Felicia Hemans

“ Can thy heart roam?
Wilt thou not pine to hear
Voices from Home?
"Too sad our love would be,
If thou wert gone!
Turn to us, leave us not!
Thou art our own!"
"Oh sister! thou hast won me back!—too many fond thoughts lie
In every soft, spring-breathing tone of that old melody!
I cannot, cannot leave thee now! ev'n though my grief should fall
As a shadow o'er the pageantries that crowd our ancient hall!
But take me, clasp me to thine arms—I will not mourn my lot,
Whilst love like thine remains on earth—I leave, I leave thee not!" ”

“ The highly-gifted and accomplished, the patient, the meek, and long-suffering Felicia Hemans is no more. She died on the night of Saturday the 16th May, at Dublin, and met her fate with all the calm resignation of a Christian, conscious that her spirit was winging its flight to another and a better world, where "the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." ”

“ Her execution has not the consummate elegance and grace of Felicia Hemans; but she is very young, and becoming every year she lives more mistress of her art, and has chiefly to learn how to use her treasures, which, profuse as she has been, are in abundant store; and, in good truth, the fair and happy being has a fertile imagination—the soil of her soul, if allowed to lie fallow for one sunny summer, would, I predict, yield a still richer and more glorious harvest. ”

“ And farewell, mother!—I have borne in lonely silence long,
But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong!
And I will speak, though but the winds that wander through the sky,
And but the dark, deep-rustling pines, and rolling streams reply!
Yes, I will speak!—within my breast whate'er hath seem'd to be,
There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gush'd for thee!
Brightly it would have gush'd; but thou, my mother! thou hast thrown
Back on the forests and the wilds, what should have been thine own! ”

“ Of fiery passions, darting o’er his face,
And fierce the spirit kindling in his eye—
But e’en while yet we gaze, its quick wild flashes die.
And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing,
As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse;
And veil the workings of each darker feeling,
Deep in his soul concentrating its force;
But yet he loves—Oh! who hath loved, nor known
Affection’s power exalt the bosom all its own?
The days roll on—and still Bianca’s lot
Seems as a path of Eden. Thou mightst deem
That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot
To wake her soul from life’s enchanted dream ”

“ The fervour, 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 their 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 nightfall on the sea;
Ora pro nobis!
Our souls rise to thee!
Watch us, while shadows lie
O’er the dim waters spread;
Hear the heart’s lonely sigh—
Thine too hath bled!
Thou that hast look’d on death,
Aid us when death is near! ”

“ Yet, if the glee of life's fresh budding years,
In those pure aspects may no more be read,
Thence, too, hath sorrow melted—and the tears
Which o'er their mother's holy dust they shed
Are all effaced;—there earth has left no sign,
Save its deep love, still touching every line.
But oh! more soft, more tender, breathing more
A thought of pity than in vanish'd days;
While, hovering silently and brightly o'er
The lone one's head, they meet her spirit's gaze
With their immortal eyes, that seem to say,
"Yet, sister!—yet we love thee—come away!" ”

“ Fast o’er her garments forth, and vainly bound
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound—
Yet hoped, still hoped! Oh! from such hope how long
Affection woos the whispers that deceive,
Even when the pressure of dismay grows strong!
And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne’er believe
The blow indeed can fall. So bow’d she there
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer
Fill’d all her soul. Now pour’d the moonlight down,
Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown,
And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place,
Cast fitful radiance o’er the warrior’s face. ”

“ And that I die not, seeking death on thy pale glorious brow?
“I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave!
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave.
Though mournfully thy smile is fix’d, and heavily thine eye
Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie;
And fast is bound the springing step, that seem’d on breezes borne,
When to thy couch I came and said,—‘Wake, hunter, wake! ’tis morn!’
Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouch’d by slow decay,—
And I, the wither’d stem, remain. I would that grief might slay! ”

“ Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood.
“Go forth beside the waters, and along
The chamois paths, and through the forests go;
And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong
To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow.
God shall be with thee, my beloved! Away!
Bless but thy child, and leave me—I can pray!”
He sprang up, like a warrior youth awaking
To clarion sounds upon the ringing air;
He caught her to his heart, while proud tears breaking
From his dark eyes fell o’er her braided hair;
And “Worthy art thou,” was his joyous cry,
“That man for thee should gird himself to die! ”

“ Which to thy soul brought dayspring with its tone,
And o’er the gentle eyes though dust be spread,
Eyes that ne’er look’d on thine but light was thrown
Far through thy breast:
And though the music of thy life be broken,
Or changed in every chord since he is gone—
Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token,
O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone!
I call thee bless’d!
For in thy heart there is a holy spot,
As mid the waste an isle of fount and palm,
For ever green!—the world’s breath enters not,
The passion-tempests may not break its calm:
’Tis thine, all thine! ”

“ Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone!
He told of One, the grave's dark bands who broke,
And our hearts burned within us as he spoke!
"He told of far and sunny lands which lie
Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell,
Bright must they be! for there are none that die,
And none that weep, and none that say, 'Farewell!'
He came to guide us thither,—but away
The happy called him, and he might not stay. ”

“ And the high cedars darken’d with the night.
Alone she sate; though many lay around,
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground,
Were sever’d from her need and from her woe,
Far as death severs life. O’er that wild spot
Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low,
And left them, with the history of their lot,
Unto the forest oaks—a fearful scene
For her whose home of other days had been
Midst the fair halls of England! But the love
Which fill’d her soul was strong to cast out fear;
And by its might upborne all else above,
She shrank not—mark’d not that the dead were near. ”

“ For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.
“Father!” at length he murmur’d low, and wept like childhood then—
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!—
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown,—
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.
Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,
“No more, there is no more,” he said, “to lift the sword for now.—
My king is false, my hope betray’d, my father—oh! the worth,
The glory and the loveliness, are pass’d away from earth! ”

“ Aim’d at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow;
And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast
Where in that hour her head may calmly rest,
For he is saved! Behold the Zegri band,
Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand:
While, every thought of hate and vengeance o’er,
They weep for her who soon shall weep no more.
She, she alone is calm:—a fading smile,
Like sunset, passes o’er her cheek the while;
And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell
Those last faint rays, the parting soul’s farewell.
“Now is the conflict past, and I have proved
How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved! ”

“ As it found language:—“Are we thus oppress’d?
Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod,
And man must arm, and woman call on God!
“I know what thou wouldst do;—and be it done!
Thy soul is darken’d with its fears for me.
Trust me to heaven, my husband! This, thy son,
The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free!
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth
May well give strength—if aught be strong on earth.
“Thou hast been brooding o’er the silent dread
Of my desponding tears; now lift once more,
My hunter of the hills! thy stately head,
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore! ”

“ E’en to the spring’s glad voice. Her own was low
And plaintive. Oh! there lie such depths of woe
In a young blighted spirit! Manhood rears
A haughty brow, and age has done with tears;
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o’ermantling its fresh days;—
And thus it was with her. A mournful sight
In one so fair—for she indeed was fair;
Not with her mother’s dazzling eyes of light—
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer,
And with long lashes o’er a white-rose cheek
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek,
Still that fond child’s—and oh! ”

“ But slowly fade the stars—the night is o’er—
Morn beams on those who hail her light no more;
Slumberers who ne’er shall wake on earth again,
Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain.
Yet smiles the day—oh! not for mortal tear
Doth nature deviate from her calm career:
Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair,
Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share.
O’er the cold urn the beam of summer glows,
O’er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows;
Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below,
And skies arch cloudless o’er a world of woe ”

“ Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored
Within my dwelling laid?
What though unknown—yet who shall rest
Secure—if not the Arab’s guest?
Haste thee! and leave my threshold-floor
Inviolate and pure!
Let not thy presence tempt me more,
—Man may not thus endure!
Away! I bear a fetter’d arm,
A heart that burns—but must not harm.
Begone! outstrip the swift gazelle!
The wind in speed subdue!
Fear cannot fly so swift, so well,
As vengeance shall pursue;
And hate, like love in parting pain,
Smiles o’er one hope—we meet again!
To-morrow—and th’ avenger’s hand,
The warrior’s dart is free! ”

“ His couch, ne’er sang him to his rosy rest;
Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours
Had learn’d soft utterance; press’d your lip to his,
When fever parch’d it; hush’d his wayward cries,
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love!
No! these are woman’s tasks!—in these her youth,
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart,
Steal from her all unmark’d! My boys! my boys!
Hath vain affection borne with all for this?
—Why were ye given me?
Gon. Is there strength in man
Thus to endure? That thou couldst read, through all
Its depths of silent agony, the heart
Thy voice of woe doth rend! ”

“ Alas! I might not fall upon his neck and weep! XXXI.
He pass’d me—and what next? I look’d on two,
Following his footsteps to the same dread place,
For the same guilt—his sisters! [292] Well I knew
The beauty on those brows, though each young face
Was changed—so deeply changed!—a dungeon’s air
Is hard for loved and lovely things to bear.
And ye, O daughters of a lofty race,
Queen-like Theresa! radiant Inez!—flowers
So cherish’d! were ye then but rear’d for those dark hours? XXXII.
A mournful home, young sisters, had ye left! ”

“ The spell, the shadow of my mind!
“Wilt thou yet linger? Time speeds on;
One last farewell, and then begone!
Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow,
And let me read thine aspect now!
No! stay thee yet, and learn the meed
Heaven’s justice to my crime decreed.
Slow came the day that broke my chain,
But I at length was free again;
And freedom brings a burst of joy,
E’en guilt itself can scarce destroy.
I thought upon my own fair towers,
My native Rhine’s gay vineyard bowers,
And in a father’s visions, press’d
Thee and thy brother to my breast. ”

“ The pang is o’er,
And I have but to die.
Mon. Now, Procida,
Comes thy great task. Wake! summon to thine aid
All thy deep soul’s commanding energies;
For thou—a chief among us—must pronounce
The sentence of thy son. It rests with thee.
Pro. Ha! ha! Men’s hearts should be of softer mould
Than in the elder time. Fathers could doom
Their children then with an unfaltering voice,
And we must tremble thus! Is it not said
That nature grows degenerate, earth being now
So full of days?
Mon. Rouse up thy mighty heart.
Pro. Ay, thou say’st right. ”

“ And wander'd with me into solemn glens,
Where my soul felt the beauty of His word.
I have heard voices of immortal truth,
Blent with the everlasting torrent-sounds
That make the deep hills tremble—Shall I quail?
Shall England's daughter sink?—No! He who there
Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm,
Will not forsake his child!
Gomez (turning from her.) Then perish! lost
In thine own blindness!
Edith (suddenly throwing herself at his feet.)
⁠Father! hear me yet!
Oh! if the kindly touch of human love
Hath ever warmed thy breast. ”

“ As it dropt from her hand at her rival's feet,
Into fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet!
What more remaineth? her day was done;
Her fate and the Broken Lute's were one!
The light, the vision, the gift of power,
Pass'd from her soul in that mortal hour,
Like the rich sound from the shatter'd string,
Whence the gush of sweetness no more might spring! ”