The Poems of Felicia Hemans

The scene of death is closed--the throngs depart, A deep stem lesson graved on every heart. No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes, High-minded boy! may grace thine obsequies. O vainly royal and beloved! thy grave, Unsanctified, is bathed by ocean’s wave; Mark’d by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, Unhonour’d, unadorn’d--but _unforgot_; For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live, Now mutely suffering--never to forgive! The sunset fades from purple heavens away-- A bark hath anchor’d in the unruffled bay: Thence on the beach descends a female form,[135] Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm; But life hath left sad traces on her cheek, And her soft eyes a chasten’d heart bespeak, Inured to woes--yet what were all the past! _She_ sank not feebly ’neath affliction’s blast, While one bright hope remain’d--who now shall tell Th’ uncrown’d, the widow’d, how her loved one fell? To clasp her child, to ransom and to save, The mother came--and she hath found his grave! And by that grave, transfix’d in speechless grief, Whose deathlike trance denies a tear’s relief, Awhile she kneels--till roused at length to know, To feel the might, the fulness of her woe, On the still air a voice of anguish wild, A mother’s cry is heard--“My Conradin! my child!” [130] The urn supposed to have contained the ashes of Virgil has long since been lost. [131] Many Romans of exalted rank were formerly banished to some of the small islands in the Mediterranean, on the coast of Italy. Julia, the daughter of Augustus, was confined many years in the isle of Pandataria, and her daughter Agrippina, the widow of Germanicus, afterwards died in exile on the same desolate spot. [132] “Quelques souvenirs du cœur, quelques noms de femmes, réclament aussi vos pleurs. C’est à Misène, dans le lieu même où nous sommes, que la veuve de Pompée Cornélie conserva jusqu’à la mort son noble deuil. Agrippine pleura long-temps Germanicus sur ces bords: un jour, le même assassin qui lui ravit son époux la trouva digne de le suivre. L’île de Nisida fut témoin des adieux de Brutus et de Porcie.”--Madame de Stael, _Corinne_. [133] The sight of that coast, and those shores where the crime had been perpetrated, filled Nero with continual horrors; besides, there were some who imagined they heard horrid shrieks and cries from Agrippina’s tomb, and a mournful sound of trumpets from the neighbouring cliffs and hills. Nero, therefore, flying from such tragical scenes, withdrew to Naples.--See _Ancient Universal History_. [134] “Ce Charles,” dit Giovanni Villani, “fut sage et prudent dans les conseils, preux dans les armes, âpre et forte redouté de tous les rois du monde, magnanime et de hautes pensées qui l’égaloient aux plus grandes entreprises; inébranlable dans l’adversité, ferme et fidèle dans toutes ses promesses, parlant peu et agissant beaucoup, _ni riant presque jamais_, décent comme un religieux, zélé catholique, âpre à rendre justice, féroce dans ses regards. Sa taille étoit grande et nerveuse, sa couleur olivâtre, son nez fort grand. Il paroissoit plus fait qu’aucun autre chevalier pour la majesté royale. Il ne dormoit presque point. Jamais il ne prit de plaisir aux mimes, aux troubadours, et aux gens de cour.”--Sismondi, _Républiques Italiennes_, vol. iii. [135] “The Carmine (at Naples) calls to mind the bloody catastrophe of those royal youths, Conradin and Frederick of Austria, butchered before its door. Whenever I traversed that square, my heart yearned at the idea of their premature fate, and at the deep distress of Conradin’s mother, who, landing on the beach with her son’s ransom, found only a lifeless trunk to redeem from the fangs of his barbarous conqueror.”--Swinburne’s _Travels in the Two Sicilies_. EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS. _Quarterly Review._--“‘Tales and Historic Scenes’ is a collection, as the title imports, of narrative poems. Perhaps it was not on consideration that Mrs Hemans passed from a poem of picture-drawing and reflection to the writing of tales; but if we were to prescribe to a young poet his _course_ of practice, this would certainly be our advice. The luxuriance of a young fancy delights in description, and the quickness and inexperience of the same age, in passing judgments,--in the one richness, in the other antithesis and effect, are too often more sought after than truth: the poem is written rapidly, and correctness but little attended to. But in narration more care must be taken: if the tale be fictitious, the conception and sustainment of the characters, the disposition of the facts, the relief of the soberer parts by description, reflection, or dialogue, form so many useful studies for a growing artist. If the tale be borrowed from history, a more delicate task is added to those just mentioned, in determining how far it may be necessary, or safe, to interweave the ornaments of fiction with the groundwork of truth, and in skilfully performing that difficult task. In both cases, the mind is compelled to make a more sustained effort, and acquires thereby greater vigour, and a more practical readiness in the detail of the art. “The principal poem in this volume is The Abencerrage. It commemorates the capture of Granada by Ferdinand and Isabella, and attributes it, in great measure, to the revenge of Hamet, chief of the Abencerrages, who had been induced to turn his arms against his countrymen the Moors, in order to procure the ruin of their king, the murderer of his father and brothers. During the siege he makes his way by night to the bower of Zayda, his beloved, the daughter of a rival and hated family. Her character is very finely drawn; and she repels with firmness all the solicitations and prayers of the traitor to his country. The following lines form part of their dialogue,--they are spirited and pathetic, but perfectly free from exaggeration,-- ‘Oh! wert thou still what once I fondly deem’d,’” etc. _Edinburgh Monthly Review._--“The more we become acquainted with Mrs Hemans as a poet, the more we are delighted with her productions, and astonished by her powers. She will, she must, take her place among eminent poets. If she has a rival of her own sex, it is Joanna Baillie; but, even compared with the living _masters_ of the lyre, she is entitled to a very high distinction.... “Mrs Hemans manifests, in her own fine imagination, a fund which is less supported by loan than the wealth of some very eminent poets whom we could name. We think it impossible that she can write by mere rule, more than on credit. If she did, her poetry would lose all its charms. It is by inspiration--as it is poetically called--by a fine tact of sympathy, a vivacity and fertility of imagination, that she pours forth her enchanting song and ‘builds her lofty rhyme.’ The judicious propriety wherewith she bestows on each element of her composition its due share of fancy and of feeling, much increases our respect for her powers. With an exquisite airiness and spirit, with an imagery which quite sparkles, are touched her lighter delineations; with a rich and glowing pencil, her descriptions of visible nature: a sublime eloquence is the charm of her sentiments of magnanimity; while she melts into tenderness with a grace in which she has few equals. “It appears to us that Mrs Hemans has yielded her own to the public taste in conveying her poetry in the vehicle of tales.” _Constable’s Magazine._--“The Abencerrage is a romance, the scene of which is appropriately laid in a most romantic period, and in the country of all others in which the spirit of romance was most powerful, and lingered longest--in the kingdom of Granada, where the power of the Moors was first established, and had the greatest continuance.... The leading events of the narrative are strictly historical, and with these the fate and sufferings of the unfortunate lovers are very naturally interwoven. The beauty of the descriptions here is exquisite.... Choice is bewildered among the many fine passages we are tempted to extract from The Abencerrage. “If any reader considers our strictures tedious, and our extracts profuse, our best apology is, that the luxury of doing justice to so much genuine talent, adorning so much private worth, does not often occur to tempt us to an excess of this nature.” THE SCEPTIC.[136] “Leur raison, qu’ils prennent pour guide, ne presente à leur esprit que des conjectures et des embarras; les absurdités où ils tombent en niant la Religion deviennent plus insoutenables que les verités dont la hauteur les étonne; et pour ne vouloir pas croire des mysteres incomprehensibles, ils suivent l’une après l’autre d’incomprehensibles erreurs.”--Bossuet. When the young Eagle, with exulting eye, Has learn’d to dare the splendour of the sky, And leave the Alps beneath him in his course, To bathe his crest in morn’s empyreal source; Will his free wing, from that majestic height, Descend to follow some wild meteor’s light, Which far below, with evanescent fire, Shines to delude and dazzles to expire? No! still through clouds he wins his upward way, And proudly claims his heritage of day! --And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze The dayspring from on high hath pour’d its blaze, Turn from that pure effulgence to the beam Of earth-born light that sheds a treacherous gleam, Luring the wanderer from the star of faith To the deep valley of the shades of death? What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given, For the high birthright of its hope in heaven? If lost the gem which empires could not buy, What yet remains?--a dark eternity! Is earth still Eden?--might a seraph guest Still midst its chosen bowers delighted rest? Is all so cloudless and so calm below, We seek no fairer scenes than _life_ can show? That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate, Rejects the promise of a brighter state, And leaves the rock no tempest shall displace, To rear his dwelling on the quicksand’s base? Votary of doubt! then join the festal throng, Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song, Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high, And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die! ’Tis well--thine eye is yet undimm’d by time, And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime; Smile then unmoved at Wisdom’s warning voice, And in the glory of thy strength rejoice! But life hath sterner tasks; e’en youth’s brief hours Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers; The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil, Are few and distant on the desert soil; The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan, And pain and sorrow claim their nursling--Man! Earth’s noblest sons the bitter cup have shared-- Proud child of reason! how art _thou_ prepared? When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow’d, And o’er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud, Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain With the bright images of pleasure’s train? Yes! as the sight of some far-distant shore, Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more, Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave Drawn, vainly struggling, to th’ unfathom’d grave! Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call, She who, like heaven’s own sunbeam, smiles for all? Will _she_ speak comfort?--Thou hast shorn her plume, That might have raised thee far above the tomb, And hush’d the only voice whose angel tone Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown!