The Poems of Felicia Hemans

And sought, amidst the forest wild, Some shade where sunbeam never smiled. Yes! hide thee, guilt! The laughing morn Wakes in a heaven of splendour born! The storms that shook the mountain crest Have sought their viewless world of rest. High from his cliffs, with ardent gaze, Soars the young eagle in the blaze, Exulting, as he wings his way, To revel in the fount of day; And brightly past his banks of vine, In glory, flows the monarch Rhine; And joyous peals the vintage song His wild luxuriant shores along, As peasant bands, from rock and dell, Their strains of choral transport swell; And cliffs of bold fantastic forms, Aspiring to the realm of storms, And woods around, and waves below, Catch the red Orient’s deepening glow, That lends each tower, and convent spire, A tinge of its ethereal fire. Swell high the song of festal hours! Deck ye the shrine with living flowers! Let music o’er the waters breathe! Let beauty twine the bridal wreath! While she, whose blue eye laughs in light, Whose cheek with love’s own hue is bright, The fair-hair’d maid of Lindheim’s hall, Wakes to her nuptial festival. Oh! who hath seen, in dreams that soar To worlds the soul would fain explore, When, for her own blest country pining, Its beauty o’er her thought is shining, Some form of heaven, whose cloudless eye Was all one beam of ecstasy! Whose glorious brow no traces wore Of guilt, or sorrow known before! Whose smile, undimm’d by aught of earth, A sunbeam of immortal birth, Spoke of bright realms, far distant lying, Where love and joy are both undying! E’en thus--a vision of delight, A beam to gladden mortal sight, A flower whose head no storm had bow’d, Whose leaves ne’er droop’d beneath a cloud,-- Thus, by the world unstain’d, untried, Seem’d that beloved and lovely bride; A being all too soft and fair One breath of earthly woe to bear! Yet lives there many a lofty mind, In light and fragile form enshrined; And oft smooth cheek and smiling eye Hide strength to suffer and to die! Judge not of woman’s heart in hours That strew her path with summer flowers, When joy’s full cup is mantling high, When flattery’s blandishments are nigh; Judge her not then! within her breast Are energies unseen, that rest! They wait their call--and grief alone May make the soul’s deep secrets known. Yes! let her smile midst pleasure’s train, Leading the reckless and the vain! Firm on the scaffold she hath stood, Besprinkled with the martyr’s blood; Her voice the patriot’s heart hath steel’d, Her spirit glow’d on battle-field; Her courage freed from dungeon’s gloom The captive brooding o’er his doom; Her faith the fallen monarch saved, Her love the tyrant’s fury braved; No scene of danger or despair, But she hath won her triumph there! Away! nor cloud the festal morn With thoughts of boding sadness born! Far other, lovelier dreams are thine, Fair daughter of a noble line! Young Ella! from thy tower, whose height Hath caught the flush of Eastern light, Watching, while soft the morning air Parts on thy brow the sunny hair, Yon bark, that o’er the calm blue tide Bears thy loved warrior to his bride-- Him, whose high deeds romantic praise Hath hallow’d with a thousand lays. He came--that youthful chief,--he came That favour’d lord of love and fame! His step was hurried--as if one Who seeks a voice within to shun; His cheek was varying, and express’d The conflict of a troubled breast; His eye was anxious--doubt, and dread, And a stem grief, might there be read: Yet all that mark’d his alter’d mien Seem’d struggling to be still unseen. --With shrinking heart, with nameless fear, Young Ella met the brow austere, And the wild look, which seem’d to fly The timid welcome of her eye. Was that a lover’s gaze, which chill’d The soul, its awful sadness thrill’d? A lover’s brow, so darkly fraught With all the heaviest gloom of thought? She trembled--ne’er to grief inured, By its dread lessons ne’er matured, Unused to meet a glance of less Than all a parent’s tenderness, Shuddering she felt, through every sense, The deathlike faintness of suspense. High o’er the windings of the flood, On Lindheim’s terraced rocks they stood, Whence the free sight afar might stray O’er that imperial river’s way, Which, rushing from its Alpine source, Makes one long triumph of its course, Rolling in tranquil grandeur by, Midst Nature’s noblest pageantry. But they, o’er that majestic scene, With clouded brow and anxious mien, In silence gazed!--for Ella’s heart Fear’d its own terrors to impart; And he, who vainly strove to hide His pangs, with all a warrior’s pride, Seem’d gathering courage to unfold Some fearful tale, that must be told. At length his mien, his voice, obtain’d A calm, that seem’d by conflicts gain’d, As thus he spoke--“Yes! gaze a while On the bright scenes that round thee smile; For, if thy love be firm and true, Soon must thou bid their charms adieu! A fate hangs o’er us, whose decree Must bear me far from them or thee; Our path is one of snares and fear, I lose thee, if I linger here! Droop not, beloved! thy home shall rise As fair, beneath far-distant skies; As fondly tenderness and truth Shall cherish there thy rose of youth. But speak! and, when yon hallow’d shrine Hath heard the vows which make thee mine, Say, wilt thou fly with me, no more To tread thine own loved mountain shore, But share and soothe, repining not, The bitterness of exile’s lot?” “Ulric! thou know’st how dearly loved The scenes where first my childhood roved; The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme Above our own majestic stream, The halls where first my heart beat high To the proud songs of chivalry. All, all are dear--yet _these_ are ties Affection well may sacrifice; Loved though they be, where’er thou art, _There_ is the country of my heart! Yet is there one, who, reft of me, Were lonely as a blasted tree; One, who still hoped my hand should close His eyes, in Nature’s last repose; Eve gathers round him--on his brow Already rests the wintry snow; His form is bent, his features wear The deepening lines of age and care; His faded eye hath lost its fire;-- Thou wouldst not tear me from my sire? Yet tell me all--thy woes impart, My Ulric! to a faithful heart, Which sooner far--oh! doubt not this-- Would share _thy_ pangs, than others’ bliss!” “Ella, what wouldst thou?--’tis a tale Will make that cheek as marble pale! Yet what avails it to conceal All thou too soon must know and feel? It must, it must be told--prepare, And nerve that gentle heart to bear. But I--oh, was it then for _me_ The herald of thy woes to be! Thy soul’s bright calmness to destroy, And wake thee first from dreams of joy? Forgive!--I would not ruder tone Should make the fearful tidings known, I would not that unpitying eyes Should coldly watch thine agonies! Better ’twere mine--that task severe, To cloud thy breast with grief and fear. “Hast thou not heard, in legends old, Wild tales that turn the life-blood cold, Of those who meet in cave or glen, Far from the busy walks of men; Those who mysterious vigils keep, When earth is wrapt in shades and sleep, To judge of crimes, like Him on high, In stillness and in secrecy? Th’ unknown avengers, whose decree ’Tis fruitless to resist or flee? Whose name hath cast a spell of power O’er peasant’s cot and chieftain’s tower? Thy sire--oh, Ella! hope is fled! Think of him, mourn him, as the dead! Their sentence, theirs, hath seal’d his doom, And thou may’st weep as o’er his tomb! Yes, weep!--relieve thy heart oppress’d, Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast! Thy cheek is cold--thy tearless eye Seems fix’d in frozen vacancy. Oh, gaze not thus!--thy silence break: Speak! if ’tis but in anguish, speak!” She spoke at length, in accents low, Of wild and half-indignant woe: --“_He_ doom’d to perish! _he_ decreed By their avenging arm to bleed! _He_, the renown’d in holy fight, The Paynim’s scourge, the Christian’s might! Ulric! what mean’st thou?--not a thought Of that high mind with guilt is fraught! Say, for which glorious trophy won, Which deed of martial prowess done, Which battle-field, in days gone by, Gain’d by his valour, must he die? Away! ’tis not _his_ lofty name Their sentence hath consign’d to shame-- ’Tis not his life they seek. Recall Thy words, or say he shall not fall!” Then sprung forth tears, whose blest relief Gave pleading softness to her grief: “And wilt thou not, by all the ties Of our affianced love,” she cries, “By all my soul hath fix’d on thee, Of cherish’d hope for years to be, Wilt _thou_ not aid him? wilt not thou Shield his gray head from danger now? And didst thou not, in childhood’s morn, That saw our young affection born, Hang round his neck, and climb his knee, Sharing his parent smile with me? Kind, gentle Ulric! best beloved! Now be thy faith in danger proved! Though snares and terrors round him wait, _Thou_ wilt not leave him to his fate! Turn not away in cold disdain! --Shall thine own Ella plead in vain? How art thou changed! and must I bear That frown, that stern, averted air? What mean they?” “Maiden, need’st thou ask? These features wear no specious mask. Doth sorrow mark this brow and eye With characters of mystery? This--_this_ is anguish! Can it be! And plead’st thou for my sire to _me_? Know, though thy prayers a death-pang give, He must not meet my sight--and live! Well may’st thou shudder! Of the band Who watch in secret o’er the land, Whose thousand swords ’tis vain to shun, Th’ unknown, th’ unslumbering--I am one! _My_ arm defend him! What were _then_ Each vow that binds the souls of men, Sworn on the cross, and deeply seal’d By rites that may not be reveal’d? --A breeze’s breath, an echo’s tone, A passing sound, forgot when gone! Nay, shrink not from me--I would fly, That he by other hands may die! What! think’st thou I would live to trace Abhorrence in that angel face? Beside thee should the lover stand, The father’s life-blood on his brand? No! I have bade my home adieu, For other scenes mine eyes must view. Look on me, love! Now all is known, O Ella! must I fly alone?” But she was changed. Scarce heaved breath; She stood like one prepared for death, And wept no more; then, casting down From her fair brows the nuptial crown, As joy’s last vision from her heart, Cried, with sad firmness, “We must part! ’Tis past! These bridal flowers, so frail They may not brook one stormy gale, Survive--too dear as still thou art-- Each hope they imaged;--we must part! One struggle yet--and all is o’er: We love--and may we meet no more!