The works of Mrs. Hemans :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Yes! hide beneath the mouldering heap,
The undelighting, slighted thing;
There in the cold earth, buried deep,
In silence let it wait the Spring.”
Mrs Tighe's Poem on the Lily.

I stood where the lip of song lay low,
Where the dust had gather'd on Beauty's brow;
Where stillness hung on the heart of Love,
And a marble weeper kept watch above.

I stood in the silence of lonely thought,
Of deep affections that inly wrought,
Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear—
They knew themselves exiled spirits here!

Then didst thou pass me in radiance by,
Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly!
Thou that dost bear, on thy fairy wings,
No burden of mortal sufferings.

266

Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb,
Over a bright world of joy and bloom;
And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine,
The all that sever'd thy life and mine.

Mine, with its inborn mysterious things
Of love and grief, its unfathom'd springs;
And quick thoughts wandering o'er earth and sky,
With voices to question eternity!

Thine, in its reckless and joyous way,
Like an embodied breeze at play!
Child of the sunlight!—thou wing'd and free!
One moment, one moment, I envied thee!

Thou art not lonely, though born to roam,
Thou hast no longings that pine for home;
Thou seek'st not the haunts of the bee and bird,
To fly from the sickness of hope deferr'd:

In thy brief being no strife of mind,
No boundless passion, is deeply shrined;
While I, as I gazed on thy swift flight by,
One hour of my soul seem'd infinity!

And she, that voiceless below me slept,
Flow'd not her song from a heart that wept?
—O Love and Song! though of Heaven your powers,
Dark is your fate in this world of ours.

Yet, ere I turn'd from that silent place,
Or ceased from watching thy sunny race,

267

Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings,
Didst waft me visions of brighter things!

Thou that dost image the freed soul's birth,
And its flight away o'er the mists of earth,
Oh! fitly thy path is through flowers that rise
Round the dark chamber where Genius lies!

See the “Grave of a Poetess,” in the “Records of Woman,” on the same subject, and written several years previously to visiting the scene.

EPITAPH.

Farewell, beloved and mourn'd! we miss awhile
Thy tender gentleness of voice and smile,
And that bless'd gift of Heaven, to cheer us lent—
That thrilling touch, divinely eloquent,
Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent, high,
Through thy rich strains of sacred harmony;
Yet from those very memories there is born
A soft light, pointing to celestial morn.
Oh! bid it guide us where thy footsteps trode,
To meet at last “the pure in heart” with God!

269

TO GIULIO REGONDI,

THE BOY GUITARIST.

Blessing and love be round thee still, fair boy!
Never may suffering wake a deeper tone,
Than genius now, in its first fearless joy,
Calls forth exulting from the chords which own
Thy fairy touch! Oh! may'st thou ne'er be taught
The power whose fountain is in troubled thought!

For in the light of those confiding eyes,
And on the ingenuous calm of that clear brow,
A dower, more precious e'en than genius lies,
A pure mind's worth, a warm heart's vernal glow!
God, who hath graced thee thus, oh, gentle child,
Keep 'midst the world thy brightness undefiled!

O YE HOURS.

O ye hours! ye sunny hours!
Floating lightly by,
Are ye come with birds and flowers,
Odours and blue sky?

“Yes, we come, again we come,
Through the woodpaths free;
Bringing many a wanderer home,
With the bird and bee.”

O ye hours! ye sunny hours!
Are ye wafting song?

270

Doth wild music stream in showers,
All the groves among?

“Yes, the nightingale is there
While the starlight reigns,
Making young leaves and sweet air
Tremble with her strains.”

O ye hours! ye sunny hours!
In your silent flow,
Ye are mighty, mighty powers!
Bring ye bliss or woe?

“Ask not this—oh! seek not this!
Yield your hearts awhile
To the soft wind's balmy kiss,
And the heavens' bright smile.

“Throw not shades of anxious thought
O'er the glowing flowers!
We are come with sunshine fraught,
Question not the hours!”

THE FREED BIRD.

Return, return, my bird!
I have dress'd thy cage with flowers,
'Tis lovely as a violet bank
In the heart of forest bowers.

“I am free, I am free—I return no more!
The weary time of the cage is o'er;

271

Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high,
The sky is around me—the blue bright sky!

“The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear,
With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding deer,
I see the waves flash on the sunny shore—
I am free, I am free—I return no more!”

Alas, alas! my bird!
Why seek'st thou to be free?
Wert thou not bless'd in thy little bower,
When thy song breathed nought but glee?

“Did my song of the summer breathe nought but glee?
Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee?
—O! hadst thou known its deep meaning well,
It had tales of a burning heart to tell!

“From a dream of the forest that music sprang,
Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang;
And its dying fall, when it sooth'd thee best,
Sigh'd for wild-flowers and a leafy nest.”

Was it with thee thus, my bird?
Yet thine eye flash'd clear and bright;
I have seen the glance of sudden joy
In its quick and dewy light.

“It flash'd with the fire of a tameless race,
With the soul of the wild wood, my native place!
With the spirit that panted through heaven to soar—
Woo me not back—I return no more!

272

“My home is high, amidst rocking trees,
My kindred things are the star and the breeze,
And the fount uncheck'd in its lonely play,
And the odours that wander afar away!”

Farewell—farewell, then, bird!
I have call'd on spirits gone,
And it may be they joy'd, like thee, to part—
Like thee, that wert all my own!

“If they were captives, and pined like me,
Though love may guard them, they joy'd to be free;
They sprang from the earth with a burst of power,
To the strength of their wings, to their triumph's hour!

“Call them not back when the chain is riven,
When the way of the pinion is all through heaven!
Farewell!—with my song through the clouds I soar,
I pierce the blue skies—I am earth's no more!”

MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.

“Thou falcon-hearted dove.”
Coleridge.

The Moslem spears were gleaming
Round Damietta's towers,
Though a Christian banner from her wall
Waved free its lily-flowers.

273

Ay, proudly did the banner wave,
As queen of earth and air;
But faint hearts throbb'd beneath its folds,
In anguish and despair.

Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon
Their kingly chieftain lay,
And low on many an Eastern field
Their knighthood's best array.
'Twas mournful, when at feasts they met,
The wine-cup round to send,
For each that touch'd it silently,
Then miss'd a gallant friend!

And mournful was their vigil
On the beleaguer'd wall,
And dark their slumber, dark with dreams
Of slow defeat and fall.
Yet a few hearts of chivalry
Rose high to breast the storm,
And one—of all the loftiest there—
Thrill'd in a woman's form.

A woman, meekly bending
O'er the slumber of her child,
With her soft sad eyes of weeping love,
As the Virgin Mother's mild.

274

Oh! roughly cradled was thy babe,
'Midst the clash of spear and lance,
And a strange, wild bower was thine, young queen!
Fair Marguerite of France!

A dark and vaulted chamber,
Like a scene for wizard-spell,
Deep in the Saracenic gloom
Of the warrior citadel;
And there 'midst arms the couch was spread,
And with banners curtain'd o'er,
For the daughter of the minstrel-land,
The gay Provençal shore!

For the bright queen of St Louis,
The star of court and hall!—
But the deep strength of the gentle heart,
Wakes to the tempest's call!
Her lord was in the Paynim's hold,
His soul with grief oppress'd,
Yet calmly lay the desolate,
With her young babe on her breast!

There were voices in the city,
Voices of wrath and fear—
“The walls grow weak, the strife is vain,
We will not perish here!
Yield! yield! and let the crescent gleam
O'er tower and bastion high!
Our distant homes are beautiful—
We stay not here to die!”

275

They bore those fearful tidings
To the sad queen where she lay—
They told a tale of wavering hearts,
Of treason and dismay:
The blood rush'd through her pearly cheek,
The sparkle to her eye—
“Now call me hither those recreant knights
From the bands of Italy!”

Then through the vaulted chambers
Stern iron footsteps rang;
And heavily the sounding floor
Gave back the sabre's clang.
They stood around her—steel-clad men,
Moulded for storm and fight,
But they quail'd before the loftier soul
In that pale aspect bright.

Yes—as before the falcon shrinks
The bird of meaner wing,
So shrank they from th' imperial glance
Of her—that fragile thing!
And her flute-like voice rose clear and high,
Through the din of arms around,
Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul,
As a silver clarion's sound.

“The honour of the Lily
Is in your hands to keep,

276

And the banner of the Cross, for Him
Who died on Calvary's steep:
And the city which for Christian prayer
Hath heard the holy bell—
And is it these your hearts would yield
To the godless infidel?

“Then bring me here a breastplate
And a helm, before ye fly,
And I will gird my woman's form,
And on the ramparts die!
And the boy whom I have borne for woe,
But never for disgrace,
Shall go within mine arms to death
Meet for his royal race.

“Look on him as he slumbers
In the shadow of the lance!
Then go, and with the Cross forsake
The princely babe of France!
But tell your homes ye left one heart
To perish undefiled;
A woman and a queen, to guard
Her honour and her child!”

Before her words they thrill'd, like leaves
When winds are in the wood;
And a deepening murmur told of men
Roused to a loftier mood.
And her babe awoke to flashing swords,
Unsheath'd in many a hand,
As they gather'd round the helpless One,
Again a noble band!

277

“We are thy warriors, lady!
True to the Cross and thee!
The spirit of thy kindling words
On every sword shall be!
Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast,
Rest—we will guard thee well!
St Dennis for the Lily-flower,
And the Christian citadel!”

The proposal to capitulate is attributed by the French historian to the Knights of Pisa.

TO CAROLINE.

When thy bounding step I hear,
And thy soft voice, low and clear;
When thy glancing eyes I meet,
In their sudden laughter sweet—
Thou, I dream, wert surely born
For a path by care unworn!
Thou must be a shelter'd flower,
With but sunshine for thy dower.

Ah! fair child, not e'en for thee
May this lot of brightness be;
Yet, if grief must add a tone
To thine accents now unknown;
If within that cloudless eye
Sadder thought must one day lie,
Still, I trust the signs which tell
On thy life a light shall dwell,
Light—thy gentle spirit's own,
From within around thee thrown.

279

THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT.

“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 the 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?

I pity thee, for thy heart of love,
For that glowing heart, that fain
Would breathe out joy with each wind to rove—
In vain, lost thing! in vain!

I pity thee, for thy wasted bloom,
For thy glory's fleeting hour,
For the desert place, thy living tomb—
O lonely, loneliest flower!

I said—but a low voice made reply,
“Lament not for the flower!
Though its blossoms all unmark'd must die,
They have had a glorious dower.

“Though it bloom afar from the minstrel's way,
And the paths where lovers tread;
Yet strength and hope, like an inborn day,
By its odours hath been shed.

280

“Yes! dews more sweet than ever fell
O'er island of the blest,
Were shaken forth, from its purple bell,
On a suffering human breast.

“A wanderer came, as a stricken deer,
O'er the waste of burning sand,
He bore the wound of an Arab spear,
He fled from a ruthless band.

“And dreams of home in a troubled tide
Swept o'er his darkening eye,
As he lay down by the fountain side,
In his mute despair to die.

“But his glance was caught by the desert's flower,
The precious boon of Heaven;
And sudden hope, like a vernal shower,
To his fainting heart was given.

For the bright flower spoke of one above;
Of the prescence felt to brood,
With a spirit of pervading love,
O'er the wildest solitude.

“Oh! the seed was thrown those wastes among
In a bless'd and gracious hour,
For the lorn one rose in heart made strong,
By the lonely, loneliest flower!”

281

TROUBADOUR SONG.

They rear'd no trophy o'er his grave,
They bade no requiem flow;
What left they there to tell the brave
That a warrior sleeps below?

A shiver'd spear, a cloven shield,
A helm with its white plume torn,
And a blood-stain'd turf on the fatal field,
Where a chief to his rest was borne.

He lies not where his fathers sleep,
But who hath a tomb more proud?
For the Syrian wilds his records keep,
And a banner is his shroud.

302

THE HUGUENOT'S FAREWELL.

I stand upon the threshold stone
Of mine ancestral hall;
I hear my native river moan;
I see the night o'er my old forests fall.

I look round on the dark'ning vale
That saw my childhood's plays:
The low wind in its rising wail
Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days.

But I must rule my swelling breast:
A sign is in the sky;
Bright o'er yon grey rock's eagle nest
Shines forth a warning star—it bids me fly.

My father's sword is in my hand,
His deep voice haunts mine ear;
He tells me of the noble band
Whose lives have left a brooding glory here.

303

He bids their offspring guard from stain
Their pure and lofty faith;
And yield up all things, to maintain
The cause for which they girt themselves to death.

And I obey.—I leave their towers
Unto the stranger's tread;
Unto the creeping grass and flowers;
Unto the fading pictures of the dead.

I leave their shields to slow decay,
Their banners to the dust;
I go, and only bear away
Their old majestic name—a solemn trust!

I go up to the ancient hills,
Where chains may never be,
Where leap in joy the torrent rills,
Where man may worship God, alone and free.

There shall an altar and a camp
Impregnably arise;
There shall be lit a quenchless lamp,
To shine, unwavering, through the open skies.

And song shall 'midst the rocks be heard,
And fearless prayer ascend;
While, thrilling to God's holy word,
The mountain pines in adoration bend.

And there the burning heart no more
Its deep thought shall suppress,

304

But the long-buried truth shall pour
Free currents thence, amidst the wilderness.

Then fare thee well, my mother's bower,
Farewell, my father's hearth;
Perish my home! where lawless power
Hath rent the tie of love to native earth.

Perish! let deathlike silence fall
Upon the lone abode:
Spread fast, dark ivy, spread thy pall;—
I go up to the mountains with my God.

THE ENGLISH BOY.

“Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt
They owe their ancestors; and make them swear
To pay it, by transmitting down entire
Those sacred rights to which themselves were born.”
Akenside.

Look from the ancient mountains down,
My noble English boy!
Thy country's fields around thee gleam
In sunlight and in joy.

Ages have roll'd since foeman's march
Pass'd o'er that old firm sod;
For well the land hath fealty held
To freedom and to God!

Gaze proudly on, my English boy!
And let thy kindling mind

305

Drink in the spirit of high thought
From every chainless wind!

There, in the shadow of old Time,
The halls beneath thee lie,
Which pour'd forth to the fields of yore
Our England's chivalry.

How bravely and how solemnly
They stand, 'midst oak and yew!
Whence Cressy's yeomen haply framed
The bow, in battle true.

And round their walls the good swords hang
Whose faith knew no alloy,
And shields of knighthood, pure from stain—
Gaze on, my English boy!

Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church
Gleams by the antique elm,
Or where the minster lifts the cross
High through the air's blue realm.

Martyrs have shower'd their free heart's blood
That England's prayer might rise,
From those grey fanes of thoughtful years,
Unfetter'd, to the skies.

Along their aisles, beneath their trees,
This earth's most glorious dust,
Once fired with valour, wisdom, song,
Is laid in holy trust.

306

Gaze on—gaze farther, farther yet—
My gallant English boy!
Yon blue sea bears thy country's flag,
The billows' pride and joy!

Those waves in many a fight have closed
Above her faithful dead;
That red-cross flag victoriously
Hath floated o'er their bed.

They perish'd—this green turf to keep
By hostile tread unstain'd;
These knightly halls inviolate,
Those churches unprofaned.

And high and clear, their memory's light
Along our shore is set,
And many an answering beacon-fire
Shall there be kindled yet!

Lift up thy heart, my English boy!
And pray, like them to stand,
Should God so summon thee, to guard
The altars of the land.

ANTIQUE GREEK LAMENT.

By the blue waters—the restless ocean waters,
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges,
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

307

I pine for thee through all the joyless day—
Through the long night I pine: the golden sun
Looks dim since thou hast left me, and the Spring
Seems but to weep. Where art thou, my beloved?
Night after night, in fond hope vigilant,
By the old temple on the breezy cliff,
These hands have heap'd the watch-fire, till it stream'd
Red o'er the shining columns—darkly red—
Along the crested billows!—but in vain;
Thy white sail comes not from the distant isles—
Yet thou wert faithful ever. Oh! the deep
Hath shut above thy head—that graceful head;
The sea-weed mingles with thy clustering locks;
The white sail never will bring back the loved!

By the blue waters—the restless ocean waters,
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges,
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

Where art thou?—where?—had I but lingering prest
On thy cold lips the last long kiss; but smooth'd
The parted ringlets of thy shining hair
With love's fond touch, my heart's cry had been still'd
Into a voiceless grief; I would have strew'd
With all the pale flowers of the vernal woods—
White violets, and the mournful hyacinth,
And frail anemone, thy marble brow,
In slumber beautiful!—I would have heap'd
Sweet boughs and precious odours on thy pyre,
And with mine own shorn tresses hung thine urn,
And many a garland of the pallid rose.
But thou liest far away!—No funeral chant,

308

Save the wild moaning of the wave, is thine:
No pyre—save, haply, some long-buried wreck;
Thou that wert fairest—thou that wert most loved!

By the blue waters—the restless ocean waters,
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges,
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

Come, in the dreamy shadow of the night,
And speak to me!—E'en though thy voice be changed,
My heart would know it still. Oh, speak to me,
And say if yet, in some dim, far-off world,
Which knows not how the festal sunshine burns—
O yet, in some pale mead of Asphodel,
We two shall meet again! Oh, I would quit
The day, rejoicingly—the rosy light—
All the rich flowers and fountains musical,
And sweet familiar melodies of earth,
To dwell with thee below!—Thou answerest not!
The powers whom I have call'd upon are mute:
The voices buried in old whispery caves,
And by lone river-sources, and amidst
The gloom and myst'ry of dark prophet-oaks,
The wood-gods' haunt—they give me no reply!
All silent—heaven and earth!—for evermore
From the deserted mountains thou art gone—
For ever from the melancholy groves,
Whose laurels wail thee with a shivering sound!—
And I—I pine through all the joyous day,
Through the long night I pine—as fondly pines
The night's own bird, dissolving her lorn life
To song in moonlight woods. Thou hear'st me not!

309

The heavens are pitiless of human tears:
The deep sea-darkness is about thy head;
The white sail never will bring back the loved!

By the blue waters—the restless ocean waters,
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges,
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

TO THE BLUE ANEMONE.

Flower of starry clearness bright,
Quivering urn of colour'd light,
Hast thou drawn thy cup's rich dye
From the intenseness of the sky?
From a long, long fervent gaze
Through the year's first golden days,
Up that blue and silent deep,
Where, like things of sculptured sleep,
Alabaster clouds repose,
With the sunshine on their snows?
Thither was thy heart's love turning,
Like a censer ever burning,
Till the purple heavens in thee
Set their smile, Anemone?

Or can those warm tints be caught
Each from some quick glow of thought?
So much of bright soul there seems
In thy bendings and thy gleams,
So much thy sweet life resembles
That which feels, and weeps, and trembles,

310

I could deem thee spirit-fill'd,
As a reed by music thrill'd,
When thy being I behold
To each loving breath unfold,
Or like woman's willowy form,
Shrink before the gathering storm;
I could ask a voice from thee,
Delicate Anemone!

Flower! thou seem'st not born to die
With thy radiant purity,
But to melt in air away,
Mingling with the soft Spring-day,
When the crystal heavens are still,
And faint azure veils each hill,
And the lime-leaf doth not move,
Save to songs that stir the grove,
And earth all glorified is seen,
As imaged in some lake serene;
—Then thy vanishing should be,
Pure and meek Anemone!

Flower! the laurel still may shed
Brightness round the victor's head;
And the rose in beauty's hair
Still its festal glory wear;
And the willow-leaves droop o'er
Brows which love sustains no more:
But by living rays refined,
Thou, the trembler of the wind,
Thou, the spiritual flower
Sentient of each breeze and shower,

311

Thou, rejoicing in the skies,
And transpierced with all their dyes;
Breathing vase, with light o'erflowing,
Gem-like to thy centre glowing
Thou the poet's type shalt be,
Flower of soul, Anemone!

THE SONG OF PENITENCE.

UNFINISHED.

He pass'd from earth
Without his fame,—the calm, pure, starry fame
He might have won, to guide on radiantly
Full many a noble soul,—he sought it not;
And e'en like brief and barren lightning pass'd
The wayward child of genius. And the songs
Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life,
Had shower'd forth recklessly, as ocean-waves
Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed,
They died before him;—they were winged seed,
Scatter'd afar, and, falling on the rock
Of the world's heart, had perish'd. One alone,
One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain,
The deep beseeching of a stricken breast,
Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls
Of the kind few that loved him, with a love
Faithful to even its disappointed hope,
That song of tears found root, and by their hearths
Full oft, in low and reverential tones,

312

Fill'd with the piety of tenderness,
Is murmur'd to their children, when his name
On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls,
Far from the world's rude voices, far away.
Oh! hear, and judge him gently; 'twas his last.

I come alone, and faint I come,
To nature's arms I flee;
The green woods take their wanderer home,
But Thou, O Father! may I turn to thee?

The earliest odour of the flower,
The bird's first song is thine;
Father in heaven! my dayspring's hour
Pour'd its vain incense on another shrine.

Therefore my childhood's once-loved scene
Around me faded lies;
Therefore, remembering what hath been,
I ask, is this mine early paradise?

It is, it is—but Thou art gone,
Or if the trembling shade
Breathe yet of thee, with alter'd tone
Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismay'd.

Suggested by the late Mrs Fletcher's Story of The Lost Life, published in the Amulet for 1830.