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The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Mrs. Hemans

Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs, And nun-like violets, by the winds betray’d. Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath play’d With his first primrose-wreath: there love hath sought A veiling gloom for his unutter’d thought; And silent grief, of day’s keen glare afraid, A refuge for her tears; and ofttimes there Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer, A native temple, solemn, hush’d, and dim; For wheresoe’er your murmuring tremours thrill The woody twilight, there man’s heart hath still Confess’d a spirit’s breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn. ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN CHILDHOOD. O gentle story of the Indian isle! I loved thee in my lonely childhood well On the sea-shore, when day’s last, purple smile Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell And dying cadence lent a deeper spell Unto thine ocean-pictures. Midst thy palms And strange bright birds, my fancy joy’d to dwell, And watch the southern cross through midnight calms, And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless’d Thy vision of sweet love--kind, trustful, true, Lighting the citron groves, a heavenly guest, With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew. Even then my young heart wept o’er this world’s power To reach with blight that holiest Eden-flower. A THOUGHT AT SUNSET. Still that last look is solemn! though thy rays, O sun! to-morrow will give back, we know, The joy to nature’s heart. Yet through the glow Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze Tracks thee with love half-fearful: and in days When earth too much adored thee, what a swell Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays, Told how the dying bade thy light farewell, O sun of Greece! O glorious, festal sun! Lost, lost!--for them thy golden hours were done, And darkness lay before them! Happier far Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchain’d, Not thus for thy last parting unsustain’d-- Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star. IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE. Calm scenes of patriarch life! how long a power Your unworn pastoral images retain O’er the true heart, which in its childhood’s hour Drank their pure freshness deep! The camels’ train Winding in patience o’er the desert plain-- The tent, the palm-tree, the reposing flock, The gleaming fount, the shadow of the rock-- Oh! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain, And in the influence of its touch how bless’d, Are these things link’d, in many a thoughtful breast, To household-memories, thro’ all change endear’d! --The matin bird, the ripple of a stream Beside our native porch, the hearth-light’s gleam, The voices, earliest by the soul revered! ATTRACTION OF THE EAST. What secret current of man’s nature turns Unto the golden East with ceaseless flow? Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns, The pilgrim-spirit would adore and glow; Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint, and slow, Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind, Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know Where pass’d the shepherd-fathers of mankind. Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far Still points to where our alienated home Lay in bright peace? O thou true Eastern star! Saviour! atoning Lord! where’er we roam, Draw still our hearts to thee, else, else how vain Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain! TO AN AGED FRIEND.[435] Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard, Servant of God!--thy day is almost done; The charm now lingering in thy look and word Is that which hangs about thy setting sun-- That which the meekness of decay hath won Still from revering love. Yet doth the sense Of life immortal--progress but begun-- Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence, That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline; And the loved flowers which round thee smile farewell Of more than vernal glory seem to tell, By thy pure spirit touch’d with light divine; While we, to whom its parting gleams are given, Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven. [435] The sonnet “To an aged Friend,” first published in Mrs Hemans’s _Poetical Remains_, was addressed to Dr Perceval of Dublin. The sonnet “To the Datura Arborea,” in the same volume, was written after seeing a superb specimen of that striking plant in Dr Perceval’s beautiful greenhouse at Annefield. Dr Perceval died 3d March 1839, equally respected for his talents and virtues. A HAPPY HOUR. [“The ‘Thoughts’ were published in the _New Monthly Magazine_ for March 1835. They are intensely individual. One of them, on Retzsch’s design of the Angel of Death, was suggested by an impressive description in Mrs Jameson’s ‘Visits and Sketches.’ In another, she speculates earnestly and reverently upon the direction of the flight of the spirit when the soul and body shall part; in others again, she recurs tenderly to the haunts and pleasures of childhood, which had of late been present to her memory with more than usual force and freshness. To these the following sonnet refers, dated 21st May 1834, which, as far as I am aware, has not hitherto been published.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 339-40.] Oh! what a joy to feel that, in my breast, The founts of childhood’s vernal fancies lay Still pure, though heavily and long repress’d By early-blighted leaves, which o’er their way Dark summer-storms had heaped. But free, glad play Once more was given them: to the sunshine’s glow, And the sweet wood-song’s penetrating flow, And to the wandering primrose-breath of May, And the rich hawthorn-odours, forth they sprung. Oh! not less freshly bright, that now a thought Of spiritual presence o’er them hung, And of immortal life! a germ, unwrought In childhood’s soul to power--now strong, serene, And full of love and light, colouring the whole blest scene. FOLIAGE. Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive The joy of verdure! See! the honey’d lime Showers cool green light o’er banks where wild-flowers weave Thick tapestry, and woodbine-tendrils climb Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme. The rich deep masses of the sycamore Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime; And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar, Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each gale That sweeps the boughs: the chestnut-flowers are past, The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail, But arches of sweet eglantine are cast From every hedge. Oh! never may we lose, Dear friend! our fresh delight in simplest nature’s hues! 2d June. A PRAYER. Father in heaven! from whom the simplest flower, On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown, Draws not sweet odour or young life alone, But the deep virtue of an inborn power, To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour With thoughts of Thee--to strengthen, to infuse Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues That speak thy presence! oh, with such a dower Grace thou my song!--the precious gift bestow From thy pure Spirit’s treasury divine, To wake one tear of purifying flow, To soften one wrung heart for thee and thine; So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain Be as the meek wild-flower’s--if transient, yet not vain. PRAYER CONTINUED. “What in me is dark, Illumine; what is low, raise and support.”--Milton. Far are the wings of intellect astray That strive not, Father! to thy heavenly seat; They rove, but mount not, and the tempests beat Still on their plumes. O Source of mental day! Chase from before my spirit’s track the array Of mists and shadows, raised by earthly care, In troubled hosts that cross the purer air, And veil the opening of the starry way, Which brightens on to thee! Oh, guide thou right My thought’s weak pinion; clear my inward sight, The eternal springs of beauty to discern, Welling beside thy throne; unseal mine ear, Nature’s true oracles in joy to hear; Keep my soul wakeful still to listen and to learn. MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION. Yes! all things tell us of a birthright lost-- A brightness from our nature pass’d away! Wanderers we seem that from an alien coast Would turn to where their Father’s mansion lay; And but by some lone flower, that midst decay Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone, Revealing dimly, with gray moss o’ergrown, The faint, worn impress of its glory’s day, Can trace their once-free heritage, though dreams, Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams Flash o’er their souls. But One, oh! _One_ alone, For us the ruin’d fabric may rebuild, And bid the wilderness again be fill’d With Eden-flowers--One mighty to atone! 27th June.[436] [436] [For this corrected chronology of these sonnets, we are indebted to the Rev. R. P. Graves, Bowness; as also for some improved readings, and the MS. of “A Happy Hour.”] RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834. THE RETURN TO POETRY. Once more the eternal melodies from far Woo me like songs of home: once more discerning, Through fitful clouds, the pure majestic star Above the poet’s world serenely burning, Thither my soul, fresh-wing’d by love, is turning, As o’er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest, For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning, Whence glorious minds o’erlook this earth’s unrest. Now be the Spirit of heaven’s truth my guide Through the bright land!--that no brief gladness, found In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound, May lure my footsteps from their aim aside: Their true, high quest--to seek, if ne’er to gain, The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain. 9th September. TO SILVIO PELLICO, ON READING HIS “PRIGIONE.” There are who climb the mountain’s heathery side, Or, in life’s vernal strength triumphant, urge The bark’s fleet rushing through the crested surge, Or spur the courser’s fiery race of pride Over the green savannahs, gleaming wide By some vast lake; yet thus, on foaming sea, Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free Than _thou_, in that lone dungeon, glorified By thy brave suffering. Thou from its dark cell Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude, Filling the dedicated solitude With God; and where _His_ Spirit deigns to dwell, Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie, There throned in _peace_ divine is liberty! TO THE SAME, RELEASED.[437] How flows thy being now?--like some glad hymn One strain of solemn rapture?--doth thine eye Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim O’er the crown’d Alps, that, midst the upper sky, Sleep in the sunlight of thine Italy? Or is thy gaze of reverent love profound Unto these dear, parental faces bound, Which, with their silvery hair, so oft glanced by, Haunting thy prison-dreams? Where’er thou art, Blessings be shed upon thine inmost heart! Joy, from kind looks, blue skies, and flowery sod, For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God!