The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Like sounds that bless the bard’s repose, When in lone wood, or mossy cave, He dreams beside some fountain wave, And fairy worlds delight the eyes Wearied with life’s realities. Was it illusion? Yet again Rises and falls th’ enchanted strain, Mellow, and sweet, and faint-- As if some spirit’s touch had given The soul of sound to harp of heaven To soothe a dying saint! Is it the mermaid’s distant shell, Warbling beneath the moonlit wave? --Such witching tones might lure full well The seaman to his grave! Sure from no mortal touch ye rise, Wild, soft, aërial melodies! --Is it the song of woodland-fay From sparry grot, or haunted bower? Hark! floating on, the magic lay Draws near yon ivied tower! Now nearer still, the listening ear May catch sweet harp-notes, faint yet clear; And accents low, as if in fear, Thus murmur, half suppress’d:-- “Awake! the moon is bright on high, The sea is calm, the bark is nigh, The world is hush’d to rest!” Then sinks the voice--the strain is o’er, Its last low cadence dies along the shore. Fair Bertha hears th’ expected song, Swift from her tower she glides along; No echo to her tread awakes, Her fairy step no slumber breaks; And, in that hour of silence deep, While all around the dews of sleep O’erpower each sense, each eyelid steep, Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear, Her dark eye glistens with a tear. Half-wavering now, the varying cheek And sudden pause her doubts bespeak, The lip now flush’d, now pale as death, The trembling frame, the fluttering breath! Oh! in that moment, o’er her soul What struggling passions claim control! Fear, duty, love, in conflict high, By turns have won th’ ascendency; And as, all tremulously bright, Streams o’er her face the beam of night, What thousand mix’d emotions play O’er that fair face, and melt away. Like forms whose quick succession gleams O’er fancy’s rainbow-tinted dreams; Like the swift glancing lights that rise Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies, And traverse ocean o’er; So in that full, impassion’d eye The changeful meanings rise and die, Just seen--and then no more! But oh! too short that pause. Again Thrills to her heart that witching strain:-- “Awake! the midnight moon is bright: Awake! the moments wing their flight; Haste! or they speed in vain!”---- O call of Love! thy potent spell O’er that weak heart prevails too well; The “still small voice” is heard no more That pleaded duty’s cause before, And fear is hush’d, and doubt is gone, And pride forgot, and reason flown! Her cheek, whose colour came and fled, Resumes its warmest, brightest red, Her step its quick elastic tread, Her eye its beaming smile! Through lonely court and silent hall, Flits her light shadow o’er the wall; And still that low, harmonious call Melts on her ear the while! Though love’s quick ear alone could tell The words its accents faintly swell:-- “Awake! while yet the lingering night And stars and seas befriend our flight: Oh! haste, while all is well!”---- The halls, the courts, the gates, are past, She gains the moonlit beach at last. Who waits to guide her trembling feet? Who flies the fugitive to greet? He, to her youthful heart endear’d By all it e’er had hoped and fear’d, Twined with each wish, with every thought Each day-dream fancy e’er had wrought, Whose tints portray with flattering skill What brighter worlds alone fulfil! --Alas! that aught so fair should fly Thy blighting wand, Reality! A chieftain’s mien her Osbert bore, A pilgrim’s lowly robes he wore-- Disguise that vainly strove to hide Bearing and glance of martial pride; For he in many a battle-scene, On many a rampart breach had been; Had sternly smiled at danger nigh, Had seen the valiant bleed and die, And proudly rear’d on hostile tower, Midst falchion clash and arrowy shower, Britannia’s banner high! And though some ancient feud had taught His Bertha’s sire to loathe his name, More noble warrior never fought For glory’s prize or England’s fame. And well his dark, commanding eye, And form and step of stately grace, Accorded with achievements high, Soul of emprise and chivalry, Bright name, and generous race! His cheek, embrown’d by many a sun, Tells a proud tale of glory won, Of vigil, march, and combat rude, Valour, and toil, and fortitude! E’en while youth’s earliest blushes threw Warm o’er that cheek their vivid hue, His gallant soul, his stripling form, Had braved the battle’s rudest storm; When England’s conquering archers stood, And dyed thy plain, Poitiers! with blood, When shiver’d axe, and cloven shield, And shatter’d helmet, strew’d the field, And France around her king in vain Had marshall’d valour’s noblest train-- In that dread strife his lightning eye Had flash’d with transport keen and high, And midst the battle’s wildest tide, Throbb’d his young heart with hope and pride. Alike that fearless heart could brave Death on the war-field or the wave; Alike in tournament or fight, That ardent spirit found delight! Yet oft, midst hostile scenes afar, Bright o’er his soul a vision came, Rising like some benignant star, On stormy seas or plains of war, To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame, The heart that throbb’d to Bertha’s name! And midst the wildest rage of fight, And in the deepest calm of night, To her his thoughts would wing their flight With fond devotion warm; Oft would those glowing thoughts portray Some home, from tumults far away, Graced with that angel form! And now his spirit fondly deems Fulfill’d its loveliest, dearest dreams! Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow, In minstrel garb attends the chief? The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow Reveals a shade of grief. Sorrow and time have touch’d his face With mournful yet majestic grace, Soft as the melancholy smile Of sunset on some ruin’d pile! --It is the bard, whose song had power To lure the maiden from her tower-- The bard, whose wild inspiring lays, E’en in gay childhood’s earliest days, First woke, in Osbert’s kindling breast, The flame that will not be represt, The pulse that throbs for praise! Those lays had banish’d from his eye The bright soft tears of infancy, Had soothed the boy to calm repose, Had hush’d his bosom’s earliest woes; And when the light of thought awoke, When first young reason’s day-spring broke, More powerful still, they bade arise His spirit’s burning energies! Then the bright dream of glory warm’d, Then the loud pealing war-song charm’d, The legends of each martial line, The battle-tales of Palestine: And oft, since then, _his_ deeds had proved Themes of the lofty lays he loved! Now, at triumphant love’s command, Since Osbert leaves his native land, Forsaking glory’s high career For her than glory far more dear; Since hope’s gay dream and meteor ray To distant regions point his way, That there Affection’s hands may dress A fairy bower for happiness; That fond devoted bard, though now Time’s wintery garland wreathes his brow, Though quench’d the sunbeam of his eye, And fled his spirit’s buoyancy, And strength and enterprise are past, Still follows constant to the last! Though his sole wish was but to die Midst the calm scenes of days gone by, And all that hallows and endears The memory of departed years-- Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined To those loved scenes his pensive mind; Ah! what can tear the links apart That bind his chieftain to his heart? What smile but _his_ with joy can light The eye obscured by age’s night? Last of a loved and honour’d line, Last tie to earth in life’s decline, Till death its lingering spark shall dim, That faithful eye must gaze on him! Silent and swift, with footstep light, Haste on those fugitives of night. They reach the boat--the rapid oar Soon wafts them from the wooded shore: The bark is gain’d! A gallant few, Vassals of Osbert, form its crew; The pennant, in the moonlight beam, With soft suffusion glows; From the white sail a silvery gleam Falls on the wave’s repose; Long shadows undulating play, From mast and streamer, o’er the bay; But still so hush’d the summer air, They tremble, midst that scene so fair, Lest morn’s first beam behold them there. --Wake, viewless wanderer! breeze of night! From river wave, or mountain height, Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers, By haunted spring in forest bowers; Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell, In amber grot, where mermaids dwell, And cavern’d gems their lustre throw O’er the red sea-flowers’ vivid glow? Where treasures, not for mortal gaze, In solitary splendour blaze, And sounds, ne’er heard by mortal ear, Swell through the deep’s unfathom’d sphere? What grove of that mysterious world Holds thy light wing in slumber furl’d? Awake! o’er glittering seas to rove: Awake! to guide the bark of love! Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon Shall fade the bright propitious moon; Soon shall the waning stars grow pale, E’en now--but lo! the rustling sail Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale! The bark glides on--their fears are o’er; Recedes the bold romantic shore, Its features mingling fast. Gaze, Bertha! gaze: thy lingering eye May still each lovely scene descry Of years for ever past! There wave the woods, beneath whose shade With bounding step thy childhood play’d, Midst ferny glades and mossy lawns, Free as their native birds and fawns; Listening the sylvan sounds, that float On each low breeze, midst dells remote-- The ringdove’s deep melodious moan, The rustling deer in thickets lone; The wild-bee’s hum, the aspen’s sigh, The wood-stream’s plaintive harmony. Dear scenes of many a sportive hour, There thy own mountains darkly tower! Midst their gray rocks no glen so rude But thou hast loved its solitude! No path so wild but thou hast known, And traced its rugged course alone! The earliest wreath that bound thy hair Was twined of glowing heath-flowers there. There in the day-spring of thy years, Undimm’d by passions or by tears, Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye Wander’d o’er ocean, earth, or sky, While the wild breeze that round thee blew, Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue. Pure as the skies that o’er thy head Their clear and cloudless azure spread, Pure as that gale whose light wing drew Its freshness from the mountain dew, Glow’d thy young heart with feelings high, A heaven of hallow’d ecstasy! Such days were thine! ere love had drawn A cloud o’er that celestial dawn! As the clear dews in morning’s beam With soft reflected colouring stream, Catch every tint of eastern gem To form the rose’s diadem, But vanish when the noontide hour