The Poems of Felicia Hemans
To celebrate thy natal day.
The breeze is still, the sea is calm,
And the whole scene combines to charm;
The flowers revive, this charming May,
Because it is thy natal day.
The sky is blue, the day serene,
And only pleasure now is seen;
The rose, the pink, the tulip gay,
Combine to bless thy natal day.
A PRAYER.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF NINE.
O God! my Father and my Friend,
Ever thy blessings to me send;
Let me have Virtue for my guide,
And Wisdom always at my side.
Thus cheerfully through life I’ll go,
Nor ever feel the sting of woe;
Contented with the humblest lot--
Happy, though in the meanest cot.
ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.
The infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire
To swell the adoration of the lyre:
Source of all good! oh, teach my voice to sing
Thee, from whom Nature’s genuine beauties spring;
Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise,
Who saidst to Chaos, “let the earth arise.”
O Author of the rich luxuriant year!
Love, Truth, and Mercy in thy works appear:
Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep,
And e’en hast limited the mighty deep.
Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways,
And wake the voice of animated praise!
Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub’s note;
To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float.
’Tis not for me in lowly strains to sing
Thee, God of mercy,--heaven’s immortal King!
Yet to that happiness I’d fain aspire--
Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire:
With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend,
The grateful offering shall to Thee ascend.
Yes! Thou wilt breathe a spirit o’er my lyre,
And “fill my beating heart with sacred fire!”
And when to Thee my youth, my life, I’ve given,
Raise me to join Eliza,[1] blest in Heaven.
[1] A sister whom the author had lost.
SHAKSPEARE.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.
[One of her earliest tastes was a passion for Shakspeare, which she
read, as her choicest recreation, at six years old; and in later
days she would often refer to the hours of romance she had passed
in a secret haunt of her own--a seat amongst the branches of an old
apple-tree--where, revelling in the treasures of the cherished volume,
she would become completely absorbed in the imaginative world it
revealed to her. The following lines, written at eleven years old,
may be adduced as a proof of her juvenile enthusiasm.--_Memoir of Mrs
Hemans by her Sister_, p. 6, 7.]
I love to rove o’er history’s page,
Recall the hero and the sage;
Revive the actions of the dead,
And memory of ages fled:
Yet it yields me greater pleasure,
To read the poet’s pleasing measure.
Led by Shakspeare, bard inspired,
The bosom’s energies are fired;
We learn to shed the generous tear,
O’er poor Ophelia’s sacred bier;
To love the merry moonlit scene,
With fairy elves in valleys green;
Or, borne on fancy’s heavenly wings,
To listen while sweet Ariel sings.
How sweet the “native woodnotes wild”
Of him, the Muse’s favourite child!
Of him whose magic lays impart
Each various feeling to the heart!
TO MY BROTHER AND SISTER IN THE COUNTRY.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.
[At about the age of eleven, she passed a winter in London with her
father and mother; and a similar sojourn was repeated in the following
year, after which she never visited the metropolis. The contrast
between the confinement of a town life, and the happy freedom of her
own mountain home, was even then so distasteful to her, that the
indulgences of plays and sights soon ceased to be cared for, and she
longed to rejoin her younger brother and sister in their favourite
rural haunts and amusements--the nuttery wood, the beloved apple-tree,
the old arbour, with its swing, the post-office tree, in whose trunk a
daily interchange of family letters was established, the pool where
fairy ships were launched (generally painted and decorated by herself,)
and, dearer still, the fresh free ramble on the seashore, or the
mountain expedition to the Signal Station, or the Roman Encampment. In
one of her letters, the pleasure with which she looked forward to her
return home was thus expressed in rhyme.--_Mem._ p. 8, 9.]
Happy soon we’ll meet again,
Free from sorrow, care, and pain;
Soon again we’ll rise with dawn,
To roam the verdant dewy lawn;
Soon the budding leaves we’ll hail,
Or wander through the well-known vale;
Or weave the smiling wreath of flowers;
And sport away the light-wing’d hours.
Soon we’ll run the agile race;
Soon, dear playmates, we’ll embrace;--
Through the wheat-field or the grove,
We’ll hand in hand delighted rove;
Or, beneath some spreading oak,
Ponder the instructive book;
Or view the ships that swiftly glide,
Floating on the peaceful tide;
Or raise again the caroll’d lay;
Or join again in mirthful play;
Or listen to the humming bees,
As their murmurs swell the breeze;
Or seek the primrose where it springs;
Or chase the fly with painted wings;
Or talk beneath the arbour’s shade;
Or mark the tender shooting blade:
Or stray beside the babbling stream,
When Luna sheds her placid beam;
Or gaze upon the glassy sea----
Happy, happy shall we be!
SONNET TO MY MOTHER.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TWELVE.
To thee, maternal guardian of my youth,
I pour the genuine numbers free from art--
The lays inspired by gratitude and truth;
For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart.
Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care,
To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief;
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear,
With fond endearments to impart relief:
Be mine thy warm affection to repay
With duteous love in thy declining hours;
My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers,
Perennial roses, to adorn thy way:
Still may thy grateful children round thee smile--
Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile.
SONNET.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.
’Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest
May hover round the virtuous man’s repose;
And oft in visions animate his breast,
And scenes of bright beatitude disclose.
The ministers of Heaven, with pure control,
May bid his sorrow and emotion cease,
Inspire the pious fervour of his soul,
And whisper to his bosom hallow’d peace.
Ah, tender thought! that oft with sweet relief
May charm the bosom of a weeping friend,
Beguile with magic power the tear of grief,
And pensive pleasure with devotion blend;
While oft he fancies music, sweetly faint,
The airy lay of some departed saint.
RURAL WALKS.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.
Oh! may I ever pass my happy hours
In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowers;
For every spot in sylvan beauty drest,
And every landscape, charms my youthful breast.
And much I love to hail the vernal morn,
When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn;
And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray,
To cull the tender rosebuds in my way;
And seek in every wild secluded dell,
The weeping cowslip and the azure bell;
With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew,
To form the gay festoon of varied hue.
And oft I seek the cultivated green,
The fertile meadow, and the village scene;
Where rosy children sport around the cot,
Or gather woodbine from the garden spot.
And there I wander by the cheerful rill,
That murmurs near the osiers and the mill;
To view the smiling peasants turn the hay,
And listen to their pleasing festive lay.
I love to loiter in the spreading grove,
Or in the mountain scenery to rove;
Where summits rise in awful grace around,
With hoary moss and tufted verdure crown’d;
Where cliffs in solemn majesty are piled,
“And frown upon the vale” with grandeur wild:
And there I view the mouldering tower sublime,
Array’d in all the blending shades of Time.
The airy upland and the woodland green,
The valley, and romantic mountain scene;
The lowly hermitage, or fair domain,
The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane;
“And every spot in sylvan beauty drest,
And every landscape, charms my youthful breast.”
SONNET.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.
[In 1808, a collection of her poems, which had long been regarded
amongst her friends with a degree of admiration perhaps more partial
than judicious, was submitted to the world, in the form (certainly
an ill-advised one) of a quarto volume. Its appearance drew down the
animadversions of some self-constituted arbiter of public taste,[2]
and the young poetess was thus early initiated into the pains and
perils attendant upon the career of an author;--though it may here be
observed, that, as far as criticism was concerned, this was at once
the first and last time she was destined to meet with any thing like
harshness or mortification. Though this unexpected severity was felt
bitterly for a few days, her buoyant spirit soon rose above it, and
her effusions continued to be poured forth as spontaneously as the
song of the skylark.]
I love to hail the mild and balmy hour
When evening spreads around her twilight veil.
When dews descend on every languid flower,
And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale.
Then let me wander by the peaceful tide,
While o’er the wave the breezes lightly play;
To hear the waters murmur as they glide,
To mark the fading smile of closing day.
There let me linger, blest in visions dear,
Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas;
While melting sounds decay on fancy’s ear,
Of airy music floating on the breeze.
For still when evening sheds the genial dews,
That pensive hour is sacred to the muse.
[2] The criticism referred to, and which, considering the circumstances
under which the volume appeared, was certainly somewhat ungenerous, and
quite uncalled for, ran as follows:
--“We hear that these poems are the ‘genuine productions of a young
lady, written between the ages of eight and thirteen years,’ and we
do not feel inclined to question the intelligence; but although the
fact may insure them an indulgent reception from all those who have
‘children dear,’ yet, when a little girl publishes a large quarto, we
are disposed to examine before we admit her claims to public attention.
Many of Miss Browne’s compositions are extremely _jejune_. However,
though Miss Browne’s poems contain some erroneous and some pitiable
lines, we must praise the ‘Reflections in a ruined Castle,’ and the
poetic strain in which they are delivered. The lines to ‘Patriotism’
contain good thoughts and forcible images; and if the youthful author
were to content herself for some years with reading instead of writing,
we should open any future work from her pen with an expectation of
pleasure, founded on our recollection of this publication; though we
must, at the same time, observe, that premature talents are not always
to be considered as signs of future excellence. The honeysuckle attains
maturity before the oak.”--_Monthly Review_, 1809.
ENGLAND AND SPAIN; OR, VALOUR AND PATRIOTISM.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.
----“His sword the brave man draws,
And asks no omen but his country’s cause.”--Pope.
[New sources of inspiration were now opening to her view. Birthday
addresses, songs by the seashore, and invocations to fairies, were
henceforth to be diversified with warlike themes; and trumpets and