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The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Mrs. Hemans

The banner still the rampart crown’d, But the tall rank grass waved thick around Still hung the arms of a race gone by In the blazon’d halls of their ancestry, But they caught no more, at fall of night, The wavering flash of the torch’s light, And they sent their echoes forth no more To the Minnesinger’s[200] tuneful lore, For the hands that touch’d the harp were gone, And the hearts were cold that loved its tone; And the soul of the chord lay mute and still, Save when the wild wind bade it thrill, And woke from its depths a dream-like moan, For life, and power, and beauty gone. The warrior turn’d from that silent scene, Where a voice of woe had welcome been; And his heart was heavy with boding thought, As the forest-paths alone he sought. He reach’d a convent’s fane, that stood Deep bosom’d in luxuriant wood; Still, solemn, fair--it seem’d a spot Where earthly care might be all forgot, And sounds and dreams of heaven alone To musing spirit might be known. And sweet e’en then were the sounds that rose On the holy and profound repose. Oh! they came o’er the warrior’s breast Like a glorious anthem of the blest; And fear and sorrow died away Before the full majestic lay. He enter’d the secluded fane, Which sent forth that inspiring strain; He gazed--the hallow’d pile’s array Was that of some high festal day; Wreaths of all hues its pillars bound, Flowers of all scents were strew’d around; The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh, Blest on the altar to smile and die; And a fragrant cloud from the censer’s breath Half hid the sacred pomp beneath; And still the peal of choral song Swell’d the resounding aisles along; Wakening, in its triumphant flow, Deep echoes from the graves below. Why, from its woodland birthplace torn, Doth summer’s rose that scene adorn? Why breathes the incense to the sky? Why swells th’ exulting harmony? --And see’st thou not yon form, so light It seems half floating on the sight, As if the whisper of a gale, That did but wave its snowy veil, Might bear it from the earth afar, A lovely but receding star? Know that devotion’s shrine e’en now Receives that youthful vestal’s vow-- For this, high hymns, sweet odours rise, A jubilee of sacrifice! Mark yet a moment! from her brow Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow, Ere yet a darker mantle hide The charms to heaven thus sanctified: Stay thee! and catch their parting gleam, That ne’er shall fade from memory’s dream. A moment! oh! to Ulric’s soul, Poised between hope and fear’s control, What slow, unmeasured hours went by, Ere yet suspense grew certainty. It came at length. Once more that face Reveal’d to man its mournful grace; A sunbeam on its features fell, As if to bear the world’s farewell; And doubt was o’er. His heart grew chill: ’Twas she--though changed--’twas Ella still! Though now her once-rejoicing mien Was deeply, mournfully serene; Though clouds her eye’s blue lustre shaded, And the young cheek beneath had faded, Well, well he knew the form, which cast Light on his soul through all the past! ’Twas with him on the battle-plain, ’Twas with him on the stormy main: ’Twas in his visions, when the shield Pillow’d his head on tented field; ’Twas a bright beam that led him on Where’er a triumph might be won-- In danger as in glory nigh, An angel-guide to victory! She caught his pale bewilder’d gaze Of grief half lost in fix’d amaze. Was it some vain illusion, wrought By frenzy of impassion’d thought? Some phantom, such as Grief hath power To summon in her wandering hour? No! it was he! the lost, the mourn’d-- Too deeply loved, too late return’d! --A fever’d blush, a sudden start, Spoke the last weakness of her heart; ’Twas vanquish’d soon--the hectic red A moment flush’d her check, and fled. Once more serene--her steadfast eye Look’d up as to Eternity; Then gazed on Ulric with an air, That said--the home of Love is _there_! Yes! _there_ alone it smiled for him, Whose eye before that look grew dim. Not long ’twas his e’en _thus_ to view The beauty of its calm adieu; Soon o’er those features, brightly pale, Was cast th’ impenetrable veil; And, if one human sigh were given By the pure bosom vow’d to heaven, ’Twas lost, as many a murmur’d sound Of grief, “not loud, but deep,” is drown’d, In hymns of joy, which proudly rise To tell the calm untroubled skies That earth hath banish’d care and woe, And man holds festivals below! [199] The original of the scene here described is presented by the mountain called the Feldberg, in the Bergstrasse:--“Des masses énormes de rochers, entassées l’une sur l’autre depuis le sommet de la montagne jusqu’à son pied, viennent y présenter un aspect superbe qu’ aucune description ne saurait rendre. Ce furent, dit-on, des géans, qui en se livrant un combat du haut des montagnes, lancèrent les uns sur les autres ces énormes masses de rochers. On arrive, avec beaucoup de peine, jusqu’au sommet du Feldberg, en suivant un sentier qui passe à côté de cette chaine de rochers. On entend continuellement un bruit sourd, qui parait venir d’un ruisseau au dessous des rochers; mais on a beau descendre, on se glissant à travers les ouvertures qui s’y trouvent, on ne découvrira jamais le ruisseau. La colonne, dite Riesensäule, se trouve un peu plus haut qu’à la moitié de la montagne; c’est un bloc de granit taillé, d’une longueur de 30 pieds et d’un diamétre de 4 pieds. Il y a plus de probabilité de croire que les anciens Germains voulaient faire de ce bloc une colonne pour l’ériger en l’honneur de leur dieu Odin, que de prétendre, comme le fort plusieurs auteurs, que les Romains aient eu le dessein de la transporter dans leur capitale. On voit un peu plus haut un autre bloc d’une forme presque carrée, qu’ on appelle Riesenaltar, (autel du géant,) qui, à en juger par sa grosseur et sa forme, était destiné à servir de piédestal à la colonnade susdite.”--_Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le Rhin._ [200] Minnesingers, (bards of love,) the appellation of the German minstrels in the Middle Ages. THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS. Call it not loneliness to dwell In woodland shade or hermit dell, Or the deep forest to explore, Or wander Alpine regions o’er; For nature there all joyous reigns, And fills with life her wild domains:-- A bird’s light wing may break the air, A wave, a leaf, may murmur there; A bee the mountain flowers may seek, A chamois bound from peak to peak; An eagle, rushing to the sky, Wake the deep echoes with his cry; And still some sound, thy heart to cheer, Some voice though not of man is near. But he, whose weary step hath traced Mysterious Afric’s awful waste-- Whose eye Arabia’s wilds hath view’d, Can tell thee what is solitude! It is to traverse lifeless plains, Where everlasting stillness reigns, And billowy sands and dazzling sky Seem boundless as infinity! It is to sink, with speechless dread, In scenes unmeet for mortal tread, Sever’d from earthly being’s trace, Alone amidst eternal space! ’Tis noon--and fearfully profound, Silence is on the desert round; Alone she reigns, above, beneath, With all the attributes of death! No bird the blazing heaven may dare, No insect bide the scorching air; The ostrich, though of sunborn race, Seeks a more shelter’d dwelling-place; The lion slumbers in his lair, The serpent shuns the noontide glare. But slowly wind the patient train Of camels o’er the blasted plain, Where they and man may brave alone The terrors of the burning zone. --Faint not, O pilgrims! though on high, As a volcano, flame the sky; Shrink not, though as a furnace glow The dark-red seas of sand below; Though not a shadow, save your own, Across the dread expanse is thrown. Mark! where your feverish lips to lave, Wide-spreads the fresh transparent wave! Urge your tired camels on, and take Your rest beside yon glistening lake; Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring, And fan your brows with lighter wing. Lo! nearer now, its glassy tide, Reflects the date-tree on its side-- Speed on! pure draughts and genial air, And verdant shade, await you there. Oh, glimpse of heaven! to him unknown That hath not trod the burning zone! Forward they press--they gaze dismay’d-- The waters of the desert fade! Melting to vapours that elude The eye, the lip, they vainly woo’d.[201] What meteor comes? A purple haze Hath half obscured the noontide rays:[202] Onward it moves in swift career, A blush upon the atmosphere. Haste, haste! avert th’ impending doom, Fall prostrate! ’tis the dread Simoom! Bow down your faces--till the blast On its red wing of flame hath pass’d, Far bearing o’er the sandy wave The viewless Angel of the Grave. It came--’tis vanish’d--but hath left The wanderers e’en of hope bereft; The ardent heart, the vigorous frame, Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame. Faint with despondence, worn with toil, They sink upon the burning soil, Resign’d, amidst those realms of gloom, To find their deathbed and their tomb.[203] But onward still!--yon distant spot Of verdure can deceive you not; Yon palms, which tremulously seem’d Reflected as the waters gleam’d, Along th’ horizon’s verge display’d, Still rear their slender colonnade-- A landmark, guiding o’er the plain The Caravan’s exhausted train. Fair is that little Isle of Bliss The desert’s emerald oasis! A rainbow on the torrent’s wave, A gem embosom’d in the grave, A sunbeam on a stormy day Its beauty’s image might convey! Beauty, in horror’s lap that sleeps, While silence round her vigil keeps. Rest, weary pilgrims! calmly laid To slumber in th’ acacia shade: Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise Their aromatic breath diffuse; Where softer light the sunbeams pour Through the tall palm and sycamore; And the rich date luxuriant spreads Its pendant clusters o’er your heads. Nature once more, to seal your eyes, Murmurs her sweetest lullabies; Again each heart the music hails Of rustling leaves and sighing gales: And oh! to Afric’s child how dear The voice of fountains gushing near! Sweet be your slumbers! and your dreams Of waving groves and rippling streams! Far be the serpent’s venom’d coil From the brief respite won by toil; Far be the awful shades of those Who deep beneath the sands repose-- The hosts, to whom the desert’s breath Bore swift and stern the call of death. Sleep! nor may scorching blast invade The freshness of the acacia shade, But gales of heaven your spirits bless, With life’s best balm--Forgetfulness! Till night from many an urn diffuse The treasures of her world of dews. The day hath closed--the moon on high Walks in her cloudless majesty. A thousand stars to Afric’s heaven Serene magnificence have given-- Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame Shines forth eternally the same. Blest be their beams, whose holy light