The Poetical Works of Mrs. Felicia Hemans

And the leaves greet thee, Spring!-the joyous | There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree,
leaves,
Banners were lifted and streaming free;
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and Every tall pillar was wreathed with fire,

glade,

Where each young spray a rosy flush receives,
When thy south-wind hath pierced the whis-
pery shade,

And happy murmurs, running through the grass,
Tell that thy footsteps pass.

And the bright waters-they too hear thy call,
Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their
sleep!

Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall

Makes melody, and in the forests deep,
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray
Their windings to the day.

And flowers--the fairy-peopled world of flowers!
Thou from the dust hast set that glory free,
Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours,
And penciling the wood-anemone;
Silent they seem-yet each to thoughtful eye
Glows with mute poesy.

But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring!
The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs?
Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing,
Restorer of forgotten harmonies!

Like a shooting meteor was every spire;
And the outline of many a dome on high
Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky.

I passed through the streets; there were throngs
on throngs-

Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs;
There was music forth from each palace borne—
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn;
The forests heard it, the mountains rang,
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang;
Rich and victorious was every tone,
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown.
Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain?

Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain!

Gallant and true were the hearts that fell-
Grief in the homes they have left must dwell;
Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread,
And bowing the beauty of woman's head:
Didst thou hear, midst the songs, not one tender
moan,

For the many brave to their slumbers gone?

I saw not the face of a weeper there-
Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamp's glare!

Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd

art,

What wak'st thou in the heart?

Too much, oh! there too much! we know not well
Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee,
What fond strange yearnings, from the soul's deep
ceil,

Gush for the faces we no more may see!
How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone,
By voices that are gone!

Looks of familiar love, that never more,

Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, Past words of welcome to our household door,

The music of victory was all too loud!
Mighty it rolled on the winds afar,
Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car;
Through torches and streamers its flood swept by-
How could I listen for moan or sigh?

Turn then away from life's pageants, turn,
If its deep story thy heart would learn!
Ever too bright is that outward show,
Dazzling the eyes till they see not wo.
But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy

view

The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true;

So must thy spirit be taught to feel!

And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet-Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal—
Spring! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees,
Why, why reviv'st thou these?

Vain longings for the dead!-why come they back
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living
blooms?

Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? Yes! gentle spring; no sorrow dims thine air, Breathed by our loved ones there!

THE ILLUMINATED CITY. THE hills are glowed with a festive light, For the royal city rejoiced by night:

THE SPELLS OF HOME.

There blend the ties that strengthen

Our hearts in hours of grief,
The silver links that lengthen
Joys visits when most brief.

Bernard Barton.

By the soft green light in the woody glade,
On the banks of moss where thy childhood played;
By the household tree through which thine eye
First looked in love to the summer-sky;

By the dewy gleam, by the very breath
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious-oh! guard it well!

By the sleepy ripple of the stream,
Which hath lulled thee into many a dream;
By the shiver of the ivy-leaves

To the wind of morn at thy casement-eaves,
By the bees' deep murmur in the limes,
By the music of the Sabbath-chimes,
By every sound of thy native shade,
Stronger and dearer the spell is made.

By the gathering round the winter hearth,
When twilight called into household mirth;
By the fairy tale or the legend old

In that ring of happy faces told;
By the quiet hour when hearts unite

In the parting prayer and the kind "Good-night;"
By the smiling eye and the loving tone,
Over thy life has a spell been thrown.

And bless that gift!-it hath gentle might,
A guardian power and a guiding light.
It hath led the freeman forth to stand
In the mountain-battles of his land;

It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze;
And back to the gates of his father's hall,
It hath led the weeping prodigal.

Yes! when thy heart in its pride would stray From the pure first loves of its youth away; When the sullying breath of the world would come O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home;

Think thou again of the woody glade,

And the sound by the rustling ivy made,
Think of the tree at thy father's door,

And the kindly spell shall have power once more!

They that thy mantle wore,

As gods were seen

Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been!

Rome! thine imperial brow

Never shall rise:

What hast thou left thee now?

Thou hast thy skies!

Blue, deeply blue, they are,
Gloriously bright!
Veiling thy wastes afar
With coloured light.

Thou hast the sunset's glow,
Rome, for thy dower,
Flushing tall cypress-bough,
Temple and tower!

And all sweet sounds are thine,
Lovely to hear,

While night, o'er tomb and shrine,

Rests darkly clear.

Many a solemn hymn,

By starlight sung,
Sweeps through the arches dim,

Thy wrecks among.

Many a flute's low swell,

On thy soft air
Lingers, and loves to dwell
With summer there.

Thou hast the South's rich gift
Of sudden song,

A charmed fountain, swift,
Joyous, and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move

With queenly tread;
Thou hast proud fanes above
Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore

A mournful mien :

Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been!

ROMAN GIRL'S SONG.

Roma, Roma, Roma!

Non è piu come era prima.

ROME, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

On thy seven hills of yore

Thou satst a queen.

Thou hadst thy triumphs then
Purpling the street,

Leaders and sceptred men
Bowed at thy feet.

THE DISTANT SHIP:

THE sea-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast

Shoots like a glancing star,

While the red radiance of the west

Spreads kindling fast and far;

And yet that splendour wins thee not,Thy still and thoughtful eye

Dwells but on one dark distant spot

Of all the main and sky.

Look round thee!-o'er the slumbering deep
A solemn glory broods;

A fire hath touched the beacon-steep,
And all the golden woods:
A thousand gorgeous clouds on high
Burn within the amber light;-
What spell, from that rich pageantry,
Chains down thy gazing sight?

A softening thought of human cares,
A feeling linked to earth!

Is not yon speck a bark, which bears

The loved of many a hearth?
Oh! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear,
Crowd her frail world even now,
And manhood's prayer and woman's tear,
Follow her venturous prow?

Bright are the floating clouds above,

The glittering seas below;
But we are bound by cords of love
To kindred weal and wo.
Therefore, amidst this wide array
Of glorious things and fair,
My soul is on that bark's lone way,
For human hearts are there.

THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

BIRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing!
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring?
-"We come from the shores of the green old Nile,
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile,
From the palms that wave through the Indian sky,
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.

"We have swept o'er cities in song renowned-
Silent they lie, with the deserts round!

We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath
rolled

All dark with the warrior-blood of old;
And each worn wing hath regained its home,
Under peasant's roof-tree, or monarch's dome."

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam?

A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger of remarkable appearance, and dressed in deep mourning, called at his house, and requested him to prepare a requiem, in his best style, for the funeral of a distinguished person. The sensitive imagination of the composer immediately seized upon the circumstances as an omen of his own fate; and the nervous anxiety with which he laboured to fulfil the task, had the effect of realizing his impression. He died within a few days after completing this magnificent piece of music, which was performed at his interment.

These birds of Paradise but long to flee
Back to their native mansion.

Prophecy of Dante.

A REQUIEM!—and for whom?
For beauty in its bloom?

For valour fallen-a broken rose or sword?
A dirge for king or chief,

With pomp of stately grief,

Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored?

Not So, it is not so!

That warning voice I know,

From other worlds a strange mysterious tone;
A solemn funeral air

It called me to prepare,

-"We have found a change, we have found a pall, And my heart answered secretly-my own!

And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall,
And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt,-
Nought looks the same, save the nest we built!"
Oh! joyous birds, hath still been so;
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go!
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep,
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep.
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot,
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot?

"A change we have found there-and many a
change!

Faces and footsteps and all things strange!

One more then, one more strain,
In links of joy and pain

Mighty the troubled spirit to inthral!
And let me breathe my dower
Of passion and of power
Full into that deep lay-the last of all!

The last!-and I must go

From this bright world below,

This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound!
Must leave its festal skies,

With all their melodies,

That ever in my breast glad echoes found!

Yet have I known it long
Too restless and too strong

Within this clay hath been th' o'ermastering flame;
Swift thoughts, that came and went,

Like torrents o'er me sent,

Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame.

Like perfumes on the wind,
Which none may stay or bind,

The beautiful comes floating through my soul;
I strive with yearnings vain,
The spirit to detain

Of the deep harmonies that past me roll!

Therefore disturbing dreams
Trouble the secret streams

And founts of music that o'erflow my breast;
Something far more divine

Than may on earth be mine,

Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest.

Shall I then fear the tone

That breathes from worlds unknown?Surely these feverish aspirations there

Shall grasp their full desire,
And this unsettled fire,

Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air.

One more then, one more strain,
To earthly joy and pain >

A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell!
I pour each fervent thought
With fear, hope, trembling, fraught,
Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell.

A strange dark fate o'ertook you,
Fair babe and loving heart!
One moment of a thousand pangs-
Yet better than to part!

Haply of that fond bosom,

On ashes here impressed,

Thou wert the only treasure, child!
Whereon a hope might rest.
Perchance all vainly lavished,
Its other love had been,

And where it trusted, nought remained
But thorns on which to lean.

Far better then to perish,

Thy form within its clasp,

Than live and lose thee, precious one! From that impassioned grasp.

Oh! I could pass all relics

Left by the pomps of old,
To gaze on this rude monument,
Cast in affection's mould.

Love, human love! what art thou?

Thy print upon the dust Outlives the cities of renown Wherein the mighty trust! Immortal, oh! immortal

Thou art, whose earthly glow Hath given these ashes holinessIt must, it must be so!

THE IMAGE IN LAVA.*

THOU thing of years departed!

What ages have gone by,

Since here the mournful seal was set

By love and agony!

Temple and tower have mouldered,

Empires from earth have passed, And woman's heart hath left a trace Those glories to outlast!

And childhood's fragile image
Thus fearfully enshrined,
Survives the proud memorials reared
By conquerors of mankind.

Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering
Upon thy mother's breast,
When suddenly the fiery tomb

Shut round each gentle guest?

FAIRY FAVOURS.

-Give me but

Something whereunto I may bind my heart; Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp Affection's tendrils round.

WOULDST thou wear the gift of immortal bloom?
Wouldst thou smile in scorn at the shadowy tomb?
Drink of this cup! it is richly fraught

With balm from the gardens of Genii brought;
Drink, and the spoiler shall pass thee by,
When the young all scattered like rose-leaves lie.
And would not the youth of my soul be gone,
If the loved had left me, one by one?
Take back the cup that may never bless,
The gift that would make me brotherless!
How should I live, with no kindred eye
To reflect mine immortality?

Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell,

Over the mighty in air that dwell?

Wouldst thou call the spirits of shore and steep

To fetch thee jewels from ocean's deep?

• The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasp-Wave but this rod, and a viewless band

ed to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum.

Slaves to thy will, shall around thee stand.

And would not fear, at my coming then,
Hush
every I voice in the homes of men?
Would not bright eyes in my presence quail ?
Young cheeks with a nameless thrill turn pale?
No gift be mine that aside would turn

The human love for whose founts I yearn!

Wouldst thou then read through the hearts of those
Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose?
Wear this rich gem! it is charmed to show
When a change comes over affection's glow
Look on its flushing or fading hue,
And learn if the trusted be false or true!

Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust,
Though my heart's wealth be but poured on dust!
Let not a doubt in my soul have place,
To dim the light of a loved one's face;
Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile-
That glory would pass could I look on guile!

Say then what boon of my power shall be
Favoured of spirits! poured forth on thee?
Thou scornest the treasures of wave and mine,
Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine,
Thou art fain with a mortal's lot to rest—
Answer me! how may I grace it best?

Oh! give me no sway o'er the powers unseen,
But a human heart where my own may lean!
A friend, one tender and faithful friend,
Whose thoughts' free current with mine may blend,
And leaving not either on earth alone,
Bid the bright calm close of our lives be one!

A PARTING SONG.

"Oh! mes Amis, rappelez vous quelqefois mes vers; mon ame y est empreinte."-Corinne.

WHEN will ye think of me, my friends?

When will ye think of me?

When the last red light, the farewell of day,
From the rock and the river is passing away,
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught,
And the heart grows burdened with tender thought;
Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, kind friends?
When will ye think of me?—
When the rose of the rich midsummer time
Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime;
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may
tread;

Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, sweet friends?
When will ye think of me?

When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye
At the sound of some olden melody;

When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream,
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream;
Then let it be!

Thus let my memory be with you, friends
Thus ever think of me!

Kindly and gently, but as of one
From whom 't is well to be fled and gone;
As of a bird from a chain unbound,
As of a wanderer whose home is found;
So let it be.

THE BRIDAL DAY.

On a monument in a Venetian church is an epitaph, recording that the remains beneath are those of a noble lady, who expired suddenly while standing as a bride at the altar.

We bear her home! we bear her home! Over the murmuring salt sea's foam; One who has fled from the war of life, From sorrow, pain, and the fever strife.

Barry Cornwall.

BRIDE! upon thy marriage-day,
When thy gems in rich array
Made the glistening mirror seem
As a star-reflecting stream.
When the clustering pearls lay fair
'Midst thy braids of sunny air,

And the white veil o'er thee streaming,
Like a silvery halo gleaming,
Mellowed all that pomp and light
Into something meekly bright;
Did the fluttering of thy breath
Speak of joy or wo beneath?
And the hue that went and came
O'er thy cheek, like wavering flame,
Flowed that crimson from th' unrest,
Or the gladness of thy breast?
-Who shall tell us ?-from thy bower,
Brightly didst thou pass that hour;
With the many-glancing oar,
And the cheer along the shore,
And the wealth of summer flowers
On thy fair head cast in showers,
And the breath of song and flute,
And the clarion's glad salute,
Swiftly o'er the Adrian tide

Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride!
Mirth and music, sun and sky,

Welcomed thee triumphantly!

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Libros

The Poetical Works of Mrs. Felicia Hemans: Complete in One Volume