The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Manuel, Della Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Quevedo, Juan de Tarsis,
Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesner,
Chaulieu, Garcilaso de Vega--names embracing almost every language in
which the muse has found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations
are very pretty, but it would be less interesting to select any of them
for citation, as our readers might not be possessed of or acquainted
with the originals. We will pass on, therefore, to the latter part of
the volume, which contains much that is very pleasing and beautiful.
The poem which we are about to transcribe is on a subject often
treated--and no wonder; it would be hard to find another which embraces
so many of the elements of poetic feeling; so soothing a mixture of
pleasing melancholy and pensive hope; such an assemblage of the ideas
of tender beauty, of artless playfulness, of spotless purity, of
transient yet imperishable brightness, of affections wounded, but not
in bitterness, of sorrows gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted
happiness. We know so little of the heart of man, that when we stand by
the grave of him whom we deem most excellent, the thought of death will
be mingled with some awe and uncertainty; but the gracious promises of
scripture leave no doubt as to the blessedness of departed infants; and
when we think what they now are and what they might have been, what
they now enjoy and what they might have suffered, what they have now
gained and what they might have lost, we may, indeed, yearn to follow
them; but we must be selfish indeed to wish them again ‘constrained’ to
dwell in these tenements of pain and sorrow. The ‘Dirge of a Child,’
which follows, embodies these thoughts and feelings, but in more
beautiful order and language:--
“No bitter tears for thee be shed,” etc.--Vide page 55.
WALLACE’S INVOCATION TO BRUCE.[64]
“Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief!”
The morn rose bright on scenes renown’d,
Wild Caledonia’s classic ground,
Where the bold sons of other days
Won their high fame in Ossian’s lays,
And fell--but not till Carron’s tide
With Roman blood was darkly dyed.
The morn rose bright--and heard the cry
Sent by exulting hosts on high,
And saw the white-cross banner float
(While rung each clansman’s gathering-note)
O’er the dark plumes and serried spears
Of Scotland’s daring mountaineers;
As, all elate with hope, they stood,
To buy their freedom with their blood.
The sunset shone--to guide the flying,
And beam a farewell to the dying!
The summer moon, on Falkirk’s field,
Streams upon eyes in slumber seal’d;
Deep slumber--not to pass away
When breaks another morning’s ray,
Nor vanish when the trumpet’s voice
Bids ardent hearts again rejoice:
What sunbeam’s glow, what clarion’s breath,
May chase the still cold sleep of death?
Shrouded in Scotland’s blood-stain’d plaid,
Low are her mountain-warriors laid;
They fell, on that proud soil whose mould
Was blent with heroes’ dust of old,
And, guarded by the free and brave,
Yielded the Roman--but a grave!
Nobly they fell; yet with them died
The warrior’s hope, the leader’s pride.
Vainly they fell--that martyr host--
All, save the land’s high soul, is lost.
Blest are the slain! _they_ calmly sleep,
Nor hear their bleeding country weep!
The shouts of England’s triumph telling
Reach not their dark and silent dwelling;
And those surviving to bequeath
Their sons the choice of chains or death,
May give the slumberer’s lowly bier
An envying glance--but not a tear.
But thou, the fearless and the free,
Devoted Knight of Ellerslie!
No vassal-spirit, form’d to bow
When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow;
No shade of fear or weak despair
Blends with indignant sorrow there!
The ray which streams on yon red field,
O’er Scotland’s cloven helm and shield,
Glitters not _there_ alone, to shed
Its cloudless beauty o’er the dead;
But where smooth Carron’s rippling wave
Flows near that deathbed of the brave,
Illuming all the midnight scene,
Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien.
But other beams, O Patriot! shine
In each commanding glance of thine,
And other fight hath fill’d thine eye
With inspiration’s majesty,
Caught from th’ immortal flame divine
Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine!
Thy voice a prophet’s tone hath won,
The grandeur Freedom lends her son;
Thy bearing a resistless power,
The ruling genius of the hour!
And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride,
Whom Carron’s waves from thee divide,
Whose haughty gesture fain would seek
To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek,
Feels his reluctant mind controll’d
By thine of more heroic mould:
Though struggling all in vain to war
With that high soul’s ascendant star,
He, with a conqueror’s scornful eye,
Would mock the name of Liberty.
Heard ye the Patriot’s awful voice?--
“Proud Victor! in thy fame rejoice!
Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain,
The harvest of the battle-plain,
And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot
Eternity shall cancel not?
Rejoice!--with sounds of wild lament
O’er her dark heaths and mountains sent,
With dying moan and dirge’s wail,
Thy ravaged country bids thee hail!
Rejoice!--while yet exulting cries
From England’s conquering host arise,
And strains of choral triumph tell
Her Royal Slave hath fought too well!
Oh, dark the clouds of woe that rest
Brooding o’er Scotland’s mountain-crest!
Her shield is cleft, her banner torn,
O’er martyr’d chiefs her daughters mourn,
And not a breeze but wafts the sound
Of wailing through the land around.
Yet deem not thou, till life depart,
High hope shall leave the patriot’s heart;
Or courage to the storm inured,
Or stern resolve by woes matured,
Oppose, to Fate’s severest hour,
Less than unconquerable power!
No! though the orbs of heaven expire,
_Thine_, Freedom! is a quenchless fire;
And woe to him whose might would dare
The energies of _thy_ despair!
No!--when thy chain, O Bruce! is cast
O’er thy land’s charter’d mountain-blast,
Then in my yielding soul shall die
The glorious faith of Liberty!”
“Wild hopes! o’er dreamer’s mind that rise!”
With haughty laugh the Conqueror cries,
(Yet his dark cheek is flush’d with shame,
And his eye fill’d with troubled flame;)
“Vain, brief illusions! doom’d to fly
England’s red path of victory!
Is not her sword unmatch’d in might?
Her course a torrent in the fight?
The terror of her name gone forth
Wide o’er the regions of the north?
Far hence, midst other heaths and snows,
Must freedom’s footstep now repose.
And thou--in lofty dreams elate,
Enthusiast! strive no more with Fate!
’Tis vain--the land is lost and won:
Sheathed be the sword--its task is done.
Where are the chiefs that stood with thee
First in the battles of the free?
The firm in heart, in spirit high?--
They sought yon fatal field to die.
Each step of Edward’s conquering host
Hath left a grave on Scotland’s coast.”
“Vassal of England, yes! a grave
Where sleep the faithful and the brave;
And who the glory would resign
Of death like theirs, for life like thine?
They slumber--and the stranger’s tread
May spurn thy country’s noble dead;
Yet, on the land they loved so well,
Still shall their burning spirit dwell,
Their deeds shall hallow minstrel’s theme,
Their image rise on warrior’s dream,
Their names be inspiration’s breath,
Kindling high hope and scorn of death,
Till bursts, immortal from the tomb,
The flame that shall avenge their doom!
This is no land for chains--away!
O’er softer climes let tyrants sway.
Think’st thou the mountain and the storm
Their hardy sons for bondage form?
Doth our stern wintry blast instil
Submission to a despot’s will?
No! _we_ were cast in other mould
Than theirs by lawless power controll’d;
The nurture of our bitter sky
Calls forth resisting energy;
And the wild fastnesses are ours,
The rocks with their eternal towers.
The soul to struggle and to dare
Is mingled with our northern air,
And dust beneath our soil is lying
Of those who died for fame undying.
“Tread’st thou that soil! and can it be
No loftier thought is roused in thee?
Doth no high feeling proudly start
From slumber in thine inmost heart?
No secret voice thy bosom thrill,
For thine own Scotland pleading still?
Oh! wake thee yet--indignant, claim
A nobler fate, a purer fame,
And cast to earth thy fetters riven,
And take thine offer’d crown from heaven.
Wake! in that high majestic lot
May the dark past be all forgot;
And Scotland shall forgive the field
Where with her blood thy shame was seal’d.
E’en I--though on that fatal plain
Lies my heart’s brother with the slain;
Though, reft of his heroic worth,
My spirit dwells alone on earth;
And when all other grief is past,
Must _this_ be cherish’d to the last--
Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne,
With faith unspotted as his own;
Nor in thy noon of fame recall
_Whose_ was the guilt that wrought his fall.”
Still dost thou hear in stern disdain?
Are Freedom’s warning accents vain?
No! royal Bruce! within thy breast
Wakes each high thought, too long suppress’d.
And thy heart’s noblest feelings live,
Blent in that suppliant word--“Forgive!”
“Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done!
Wallace! thy fairest palm is won;
And, kindling at my country’s shrine,
My soul hath caught a spark from thine.
Oh! deem not, in the proudest hour
Of triumph and exulting power--
Deem not the light of peace could find
A home within my troubled mind.
Conflicts by mortal eye unseen,
Dark, silent, secret, there have been,
Known but to Him whose glance can trace
Thought to its deepest dwelling-place!
--’Tis past--and on my native shore
I tread, a rebel son no more.
Too blest, if yet my lot may be
In glory’s path to follow thee;
If tears, by late repentance pour’d,
May lave the blood-stains from my sword!”
Far other tears, O Wallace! rise
From the heart’s fountain to thine eyes;
Bright, holy, and uncheck’d they spring,
While thy voice falters, “Hail! my King!
Be every wrong, by memory traced,
In this full tide of joy effaced:
Hail! and rejoice!--thy race shall claim
A heritage of deathless fame,
And Scotland shall arise at length
Majestic in triumphant strength,
An eagle of the rock, that won
A way through tempests to the sun.
Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand,
The prophet-spirit of thy land:
By torrent-wave, in desert vast,
Those visions o’er my thought have pass’d;
Where mountain vapours darkly roll,
That spirit hath possess’d my soul;
And shadowy forms have met mine eye.
The beings of futurity;
And a deep voice of years to be
Hath told that Scotland shall be free!
He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings!
From thee the chief, th’ avenger springs!
Far o’er the land he comes to save,
His banners in their glory wave,
And Albyn’s thousand harps awake
On hill and heath, by stream and lake,
To swell the strains that far around
Bid the proud name of Bruce resound!