The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Oh! little know’st thou of the power
Affection lends in danger’s hour,
To deem that fate should thus divide
My footsteps from a father’s side!
Speed thou to other shores--I go
To share his wanderings and his woe.
Where’er his path of thorns may lead,
Whate’er his doom, by heaven decreed,
If there be guardian powers above
To nerve the heart of filial love,
If courage may be won by prayer,
Or strength by duty--I can bear!
Farewell!--though in that sound be years
Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears,
Though the soul vibrate to its knell
Of joys departed--yet, farewell!
Was _this_ the maid who seem’d, erewhile,
Born but to meet life’s vernal smile?
A being, almost on the wing,
As an embodied breeze of spring?
A child of beauty and of bliss,
Sent from some purer sphere to this--
Not, in her exile, to sustain
The trial of one earthly pain;
But, as a sunbeam, on to move,
Wakening all hearts to joy and love?
That airy form, with footsteps free,
And radiant glance--could this be she?
From her fair cheek the rose was gone,
Her eye’s blue sparkle thence had flown;
Of all its vivid glow bereft,
Each playful charm her lip had left.
But what were these? on that young face,
Far nobler beauty fill’d their place!
’Twas not the pride that scorns to bend,
Though all the bolts of heaven descend;
Not the fierce grandeur of despair,
That half exults its fate to dare;
Nor that wild energy which leads
Th’ enthusiast to fanatic deeds:
_Her_ mien, by sorrow unsubdued,
Was fix’d in silent fortitude;
Not in its haughty strength elate,
But calmly, mournfully sedate.
’Twas strange, yet lovely to behold
That spirit in so fair a mould,
As if a rose-tree’s tender form,
Unbent, unbroke, should meet the storm.
One look she cast, where firmness strove
With the deep pangs of parting love;
One tear a moment in her eye
Dimm’d the pure light of constancy;
And pressing, as to still her heart,
She turn’d in silence to depart.
But Ulric, as to frenzy wrought,
Then started from his trance of thought:
“Stay thee! oh, stay!--It must not be--
All, all were well resign’d for thee!
Stay! till my soul each vow disown,
But those which make me thine alone!
If there be guilt--there is no shrine
More holy than that heart of thine:
_There_ be my crime absolved--I take
The cup of shame for thy dear sake.
Of _shame_!--oh no! to virtue true,
Where _thou_ art, there is glory too!
Go now! and to thy sire impart,
He hath a shield in Ulric’s heart,
And thou a home! Remain, or flee,
In life, in death--I follow thee!”
“There shall not rest one cloud of shame,
O Ulric! on thy lofty name;
There shall not one accusing word
Against thy spotless faith be heard!
Thy path is where the brave rush on,
Thy course must be where palms are won:
Where banners wave, and falchions glare,
Son of the mighty! be thou there!
Think on the glorious names that shine
Along thy sire’s majestic line;
Oh, last of that illustrious race!
Thou wert not born to meet disgrace!
Well, well I know each grief, each pain,
Thy spirit nobly could sustain;
E’en I unshrinking see them near,
And what hast thou to do with fear?
But when have warriors calmly borne
The cold and bitter smile of scorn?
’Tis not for thee! thy soul hath force
To cope with all things--but remorse;
And this my brightest thought shall be,
Thou hast not braved its pangs for me.
Go! break thou not one solemn vow;
Closed be the fearful conflict now;
Go! but forget not how my heart
Still at thy name will proudly start,
When chieftains hear, and minstrels tell,
Thy deeds of glory. Fare thee well!”
--And thus they parted. Why recall
The scene of anguish known to all?
The burst of tears, the blush of pride,
That fain those fruitless tear’s would hide;
The lingering look, the last embrace,
Oh! what avails it to retrace?
They parted--in that bitter word
A thousand tones of grief are heard,
Whose deeply-seated echoes rest
In the fair cells of every breast.
Who hath not known, who shall not know,
That keen yet most familiar woe?
Where’er affection’s home is found,
It meets her on the holy ground;
The cloud of every summer hour,
The canker-worm of every flower.
“Who but hath proved, or yet shall prove,
That mortal agony of love?
The autumn moon slept bright and still
On fading wood and purple hill;
The vintager had hush’d his lay,
The fisher shunn’d the blaze of day,
And silence, o’er each green recess,
Brooded in misty sultriness.
But soon a low and measured sound
Broke on the deep repose around;
From Lindheim’s tower a glancing oar
Bade the stream ripple to the shore.
Sweet was that sound of waves which parted
The fond, the true, the noble-hearted;
And smoothly seem’d the bark to glide,
And brightly flow’d the reckless tide,
Though, mingling with its current, fell
The last warm tears of love’s farewell.
[198] The Odenwald, a forest district near the Rhine, adjoining the
territories of Darmstadt.
PART II.
Sweet is the gloom of forest shades,
Their pillar’d walks and dim arcades,
With all the thousand flowers that blow,
A waste of loveliness, below.
To him whose soul the world would fly,
For nature’s lonely majesty:
To bard, when wrapt in mighty themes,
To lover, lost in fairy dreams,
To hermit, whose prophetic thought
By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught,
And, in the visions of his rest,
Held bright communion with the blest:
’Tis sweet, but solemn! There alike
Silence and sound with awe can strike.
The deep Eolian murmur made
By sighing breeze and rustling shade,
And cavern’d fountain gushing nigh,
And wild-bee’s plaintive lullaby:
Or the dead stillness of the bowers,
When dark the summer-tempest lowers;
When silent nature seems to wait
The gathering thunder’s voice of fate;
When the aspen scarcely waves in air,
And the clouds collect for the lightning’s glare--
Each, each alike is awful there,
And thrills the soul with feelings high,
As some majestic harmony.
But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced
Each green retreat in breathless haste--
Young Ella--linger’d not to hear
The wood-notes, lost on mourner’s ear.
The shivering leaf, the breeze’s play,
The fountain’s gush, the wild-bird’s lay--
These charm not now; her sire she sought,
With trembling frame, with anxious thought,
And, starting if a forest deer
But moved the rustling branches near,
First felt that innocence may fear.
She reach’d a lone and shadowy dell,
Where the free sunbeam never fell;
’Twas twilight there at summer noon,
Deep night beneath the harvest moon,
And scarce might one bright star be seen
Gleaming the tangled boughs between;
For many a giant rock around
Dark in terrific grandeur frown’d,
And the ancient oaks, that waved on high,
Shut out each glimpse of the blessèd sky.
There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave,
Ne’er to heaven’s beam one sparkle gave,
And the wild flower, on its brink that grew,
Caught not from day one glowing hue.
’Twas said, some fearful deed untold
Had stain’d that scene in days of old;
Tradition o’er the haunt had thrown
A shade yet deeper than its own;
And still, amidst th’ umbrageous gloom,
Perchance above some victim’s tomb,
O’ergrown with ivy and with moss,
There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross,
Which, haply, silent record bore
Of guilt and penitence of yore.
Who by that holy sign was kneeling,
With brow unutter’d pangs revealing,
Hands clasp’d convulsively in prayer,
And lifted eyes and streaming hair,
And cheek, all pale as marble mould,
Seen by the moonbeam’s radiance cold?
Was it some image of despair
Still fix’d that stamp of woe to bear?
--Oh! ne’er could Art her forms have wrought
To speak such agonies of thought!
Those deathlike features gave to view
A mortal’s pangs too deep and true!
Starting he rose, with frenzied eye,
As Ella’s hurried step drew nigh;
He turn’d, with aspect darkly wild,
Trembling he stood--before his child!
On, with a burst of tears, she sprung,
And to her father’s bosom clung.
“Away! what seek’st thou here?” he cried,
“Art thou not now thine Ulric’s bride?
Hence, leave me--leave me to await,
In solitude, the storm of Fate;
Thou know’st not what my doom may be,
Ere evening comes in peace to thee.”
“My father! shall the joyous throng
Swell high for me the bridal song?
Shall the gay nuptial board be spread,
The festal garland bind my head,
And thou in grief, in peril, roam,
And make the wilderness thy home?
No! I am here with thee to share
All suffering mortal strength may bear;
And, oh! whate’er thy foes decree,
In life, in death, in chains, or free--
Well, well I feel, in thee secure;
Thy heart and hand alike are pure!”
Then was there meaning in his look,
Which deep that trusting spirit shook;
So wildly did each glance express
The strife of shame and bitterness,--
As thus he spoke: “Fond dreams, oh hence!
Is this the mien of Innocence?
This furrow’d brow, this restless eye--
Read thou this fearful tale, and fly!
Is it enough? or must I seek
For _words_, the tale of guilt to speak?
Then be it so--I will not doom
Thy youth to wither in its bloom;
I will not see thy tender frame
Bow’d to the earth with fear and shame.
No! though I teach thee to abhor
The sire so fondly loved before;
Though the dread effort rend my breast,
Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest!
Oh! bitter penance! thou wilt turn
Away in horror and in scorn;
Thy looks, that still through all the past
Affection’s gentlest beams have cast,
As lightning on my heart will fall,
And I must mark and bear it all!
Yet though of life’s best ties bereaved,
Thou shalt not, must not, be deceived!
“I linger--let me speed the tale
Ere voice, and thought, and memory fail.
Why should I falter thus to tell
What heaven so long hath known too well?
Yes! though from mortal sight conceal’d,
_There_ hath a brother’s blood appeal’d!
He died--’twas not where banners wave,
And war-steeds trample on the brave;
He died--it was in Holy Land--
Yet fell he not by Paynim hand;
He sleeps not with his sires at rest,
With trophied shield and knightly crest;
Unknown his grave to kindred eyes,
--But I can tell thee where he lies!
It was a wild and savage spot,
But once beheld--and ne’er forgot!
I see it now--that haunted scene
My spirit’s dwelling still hath been;
And he is there--I see him laid
Beneath that palm-tree’s lonely shade.
The fountain-wave that sparkles nigh
Bears witness with its crimson dye!
I see th’ accusing glance he raised,
Ere that dim eye by death was glazed;
--Ne’er will that parting look forgive!
I still behold it--and I live!
I live! from hope, from mercy driven,
A mark for all the shafts of heaven!
“Yet had I wrongs. By fraud he won