The Poems of Felicia Hemans

And the leaves fell thick o’er the wanderers’ way; The rustling pines, with a hollow sound, Foretold the tempest gathering round; And the skirts of the western clouds were spread With a tinge of wild and stormy red, That seem’d, through the twilight forest bowers Like the glare of a city’s blazing towers. But they, who far from cities fled, And shrunk from the print of human tread, Had reach’d a desert scene unknown, So strangely wild, so deeply lone, That a nameless feeling, unconfess’d And undefined, their souls oppress’d. Rocks piled on rocks, around them hurl’d, Lay like the ruins of a world, Left by an earthquake’s final throes In deep and desolate repose-- Things of eternity whose forms Bore record of ten thousand storms! While, rearing its colossal crest In sullen grandeur o’er the rest, One, like a pillar, vast and rude, Stood monarch of the solitude. Perchance by Roman conqueror’s hand Th’ enduring monument was plann’d; Or Odin’s sons, in days gone by, Had shaped its rough immensity, To rear, midst mountain, rock, and wood, A temple meet for rites of blood. But they were gone, who might have told That secret of the times of old; And there, in silent scorn it frown’d, O’er all its vast coevals round. Darkly those giant masses lower’d, Countless and motionless they tower’d; No wild-flower o’er their summits hung, No fountain from their caverns sprung; Yet ever on the wanderers’ ear Murmur’d a sound of waters near, With music deep of lulling falls, And louder gush, at intervals. Unknown its source--nor spring nor stream Caught the red sunset’s lingering gleam, But ceaseless, from its hidden caves, Arose that mystic voice of waves.[199] Yet bosom’d midst that savage scene, One chosen spot of gentler mien Gave promise to the pilgrim’s eye Of shelter from the tempest nigh. Glad sight! the ivied cross it bore, The sculptured saint that crown’d its door: Less welcome now were monarch’s dome, Than that low cell, some hermit’s home. Thither the outcasts bent their way, By the last lingering gleam of day; When from a cavern’d rock, which cast Deep shadows o’er them as they pass’d, A form, a warrior form of might, As from earth’s bosom, sprang to sight. His port was lofty--yet the heart Shrunk from him with recoiling start; His mien was youthful--yet his face Had nought of youth’s ingenuous grace; Nor chivalrous nor tender thought Its traces on his brow had wrought Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye, But calm and cold severity, A spirit haughtily austere, Stranger to pity as to fear. It seem’d as pride had thrown a veil O’er that dark brow and visage pale, Leaving the searcher nought to guess, All was so fix’d and passionless. He spoke--and they who heard the tone Felt, deeply felt, all hope was flown. “I’ve sought thee far in forest bowers, I’ve sought thee long in peopled towers, I’ve borne th’ dagger of th’ Unknown Through scenes explored by me alone; My search is closed--nor toils nor fears Repel the servant of the Seers; We meet--’tis vain to strive or fly: Albert of Lindheim, thou must die!” Then with clasp’d hands the fair-hair’d maid Sank at his feet, and wildly pray’d:-- “Stay, stay thee! sheath that lifted steel! Oh! thou art human, and canst feel! Hear me! if e’er ’twas thine to prove The blessing of a parent’s love; By thine own father’s hoary hair, By her who gave thee being, spare! Did they not, o’er thy infant years, Keep watch, in sleepless hopes and fears! Young warrior! thou wilt heed my prayers, As thou wouldst hope for grace to theirs!” But cold th’ Avenger’s look remain’d, His brow its rigid calm maintain’d: “Maiden! ’tis vain--my bosom ne’er Was conscious of a parent’s care; The nurture of my infant years Froze in my soul the source of tears; ’Tis not for me to pause or melt, Or feel as happier hearts have felt. Away! the hour of fate goes by: Thy prayers are fruitless--he must die!” “Rise, Ella! rise!” with steadfast brow The father spoke--unshrinking now, As if from heaven a martyr’s strength Had settled on his soul at length: “Kneel thou no more, my noble child, Thou by no taint of guilt defiled; Kneel not to man!--for mortal prayer, Oh! when did mortal vengeance spare? Since hope of earthly aid is flown, Lift thy pure hands to heaven alone, And know, to calm thy suffering heart, My spirit is resign’d to part. Trusting in Him who reads and knows This guilty breast, with all its woes. Rise! I would bless thee once again, Be still, be firm--for all is vain!” And she _was_ still. She heard him not-- Her prayers were hush’d, her pangs forgot; All thought, all memory pass’d away, Silent and motionless she lay, In a brief death, a blest suspense Alike of agony and sense. She saw not when the dagger gleam’d In the last red light from the west that stream’d; She mark’d not when the life-blood’s flow Came rushing to the mortal blow; While, unresisting, sank her sire, Yet gather’d firmness to expire, Mingling a warrior’s courage high With a penitent’s humility. And o’er him there th’ Avenger stood, And watch’d the victim’s ebbing blood, Still calm, as if his faithful hand Had but obey’d some just command, Some power whose stern, yet righteous will He deem’d it virtue to fulfil, And triumph’d, when the palm was won, For duty’s task austerely done. But a feeling dread and undefined, A mystic presage of the mind, With strange and sudden impulse ran Chill through the heart of the dying man; And his thoughts found voice, and his bosom breath, And it seem’d as fear suspended death, And nature from her terrors drew Fresh energy and vigour new. “Thou saidst thy lonely bosom ne’er Was conscious of a parent’s care; Thou saidst thy lot, in childhood’s years, Froze in thy soul the source of tears: The time will come, when thou, with me, The judgment throne of God wilt see-- Oh! by thy hopes of mercy, then, By His blest love who died for men, By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow, Avenger! I adjure thee now! To him who bleeds beneath thy steel, Thy lineage and thy name reveal. And haste thee! for his closing ear Hath little more on earth to hear-- Haste! for the spirit, almost flown, Is lingering for thy words alone.” Then first a shade, resembling fear, Pass’d o’er th’ Avenger’s mien austere; A nameless awe his features cross’d, Soon in their haughty coldness lost. “What wouldst thou? Ask the rock and wild, And bid them tell thee of their child! Ask the rude winds, and angry skies, Whose tempests were his lullabies! His chambers were the cave and wood, His fosterers men of wrath and blood; Outcasts alike of earth and heaven, By wrongs to desperation driven! Who, in their pupil, now could trace The features of a nobler race? Yet such was mine!--if one who cast A look of anguish o’er the past, Bore faithful record on the day When penitent in death he lay. But still deep shades my prospects veil; He died--and told but half the tale. With him it sleeps--I only know Enough for stern and silent woe, For vain ambition’s deep regret, For hopes deceived, deceiving yet, For dreams of pride, that vainly tell How high a lot had suited well The heir of some illustrious line, Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine!” Then swift through Albert’s bosom pass’d One pang, the keenest and the last, Ere with his spirit fled the fears, The sorrows, and the pangs of years; And, while his gray hairs swept the dust, Faltering he murmur’d, “Heaven is just! For thee that deed of guilt was done, By thee avenged, my son! my son!” --The day was closed--the moonbeam shed Light on the living and the dead, And as through rolling clouds it broke, Young Ella from her trance awoke-- Awoke to bear, to feel, to know E’en more than all an orphan’s woe. Oh! ne’er did moonbeam’s light serene With beauty clothe a sadder scene! There, cold in death, the father slept-- There, pale in woe, the daughter wept! Yes! _she_ might weep--but one stood nigh, With horror in his tearless eye, That eye which ne’er again shall close In the deep quiet of repose; No more on earth beholding aught Save one dread vision, stamp’d on thought. But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid _His_ deeper woe had scarce survey’d, Till his wild voice reveal’d a tale Which seem’d to bid the heavens turn pale! He call’d her, “Sister!” and the word In anguish breathed, in terror heard, Reveal’d enough: all else were weak-- That sound a thousand pangs could speak. He knelt beside that breathless clay, Which, fix’d in utter stillness, lay-- Knelt till his soul imbibed each trace, Each line of that unconscious face; Knelt, till his eye could bear no more Those marble features to explore; Then, starting, turning, as to shun The image thus by Memory won, A wild farewell to her he bade, Who by the dead in silence pray’d; And, frenzied by his bitter doom, Fled thence--to find all earth a tomb! Days pass’d away--and Rhine’s fair shore In the light of summer smiled once more; The vines were purpling on the hill, And the corn-fields waved in the sunshine still. There came a bark up the noble stream, With pennons that shed a golden gleam, With the flash of arms, and the voice of song, Gliding triumphantly along; For warrior-forms were glittering there, Whose plumes waved light in the whispering air; And as the tones of oar and wave Their measured cadence mingling gave, ’Twas thus th’ exulting chorus rose, While many an echo swell’d the close:-- “From the fields where dead and dying On their battle-bier are lying, Where the blood unstanch’d is gushing, Where the steed uncheck’d is rushing, Trampling o’er the noble-hearted, Ere the spirit yet be parted; Where each breath of heaven is swaying Knightly plumes and banners playing, And the clarion’s music swelling Calls the vulture from his dwelling; He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine! To his own fair woods, enclosing Vales in sunny peace reposing, Where his native stream is laving Banks, with golden harvests waving, And the summer light is sleeping On the grape, through tendrils peeping; To the halls where harps are ringing, Bards the praise of warriors singing, Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly, Joyous voices mingling sweetly; Where the cheek of mirth is glowing, And the wine-cup brightly flowing, He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!” He came--he sought his Ella’s bowers, He traversed Lindheim’s lonely towers; But voice and footstep thence had fled, As from the dwellings of the dead, And the sounds of human joy and woe Gave place to the moan of the wave below.