at play, Her fair face laughing at the sunny day; A gush of waters tremulously bright, Kindling the air to gladness with their light; And a soft gloom beyond of summer trees, Darkening the turf; and, shadow’d o’er by these, A low, dim, woodland cottage--this was all! What had the scene for memory to recall With a fond look of love? What secret spell With the heart’s pictures made its image dwell? What but the spirit of the joyous child, That freshly forth o’er stream and verdure smiled, Casting upon the common things of earth A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth! THE BATTLE-FIELD. I look’d on the field where the battle was spread, When thousands stood forth in their glancing array; And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed Through the dun-rolling clouds that o’ershadow’d the fray. I saw the dark forest of lances appear, As the ears of the harvest unnumber’d they stood; I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near, Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of the wood. Afar the harsh notes of the war-drum were roll’d, Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair; On high to the gust stream’d the banner’s red fold, O’er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of despair. I look’d on the field of contention again, When the sabre was sheath’d and the tempest had past; The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain, And the fem softly sigh’d in the low, wailing blast. Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose, And bright shone the stars through the sky’s deepen’d blue; And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose, Where the fox-glove lay gemm’d with its pearl-drops of dew. But where swept the ranks of that dark, frowning host, As the ocean in might, as the storm-cloud in speed? Where now are the thunders of victory’s boast-- The slayer’s dread wrath, and the strength of the steed? Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone, To mark the lone scene of their shame or their pride; One grass-cover’d mound told the traveller alone Where thousands lay down in their anguish, and died! O Glory! behold thy famed guerdon’s extent: For this, toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot-- A name like the mist, when the night-beams are spent; A grave with its tenants unwept and forgot! A PENITENT’S RETURN. “Can guilt or misery ever enter here? Ah, no! the spirit of domestic peace, Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove, And ever murmuring forth a quiet song, Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim, The hallow’d porch. She hath a heavenly smile, That sinks into the sullen soul of Vice, And wins him o’er to virtue.”--Wilson. My father’s house once more, In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around, Something, amidst the dewy calm profound, Broods, never mark’d before! Is it the brooding night? Is it the shivery creeping on the air, That makes the home so tranquil and so fair, O’erwhelming to my sight? All solemnised it seems, And still’d, and darken’d in each time-worn hue, Since the rich, clustering roses met my view, As now, by starry gleams. And this high elm, where last I stood and linger’d--where my sisters made Our mother’s bower--I deem’d not that it cast So far and dark a shade! How spirit-like a tone Sighs through yon tree! My father’s place was there At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair! Now those gray locks are gone! My soul grows faint with fear! Even as if angel-steps had mark’d the sod. I tremble where I move--the voice of God Is in the foliage here! Is it indeed the night That makes my home so awful? Faithless-hearted! ’Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed The inborn, gladdening light! No outward thing is changed; Only the joy of purity is fled, And, long from nature’s melodies estranged, Thou hear’st their tones with dread. Therefore the calm abode, By thy dark spirit, is o’erhung with shade; And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God Makes thy sick heart afraid! The night-flowers round that door Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air; Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more To pass, and rest thee there. And must I turn away?-- Hark, hark!--it is my mother’s voice I hear-- Sadder than once it seem’d--yet soft and clear;-- Doth she not seem to pray? My name!--I caught the sound! Oh! blessed tone of love--the deep, the mild! Mother! my mother! now receive thy child: