Felicia Hemans

“ The fever's hue hath left thy cheek, beloved!
Thine eyes, that make the day-spring in my heart,
Are clear and still once more. Wilt thou look forth?
Now, while the sunset with low-streaming light—
The light thou lov'st—hath made the chestnut-stems
All burning bronze, the lake one sea of gold!
Wilt thou be raised upon thy couch, to meet
The rich air fill'd with wandering scents and sounds? ”

“ Only young rapture can mount so high;
⁠Sing, sing, through the echoing sky!”
So those two voices met: so Joy and Death
Mingled their accents; and, amidst the rush
Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,
"Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful,
Mysterious Nature! not in thy free range
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus
The dirge-note and the song of festival!" ”

“ Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear,
Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies,
The spirit-music, unperturb'd and clear;
The full of soul, yet passionate no more—
—Let me too, joining those pure strains, adore! ”

“ The blue, deep, glorious heavens!—I lift mine eye,
And bless Thee, O my God! that I have met
And own'd thine image in the majesty
Of their calm temple still!—that never yet
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight
By noontide-blaze, or sweeping storm of night:
⁠I bless Thee, O my God! ”

“ Ev’n therefore we can part,
With an immortal trust, that such high love
Is not of things to perish.
Let me leave
One record still, to prove it strong as death,
Ev’n in Death's hour of triumph. Once again,
Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast,
And eyes half veil'd, in thine own soul absorb'd,
As in thy watchings, ere I sink to sleep ”

“ Sweet water, I must die!
"Will ye not send one tone
Of sorrow through the shades? one murmur low?
Shall not the green leaves from your voices know,
That I, your child, am gone?
"No! ever glad and free! ”

“ BY MRS HEMANS.
"Who does not recollect the exultation of Vaillant over a flower in the torrid wastes of Africa?—The affecting mention of the influence of a flower upon his mind, by Mungo Park, in a time of suffering and despondency, in the heart of the same savage country, is familiar to every one."—Howitt's Book of the Seasons.
Why art thou thus in thy beauty cast,
O lonely, loneliest flower!
Where the sound of song hath never pass'd,
From human hearth or bower? ”

“ Though through night's heaven the comet-sword
Its vengeful token waved.
There were shouts of kindred warfare
Through the dark streets ringing high,
Though every sign was full which told
Of the bloody vintage nigh:
Though the wild red spear and arrows
Of many a meteor host,
Went flashing o'er the holy stars,
In the sky now seen, now lost. ”