The Poems of Felicia Hemans
the graceful flower of chivalry and the bright cynosure of ladies’
eyes--he of the dazzling breastplate and swanlike plume--sprang
impatiently from the couch of slumber, and eagerly mounted the noble
_barb_ presented to him by the Emperor of Aspramontania.
Sir Philip Sidney’s _Arcadia_.
See’st thou yon chief whose presence seems to rule
The storm of battle? Lo! where’er he moves
Death follows. Carnage sits upon his crest--
Fate on his sword is throned--and his white barb,
As a proud courser of Apollo’s chariot,
Seems breathing fire. Potter’s _Æschylus_.
Oh! bonnie look’d my ain true knight,
His _barb_ so proudly reining;
I watch’d him till my tearfu’ sight
Grew amaist dim wi’ straining. _Border Minstrelsy._
Why, he can heel the lavolt, and wind a fiery _barb_, as well as any
gallant in Christendom. He’s the very pink and mirror of accomplishment.
Shakspeare.
Fair star of beauty’s heaven! to call thee mine,
All other joys I joyously would yield;
My knightly crest, my bounding _barb_ resign,
For the poor shepherd’s crook and daisied field;
For courts or camps no wish my soul would prove,
So thou wouldst live with me, and be my love!
Earl of Surrey’s _Poems_.
For thy dear love my weary soul hath grown
Heedless of youthful sports: I seek no more
Or joyous dance, or music’s thrilling tone,
Or joys that once could charm in minstrel lore,
Or knightly tilt where steel-clad champions meet,
Borne on impetuous _barbs_ to bleed at beauty’s feet.
Shakspeare’s _Sonnets_.
As a warrior clad
In sable arms, like chaos dull and sad,
But mounted on a _barb_ as white
As the fresh new-born light,--
So the black night too soon
Came riding on the bright and silver moon,
Whose radiant heavenly ark
Made all the clouds, beyond her influence, seem
E’en more than doubly dark,
Mourning, all widow’d of her glorious beam.
Cowley.
THE FEVER DREAM.
[Amongst the very few specimens that have been preserved of Mrs
Hemans’s livelier effusions, which she never wrote with any other
view than the momentary amusement of her own immediate circle,
is a letter addressed about this time to her sister who was then
travelling in Italy. The following extracts from this familiar epistle
may serve to show her facility in a style of composition which she
latterly entirely discontinued. The first part alludes to a strange
fancy produced by an attack of fever, the description of which had
given rise to many pleasantries--being an imaginary voyage to China,
performed in a cocoa-nut shell with that eminent old English worthy,
John Evelyn.]
Apropos of your illness, pray give, if you please,
Some account of the converse you held on high seas
With Evelyn, the excellent author of “Sylva,”
A work that is very much prized at Bronwylfa.
I think that old Neptune was visited ne’er
In so well-rigg’d a ship, by so well-matched a pair.
There could not have fallen, dear H., to your lot any
Companion more pleasant, since you’re fond of botany,
And _his_ horticultural talents are known,
Just as well as Canova’s for fashioning stone.
Of the vessel you sail’d in, I just will remark
That I ne’er heard before of so curious a bark.
Of gondola, coracle, pirogue, canoe,
I have read very often, as doubtless have you;
Of the Argo conveying that hero young Jason;
Of the ship moor’d by Trajan in Nemi’s deep basin;
Of the galley (in Plutarch you’ll find the description)
Which bore along Cydnus the royal Egyptian;
Of that wonderful frigate (see “Curse of Kehama”)
Which wafted fair Kailyal to regions of Brama,
And the venturous barks of Columbus and Gama.
But Columbus and Gama to you must resign a
Full half of their fame, since your voyage to China,
(I’m astonish’d no shocking disaster befel,)
In that swift-sailing first-rate--a cocoa-nut shell!
I hope, my dear H., that you touch’d at Loo Choo,
That abode of a people so gentle and true,
Who with arms and with money have nothing to do.
How calm must their lives be! so free from all fears
Of running _in_ debt, or of running _on_ spears!
Oh dear! what an Eden!--a land without money!
It excels e’en the region of milk and of honey,
Or the vale of Cashmere, as described in a book
Full of musk, gems, and roses, and call’d “Lalla Rookh.”
But, of all the enjoyments you have, none would e’er be
More valued by me than a chat with Acerbi,
Of whose travels--related in elegant phrases--
I have seen many extracts, and heard many praises,
And have copied (you know I let nothing escape)
His striking account of the frozen North Cape.
I think ’twas in his works I read long ago
(I’ve not the best memory for dates, as you know,)
Of a warehouse, where sugar and treacle were stored,
Which took fire (I suppose being made but of board)
In the icy domains of some rough northern hero,
Where the cold was some fifty degrees below zero.
Then from every burnt cask as the treacle ran out,
And in streams, just like lava, meander’d about,
You may fancy the curious effect of the weather,
The frost, and the fire, and the treacle together.
When my _first_ for a moment had harden’d my _last_,
My _second_ burst out, and all melted as fast;
To win their sweet prize long the rivals fought on,
But I quite forget which of the elements won.
But a truce with all joking--I hope you’ll excuse me,
Since I know you still love to instruct and amuse me,
For hastily putting a few questions down,
To which answers from you all my wishes will crown;
For you know I’m so fond of the land of Corinne
That my thoughts are still dwelling its precincts within,
And I read all that authors, or gravely or wittily,
Or wisely or foolishly, write about Italy;
From your shipmate John Evelyn’s amusing old tour,
To Forsyth’s _one_ volume, and Eustace’s _four_,
In spite of Lord Byron, or Hobhouse, who glances
At the classical Eustace, and says he romances.
--Pray describe me from Venice, (don’t think it a bore,)
The literal state of the famed Bucentaur,
And whether the horses, that once were the sun’s,
Are of bright yellow brass, or of dark dingy bronze;
For some travellers say one thing, and some say another,
And I can’t find out which, they all make such a pother.
Oh! another thing, too, which I’d nearly forgot,
_Are_ the songs of the gondoliers pleasing or not?
These are matters of moment, you’ll surely allow,
For Venice must interest all--even now.
These points being settled, I ask for no more hence,
But should wish for a few observations from Florence.
Let me know if the Palaces Strozzi and Pitti
Are finish’d; if not ’tis a shame for the city
To let _one_ for ages--was e’er such a thing?--
Its entablature want, and the other its wing.
Say, too, if the Dove (should you be there at Easter,
And watch her swift flight, when the priests have released her)
Is a turtle, or ring-dove, or but a _wood_-pigeon,
Which makes people _gulls_ in the name of Religion?
Pray tell if the forests of famed Vallombrosa
Are cut down or not; for this, too, is a _Cosa_
About which I’m anxious--as also to know
If the Pandects, so famous long ages ago,
Came back (above all, don’t forget this to mention)
To that manuscript library called the Laurentian.
Since I wrote the above, I by chance have found out,
That the horses _are_ bright yellow brass beyond doubt;
So I’ll ask you but this, the same subject pursuing,
Do you think they are truly Lysippus’s doing?
--When to Naples you get, let me know, if you will,
If the Acqua Toffana’s in fashion there still;
For, not to fatigue you with needless verbosity,
’Tis a point upon which I feel much curiosity.
I should like to have also, and not written shabbily,
Your opinion about the _Piscina mirabile_;
And whether the tomb, which is near Sannazaro’s,
Is decided by you to be really Maro’s.
DARTMOOR.
A PRIZE POEM.
[In 1820, the Royal Society of Literature advertised their intention
of awarding a prize for the best poem on “Dartmoor;” and, as might
have been expected, many competitors entered the field. In the
following June, the palm was awarded to Mrs Hemans for the composition
which follows.
She thus writes to the friends who had been the first to convey to her
the pleasing intelligence of her success:--
“What with surprise, bustle, and pleasure, I am really almost
bewildered. I wish you had but seen the children, when the prize was
announced to them yesterday.... The Bishop’s kind communication put
us in possession of the gratifying intelligence a day sooner than we
should otherwise have known it, as I did not receive the Secretary’s
letter till this morning. Besides the official announcement of the
prize, his despatch also contained a private letter, with which,
although it is one of criticism, I feel greatly pleased, as it shows
an interest in my literary success, which, from so distinguished a
writer as Mr Croly, (of course you have read his poem of _Paris_,)
cannot but be highly gratifying.”]
“Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime.
Thy handmaid, Art, shall every wild explore,
Trace every wave, and culture every shore.” Campbell.
“May ne’er
That true succession fail of English hearts,
That can perceive, not less than heretofore
Our ancestors did feelingly perceive,
... the charm
Of pious sentiment, diffused afar,
And human charity, and social love.” Wordsworth.
Amidst the peopled and the regal isle,
Whose vales, rejoicing in their beauty, smile;
Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower,
And send on every breeze a voice of power;
Hath Desolation rear’d herself a throne,
And mark’d a pathless region for her own?
Yes! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore
When bled the noble hearts of many a shore;
Though not a hostile step thy heath-flowers bent
When empires totter’d, and the earth was rent;
Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind
Had still’d life’s busy murmurs on the wind,
And, flush’d with power in daring pride’s excess,
Stamp’d on thy soil the curse of barrenness;
For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven,
In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given,
Wild Dartmoor! thou that, midst thy mountains rude,
Hast robed thyself with haughty solitude,
As a dark cloud on summer’s clear blue sky,
A mourner, circled with festivity!
For all beyond is life!--the rolling sea,
The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee.
Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare
But man has left his lingering traces there?
E’en on mysterious Afric’s boundless plains,
Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns,
In gloom and silence fearfully profound,
As of a world unwaked to soul or sound.
Though the sad wanderer of the burning zone
Feels, as amidst infinity, alone,
And naught of life be near, his camel’s tread
Is o’er the prostrate cities of the dead!
Some column, rear’d by long-forgotten hands,