The Poems of Felicia Hemans
WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE.
O wanderer! would thy heart forget
Each earthly passion and regret,
And would thy wearied spirit rise
To commune with its native skies;
Pause for a while, and deem it sweet
To linger in this calm retreat;
And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense,
Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence.
Unmix’d with aught of meaner tone,
Here Nature’s voice is heard alone:
When the loud storm, in wrathful hour,
Is rushing on its wing of power,
And spirits of the deep awake,
And surges foam, and billows break,
And rocks and ocean-caves around
Reverberate each awful sound--
That mighty voice, with all its dread control,
To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul.
But when no more the sea-winds rave,
When peace is brooding on the wave,
And from earth, air, and ocean rise
No sounds but plaintive melodies;
Soothed by their softly mingling swell,
As daylight bids the world farewell,
The rustling wood, the dying breeze,
The faint low rippling of the seas,
A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast,
A gleam reflected from the realms of rest.
Is thine a heart the world hath stung,
Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung?
Hast thou some grief that none may know,
Some lonely, secret, silent woe?
Or have thy fond affections fled
From earth, to slumber with the dead?--
Oh! pause awhile--the world disown,
And dwell with Nature’s self alone!
And though no more she bids arise
Thy soul’s departed energies,
And though thy joy of life is o’er,
Beyond her magic to restore;
Yet shall her spells o’er every passion steal,
And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal.
DIRGE OF A CHILD.
No bitter tears for thee be shed,
Blossom of being! seen and gone!
With flowers alone we strew thy bed,
O blest departed One!
Whose all of life, a rosy ray,
Blush’d into dawn and pass’d away.
Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power
To stain thy cherub-soul and form,
Closed is the soft ephemeral flower
That never felt a storm!
The sunbeam’s smile, the zephyr’s breath,
All that it knew from birth to death.
Thou wert so like a form of light,
That heaven benignly call’d thee hence,
Ere yet the world could breathe one blight
O’er thy sweet innocence:
And thou, that brighter home to bless,
Art pass’d, with all thy loveliness!
Oh I hadst thou still on earth remain’d,
Vision of beauty! fair, as brief!
How soon thy brightness had been stain’d
With passion or with grief!
Now not a sullying breath can rise
To dim thy glory in the skies.
We rear no marble o’er thy tomb--
No sculptured image there shall mourn;
Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom
Such dwelling to adorn.
Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be
The only emblems meet for thee.
Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
Adorn’d with Nature’s brightest wreath;
Each glowing season shall combine
Its incense there to breathe;
And oft, upon the midnight air,
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.
And oh! sometimes in visions blest,
Sweet spirit! visit our repose;
And bear, from thine own world of rest,
Some balm for human woes!
What form more lovely could be given
Than thine to messenger of heaven?[57]
INVOCATION.
Hush’d is the world in night and sleep--
Earth, sea, and air are still as death;
Too rude to break a calm so deep
Were music’s faintest breath.
Descend, bright visions! from aërial bowers,
Descend to gild your own soft silent hours.
In hope or fear, in toil or pain,
The weary day have mortals pass’d;
Now, dreams of bliss! be yours to reign,
And all your spells around them cast;
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear,
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.
Oh, bear your softest balm to those
Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead!
To them that world of peace disclose
Where the bright soul is fled:
Whore Love, immortal in his native clime,
Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time.
Or to his loved, his distant land
On your light wings the exile bear,
To feel once more his heart expand
In his own genial mountain-air;
Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat,
And bless each note, as heaven’s own music sweet.
But oh! with fancy’s brightest ray,
Blest dreams! the bard’s repose illume;
Bid forms of heaven around him play,
And bowers of Eden bloom!
And waft _his_ spirit to its native skies
Who finds no charm in life’s realities.
No voice is on the air of night,
Through folded leaves no murmurs creep,
Nor star nor moonbeam’s trembling light
Falls on the placid brow of sleep.
Descend, bright visions! from your airy bower:
Dark, silent, solemn is your favourite hour.
[57] Vide Annotation from _Quarterly Review_, p. 62.
TO THE MEMORY OF
GENERAL SIR E--D P--K--M.[58]
Brave spirit! mourn’d with fond regret,
Lost in life’s pride, in valour’s noon,
Oh, who could deem thy star should set
So darkly and so soon!
Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind
Which mark’d and closed thy brief career,
And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined,
Lies wither’d on thy bier.
The soldier’s death hath been thy doom,
The soldier’s tear thy mead shall be;
Yet, son of war! a prouder tomb
Might Fate have rear’d for thee.
Thou shouldst have died, O high-soul’d chief!
In those bright days of glory fled,
When triumph so prevail’d o’er grief
We scarce could mourn the dead.
Noontide of fame! each tear-drop then
Was worthy of a warrior’s grave:
When shall affection weep again
So proudly o’er the brave?
There, on the battle-fields of Spain,
Midst Roncesvalles’ mountain-scene,
Or on Vitoria’s blood-red plain,
Meet had thy deathbed been.
We mourn not that a hero’s life
Thus in its ardent prime should close;
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife,
But died midst conquer’d foes!
Yet hast thou still (though victory’s flame
In that last moment cheer’d thee not)
Left Glory’s isle another name,
That ne’er may be forgot:
And many a tale of triumph won
Shall breathe that name in Memory’s ear,
And long may England mourn a son
_Without reproach or fear_.
[58] Major-general Sir Edward Pakenham, the gallant officer to whose
memory these verses are dedicated, fell at the head of the British
troops in the unfortunate attack on New Orleans, 8th January 1814. “Six
thousand combatants on the British side,” says Mr Alison, “were in
the field: a slender force to attack double their number, intrenched
to the teeth in works bristling with bayonets and loaded with heavy
artillery.”--_History of Europe_, vol. x. p. 743.
The death of Sir Edward is thus alluded to in the official account of
General Keane, communicating the result of the action:--“The advancing
columns were discernible from the enemy’s line at more than two hundred
yards’ distance, when a destructive fire was instantly opened, not
only from all parts of the enemy’s line, but from the battery on the
opposite side of the river. The gallant Pakenham, who, during his short
but brilliant career, was always foremost in the path of glory and
of danger, galloped forward to the front, to animate his men by his
presence. He had reached the crest of the glacis, and was in the act
of cheering his troops with his hat off, when he received two balls,
one in the knee and another in the body. He fell into the arms of Major
Macdougal, his aide-de-camp, and almost instantly expired.”--_Edinr.
An. Regist._ 1815, p. 356.
TO THE MEMORY OF
SIR H--Y E--LL--S,
WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
“Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around
them.”--Ossian.
Weep’st thou for him, whose doom was seal’d
On England’s proudest battle-field?
For him, the lion-heart, who died
In victory’s full resistless tide?
Oh, mourn him not!
By deeds like his that field was won,
And Fate could yield to Valour’s son
No brighter lot.
He heard his band’s exulting cry,
He saw the vanquish’d eagles fly;
And envied be his death of fame!
It shed a sunbeam o’er his name
That nought shall dim:
No cloud obscured his glory’s day,
It saw no twilight of decay.
Weep not for him!
And breathe no dirge’s plaintive moan,
A hero claims far loftier tone!
Oh, proudly shall the war-song swell,
Recording how the mighty fell
In that dread hour,
When England, midst the battle-storm--
The avenging angel--rear’d her form
In tenfold power.
Yet, gallant heart! to swell thy praise,
Vain were the minstrel’s noblest lays;
Since he, the soldier’s guiding star,
The Victor-chief, the lord of war,
Has own’d thy fame:
And oh! like _his_ approving word,
What trophied marble could record
A warrior’s name?
GUERILLA SONG.
FOUNDED ON THE STORY RELATED OF THE SPANISH PATRIOT MINA.
Oh! forget not the hour when through forest and vale
We return’d with our chief to his dear native halls;
Through the woody sierra there sigh’d not a gale,
And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement-walls;
And nature lay sleeping in calmness and light,
Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our sight.
We enter’d that home--all was loneliness round,
The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave;
Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound:
Ah, such was the welcome that waited the brave!
For the spoilers had pass’d, like the poison-wind’s breath,
And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death.
Oh! forget not that hour--let its image be near,
In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest,
Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear,
And rouse into vengeance each arm and each breast,
Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine
O’er the plains of the olive and hills of the vine.
THE AGED INDIAN.
Warriors! my noon of life is past,
The brightness of my spirit flown;
I crouch before the wintry blast,
Amidst my tribe I dwell alone;
The heroes of my youth are fled,
They rest among the warlike dead.
Ye slumberers of the narrow cave!
My kindred chiefs in days of yore!
Ye fill an unremember’d grave,
Your fame, your deeds, are known no more.
The records of your wars are gone,
Your names forgot by all but one.
Soon shall that one depart from earth,
To join the brethren of his prime;
Then will the memory of your birth
Sleep with the hidden things of time.
With him, ye sons of former days!
Fades the last glimmering of your praise.
His eyes, that hail’d your spirits’ flame,
Still kindling in the combat’s shock,
Have seen, since darkness veil’d your fame,
Sons of the desert and the rock!
Another and another race
Rise to the battle and the chase.
Descendants of the mighty dead!
Fearless of heart, and firm of hand!
Oh, let me join their spirits fled--
Oh! send me to their shadowy land.