The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Take back the lost and found! A THOUGHT OF PARADISE. “We receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live; Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud; And, would we aught behold of higher worth Than that inanimate, cold world allow’d To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd, Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud, Enveloping the earth; And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element.”--Coleridge. Green spot of holy ground! If thou couldst yet be found, Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers; If not one sullying breath Of time, or change, or death, Had touch’d the vernal glory of thy bowers; Might our tired pilgrim-feet, Worn by the desert’s heat, On the bright freshness of thy turf repose? Might our eyes wander there Through heaven’s transparent air, And rest on colours of the immortal rose? Say, would thy balmy skies And fountain-melodies Our heritage of lost delight restore? Could thy soft honey-dews Through all our veins diffuse The early, child-like, trustful sleep once more? And might we, in the shade By thy tall cedars made, With angel-voices high communion hold? Would their sweet, solemn tone Give back the music gone, Our Being’s harmony, so jarr’d of old? Oh no!--thy sunny hours Might come with blossom-showers, All thy young leaves to spirit-lyres might thrill; But _we_--should we not bring Into thy realms of spring The shadows of our souls to haunt us still? What could _thy_ flowers and airs Do for our earth-born cares? Would the world’s chain melt off and leave us free? No!--past each living stream, Still would some fever-dream Track the lorn wanderers, meet no more for thee! Should we not shrink with fear If angel-steps were near, Feeling our burden’d souls within us die? How might our passions brook The still and searching look, The star-like glance of seraph purity? Thy golden-fruited grove Was not for pining love; Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies! Oh! _thou_ wert but a part Of what man’s exiled heart Hath lost--the dower of _inborn_ Paradise! LET US DEPART! [It is mentioned by Josephus, that, a short time previous to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, going by night into the inner court of the Temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and, after that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, “Let us depart hence!”] Night hung on Salem’s towers, And a brooding hush profound Lay where the Roman eagle shone High o’er the tents around-- The tents that rose by thousands, In the moonlight glimmering pale; Like white waves of a frozen sea Filling an Alpine vale. And the Temple’s massy shadow Fell broad, and dark, and still, In peace--as if the Holy One Yet watch’d his chosen hill. But a fearful sound was heard In that old fane’s deepest heart, As if mighty wings rush’d by, And a dread voice raised the cry, “_Let us depart!_” Within the fated city E’en then fierce discord raved, Though o’er night’s heaven the comet-sword Its vengeful token waved. There were shouts of kindred warfare Through the dark streets ringing high, Though every sign was full which told Of the bloody vintage nigh; Though the wild red spears and arrows Of many a meteor host Went flashing o’er the holy stars, In the sky now seen, now lost. And that fearful sound was heard In the Temple’s deepest heart, As if mighty wings rush’d by, And a voice cried mournfully, “_Let us depart!_” But within the fated city There was revelry that night-- The wine-cup and the timbrel note, And the blaze of banquet-light. The footsteps of the dancer Went bounding through the hall, And the music of the dulcimer Summon’d to festival: While the clash of brother-weapons Made lightning in the air, And the dying at the palace gates Lay down in their despair; And that fearful sound was heard At the Temple’s thrilling heart, As if mighty wings rush’d by, And a dread voice raised the cry, “_Let us depart!_” ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING THE CROSS. PAINTED BY VELASQUEZ.[430] By the dark stillness brooding in the sky, Holiest of sufferers! round thy path of woe, And by the weight of mortal agony Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek brow, My heart was awed: the burden of thy pain Sank on me with a mystery and a chain. I look’d once more--and, as the virtue shed Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray Of victory from thy mien; and round thy head, The halo, melting spirit-like away, Seem’d of the very soul’s bright rising born, To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn. And upwards, through transparent darkness gleaming, Gazed in mute reverence woman’s earnest eye, Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming, With quenchless faith, and deep love’s fervency, Gathering, like incense round some dim-veil’d shrine, About the form, so mournfully divine! Oh! let thine image, as e’en then it rose, Live in my soul for ever, calm and clear, Making itself a temple of repose, Beyond the breath of human hope or fear! A holy place, where through all storms may lie One living beam of dayspring from on high. [430] This picture is in the possession of the Viscount Harberton, Merrion Square, Dublin. COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT. “Could we but keep our spirits to that height, We might be happy; but this clay will sink Its spark immortal.”--Byron. Return, my thoughts--come home! Ye wild and wing’d! what do ye o’er the deep? And wherefore thus the abyss of time o’ersweep, As birds the ocean-foam? Swifter than shooting-star, Swifter than lances of the northern-light, Upspringing through the purple heaven of night, Hath been your course afar! Through the bright battle-clime, Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams, And reeds are whispering of heroic themes, By temples of old time: Through the north’s ancient halls, Where banners thrill’d of yore--where harp-strings rung; But grass waves now o’er those that fought and sung, Hearth-light hath left their walls! Through forests old and dim, Where o’er the leaves dread magic seems to brood; And sometimes on the haunted solitude Rises the pilgrim’s hymn: Or where some fountain lies, With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleaming! There have ye been, ye wanderers! idly dreaming Of man’s lost paradise! Return, my thoughts--return! Cares wait your presence in life’s daily track, And voices, not of music, call you back-- Harsh voices, cold and stem! Oh, no! return ye not! Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be! Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and free, O’er many a haunted spot. Go! seek the martyr’s grave, Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast; Or, through the ruin’d cities of the past, Follow the wise and brave! Go! visit cell and shrine, Where woman hath endured!--thro’ wrong, thro’ scorn, Uncheer’d by fame, yet silently upborne By promptings more divine! Go, shoot the gulf of death! Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind, Where the heart’s boundless love its rest may find, Where the storm sends no breath! Higher, and yet more high--! Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would lay On your victorious wings--mount, mount! Your way Is through eternity! THE WATER-LILY. “The Water-Lilies, that are serene in the calm clear water, but no less serene among the black and scowling waves.”--Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life. Oh! beautiful thou art, Thou sculpture-like and stately river-queen! Crowning the depths, as with the light serene Of a pure heart. Bright lily of the wave! Rising in fearless grace with every swell, Thou seem’st as if a spirit meekly brave Dwelt in thy cell: Lifting alike thy head Of placid beauty, feminine yet free, Whether with foam or pictured azure spread The waters be. What is like thee, fair flower, The gentle and the firm! thus bearing up To the blue sky that alabaster cup, As to the shower? Oh! love is most like thee, The love of woman! quivering to the blast Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, Midst life’s dark sea. And faith--oh, is not faith Like thee, too, lily! springing into light, Still buoyantly, above the billows’ might, Through the storm’s breath? Yes! link’d with such high thought, Flower! let thine image in my bosom lie; Till something there of its own purity And peace be wrought-- Something yet more divine Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed Forth from thy breast upon the river’s bed. As from a shrine. THE SONG OF PENITENCE.[431] UNFINISHED. [We learn from the Rev. R. P. Graves, that “The Song of Penitence,” if it had been finished in time, was intended for insertion among the “Scenes and Hymns of Life.”] He pass’d from earth Without his fame,--the calm, pure, starry fame He might have won, to guide on radiantly Full many a noble soul,--he sought it not; And e’en like brief and barren lightning pass’d The wayward child of genius. And the songs Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life, Had shower’d forth recklessly, as ocean-waves Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed, They died before him;--they were winged seed Scatter’d afar, and, falling on the rock Of the world’s heart, had perish’d. One alone, One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain, The deep beseeching of a stricken breast, Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls Of the kind few that loved him, with a love Faithful to even its disappointed hope, That song of tears found root, and by their hearths Full oft, in low and reverential tones, Fill’d with the piety of tenderness, Is murmur’d to their children, when his name On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls, Far from the world’s rude voices, far away. Oh! hear, and judge him gently; ’twas his last. I come alone, and faint I come-- To nature’s arms I flee; The green woods take their wanderer home, But Thou, O Father! may I turn to thee? The earliest odour of the flower, The bird’s first song is thine; Father in heaven! my dayspring’s hour Pour’d its vain incense on another shrine.