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University of Virginia Library

Poems

By Felicia Dorothea Browne [i.e. Hemans]

Hemans, Felicia Dorothea Browne (1793-1835)

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WRITTEN IN NORTH WALES.

WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE.

ON THE DEATH OF MY DEAR SISTER ELIZA.

ON THE 16TH DECEMBER, BEING AS FINE AS MAY-DAY.

THE SPARTAN MOTHER AND HER SON.

THE REIGN OF DECEMBER.

THE RETURN OF THE MARINERS.

TO INDEPENDENCE.

THE LILY OF THE VALE.

INVOCATION TO THE FAIRIES.

TO A BEAUTIFUL VINE AND A ROSE-BUSH.

ODE TO THE EVENING STAR.

TO MY BROTHER AND SISTER, IN THE COUNTRY.

ASTRE DE LA NUIT.

THE APRIL MORN.

THE RUINED CASTLE.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

FLORA TO CLAUDE, ON HIS PLUCKING A ROSE.

THE DREAM OF JOY.

INSCRIPTION FOR A COTTAGE.

SONG OF ZEPHYRUS.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF LORD NELSON.

HOLIDAY HOURS.

SONNET TO THE MUSE OF PITY.

THE SONG OF A SERAPH.

THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP.

ON MY MOTHER's BIRTH-DAY.

TO E. B. ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

TO MY AUNT, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

TO THE MOONLIGHT HOUR.

TO MY ELDEST BROTHER,

TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER,

THE PETITION OF THE REDBREAST.

INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE.

THE MINSTREL BARD.

THE ALPINE SHEPHERD.

SONNET, TO AGNES.

THE WREATH OF SPRING.

SONNET TO A DYING EXOTIC

THE VALE OF CLWYD.

SEA PIECE, BY MOONLIGHT.

LINES TO MAJOR COX,

THE PATH OF LIFE.

THE MORNING WALK.

A TRIBUTE TO THE GENIUS OF ROBERT BURNS.

THE VERNAL SHOWER.

EVENING, ON THE SEA SHORE.

SONG OF A WOOD NYMPH.

THE SCENES OF CONWAY.

LINES, FOR MY MOTHER'S BIRTH-DAY.

LINES, INSCRIBED TO MRS. WYNNE,

PART OF THE 104TH PSALM, PARAPHRASED.

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HOLIDAY HOURS.

INSCRIBED TO MY BROTHER CLAUDE.

Dear boy, let us think of the pleasures in spring,
When the season is welcom'd with garlands of flowers;
How thy moments will fly with delight on the wing,
How thy fancy will dwell on the holiday hours.
And sweet are those moments the young bosom knows,
Preceding the social endearments of home;
Where maternal affection so tenderly glows,
And invokes the gay holiday pleasures to come.
And oh! my sweet boy, when our years shall expand,
When we wander no more thro' our favorite bowers;
Perhaps we may sigh for the pleasures so bland,
The sportive delights of the holiday hours.