The Poems of Felicia Hemans
banners now floated through the dreams in which birds and flowers had
once reigned paramount. Her two elder brothers had entered the army at
an early age, and were both serving in the 23d Royal Welsh Fusiliers.
One of them was now engaged in the Spanish campaign under Sir John
Moore; and a vivid imagination and enthusiastic affections being alike
enlisted in the cause, her young mind was filled with glorious visions
of British valour and Spanish patriotism. In her ardent view, the days
of chivalry seemed to be restored, and the very names which were of
daily occurrence in the despatches, were involuntarily associated with
the deeds of Roland and his Paladins, or of her own especial hero,
“The Cid Ruy Diaz,” the Campeador. Under the inspiration of these
feelings, she composed a poem entitled “England and Spain,” which was
published and afterwards translated into Spanish. This cannot but be
considered as a very remarkable production for a girl of fourteen;
lofty sentiments, correctness of language, and historical knowledge,
being all strikingly displayed in it.--_Memoir_, p. 10, 11.]
Too long have Tyranny and Power combined
To sway, with iron sceptre, o’er mankind;
Long has Oppression worn th’ imperial robe,
And Rapine’s sword has wasted half the globe!
O’er Europe’s cultured realms, and climes afar,
Triumphant Gaul has pour’d the tide of war:
To her fair Austria veil’d the standard bright;
Ausonia’s lovely plains have own’d her might;
While Prussia’s eagle, never taught to yield,
Forsook her towering height on Jena’s field!
O gallant Frederic! could thy parted shade
Have seen thy country vanquish’d and betray’d,
How had thy soul indignant mourn’d her shame,
Her sullied trophies, and her tarnish’d fame!
When Valour wept lamented Brunswick’s doom,
And nursed with tears the laurels on his tomb;
When Prussia, drooping o’er her hero’s grave,
Invoked his spirit to descend and save;
Then set her glories--then expired her sun,
And fraud achieved e’en more than conquest won!
O’er peaceful realms, that smiled with plenty gay,
Has desolation spread her ample sway;
Thy blast, O Ruin! on tremendous wings,
Has proudly swept o’er empires, nations, kings.
Thus the wild hurricane’s impetuous force
With dark destruction marks its whelming course,
Despoils the woodland’s pomp, the blooming plain,
Death on its pinion, vengeance in its train!
--Rise, Freedom, rise! and, breaking from thy trance,
Wave the dread banner, seize the glittering lance!
With arm of might assert thy sacred cause,
And call thy champions to defend thy laws!
How long shall tyrant power her throne maintain?
How long shall despots and usurpers reign?
Is honour’s lofty soul for ever fled!
Is virtue lost? is martial ardour dead?
Is there no heart where worth and valour dwell,
No patriot Wallace, no undaunted Tell?
Yes, Freedom! yes! thy sons, a noble band,
Around thy banner, firm, exulting stand;
Once more, ’tis thine, invincible to wield
The beamy spear and adamantine shield!
Again thy cheek with proud resentment glows,
Again thy lion-glance appals thy foes;
Thy kindling eye-beam darts unconquer’d fires,
Thy look sublime the warrior’s heart inspires;
And, while to guard thy standard and thy right,
Castilians rush, intrepid, to the fight,
Lo! Britain’s generous host their aid supply,
Resolved for thee to triumph or to die;
And Glory smiles to see Iberia’s name
Enroll’d with Albion’s in the book of fame!
Illustrious names! still, still united beam,
Be still the hero’s boast, the poet’s theme:
So, when two radiant gems together shine,
And in one wreath their lucid light combine;
Each, as it sparkles with transcendant rays,
Adds to the lustre of its kindred blaze.
Descend, O Genius! from thy orb descend!
Thy glowing thought, thy kindling spirit lend!
As Memnon’s harp (so ancient fables say)
With sweet vibration meets the morning ray,
So let the chords thy heavenly presence own,
And swell a louder note, a nobler tone;
Call from the sun, her burning throne on high,
The seraph Ecstasy, with lightning eye;
Steal from the source of day empyreal fire,
And breathe the soul of rapture o’er the lyre!
Hail, Albion! hail, thou land of freedom’s birth!
Pride of the main, and Phœnix of the earth!
Thou second Rome, where mercy, justice, dwell,
Whose sons in wisdom as in arms excel!
Thine are the dauntless bands, like Spartans brave,
Bold in the field, triumphant on the wave;
In classic elegance and arts divine,
To rival Athens’ fairest palm is thine;
For taste and fancy from Hymettus fly,
And richer bloom beneath thy varying sky,
Where Science mounts in radiant car sublime
To other worlds beyond the sphere of time!
Hail, Albion, hail! to thee has fate denied
Peruvian mines and rich Hindostan’s pride,
The gems that Ormuz and Golconda boast,
And all the wealth of Montezuma’s coast:
For thee no Parian marbles brightly shine,
No glowing suns mature the blushing vine;
No light Arabian gales their wings expand,
To waft Sabæan incense o’er the land;
No graceful cedars crown thy lofty hills,
No trickling myrrh for thee its balm distils;
Not from thy trees the lucid amber flows,
And far from thee the scented cassia blows:
Yet fearless Commerce, pillar of thy throne,
Makes all the wealth of foreign climes thy own;
From Lapland’s shore to Afric’s fervid reign,
She bids thy ensigns float above the main;
Unfurls her streamers to the favouring gale,
And shows to other worlds her daring sail:
Then wafts their gold, their varied stores to thee,
Queen of the trident! empress of the sea!
For this thy noble sons have spread alarms,
And bade the zones resound with Britain’s arms!
Calpè’s proud rock, and Syria’s palmy shore,
Have heard and trembled at their battle’s roar;
The sacred waves of fertilising Nile
Have seen the triumphs of the conquering isle;
For this, for this, the Samiel-blast of war
Has roll’d o’er Vincent’s cape and Trafalgar!
Victorious Rodney spread thy thunder’s sound,
And Nelson fell, with fame immortal crown’d--
Blest if their perils and their blood could gain,
To grace thy hand, the sceptre of the main!
The milder emblems of the virtues calm--
The poet’s verdant bay, the sage’s palm--
These in thy laurel’s blooming foliage twine,
And round thy brows a deathless wreath combine:
Not Mincio’s banks, nor Meles’ classic tide,
Are hallow’d more than Avon’s haunted side;
Nor is thy Thames a less inspiring theme
Than pure Ilissus, or than Tiber’s stream.
Bright in the annals of th’ impartial page,
Britannia’s heroes live from age to age!
From ancient days, when dwelt her savage race,
Her painted natives, foremost in the chase,
Free from all cares for luxury or gain,
Lords of the wood and monarchs of the plain;
To these Augustan days, when social arts
Refine and meliorate her manly hearts;
From doubtful Arthur--hero of romance,
King of the circled board, the spear, the lance--
To those whose recent trophies grace her shield,
The gallant victors of Vimeira’s field;
Still have her warriors borne th’ unfading crown
And made the British flag the ensign of renown.
Spirit of Alfred! patriot soul sublime!
Thou morning-star of error’s darkest time!
Prince of the Lion-heart! whose arm in fight,
On Syria’s plains repell’d Saladin’s might!
Edward! for bright heroic deeds revered,
By Cressy’s fame to Britain still endear’d!
Triumphant Henry! thou, whose valour proud,
The lofty plume of crested Gallia bow’d!
Look down, look down, exalted shades! and view
Your Albion still to freedom’s banner true!
Behold the land, ennobled by your fame,
Supreme in glory, and of spotless name:
And, as the pyramid indignant rears
Its awful head, and mocks the waste of years;
See her secure in pride of virtue tower,
While prostrate nations kiss the rod of power!
Lo! where her pennons, waving high, aspire,
Bold Victory hovers near, “with eyes of fire!”
While Lusitania hails, with just applause,
The brave defenders of her injured cause;
Bids the full song, the note of triumph rise,
And swells th’ exulting pæan to the skies!
And they, who late with anguish, hard to tell,
Breathed to their cherish’d realms a sad farewell!
Who, as the vessel bore them o’er the tide,
Still fondly linger’d on its deck, and sigh’d;
Gazed on the shore, till tears obscured their sight,
And the blue distance melted into light--
The Royal exiles, forced by Gallia’s hate
To fly for refuge in a foreign state--
They, soon returning o’er the western main,
Ere long may view their clime beloved again:
And as the blazing pillar led the host
Of faithful Israel o’er the desert coast,
So may Britannia guide the noble band
O’er the wild ocean to their native land.
O glorious isle!--O sovereign of the waves!
Thine are the sons who “never will be slaves!”
See them once more, with ardent hearts advance,
And rend the laurels of insulting France;
To brave Castile their potent aid supply,
And wave, O Freedom! wave thy sword on high!
Is there no bard of heavenly power possess’d
To thrill, to rouse, to animate the breast?
Like Shakspeare o’er the secret mind to sway,
And call each wayward passion to obey?
Is there no bard, imbued with hallow’d fire,
To wake the chords of Ossian’s magic lyre;
Whose numbers breathing all his flame divine,
The patriot’s name to ages might consign?
Rise, Inspiration! rise! be this thy theme,
And mount, like Uriel, on the golden beam!
Oh, could my muse on seraph pinion spring,
And sweep with rapture’s hand the trembling string!
Could she the bosom energies control,
And pour impassion’d fervour o’er the soul!
Oh, could she strike the harp to Milton given,
Brought by a cherub from th’ empyrean heaven!
Ah, fruitless wish! ah, prayer preferr’d in vain,
For her--the humblest of the woodland train;
Yet shall her feeble voice essay to raise
The hymn of liberty, the song of praise!
Iberian bands! whose noble ardour glows
To pour confusion on oppressive foes;
Intrepid spirits, hail! ’tis yours to feel
The hero’s fire, the freeman’s godlike zeal!
Not to secure dominion’s boundless reign,
Ye wave the flag of conquest o’er the slain;
No cruel rapine leads you to the war,
Nor mad ambition, whirl’d in crimson car.
No, brave Castilians! yours a nobler end,
Your land, your laws, your monarch to defend!
For these, for these, your valiant legions rear
The floating standard, and the lofty spear!
The fearless lover wields the conquering sword,
Fired by the image of the maid adored!
His best-beloved, his fondest ties, to aid,
The father’s hand unsheaths the glittering blade!
For each, for all, for ev’ry sacred right,
The daring patriot mingles in the fight!
And e’en if love or friendship fail to warm,
His country’s name alone can nerve his dauntless arm!
He bleeds! he falls! his deathbed is the field!
His dirge the trumpet, and his bier the shield!
His closing eyes the beam of valour speak,
The flush of ardour lingers on his cheek;