The Poems of Felicia Hemans
[437] In reference to these two sonnets, Mrs Hemans thus remarks in
a letter to a friend;--“I wrote them only a few days ago (almost
the first awakening of my spirit, indeed, after a long silence and
darkness,) upon reading that delightful book of Pellico’s,[438] which I
borrowed in consequence of what you had told me of it. I know not when
I have read any thing which has so deeply impressed me: the gradual
brightening of heart and soul into ‘the perfect day’ of Christian
excellence through all those fiery trials, presents, I think, one of
the most touching, as well as instructing pictures ever contemplated.
How beautiful is the scene between him and Oroboni, in which they
mutually engage to shrink not from the avowal of their faith, should
they ever return into the world! But I could say so much on this
subject, which has quite taken hold of my thoughts, that it would lead
me to fill up my whole letter.”
In another letter she spoke further of this book, as a “work with which
I have been both impressed and delighted, and one which I strongly
recommend you to procure. It is the _Prigioni_ of Silvio Pellico, a
distinguished young Italian poet, who incurred the suspicions of the
Austrian government, and was condemned to the penalty of the _carcere
duro_ during ten years, of which this most interesting work contains
the narrative. It is deeply affecting, from the heart-springing
eloquence with which he details his varied sufferings. What forms,
however, the great charm of the work, is the gradual and almost
unconsciously-revealed exaltation of the sufferer’s character,
spiritualised through suffering, into the purest Christian excellence.
It is beautiful to see the lessons of trust in God, and love to
mankind, brought out more and more into shining light from the depth of
the dungeon-gloom; and all this crowned at last by the release of the
noble, all-forgiving captive, and his restoration to his aged father
and mother, whose venerable faces seem perpetually to have haunted the
solitude of his cell. The book is written in the most classic Italian,
and will, I am sure, be one to afford you lasting delight.”
[438] “Le mie Prigioni.”
ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE.[439]
’Twas a bright moment of my life when first,
O thou pure stream through rocky portals flowing!
That temple-chamber of thy glory burst
On my glad sight! Thy pebbly couch lay glowing
With deep mosaic hues; and, richly throwing
O’er thy cliff-walls a tinge of autumn’s vest,
High bloom’d the heath-flowers, and the wild wood’s crest
Was touch’d with gold. Flow ever thus, bestowing
Gifts of delight, sweet stream! on all who move
Gently along thy shores; and oh! if love--
True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow fraught--
Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to thee,
_Then_ full of kindness let thy music be,
Singing repose to every troubled thought!
[439] A beautiful valley in the county of Wicklow.
ON THE DATURA ARBOREA.
Majestic plant! such fairy dreams as lie,
Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip’s bell,
Are not _thy_ train. Those flowers of vase-like swell,
Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill’d from high,
And in their monumental purity
Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw
Visions link’d strangely with that silent awe
Which broods o’er sculpture’s works. A meet ally
For those heroic forms, the simply grand
Art thou: and worthy, carved by plastic hand,
Above some kingly poet’s tomb to shine
In spotless marble; honouring one whose strain
Soar’d, upon wings of thought that knew no stain,
Free through the starry heavens of truth divine.
ON READING COLERIDGE’S EPITAPH,
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
“Stop, Christian passer-by! stop, child of God!
And read with gentle breast:--Beneath this sod
A Poet lies, or that which once seem’d he:
Oh! lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.!
That he, who once in vain, with toil of breath,
Found death in life, may here find life in death:
Mercy, for praise--to be forgiven, for fame--
He ask’d and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same.”
Spirit! so oft in radiant freedom soaring
High through seraphic mysteries unconfined,
And oft, a diver through the deep of mind,
Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring;
And oft such strains of breezy music pouring,
As, with the floating sweetness of their sighs,
Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring
Awhile that freshness left in Paradise;
Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal?
What the rich fruitage to man’s kindred soul
From wealth of thine bequeathed? O strong and high,
And sceptred intellect! thy goal confess’d
Was the Redeemer’s Cross--thy last bequest
_One_ lesson breathing thence profound humility!
DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE.
They float before my soul, the fair designs
Which I would body forth to life and power,
Like clouds, that with their wavering hues and lines
Portray majestic buildings:--dome and tower,
Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the shower
Points to th’ unchanging stars; and high arcade,
Far-sweeping to some glorious altar, made
For holiest rites. Meanwhile the waning hour
Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o’erwrought,
I sink. O friend! O link’d with each high thought!
Aid me, of those rich visions to detain
All I may grasp; until thou see’st fulfill’d,
While time and strength allow, my hope to build
For lowly hearts devout, but _one_ enduring fane!
18th October.
HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH NATURE.
If e’er again my spirit be allow’d
Converse with Nature in her chambers deep,
Where lone, and mantled with the rolling cloud,
She broods o’er new-born waters, as they leap
In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep
From caves of mystery;--if I roam once more
Where dark pines quiver to the torrent’s roar,
And voiceful oaks respond;--may I not reap
A more ennobling joy, a loftier power,
Than e’er was shed on life’s more vernal hour
From such communion? Yes! I then shall know
That not in vain have sorrow, love, and thought
Their long, still work of preparation wrought,
For that more perfect sense of God reveal’d below.
DREAMS OF THE DEAD.
Oft in still night-dreams a departed face
Bends o’er me with sweet earnestness of eye,
Wearing no more of earthly pains a trace,
But all the tender pity that may lie
On the clear brow of Immortality,
Calm, yet profound. Soft rays illume that mien;
Th’ unshadow’d moonlight of some far-off sky
Around it floats transparently serene
As a pure veil of waters. O rich Sleep!
The spells are mighty in thy regions deep,
To glorify with reconciling breath,
Effacing, brightening, giving forth to shine
Beauty’s high truth; and how much more divine
Thy power when link’d, in this, with thy strong brother--Death!
THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS.
Nobly thy song, O minstrel! rush’d to meet
Th’ Eternal on the pathway of the blast,
With darkness round him as a mantle cast,
And cherubim to waft his flying seat.
Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet,
With trumpet-voice thy spirit call’d aloud,
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat,
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud.
But far more gloriously to earth made known
By that high strain, than by the thunder’s tone,
The flashing torrents, or the ocean’s roll,
Jehovah spake, through thee imbreathing fire,
Nature’s vast realms for ever to inspire
With the deep worship of a living soul.
DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION.
“Par correr miglior acqua alza le vele,
Omai la navicella del mio Intelletto.”--Dante.
My soul was mantled with dark shadows, born
Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain;
Its phantoms hung around the star of morn,
A cloud-like, weeping train:
Thro’ the long day they dimm’d the autumn gold
On all the glistening leaves, and wildly roll’d,
When the last farewell flush of light was glowing
Across the sunset sky,
O’er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing
One melancholy dye.
And when the solemn night
Came rushing with her might
Of stormy oracles from caves unknown,
Then with each fitful blast
Prophetic murmurs pass’d,
Wakening or answering some deep Sybil-tone
Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise
With every gusty wail that o’er the wind-harp flies.
“Fold, fold thy wings,” they cried, “and strive no more--
Faint spirit! strive no more: for thee too strong
Are outward ill and wrong,
And inward wasting fires! Thou canst not soar
Free on a starry way,
Beyond their blighting sway,
At heaven’s high gate serenely to adore!
How shouldst _thou_ hope earth’s fetters to unbind!
O passionate, yet weak! O trembler to the wind!
“Never shall aught but broken music flow
From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe--
Such homeless notes as through the forest sigh,
From the reeds’ hollow shaken,
When sudden breezes waken
Their vague, wild symphony.
No power is theirs, and no abiding-place
In human hearts; their sweetness leaves no trace--
Born only so to die!
“Never shall aught but perfume, faint and vain,
On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour,
From thy bruised life again
A moment’s essence breathe;
Thy life, whose trampled flower
Into the blessed wreath
Of household-charities no longer bound,
Lies pale and withering on the barren ground.
“So fade, fade on! Thy gift of love shall cling
A coiling sadness round thy heart and brain--
A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing,
All sensitive to pain!
And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall
O’er thy mind’s world, a daily darkening pall.
Fold, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued
In cold and unrepining quietude!”
Then my soul yielded: spells of numbing breath
Crept o’er it heavy with a dew of death--
Its powers, like leaves before the night-rain, closing;
And, as by conflict of wild sea-waves toss’d
On the chill bosom of some desert coast,
Mutely and hopelessly I lay reposing.
When silently it seem’d
As if a soft mist gleam’d
Before my passive sight, and, slowly curling,
To many a shape and hue
Of vision’d beauty grew,
Like a wrought banner, fold by fold unfurling.
Oh! the rich scenes that o’er mine inward eye
Unrolling then swept by
With dreamy motion! Silvery seas were there,
Lit by large dazzling stars, and arch’d by skies
Of southern midnight’s most transparent dyes;
And gemm’d with many an island, wildly fair,
Which floated past me into orient day,
Still gathering lustre on th’ illumin’d way,
Till its high groves of wondrous flowering-trees
Colour’d the silvery seas.
And then a glorious mountain-chain uprose,
Height above spiry height!
A soaring solitude of woods and snows,
All steep’d in golden light!
While as it pass’d, those regal peaks unveiling,
I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings,
And mighty sounds, as if the vision hailing,
From lyres that quiver’d through ten thousand strings--
Or as if waters, forth to music leaping
From many a cave, the Alpine Echo’s hall,