The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Shall guide the camel’s footsteps right, And lead, as with a track divine, The pilgrim to his prophet’s shrine! --Rise! bid your Isle of Palms adieu! Again your lonely march pursue, While airs of night are freshly blowing, And heavens with softer beauty glowing. ’Tis silence all: the solemn scene Wears, at each step, a ruder mien; For giant-rocks, at distance piled, Cast their deep shadows o’er the wild. Darkly they rise--what eye hath view’d The caverns of their solitude? Away! within those awful cells The savage lord of Afric dwells! Heard ye his voice?--the lion’s roar Swells as when billows break on shore. Well may the camel shake with fear, And the steed pant--his foe is near. Haste! light the torch, bid watchfires throw Far o’er the waste, a ruddy glow; Keep vigil--guard the bright array Of flames that scare him from his prey; Within their magic circle press, O wanderers of the wilderness! Heap high the pile, and by its blaze, Tell the wild tales of elder days,-- Arabia’s wond’rous lore, that dwells On warrior deeds and wizard spells; Enchanted domes, mid scenes like these, Rising to vanish with the breeze; Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that shed Their light where mortal may not tread; And spirits, o’er whose pearly halls Th’ eternal billow heaves and falls. --With charms like these, of mystic power, Watchers! beguile the midnight hour. Slowly that hour hath roll’d away, And star by star withdraws its ray. Dark children of the sun! again Your own rich orient hails his reign. He comes, but veil’d--with sanguine glare Tinging the mists that load the air; Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame, Th’ approaching hurricane proclaim. ’Tis death’s red banner streams on high-- Fly to the rocks for shelter!--fly! Lo! dark’ning o’er the fiery skies, The pillars of the desert rise! On, in terrific grandeur wheeling, A giant-host, the heavens concealing, They move, like mighty genii-forms, Towering immense midst clouds and storms. Who shall escape!--with awful force The whirlwind bears them on their course; They join, they rush resistless on-- The landmarks of the plain are gone; The steps, the forms, from earth effaced, Of those who trod the burning waste! All whelm’d, all hush’d!--none left to bear Sad record how they perish’d there! No stone their tale of death shall tell-- The desert guards its mysteries well; And o’er th’ unfathom’d sandy deep, Where low their nameless relics sleep, Oft shall the future pilgrim tread, Nor know his steps are on the dead. [201] The mirage, or vapour assuming the appearance of water. [202] See the description of the Simoom in Bruce’s Travels. [203] The extreme languor and despondence produced by the Simoom, even when its effects are not fatal, have been described by many travellers. MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE. [“Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in Africa, had landed at Carthage, when an officer, sent by the Roman governor of Africa, came and thus addressed him:--“Marius, I come from the Prætor Sextilius, to tell you that he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support the Senate’s decree, and treat you as a public enemy.” Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indignation. He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length the officer inquired what answer he should carry to the governor. “Go and tell him,” said the unfortunate man, with a sigh, “that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage.”--Plutarch.] ’Twas noon, and Afric’s dazzling sun on high With fierce resplendence fill’d th’ unclouded sky; No zephyr waved the palm’s majestic head, And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread; While desolate, beneath a blaze of light, Silent and lonely, as at dead of night, The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fanes Had strew’d their precious marble o’er the plains; Dark weeds and grass the column had o’ergrown, The lizard bask’d upon the altar stone; Whelm’d by the ruins of their own abodes, Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods; While near--dread offspring of the burning day! Coil’d midst forsaken halls the serpent lay. There came an exile, long by fate pursued, To shelter in that awful solitude. Well did that wanderer’s high yet faded mien Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene:-- Shadow’d, not veil’d, by locks of wintry snow, Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrow’d brow; Time had not quench’d the terrors of his eye, Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency; While the deep meaning of his features told Ages of thought had o’er his spirit roll’d, Nor dimm’d the fire that might not be controll’d; And still did power invest his stately form, Shatter’d, but yet unconquer’d, by the storm. --But slow his step--and where, not yet o’erthrown, Still tower’d a pillar midst the waste alone, Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid, To slumber in its solitary shade. He slept--and darkly, on his brief repose, Th’ indignant genius of the scene arose. Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread Mysterious gloom around his crownless head, Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain, The kingly shadow seem’d to lift his chain, Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn, And his eye kindled with immortal scorn! “And sleep’st thou, Roman?” cried his voice austere; “Shall son of Latium find a refuge _here_? Awake! arise! to speed the hour of Fate, When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate! Go! with her children’s flower, the free, the brave, People the silent chambers of the grave: So shall the course of ages yet to be, More swiftly waft the day, avenging me! “Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come, I hear a voice that prophesies her doom; I see the trophies of her pride decay, And her long line of triumphs pass away, Lost in the depths of time--while sinks the star That led her march of heroes from afar! Lo! from the frozen forests of the North, The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth! Who shall awake the mighty?--will thy woe, City of thrones! disturb the realms below? Call on the dead to hear thee! let thy cries Summon their shadowy legions to arise, Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls! --Barbarians revel in their ancient halls, And their lost children bend the subject knee, Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free. Bird of the sun! dread eagle! born on high, A creature of the empyreal--thou, whose eye Was lightning to the earth--whose pinion waved In haughty triumph o’er a world enslaved; Sink from thy heavens! for glory’s noon is o’er, And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more! Closed is thy regal course--thy crest is torn, And thy plume banish’d from the realms of morn. The shaft hath reach’d thee!--rest with chiefs and kings, Who conquer’d in the shadow of thy wings; Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey, And share thy glorious heritage of day! But darker years shall mingle with the past, And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last. O’er the seven hills I see destruction spread, And Empire’s widow veils with dust her head. Her gods forsake each desolated shrine, Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine: Midst fallen palaces she sits alone, Calling heroic shades from ages gone, Or bids the nations midst her deserts wait To learn the fearful oracles of Fate! “Still sleep’st thou, Roman? Son of Victory, rise! Wake to obey th’ avenging Destinies! Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country’s blood Shall swell and darken Tiber’s yellow flood! My children’s manès call--awake! prepare The feast they claim!--exult in Rome’s despair! Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries, Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies; Let carnage revel e’en her shrines among, Spare not the valiant, pity not the young! Haste! o’er her hills the sword’s libation shed, And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!” The vision flies--a mortal step is near, Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer’s ear; He starts, he wakes to woe--before him stands Th’ unwelcome messenger of harsh commands, Whose faltering accents tell the exiled chief To seek on other shores a home for grief. --Silent the wanderer sat--but on his cheek The burning glow far more than words might speak; And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke Language where all th’ indignant soul awoke, Till his deep thought found voice: then, calmly stern, And sovereign in despair, he cried, “Return! Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen Marius, the exile, rest where Carthage once hath been!” A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. A FRAGMENT. The moonbeam, quivering o’er the wave, Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill, The wild wind slumbers in its cave, And heaven is cloudless--earth is still! The pile that crowns yon savage height With battlements of Gothic might, Rises in softer pomp array’d, Its massy towers half lost in shade, Half touch’d with mellowing light! The rays of night, the tints of time, Soft-mingling on its dark-gray stone, O’er its rude strength and mien sublime, A placid smile have thrown. And far beyond, where wild and high, Bounding the pale blue summer sky, A mountain vista meets the eye, Its dark, luxuriant woods assume A pencil’d shade, a softer gloom: Its jutting cliffs have caught the light, Its torrents glitter through the night, While every cave and deep recess Frowns in more shadowy awfulness. Scarce moving on the glassy deep Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep; But darting from its side, How swiftly does its boat design A slender, silvery, waving line Of radiance o’er the tide! No sound is on the summer seas, But the low dashing of the oar, And faintly sighs the midnight breeze Through woods that fringe the rocky shore. That boat has reach’d the silent bay-- The dashing oar has ceased to play; The breeze has murmur’d and has died In forest shades, on ocean’s tide. No step, no tone, no breath of sound Disturbs the loneliness profound; And midnight spreads o’er earth and main A calm so holy and so deep, That voice of mortal were profane To break on nature’s sleep! It is the hour for thought to soar High o’er the cloud of earthly woes; For rapt devotion to adore-- For passion to repose; And virtue to forget her tears, In visions of sublimer spheres! For oh! those transient gleams of heaven, To calmer, purer spirits given, Children of hallow’d peace, are known In solitude and shade alone! Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon, To blow beneath the midnight moon, The garish world they will not bless, But only live in loneliness! Hark! did some note of plaintive swell Melt on the stillness of the air? Or was it fancy’s powerful spell That woke such sweetness there? For wild and distant it arose,