The Poems of Felicia Hemans
Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower--
Thus in thy soul each calm delight,
Like morn’s first dew-drops, pure and bright,
Fled swift from passion’s blighting fire,
Or linger’d only to expire!
Spring on thy native hills again
Shall bid neglected wild-flowers rise,
And call forth, in each grassy glen,
Her brightest emerald dyes!
There shall the lonely mountain rose,
Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose;
Midst rocky dells, each well-known stream
Shall sparkle in the summer beam;
The birch, o’er precipice and cave,
Its feathery foliage still shall wave,
The ash midst rugged clefts unveil
Its coral clusters to the gale,
And autumn shed a warmer bloom
O’er the rich heath and glowing broom.
But thy light footstep there no more
Each path, each dingle shall explore.
In vain may smile each green recess,
--Who now shall pierce its loneliness?
The stream through shadowy glens may stray,
--Who now shall trace its glistening way?
In solitude, in silence deep,
Shrined midst her rocks, shall Echo sleep,
No lute’s wild swell again shall rise
To wake her mystic melodies.
All soft may blow the mountain air,
--It will not wave thy graceful hair!
The mountain rose may bloom and die,
--It will not meet thy smiling eye!
But like those scenes of vanish’d days,
Shall others ne’er delight;
Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze,
Yet seem not half so bright!
O’er the dim woodlands’ fading hue
Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high;
Gaze on, while yet ’tis thine to view
That home of infancy!
Heed not the night-dew’s chilling power,
Heed not the sea-wind’s coldest hour,
But pause and linger on the deck,
Till of those towers no trace, no speck,
Is gleaming o’er the main;
For when the mist of morn shall rise,
Blending the sea, the shore, the skies,
That home, once vanish’d from thine eyes,
Shall bless them ne’er again!
There the dark tales and songs of yore
First with strange transport thrill’d thy soul,
E’en while their fearful mystic lore
From thy warm cheek the life-bloom stole.
There, while thy father’s raptured ear
Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear,
And in his eye the trembling tear
Reveal’d his spirit’s trance;
How oft, those echoing halls along,
Thy thrilling voice has swell’d the song--
Tradition wild of other days,
Or troubadour’s heroic lays,
Or legend of romance!
Oh! many an hour has there been thine,
That memory’s pencil oft shall dress
In softer shades, and tints that shine
In mellow’d loveliness!
While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears,
Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret,
The sunshine of thine early years,
Scarce deem’d so radiant--till it set!
The cloudless peace, unprized till gone,
The bliss, till vanish’d hardly known!
On rock and turret, wood and hill,
The fading moonbeams linger still,
Still, Bertha! gaze on yon gray tower,
At evening’s last and sweetest hour,
While varying still, the western skies
Flush’d the clear seas with rainbow dyes,
Whose warm suffusions glow’d and pass’d,
Each richer, lovelier, than the last.
How oft, while gazing on the deep,
That seem’d a heaven of peace to sleep,
As if its wave, so still, so fair,
More frowning mien might never wear,
The twilight calm of mental rest
Would steal in silence o’er thy breast,
And wake that dear and balmy sigh
That softly breathes the spirit’s harmony!
--Ah! ne’er again shall hours to thee be given
Of joy on earth--so near allied to heaven!
Why starts the tear to Bertha’s eye?
Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh?
Is there a grief his voice, his smile,
His words, are fruitless to beguile?
--Oh! bitter to the youthful heart,
That scarce a pang, a care has known,
The hour when first from scenes we part,
Where life’s bright spring has flown!
Forsaking, o’er the world to roam,
That little shrine of peace--our home!
E’en if delighted fancy throw
O’er that cold world, her brightest glow,
Painting its untried paths with flowers,
That will not live in earthly bowers,
(Too frail, too exquisite, to bear
One breath of life’s ungenial air;)
E’en if such dreams of hope arise
As heaven alone can realise,
Cold were the breast that would not heave
One sigh, the home of youth to leave;
Stern were the heart that would not swell
To breathe life’s saddest word--farewell!
Though earth has many a deeper woe,
Though tears more bitter far must flow,
That hour, whate’er our future lot,
That first fond grief, is ne’er forgot!
Such was the pang of Bertha’s heart,
The thought, that bade the tear-drop start;
And Osbert by her side
Heard the deep sigh, whose bursting swell
Nature’s fond struggle told too well;
And days of future bliss portray’d,
And love’s own eloquence essay’d,
To soothe his plighted bride!
Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells,
In that sweet land to which they fly;
The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells
Of blooming Italy.
For he had roved a pilgrim there,
And gazed on many a spot so fair
It seem’d like some enchanted grove,
Where only peace, and joy, and love,
Those exiles of the world, might rove,
And breathe its heavenly air;
And, all unmix’d with ruder tone,
Their “wood-notes wild” be heard alone!
Far from the frown of stern control,
That vainly would subdue the soul,
There shall their long-affianced hands
Be join’d in consecrated bands.
And in some rich, romantic vale,
Circled with heights of Alpine snow,
Where citron-woods enrich the gale,
And scented shrubs their balm exhale,
And flowering myrtles blow;
And midst the mulberry boughs on high
Weaves the wild vine her tapestry;
On some bright streamlet’s emerald side,
Where cedars wave in graceful pride,
Bosom’d in groves, their home shall rise,
A shelter’d bower of paradise!
Thus would the lover soothe to rest
With tales of hope her anxious breast;
Nor vain that dear enchanting lore
Her soul’s bright visions to restore,
And bid gay phantoms of delight
Float in soft colouring o’er her sight.
----O Youth! sweet May-morn, fled so soon,
Far brighter than life’s loveliest noon,
How oft thy spirit’s buoyant power
Will triumph, e’en in sorrow’s hour
Prevailing o’er regret!
As rears its head th’ elastic flower
Though the dark tempest’s recent shower
Hang on its petals yet!
Ah! not so soon can hope’s gay smile
The aged bard to joy beguile;
Those silent years that steal away
The cheek’s warm rose, the eye’s bright ray,
Win from the mind a nobler prize,
E’en all its buoyant energies!
For him the April days are past,
When grief was but a fleeting cloud;
No transient shade will sorrow cast,
When age the spirit’s might has bow’d!
And, as he sees the land grow dim,
That native land now lost to him,
Fix’d are his eyes, and clasp’d his hands,
And long in speechless grief he stands:
So desolately calm his air,
He seems an image wrought to bear
The stamp of deep, though hush’d despair.
Motion and life no sign bespeaks,
Save that the night-breeze, o’er his cheeks,
Just waves his silvery hair!
Nought else could teach the eye to know
He was no sculptured form of woe!
Long gazing o’er the dark’ning flood,
Pale in that silent grief he stood,
Till the cold moon was waning fast,
And many a lovely star had died,
And the gray heavens deep shadows cast
Far o’er the slumbering tide;
And, robed in one dark solemn hue,
Arose the distant shore to view.
Then, starting from his trance of woe,
Tears, long suppress’d, in freedom flow,
While thus his wild and plaintive strain
Blends with the murmur of the main.
THE BARD’S FAREWELL.
“Thou setting moon! when next thy rays
Are trembling on the shadowy deep,
The land, now fading from thy gaze,
These eyes in vain shall weep;
And wander o’er the lonely sea,
And fix their tearful glance on thee--
On thee! whose light so softly gleams
Through the green oaks that fringe my native streams.
“But midst those ancient groves, no more
Shall I thy quivering lustre hail;
Its plaintive strain my harp must pour
To swell a foreign gale.
The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke
When its full tones their stillness broke,
Deserted now, shall hear alone
The brook’s wild voice, the wind’s mysterious moan.
“And oh! ye fair, forsaken halls,
Left by your lord to slow decay,
Soon shall the trophies on your walls
Be mouldering fast away!
There shall no choral songs resound,
There shall no festal board be crown’d;
But ivy wreathe the silent gate,
And all be hush’d, and cold, and desolate.
“No banner from the stately tower
Shall spread its blazon’d folds on high;
There the wild brier and summer flower,
Unmark’d, shall wave and die.
Home of the mighty! thou art lone,
The noonday of thy pride is gone,
And, midst thy solitude profound,
A step shall echo like unearthly sound!
“From thy cold hearths no festal blaze
Shall fill the hall with ruddy light,
Nor welcome with convivial rays
Some pilgrim of the night.
But there shall grass luxuriant spread,
As o’er the dwellings of the dead;
And the deep swell of every blast
Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past.
“And I--my joy of life is fled,
My spirit’s power, my bosom’s glow;
The raven locks that graced my head,
Wave in a wreath of snow!
And where the star of youth arose
I deem’d life’s lingering ray should close,
And those loved trees my tomb o’ershade,
Beneath whose arching bowers my childhood play’d.
“Vain dream! that tomb in distant earth
Shall rise, forsaken and forgot;
And thou, sweet land that gavest me birth!
A grave must yield me not.
Yet, haply, he for whom I leave
Thy shores, in life’s dark winter eve,
When cold the hand, and closed the lays,
And mute the voice he loved to praise,
O’er the hush’d harp one tear may shed,
And one frail garland o’er the minstrel’s bed!”
BELSHAZZAR’S FEAST.
Twas night in Babylon: yet many a beam,
Of lamps far glittering from her domes on high,
Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates’ stream
With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky,
Whose azure knows no cloud: each whisper’d sigh
Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace bowers,
Bore deepening tones of joy and melody,
O’er an illumined wilderness of flowers;
And the glad city’s voice went up from all her towers.
But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall,
Where midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band,
High at the stately midnight festival,
Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury’s hand
Had shower’d around all treasures that expand
Beneath the burning East; all gems that pour
The sunbeams back; all sweets of many a land
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore
--But mortal pride look’d on, and still demanded more.
With richer zest the banquet may be fraught,