Felicia Hemans

“ The fear that walks at midnight—give the moan
In the wind haunting him a power to say
"Where is thy brother?"—and the stars a ray
To search and shake his spirit, when alone
With the dread splendor of their burning eyes!
—So shall earth own thy will—mercy, not sacrifice!
⁠XLIX.
Sounds of triumphant praise!—the mass was sung—
—Voices that die not might have pour'd such strains!
Thro' Salem's towers might that proud chant have rung,
When the Most High, on Syria's palmy plains,
Had quell'd her foes!—so full it swept, a sea
Of loud waves jubilant, and rolling free! ”

“ O thou that art the life! and yet didst bear
Too much of mortal woe to turn from mortal prayer!
⁠LXXXV.
But was it not a thing to rise on death,
With its remember'd light, that face of thine,
Redeemer! dimm'd by this world's misty breath,
Yet mournfully, mysteriously divine?
—Oh! that calm, sorrowful, prophetic eye,
With its dark depths of grief, love, majesty!
And the pale glory of the brow!—a shrine
Where Power sat veil'd, yet shedding softly round
What told that thou couldst be but for a time uncrown'd!
⁠LXXXVI.
And more than all, the Heaven of that sad smile! ”

“ Amidst the dead—"By that full cup of woe,
Press'd from the fruitage of mortality,
Saviour! for thee—give light! that I may know
If by thy will, in thine all-healing name,
Men cast down human hearts to blighting shame,
And early death—and say, if this be so,
Where then is mercy?—whither shall we flee,
So unallied to hope, save by our hold on thee?
⁠LXXXVIII.
"But didst thou not, the deep sea brightly treading,
Lift from despair that struggler with the wave?
And wert thou not, sad tears, yet awful, shedding,
Beheld, a weeper at a mortal's grave? ”

“ The fervor, pour'd in that full gush of song,
As it went floating through the fiery glow
Of the rich sunset!—bringing thoughts of Spain,
With all her vesper-voices, o'er the main,
Which seem'd responsive in its murmuring flow.
—"Ave sanctissima!"—how oft that lay
Hath melted from my heart the martyr-strength away!
Ave, sanctissima!
'Tis night-fall on the sea;
Ora pro nobis!
Our souls rise to thee!
Watch us, while shadows lie
O'er the dim water spread;
Hear the heart's lonely sigh,
—Thine too, hath bled!
Thou that hast look'd on death.
Aid us when death is near! ”

“ And life seem'd robed in beautiful array,
Too fair to leave!—but this might be forgiven,
Thou wert so richly crown'd with precious gifts of Heaven!
⁠LXIV.
But woe for him who felt the heart grow still,
Which, with its weight of agony, had lain
Breaking on his!—Scarce could the mortal chill
Of the hush'd bosom, ne'er to heave again,
And all the silence curdling round the eye,
Bring home the stern belief that she could die,
That she indeed could die!—for wild and vain
As hope might be—his soul had hoped—'twas o'er—
—Slowly his failing arms dropped from the form they bore. ”

“ Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone,
That melting into song her soul away,
Gave the spring-breeze what witch'd thee in its tone?
—But while she lov'd, she liv'd, in that deep lay!
Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found?
—Yes! we are one, oh! trust me, we have met,
Where nought again may part what love hath bound,
Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret.
There shalt thou find us, there with us be blest,
If as our love thy love is pure and true!
There dwells my father [1] , sinless and at rest,
Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue. ”

“ In a speechless trance lay the warrior there,
But he wildly woke when the torch's glare
Burst on him through the gloom.
"The morning wind blows free,
And the hour of chase is near:
Come forth, come forth, with me!
What dost thou, Sigurd, here?"
"I have put out the holy sepulchral fire,
I have scatter'd the dust of my warrior-sire!
It burns on my head, and it weighs down my heart;
But the winds shall not wander without their part
To strew o'er the restless deep! ”

“ Our souls upon the dust—nor tremble to adore!
⁠LVII.
But the true parting came!—I look'd my last
On the sad beauty of that slumbering face;
How could I think the lovely spirit pass'd,
Which there had left so tenderly its trace?
Yet a dim awfulness was on the brow—
No! not like sleep to look upon art Thou,
Death, death!—She lay, a thing for earth's embrace,
To cover with spring-wreaths.—For earth's?—the wave
That gives the bier no flowers—makes moan above her grave! ”

“ That its glad stream of melody could spring
Up from th' unsounded gulfs of human woe!
Alvar! Theresa!—what is deep? what strong?
—God's breath within the soul!—It fill'd that song
From your victorious voices!—but the glow
On the hot air and lurid skies increased—
—Faint grew the sounds—more faint—I listen'd—they had ceas'd!
⁠LXXII.
And thou indeed hadst perish'd, my soul's friend! ”

“ Death holds not long unchang'd his fairest guest,—
Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest!
His voice of mirth hath ceas'd
Amidst the vineyards! there is left no place
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace,
At the gay bridal feast!
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast;
Come near! weep o'er him! bear him to his rest!
Yet mourn ye not as they
Whose spirit's light is quench'd!—for him the past
Is seal'd. He may not fall, he may not cast
His birthright's hope away!
All is not here of our belov'd and bless'd—
—Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest! ”

“ The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves!
—The hour the mother loves!—for me belov'd it hath not been;
Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smil'st, a blessed scene!
Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will come—
—Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home?
"Not as the dead!—no, not the dead!—We speak of them—we keep
Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep!
We hallow ev'n the lyre they touch'd, we love the lay they sung,
We pass with softer step the place they fill'd our band among! ”

“ Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed?
Doth she rest with the flowers o'er her gentle head,
Or float on the light wind borne?
We know not—but she is gone!
Her step from the dance, her voice from the song,
And the smile of her eye from the festal throng;—
—She hath left her dwelling lone!
When the waves at sunset shine,
We may hear thy voice, amidst thousands more,
In the scented woods of our glowing shore,
But we shall not know 'tis thine! ”

“ We rent our way, a tempest of despair!
—And thou—hadst thou but died with thy true brethren there!
⁠XXV.
I call the fond wish back—for thou hast perish'd
More nobly far, my Alvar!—making known
The might of truth4 [4] ; and be thy memory cherish'd
With theirs, the thousands, that around her throne
Have pour'd their lives out smiling, in that doom
Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb!
—Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown,
And with the wind their spirit shall be spread,
Filling man's heart and home with records of the dead.
⁠XXVI.
Thou Searcher of the Soul! ”

“ Wanders through Spain, from each grey convent's tower
O'er shining rivers pour'd, and olive-dells,
By every peasant heard, and muleteer,
And hamlet, round my home:—and I am here,
Living again through all my life's farewells,
In these vast woods, where farewell ne'er was spoken,
And sole I lift to Heaven a sad heart—yet unbroken!
⁠LXXV.
In such an hour are told the hermit's beads ”

“ Walk with still footsteps and with humble eyes,
An everlasting hymn within my soul.
⁠Wilson.
⁠I
Bring me the sounding of the torrent-water,
With yet a nearer swell—fresh breeze, awake [12] !
And river, darkening ne'er with hues of slaughter
Thy wave's pure silvery green,—and shining lake,
Spread far before my cabin, with thy zone
Of ancient woods, ye chainless things and lone!
Send voices through the forest aisles, and make
Glad music round me, that my soul may dare,
Cheer'd by such tones, to look back on a dungeon's air!
⁠II.
Oh, Indian hunter of the desert's race! ”

“ In many a peasant-home!—the midnight sky
Brought softly that rich world round those who came to die.
⁠LII.
The darkly-glorious midnight sky of Spain,
Burning with stars!—What had the torches' glare
To do beneath that Temple, and profane
Its holy radiance?—By their wavering flare,
I saw beside the pyres—I see thee now,
O bright Theresa! with thy lifted brow.
And thy clasp'd hands, and dark eyes fill'd with prayer!
And thee, sad Inez! bowing thy fair head.
And mantling up thy face, all colourless with dread! ”

“ They are love's last gift—bring ye flowers, pale flowers!
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
They are nature's offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory—bring flowers, bright flowers! ”

“ The sunny and the vintage land, farewell!"
—I could have died upon the battle plain
For thee, my country! but I might not dwell
In thy sweet vales, at peace.—The voice of song
Breathes, with the myrtle scent, thy hills along;
The citron's glow is caught from shade and dell;
But what are these?—upon thy flowery sod
I might not kneel, and pour my free thoughts out to God!
⁠XXXII.
O'er the blue deep I fled, the chainless deep! ”

“ And thou didst wear, in knightly ring,
Of all, the stateliest mien;
And thou didst prove, where spears are prov'd
In war, the bravest heart—
—Oh! ever the renown'd and lov'd
Thou wert—and there thou art! ”

“ But thou!—o'er all thine aspect and array
Was pour'd one stream of pale, broad, silvery light—
—Thou wert the single star of that all-shrouding night!
⁠LXXXIV.
Aid for one sinking!—Thy lone brightness gleam'd
On his wild face, just lifted o'er the wave,
With its worn, fearful, human look that seem'd
To cry through surge and blast—"I perish—save!" ”

“ And sigh'd—"farewell, thou sun!"—Eve glow'd and pass'd—
Night—midnight and the moon—came forth and shed
Sleep, even as dew, on glen, wood, peopled spot—
Save one—a place of death—and there men slumber'd not. ”

“ But I was waken'd as the dreamers waken
Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dread
Rouse up at midnight, when their walls are taken,
And they must battle till their blood is shed
On their own threshold-floor. ”

“ Vexing my soul with quiet, there they lay,
All moveless through their blue transparence keeping,
The shadows of our sails, from day to day;
While she—oh! strongest is the strong heart's woe—
And yet I live! ”

“ A chain, so darkly with its growth entwin'd.
This is my hope!—though when the sunset fades,
When forests rock the midnight on their shades,
When tones of wail are in the rising wind,
Across my spirit some faint doubt may sigh ”

“ Even midst thy shades, thou wilderness, to tell!
I would not have my boy's young cheek made pale,
Nor haunt his sunny rest with what befel
In that drear prison-house.—His eye must grow
More dark with thought, more earnest his fair brow,
More high his heart in youthful strength must swell ”

“ Whom we have rear'd, watch'd, bless'd, too much adored!
He heard the trumpet of the red-cross blow,
And bounded from me with his father's sword!
Thou weep'st—I tremble—thou hast seen the slain
Pressing a bloody turf; the young and fair,
With their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain
Where hosts have met—speak! answer!—was he there? ”

“ And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy,
And half unconscious prayer;—a Grecian home,
With the transparence of blue skies o’erhung,
And, through the dimness of its olive shades,
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old. ”

“ We have been wanderers since those days of woe,
Thy boy and I!—As wild birds tend their young,
So have I tended him—my bounding roe!
The high Peruvian solitudes among;
And o'er the Andes-torrents borne his form,
Where our frail bridge hath quiver'd midst the storm20 [20] .
—But there the war-notes of my country rung,
And, smitten deep of Heaven and man, I fled
To hide in shades unpierc'd a mark'd and weary head.
⁠LXIX.
But be went on in gladness—that fair child! ”

“ And for their birth-place moan, as moans the ocean-shell2 [2] .
⁠V.
Peace!—I will dash these fond regrets to earth,
Ev'n as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain
From his strong pinion. Thou that gav'st me birth,
And lineage, and once home,—my native Spain!
My own bright land—my father's land—my child's!
What hath thy son brought from thee to the wilds?
He hath brought marks of torture and the chain,
Traces of things which pass not as a breeze,
A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, woe—thy gifts are these. ”

“ There shines no sun 'midst the hidden dead,
But where the day looks not the brave may tread:
There is heard no song, and no mead is pour'd,
But the warrior may come to the silent board
In the shadow of the night. ”

“ Dost cross my footsteps in thy fiery chase
Of the swift elk or blue hill's flying roe;
Thou that beside the red night-fire thou heapest,
Beneath the cedars and the star-light sleepest,
Thou know'st not, wanderer—never may'st thou know!—
Of the dark holds wherewith man cumbers earth,
To shut from human eyes the dancing seasons' mirth. ”

“ With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing,
Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the world?
Sleep while the babe sleeps on its mother's breast—
—Oh! strong is night—for thou too art at rest! ”