The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Age hath not tamed Ontara’s heart--
He shrinks not from the friendly dart.
These feet no more can chase the deer,
The glory of this arm is flown;--
Why should the feeble linger here
When all the pride of life is gone?
Warriors! why still the stroke deny?
Think ye Ontara fears to die?
He fear’d not in his flower of days,
When strong to stem the torrent’s force,
When through the desert’s pathless maze
His way was as an eagle’s course!
When war was sunshine to his sight,
And the wild hurricane delight!
Shall, then, the warrior tremble _now_?
Now when his envied strength is o’er--
Hung on the pine his idle bow,
His pirogue useless on the shore?
When age hath dimm’d his failing eye,
Shall he, the joyless, fear to die?
Sons of the brave! delay no more--
The spirits of my kindred call.
’Tis but one pang, and all is o’er!
Oh, bid the aged cedar fall!
To join the brethren of his prime,
The mighty of departed time.
EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS.
Soft skies of Italy! how richly drest,
Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glow!
What glorious hues, reflected from the west,
Float o’er the dwellings of eternal snow!
Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep,
Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam;
Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep,
Where pipes the goat-herd by his mountain-stream.
Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray,
That still at eve its lofty temple knows;
From rock and torrent fade the tints away,
And all is wrapt in twilight’s deep repose:
While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper star,
And roves the Alpine gale o’er solitudes afar.
DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN “WAVERLEY.”[59]
Son of the mighty and the free!
High-minded leader of the brave!
Was it for lofty chief like thee
To fill a nameless grave?
Oh! if amidst the valiant slain
The warrior’s bier had been thy lot,
E’en though on red Culloden’s plain,
We then had mourn’d thee not.
But darkly closed thy dawn of fame,
That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair;
Vengeance alone may breathe thy name,
The watchword of Despair!
Yet, oh! if gallant spirit’s power
Hath e’er ennobled death like thine,
Then glory mark’d _thy_ parting hour,
Last of a mighty line!
O’er thy own towers the sunshine falls,
But cannot chase their silent gloom;
Those beams that gild thy native walls
Are sleeping on thy tomb!
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air,
But the loved scenes may vainly smile:
Not e’en thy dust is there.
On thy blue hills no bugle-sound
Is mingling with the torrent’s roar;
Unmark’d, the wild deer sport around:
Thou lead’st the chase no more!
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still,
Those halls where peal’d the choral strain;
They hear the wind’s deep murmuring thrill,
And all is hush’d again.
No banner from the lonely tower
Shall wave its blazon’d folds on high;
There the tall grass and summer flower
Unmark’d shall spring and die.
No more thy bard for other ear
Shall wake the harp once loved by thine--
Hush’d be the strain _thou_ canst not hear,
Last of a mighty line!
[59] These very beautiful stanzas first appeared in the Edinburgh
Annual Register for 1815, (p. 255,) with the following interesting
heading.
“A literary friend of ours received these verses with a letter of the
following tenor:--
“‘_A very ingenious young friend of mine has just sent me the enclosed,
on reading Waverley. To you the world gives that charming work; and if
in any future edition you should like to insert the Dirge to a Highland
Chief, you would do honour to_
_Your Sincere Admirer._’
“The individual to whom this obliging letter was addressed, having no
claim to the honour which is there done him, does not possess the means
of publishing the verses in the popular novel alluded to. But that the
public may sustain no loss, and that the ingenious author of Waverley
may be aware of the honour intended him, our correspondent has ventured
to send the verses to our Register.”
Notwithstanding the mysticism in the note about the “_very ingenious
young friend of mine_” and “_your sincere admirer_,” on the one hand;
and the disclaimer by “_a literary friend of ours_,” on the other,
there can be little doubt that the Dirge was sent by Mrs Hermans to Sir
Walter, then Mr Scott, and by him to the Register--of which he himself
wrote that year the historical department.--_Vide_ Lockhart’s Life of
Scott, vol. iv. p. 80.
THE CRUSADERS’ WAR-SONG.
Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high--
Lead on to Salem’s towers!
Who would not deem it bliss to die,
Slain in a cause like ours?
The brave who sleep in soil of thine,
Die not entomb’d but shrined, O Palestine!
Souls of the slain in holy war!
Look from your sainted rest.
Tell us ye rose in Glory’s car,
To mingle with the blest;
Tell us how short the death-pang’s power,
How bright the joys of your immortal bower.
Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train!
Pour forth your loftiest lays;
Each heart shall echo to the strain
Breathed in the warrior’s praise.
Bid every string triumphant swell
Th’ inspiring sounds that heroes love so well.
Salem! amidst the fiercest hour,
The wildest rage of fight,
Thy name shall lend our falchions power,
And nerve our hearts with might.
Envied be those for thee that fall,
Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall.
For them no need that sculptured tomb
Should chronicle their fame,
Or pyramid record their doom,
Or deathless verse their name;
It is enough that dust of thine
Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine!
Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high
For combat’s glorious hour;
Soon shall the red-cross banner fly
On Salem’s loftiest tower!
We burn to mingle in the strife,
Where _but_ to die insures eternal life.
THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD.
[It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald fell,
leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited
the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengarry, chief of a rival
branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his
bonnet round his head, cried out, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow
for mourning!” The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words,
and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them.--See the
_Quarterly Review_ article of “Culloden Papers.”]
Oh, ne’er be Clanronald the valiant forgot!
Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell;
But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o’er the spot,
We spared not one moment to murmur “Farewell.”
We heard but the battle-word given by the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”
And wildly, Clanronald! we echo’d the vow,
With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our hand;
Young son of the brave! we may weep for thee now,
For well has thy death been avenged by thy band,
When they joined in wild chorus the cry of the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”
Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle’s wild call,
The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave;
But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall,
And the soft voice of melody sigh o’er thy grave--
While Albyn remembers the words of the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”
Thou art fallen, O fearless one! flower of thy race!
Descendant of heroes! thy glory is set:
But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase,
Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet!
Nor vainly have echo’d the words of the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”
TO THE EYE.
Throne of expression! whence the spirit’s ray
Pours forth so oft the light of mental day,
Where fancy’s fire, affection’s mental beam,
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme,
And many a feeling, words can ne’er impart,
Finds its own language to pervade the heart:
Thy power, bright orb! what bosom hath not felt,
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt!
And, by some spell of undefined control,
With magnet-influence touch the secret soul!
Light of the features! in the morn of youth
Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth;
And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway,
Hath taught e’en _thee_ to flatter and betray,
Th’ ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal,
Or speak one thought that interest would conceal.
While yet thou seem’st the cloudless mirror given
But to reflect the purity of heaven,
Oh! then how lovely, there unveil’d, to trace
Th’ unsullied brightness of each mental grace!
When Genius lends thee all his living light,
Where the full beams of intellect unite;
When love illumes thee with his varying ray,
Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play;
Or Pity’s melting cloud thy beam subdues,
Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews;
Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell
Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well,
Bid some new feeling to existence start
From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart.
And oh! when thought, in ecstasy sublime,
That soars triumphant o’er the bounds of time,
Fires thy keen glance with inspiration’s blaze,
The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days,
(As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high,
Flash through the mist of dim mortality;)
Who does not own, that through thy lightning-beams
A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams?
That pure, though captive effluence of the sky,
The vestal-ray, the spark that cannot die!
THE HERO’S DEATH.
Life’s parting beams were in his eye,
Life’s closing accents on his tongue,
When round him, pealing to the sky,
The shout of victory rung!
Then, ere his gallant spirit fled,
A smile so bright illumed his face--
Oh! never, of the light it shed,
Shall memory lose a trace!
His was a death whose rapture high
Transcended all that life could yield;
His warmest prayer was so to die,
On the red battle-field!
And they may feel, who loved him most,
A pride so holy and so pure:
Fate hath no power o’er those who boast
A treasure thus secure!
STANZAS
ON
THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.
[“Hélas! nous composions son histoire de tout ce qu’on peut imaginer
de plus glorieux.... Le passé et le présent nous garantissoient
l’avenir.... Telle étoit l’agréable histoire que nous faisions; et
pour achever ces nobles projets, il n’y avoit que la durée de sa
vie; dont nous ne croyions pas devoir être en peine, car qui eût pu
seulement penser, que les années eussent dû manquer à une jeunesse qui
sembloit si vive?”--Bossuet.]
I.
Mark’d ye the mingling of the city’s throng,
Each mien, each glance, with expectation bright?
Prepare the pageant and the choral song,
The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light!
And hark! what rumour’s gathering sound is nigh?
Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep?
Away! be hush’d, ye sounds of revelry!
Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep!
Weep! for the storm hath o’er us darkly pass’d,