The Poems of Felicia Hemans

On their bold way victoriously were sweeping, Link’d in majestic anthems!--while through all That billowy swell and fall, Voices, like ringing crystal, fill’d the air With inarticulate melody, that stirr’d My being’s core; then, moulding into word Their piercing sweetness, bade me rise, and bear In that great choral strain my trembling part, Of tones by love and faith struck from a human heart. Return no more, vain bodings of the night! A happier oracle within my soul Hath swell’d to power; a clear, unwavering light Mounts through the battling clouds that round me roll; And to a new control Nature’s full harp gives forth rejoicing tones, Wherein my glad sense owns The accordant rush of elemental sound To one consummate harmony profound-- One grand Creation-Hymn, Whose notes the seraphim Lift to the glorious height of music wing’d and crown’d. Shall not those notes find echoes in my lyre, Faithful though faint? Shall not my spirit’s fire, If slowly, yet unswervingly, ascend Now to its fount and end? Shall not my earthly love, all purified, Shine forth a heavenward guide, An angel of bright power--and strongly bear My being upward into holier air, Where fiery passion-clouds have no abode, And the sky’s temple-arch o’erflows with God? The radiant hope new-born Expands like rising morn In my life’s life: and as a ripening rose The crimson shadow of its glory throws More vivid, hour by hour, on some pure stream; So from that hope are spreading Rich hues, o’er nature shedding Each day a clearer, spiritual gleam. Let not those rays fade from me!--once enjoy’d, Father of Spirits! let them not depart-- Leaving the chill’d earth, without form and void, Darken’d by mine own heart! Lift, aid, sustain me! Thou, by whom alone All lovely gifts and pure In the soul’s grasp endure; Thou, to the steps of whose eternal throne All knowledge flows--a sea for evermore Breaking its crested waves on that sole shore-- Oh, consecrate my life! that I may sing Of thee with joy that hath a living spring, In a full heart of music! Let my lays Through the resounding mountains waft thy praise, And with that theme the wood’s green cloisters fill. And make their quivering, leafy dimness thrill To the rich breeze of song! Oh! let me wake The deep religion, which hath dwelt from yore Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake, And wildest river-shore! And let me summon all the voices dwelling Where eagles build, and cavern’d rills are welling, And where the cataract’s organ-peal is swelling, In that one spirit gather’d to adore! Forgive, O Father! if presumptuous thought Too daringly in aspiration rise! Let not thy child all vainly have been taught By weakness, and by wanderings, and by sighs Of sad confession! Lowly be my heart, And on its penitential altar spread The offerings worthless, till thy grace impart The fire from heaven, whose touch alone can shed Life, radiance, virtue!--let that vital spark Pierce my whole being, wilder’d else and dark! Thine are all holy things--oh, make _me_ thine! So shall I, too, be pure--a living shrine Unto that Spirit which goes forth from thee, Strong and divinely free, Bearing thy gifts of wisdom on its flight, And brooding o’er them with a dove-like wing, Till thought, word, song, to thee in worship spring, Immortally endow’d for liberty and light. [This exquisite poem was composed during the Author’s last illness; and the following account of her situation at the time, from the pen of her sister, cannot fail to be read with a deep and painful interest. It is another forcible, visible illustration of “the ruling passion strong in death.” Happy, as in her case, when the direction of the mind is towards all that is high, pure, and excellent! “A shuddering thrill pervaded her whole frame, and she felt, as she often afterwards declared, a presentiment that from that moment her hours were numbered. The same evening she was attacked by a fit of ague; and this insidious and harassing complaint continued its visitations for several weeks, reducing her poor, wasted form to the most lamentable state of debility, and at length retiring only to make way for a train of symptoms still more fatal and distressing. Yet, while the work of decay was going on thus surely and progressively upon the earthly tabernacle, the bright flame within continued to burn with a pure and holy light, and, at times, even to flash forth with more than wonted brightness. The lyric of ‘Despondency and Aspiration,’ which may be considered as her noblest and highest effort, and in which, from a feeling that it might be her last work, she felt anxious to concentrate all her powers, was written during the few intervals accorded her from acute suffering or powerless languor. And in the same circumstances she wrote, or rather dictated, the series of sonnets called _Thoughts during Sickness_, which present so interesting a picture of the calm, submissive tone of her mind, whether engaged in tender remembrances of the past, or in solemn and reverential speculations on the future. The one entitled ‘Sickness like Night’ discloses a view, no less affecting than consolatory, of the sweet and blessed peace which hovered round the couch where ‘Mutely and hopelessly she lay reposing.’ “The last sonnet of the series, entitled ‘Recovery,’ was written under temporary appearances of convalescence, which proved as fugitive as they were fallacious.” THE HUGUENOT’S FAREWELL. I stand upon the threshold stone Of mine ancestral hall; I hear my native river moan; I see the night o’er my old forests fall. I look round on the darkening vale That saw my childhood’s plays; The low wind in its rising wail Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days. But I must rule my swelling breast: A sign is in the sky! Bright o’er yon gray rock’s eagle-nest Shines forth a warning star--it bids me fly. My father’s sword is in my hand, His deep voice haunts mine ear; He tells me of the noble band Whose lives have left a brooding glory here. He bids their offspring guard from stain Their pure and lofty faith; And yield up all things, to maintain The cause for which they girt themselves to death. And I obey. I leave their towers Unto the stranger’s tread, Unto the creeping grass and flowers, Unto the fading pictures of the dead. I leave their shields to slow decay, Their banners to the dust: I go, and only bear away Their old majestic name--a solemn trust! I go up to the ancient hills. Where chains may never be, Where leap in joy the torrent-rills, Where man may worship God, alone and free. There shall an altar and a camp Impregnably arise; There shall be lit a quenchless lamp, To shine, unwavering, through the open skies. And song shall midst the rocks be heard, And fearless prayer ascend; While, thrilling to God’s holy word, The mountain-pines in adoration bend. And there the burning heart no more Its deep thought shall suppress, But the long-buried truth shall pour Free currents thence, amidst the wilderness. Then fare thee well, my mother’s bower! Farewell, my father’s hearth!-- Perish my home! where lawless power Hath rent the tie of love to native earth. Perish! let deathlike silence fall Upon the lone abode; Spread fast, dark ivy! spread thy pall;-- I go up to the mountains with my God. ANTIQUE GREEK LAMENT.[440] By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one! I pine for thee through all the joyless day-- Through the long night I pine: the golden sun Looks dim since thou hast left me, and the spring Seems but to weep. Where art thou, my beloved? Night after night, in fond hope vigilant, By the old temple on the breezy cliff, These hands have heap’d the watch-fire, till it stream’d Red o’er the shining columns--darkly red Along the crested billows!--but in vain: Thy white sail comes not from the distant isles-- Yet thou wert faithful ever. Oh! the deep Hath shut above thy head--that graceful head; The sea-weed mingles with thy clustering locks; The white sail never will bring back the loved! By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one! Where art thou?--where? Had I but lingering press’d On thy cold lips the last long kiss--but smooth’d The parted ringlets of thy shining hair With love’s fond touch, my heart’s cry had been still’d Into a voiceless grief: I would have strew’d With all the pale flowers of the vernal woods-- White violets, and the mournful hyacinth, And frail anemone, thy marble brow, In slumber beautiful! I would have heap’d Sweet boughs and precious odours on thy pyre, And with mine own shorn tresses hung thine urn, And many a garland of the pallid rose: But thou liest far away! No funeral chant, Save the wild moaning of the wave, is thine: No pyre--save, haply, some long-buried wreck; Thou that wert fairest--thou that wert most loved! By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one! Come, in the dreamy shadow of the night, And speak to me! E’en though thy voice be changed, My heart would know it still. Oh, speak to me! And say if yet, in some dim, far-off world, Which knows not how the festal sunshine burns, If yet, in some pale mead of asphodel, We two shall meet again! Oh, I would quit The day rejoicingly--the rosy light-- All the rich flowers and fountains musical, And sweet, familiar melodies of earth, To dwell with thee below! Thou answerest not! The powers whom I have call’d upon are mute: The voices buried in old whispery caves, And by lone river-sources, and amidst The gloom and mystery of dark prophet-oaks, The wood-gods’ haunt--they give me no reply! All silent--heaven and earth! For evermore From the deserted mountains thou art gone-- For ever from the melancholy groves, Whose laurels wail thee with a shivering sound! And I--I pine through all the joyous day, Through the long night I pine--as fondly pines The night’s own bird, dissolving her lorn life To song in moonlight woods. Thou hear’st me not! The heavens are pitiless of human tears: The deep sea-darkness is about thy head; The white sail never will bring back the loved! By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one! [440] The original title given to this poem was The Lament of Alcyone, which was altered to its present one, on the suggestion of a friend. It was written in November 1834. THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. INTELLECTUAL POWERS. O Thought! O Memory! gems for ever heaping