The Poems of Felicia Hemans
And I--but wherefore now recall
The whisper’d omens of my fall?
They come not in mysterious gloom--
There is no bondage in the tomb!
O’er the soul’s world no tyrant reigns,
And earth alone for man hath chains!
What though I perish ere the hour
When Scotland’s vengeance wakes in power?
If shed for her, my blood shall stain
The field or scaffold not in vain:
Its voice to efforts more sublime
Shall rouse the spirit of her clime;
And in the noontide of her lot,
My country shall forget me not!”
* * * * *
_Art_ thou forgot? and hath thy worth
Without its glory pass’d from earth?
Rest with the brave, whose names belong
To the high sanctity of song!
Charter’d our reverence to control,
And traced in sunbeams on the soul,
_Thine_, Wallace! while the heart hath still
One pulse a generous thought can thrill--
While youth’s warm tears are yet the meed
Of martyr’s death or hero’s deed,
Shall brightly live from age to age,
Thy country’s proudest heritage!
Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling,
Thy deeds her mountain winds are telling,
Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave,
Thy step hath hallow’d rock and cave,
And cold the wanderer’s heart must be
That holds no converse there with thee!
Yet, Scotland! to thy champion’s shade
Still are thy grateful rites delay’d;
From lands of old renown, o’erspread
With proud memorials of the dead,
The trophied urn, the breathing bust,
The pillar guarding noble dust,
The shrine where art and genius high
Have labour’d for eternity--
The stranger comes: his eye explores
The wilds of thy majestic shores,
Yet vainly seeks one votive stone
Raised to the hero all thine own.
Land of bright deeds and minstrel-lore!
Withhold that guerdon now no more.
On some bold height of awful form,
Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm,
Sublimely mingling with the skies,
Bid the proud Cenotaph arise:
Not to _record_ the name that thrills
Thy soul, the watchword of thy hills;
Not to assert, with needless claim,
The bright _for ever_ of its fame;
But, in the ages yet untold,
When _ours_ shall be the days of old,
To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride
In him, for thee who lived and died.
[64] _Advertisement by the Author._--“A native of Edinburgh, and member
of the Highland Society of London, with a view to give popularity to
the project of rearing a suitable national monument to the memory of
Wallace, lately offered prizes for the three best poems on the subject
of that illustrious patriot inviting Bruce to the Scottish throne.
The following poem obtained the first of these prizes. It would have
appeared in the same form in which it is now offered to the public,
under the direction of its proper editor, the giver of the prize; but
his privilege has, with pride as well as pleasure, been yielded to a
lady of the author’s own country, who solicited permission to avail
herself of this opportunity of honouring and further remunerating the
genius of the poet; and, at the same time, expressing her admiration of
the theme in which she has triumphed.
“It is a noble feature in the character of a generous and enlightened
people, that, in England, the memory of the patriots and martyrs of
Scotland has long excited an interest not exceeded in strength by that
which prevails in the country which boasts their birth, their deeds,
and their sufferings.”
[“Mrs Hemans was recommended by a zealous friend in Edinburgh to
enter the lists as a competitor, which she accordingly did, though
without being in the slightest degree sanguine of success; so that the
news of the prize having been decreed to her was no less unexpected
than gratifying. The number of candidates, for this distinction,
was so overwhelming as to cause not a little embarrassment to the
judges appointed to decide on their merits. A letter, written at this
time, describes them as being reduced to absolute despair by the
contemplation of the task which awaited them, having to read over a
mass of poetry that would require a month at least to wade through.
Some of the contributions were from the strangest aspirants imaginable;
and one of them is mentioned as being as long as _Paradise Lost_. At
length, however, the Herculean labour was accomplished; and the honour
awarded to Mrs Hemans, on this occasion, seemed an earnest of the warm
kindness and encouragement she was ever afterwards to receive at the
hands of the Scottish public.”--_Memoir_, p. 31-2.
Although two-thirds of the compositions sent to the arbiters, on
the occasion alluded to, are understood to have been mere trash,
yet several afterwards came to light, through the press, of very
considerable excellence. We would especially mention “Wallace and
Bruce, a Vision,” published in _Constable’s Magazine_ for Dec. 1819;
and “Wallace,” by James Hogg, subsequently included in the fourth
volume of his Collected Works--Edin. 1822, p. 143-160.
“The Vision” is thus prefaced:--“Though far from entering into a
hopeless competition with Mrs Hemans, I think the far-famed interview
of our patriot heroes ought not to be left entirely to English
celebration. Mrs Hemans has adorned the subject with the finest strains
of pure poetry. Receive here, as a humble contrast, a simple strain of
genuine Scottish feeling, flowing from a mind that owns no other muse
but the _amor patriæ_, and seeks no other praise but what is due to
heartfelt interest in the glory of our ancient kingdom, and no higher
name than that of ‘a kindly Scot.’”
The Ettrick Shepherd is equally gallant in his laudations, and forgets
his discomfiture in generous acknowledgement of the merits of his
rival. “This poem,” (Wallace,) says he, “was hurriedly and reluctantly
written, in compliance with the solicitations of a friend who would not
be gainsayed, to compete for a prize offered by a gentleman for the
best poem on the subject. The prize was finally awarded to Mrs Felicia
Hemans; and, as far as the merits of mine went, very justly, hers
being greatly superior both in elegance of thought and composition.
Had I been constituted the judge myself, I would have given hers the
preference by many degrees; and I estimated it the more highly as
coming from one of the people that were the hero’s foes, oppressors,
and destroyers. I think my heart never warmed so much to an author for
any poem that ever was written.”
Acceptable praise this must have been, coming from such a man
as the Author of “The Queen’s Wake”--a production entitled to a
permanent place in British poetry, independently of the extraordinary
circumstances under which it was composed. Whatever may be its
blemishes, taken as a whole, “Kilmeny,” “Glenavin,” “Earl Walter,” “The
Abbot Mackinnon,” and “The Witch of Fife”--more especially the first
and the last--possess peculiar merits, and of a high kind; and are, I
doubt not, destined to remain for ever embalmed in the memories of all
true lovers of imaginative verse. Poor Hogg was the very reverse of
Antæus--he was always in power except when he touched the earth.]
[These verses were thus critically noticed at the time of
publication:--
“When we mentioned in the tent, that Mrs Hemans had authorised the
judges who awarded to her the prize to send her poem to us, it is
needless to say with what enthusiasm the proposal of reading it aloud
was received on all sides; and at its conclusion thunders of applause
crowned the genius of the fair poet. Scotland has her Baillie--Ireland
her Tighe--England her Hemans.”--_Blackwood’s Magazine_, vol. v. Sept.
1819.
“Mrs Hemans so soon again!--and with a palm in her hand! We welcome
her cordially, and rejoice to find the high opinion of her genius
which we lately expressed so unequivocally confirmed.
“On this animating theme, (the meeting of Wallace and Bruce,) several
of the competitors, we understand, were of the other side of the
Tweed--a circumstance, we learn, which was known from the references
before the prizes were determined. Mrs Hemans’s was the first prize,
against fifty-seven competitors. That a Scottish prize, for a poem
on a subject purely, proudly Scottish, has been adjudged to an
English candidate, is a proof at once of the perfect fairness of the
award, and of the merit of the poem. It further demonstrates the
disappearance of those jealousies which, not a hundred years ago,
would have denied to such a candidate any thing like a fair chance
with a native--if we can suppose any poet in the south then dreaming
of making the trial, or viewing Wallace in any other light than that
of an enemy, and a rebel against the paramount supremacy of England.
We delight in every gleam of high feeling which warms the two nations
alike, and ripens yet more that confidence and sympathy which bind
them together in one great family.”--_Edin. Monthly Review_, vol. ii.
The estimation into which the poetry of Mrs Hemans was rising at this
time, (1819,) is indicated by the following passage, from a clever and
not very lenient satire, entitled “Common Sense,” then published, and
currently believed to have emanated from the pen of the Rev. Mr Terrot,
now Diocesan Bishop of Edinburgh. When alluding to the female writers
of the age, Miss Baillie is the first mentioned and characterised. He
then proceeds--
----“Next I’d place
Felicia Hemans, second in the race;
I wonder the Reviews, who make such stir
Oft about rubbish, never mention her.
They might have said, I think, from mere good breeding--
Mistress Felicia’s works are worth the reading.”
“Mrs Hemans,” adds the critical satirist in a note, “is a lady, (a
young lady, I believe,) of very considerable merit. Her imagination is
vigorous, her language copious and elegant, her information extensive.
I have no means of ascertaining the extent of her fame, but she
certainly deserves well of the republic of letters.”
The worthy bishop has lived to read “The Records of Woman;” and, we
have no doubt, rejoices to know that the aspirant of 1819 has now taken
her place among British classics.]
TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.
THE ABENCERRAGE.
[The events with which the following tale is interwoven are related
in the _Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada_. They occurred
in the reign of Abo Abdeli, or Abdali, the last Moorish king of
that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey Chico. The conquest of
Granada, by Ferdinand and Isabella, is said by some historians to
have been greatly facilitated by the Abencerrages, whose defection
was the result of the repeated injuries they had received from the
king, at the instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beautiful
halls of the Alhambra is pointed out as the scene where so many of
the former celebrated tribe were massacred; and it still retains
their name, being called the “Sala de los Abencerrages.” Many of the
most interesting old Spanish ballads relate to the events of this
chivalrous and romantic period.]
“Le Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colère dure encore, mais parce
que la vengeance seule peut écarter de sa tête le poids d’infamie dont
il est accablé.--Il se venge, parce qu’à ses yeux il n’y a qu’une âme
basse qui puisse pardonner les affronts; et il nourrit sa rancune,
parce que s’il la sentoit s’éteindre, il croiroit avec elle avoir
perdu une vertu.”
Sismondi.
Lonely and still are now thy marble halls,
Thou fair Alhambra! there the feast is o’er;
And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls
Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more.