The Poems of Felicia Hemans

My birth-right; and my child, my son, Heir to high name, high fortune born, Was doom’d to penury and scorn, An alien midst his fathers’ halls, An exile from his native walls. Could I bear this? The rankling thought, Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought; Some serpent, kindling hate and guile, Lurk’d in my infant’s rosy smile, And when his accents lisp’d my name, They woke my inmost heart to flame! I struggled--are there evil powers That claim their own ascendant hours? --Oh! what should thine unspotted soul Or know or fear of _their_ control? Why on the fearful conflict dwell? Vainly I struggled, and I fell-- Cast down from every hope of bliss-- Too well thou know’st to what abyss! “’Twas done!--that moment hurried by To darken all eternity. Years roll’d away, long evil years, Of woes, of fetters, and of fears; Nor aught but vain remorse I gain’d By the deep guilt my soul which stain’d. For, long a captive in the lands Where Arabs tread their burning sands, The haunted midnight of the mind Was round me while in chains I pined, By all forgotten, save by one Dread presence--which I could not shun. --How oft, when o’er the silent waste Nor path nor landmark might be traced, When slumbering by the watch-fire’s ray, The Wanderers of the Desert lay, And stars, as o’er an ocean shone, Vigil I kept--but not alone! That form, that image, from the dead, Still walk’d the wild with soundless tread! I’ve seen it in the fiery blast, I’ve seen it where the sand-storms pass’d; Beside the Desert’s fount it stood, Tinging the clear cold wave with blood; And e’en when viewless, by the fear Curdling my veins, I knew ’twas near! --_Was_ near!--I feel th’ unearthly thrill, Its power is on my spirit still! A mystic influence, undefined, The spell, the shadow of my mind! “Wilt thou yet linger? Time speeds on; One last farewell, and then begone! Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow, And let me read thine aspect _now_! No! stay thee yet, and learn the meed Heaven’s justice to my crime decreed. Slow came the day that broke my chain, But I at length was free again; And freedom brings a burst of joy, E’en guilt itself can scarce destroy. I thought upon my own fair towers, My native Rhine’s gay vineyard bowers, And in a father’s visions, press’d Thee and thy brother to my breast. --’Twas but in visions. Canst thou yet Recall the moment when we met? Thy step to greet me lightly sprung, Thy arms around me fondly clung; Scarce aught than infant seraph less Seem’d thy pure childhood’s loveliness. But he was gone--that son for whom I rush’d on guilt’s eternal doom; He for whose sake alone were given My peace on earth, my hope in heaven-- He met me not. A ruthless band, Whose name with terror fill’d the land, Fierce outlaws of the wood and wild Had reft the father of his child. Foes to my race, the hate they nursed, Full on that cherish’d scion burst. Unknown his fate.--No parent nigh, My boy! my first-born! didst thou die? Or did they spare thee for a life Of shame, of rapine, and of strife? Livest thou, unfriended, unallied, A wanderer lost, without a guide? Oh! to thy fate’s mysterious gloom Blest were the darkness of the tomb! “Ella! ’tis done--my guilty heart Before thee all unveil’d--depart! Few pangs ’twill cost thee now to fly From one so stain’d, so lost as I; Yet peace to thine untainted breast, E’en though it hate me!--be thou blest! Farewell! thou shalt not linger here-- E’en now th’ avenger may be near: Where’er I turn, the foe, the snare, The dagger, may be ambush’d there; One hour--and haply all is o’er, And we must meet on earth no more. No, nor beyond!--to those pure skies Where thou shalt be, I may not rise; Heaven’s will for ever parts our lot, Yet, oh! my child! abhor me not! Speak once! to soothe this broken heart, Speak to me once! and then depart!” But still--as if each pulse were dead, Mute--as the power of speech were fled, Pale--as if life-blood ceased to warm The marble beauty of her form; On the dark rock she lean’d her head, That seem’d as there ’twere riveted, And dropt the hands, till then which press’d Her burning brow, or throbbing breast. There beam’d no tear-drop in her eye, And from her lip there breathed no sigh, And on her brow no trace there dwelt That told she suffer’d or she felt. All that once glow’d, or smiled, or beam’d, Now fix’d, and quench’d, and frozen seem’d; And long her sire, in wild dismay, Deem’d her pure spirit pass’d away. But life return’d. O’er that cold frame One deep convulsive shudder came; And a faint light her eye relumed, And sad resolve her mien assumed. But there was horror in the gaze, Which yet to his she dared not raise; And her sad accents, wild and low, As rising from a depth of woe, At first with hurried trembling broke, But gather’d firmness as she spoke. --“I leave thee not--whate’er betide, My footsteps shall not quit thy side; Pangs, keen as death my soul may thrill, But yet thou art my father still! And, oh! if stain’d by guilty deed, For some kind spirit, tenfold need, To speak of heaven’s absolving love, And waft desponding thought above. Is there not power in mercy’s wave The blood-stain from thy soul to lave? Is there not balm to heal despair, In tears, in penitence, in prayer? My father! kneel at His pure shrine Who died to expiate guilt like thine, Weep--and my tears with thine shall blend, Pray--while my prayers with thine ascend, And, as our mingling sorrows rise, Heaven will relent, though earth despise!” “My child, my child! these bursting tears, The first mine eyes have shed for years, Though deepest conflicts they express, Yet flow not all in bitterness! Oh! thou hast bid a wither’d heart From desolation’s slumber start; Thy voice of pity and of love Seems o’er its icy depths to move E’en as a breeze of health, which brings Life, hope, and healing, on its wings. And there is mercy yet! I feel Its influence o’er my spirit steal; How welcome were each pang below, If guilt might be atoned by woe! Think’st thou I yet may be forgiven? Shall prayers unclose the gate of heaven? Oh! if it yet avail to plead, If judgment be not yet decreed, Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry, Till pardon shall be seal’d on high! Yet, yet I shrink!--Will Mercy shed Her dews upon this fallen head? --Kneel, Ella, kneel! till full and free Descend forgiveness, won by thee!” They knelt--before the Cross, that sign Of love eternal and divine; That symbol, which so long hath stood A rock of strength, on time’s dark flood, Clasp’d by despairing hands, and laved By the warm tears of nations saved. In one deep prayer their spirits blent, The guilty and the innocent; Youth, pure as if from heaven its birth, Age, soil’d with every stain of earth, Knelt, offering up one heart, one cry, One sacrifice of agony. --Oh! blest, though bitter be their source-- Though dark the fountain of remorse, Blest are the tears which pour from thence, Th’ atoning stream of penitence! And let not pity check the tide By which the heart is purified; Let not vain comfort turn its course, Or timid love repress its force! Go! bind the flood, whose waves expand, To bear luxuriance o’er the land; Forbid the life-restoring rains To fall on Afric’s burning plains; Close up the fount that gush’d to cheer The pilgrim o’er the waste who trode; But check thou not one holy tear Which Penitence devotes to God! Through scenes so lone the wild-deer ne’er Was roused by huntsman’s bugle there-- So rude, that scarce might human eye Sustain their dread sublimity-- So awful, that the timid swain, Nurtured amidst their dark domain, Had peopled with unearthly forms Their mists, their forests, and their storms,-- She, whose blue eye of laughing light Once made each festal scene more bright; Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest, Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest, By torrent wave and mountain brow, Is wandering as an outcast now, To share with Lindheim’s fallen chief His shame, his terror, and his grief. Hast thou not mark’d the ruin’s flower, That blooms in solitary grace, And, faithful to its mouldering tower, Waves in the banner’s place? From those gray haunts renown hath pass’d, Time wins his heritage at last; The day of glory hath gone by, With all its pomp and minstrelsy: Yet still the flower of golden hues There loves its fragrance to diffuse, To fallen and forsaken things With constancy unalter’d clings, And, smiling o’er the wreck of state, With beauty clothes the desolate. --E’en such was she, the fair-hair’d maid, In all her light of youth array’d, Forsaking every joy below To soothe a guilty parent’s woe, And clinging thus, in beauty’s prime, To the dark ruin made by crime. Oh! ne’er did heaven’s propitious eyes Smile on a purer sacrifice; Ne’er did young love, at duty’s shrine, More nobly brighter hopes resign! O’er her own pangs she brooded not, Nor sank beneath her bitter lot; No! that pure spirit’s lofty worth Still rose more buoyantly from earth, And drew from an eternal source Its gentle, yet triumphant force: Roused by affliction’s chastening might To energies more calmly bright, Like the wild harp of airy sigh, Woke by the storm to harmony! He that in mountain-holds hath sought A refuge for unconquer’d thought, A charter’d home, where Freedom’s child Might rear her altars in the wild, And fix her quenchless torch on high, A beacon for Eternity; Or they, whose martyr spirits wage Proud war with Persecution’s rage, And to the deserts bear the faith That bids them smile on chains and death; Well may _they_ draw, from all around, Of grandeur clothed in form and sound, From the deep power of earth and sky, Wild nature’s might of majesty, Strong energies, immortal fires, High hopes, magnificent desires! But dark, terrific, and austere, To _him_ doth nature’s mien appear, Who midst her wilds would seek repose From guilty pangs and vengeful foes! For him the wind hath music dread, A dirge-like voice that mourns the dead; The forest’s whisper breathes a tone Appalling, as from worlds unknown; The mystic gloom of wood and cave Is fill’d with shadow’s of the grave; In noon’s deep calm the sunbeams dart A blaze that seems to search his heart; The pure, eternal stars of night Upbraid him with their silent light; And the dread spirit, which pervades And hallows earth’s most lonely shades, In every scene, in every hour, Surrounds him with chastising power-- With nameless fear his soul to thrill, Heard, felt, acknowledged, present still! ’Twas the chilly close of an autumn day,