The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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| NATIONAL LYRICS. |
| VII. |
 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
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NATIONAL LYRICS.
THE THEMES OF SONG.
“Of truth, of grandeur, beanty, love, and hope,
And melancholy fear subdued by faith.”
Wordsworth.
And melancholy fear subdued by faith.”
Wordsworth.
Where shall the minstrel find a theme?
—Where'er, for freedom shed,
Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream,
Amidst the mountains, red,
—Where'er, for freedom shed,
Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream,
Amidst the mountains, red,
Where'er a rock, a fount, a grove,
Bears record to the faith
Of love—deep, holy, fervent love,
Victor o'er fear and death.
Bears record to the faith
Of love—deep, holy, fervent love,
Victor o'er fear and death.
Where'er a chieftain's crested brow
Too soon hath been struck down,
Or a bright virgin head laid low,
Wearing its youth's first crown.
Too soon hath been struck down,
Or a bright virgin head laid low,
Wearing its youth's first crown.
Where'er a spire points up to heaven,
Through storm and summer air,
Telling, that all around have striven
Man's heart, and hope, and prayer.
Through storm and summer air,
Telling, that all around have striven
Man's heart, and hope, and prayer.
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Where'er a blessed home hath been,
That now is home no more:
A place of ivy, darkly green,
Where laughter's light is o'er.
That now is home no more:
A place of ivy, darkly green,
Where laughter's light is o'er.
Where'er, by some forsaken grave,
Some nameless greensward heap,
A bird may sing, a wild-flower wave,
A star its vigil keep.
Some nameless greensward heap,
A bird may sing, a wild-flower wave,
A star its vigil keep.
Or where a yearning heart of old,
A dream of shepherd men,
With forms of more than earthly mould
Hath peopled grot or glen.
A dream of shepherd men,
With forms of more than earthly mould
Hath peopled grot or glen.
There may the bard's high themes be found—
We die, we pass away;
But faith, love, pity—these are bound
To earth without decay.
We die, we pass away;
But faith, love, pity—these are bound
To earth without decay.
The heart that burns, the cheek that glows,
The tear from hidden springs,
The thorn and glory of the rose—
These are undying things.
The tear from hidden springs,
The thorn and glory of the rose—
These are undying things.
Wave after wave of mighty stream
To the deep sea hath gone:
Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream,
The exhaustless flood rolls on.
To the deep sea hath gone:
Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream,
The exhaustless flood rolls on.
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RHINE SONG OF THE GERMAN SOLDIERS AFTER VICTORY.
SINGLE VOICE.It is the Rhine! our mountain vineyards laving,
I see the bright flood shine, I see the bright flood shine!
Sing on the march, with every banner waving—
Sing, brothers, 'tis the Rhine! Sing, brothers, 'tis the Rhine!
CHORUS.
The Rhine! the Rhine! our own imperial river!
Be glory on thy track, be glory on thy track!
We left thy shores, to die or to deliver—
We bear thee freedom back, we bear thee freedom back!
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Hail! hail! my childhood knew thy rush of water,
Even as my mother's song; even as my mother's song;
That sound went past me on the field of slaughter,
And heart and arm grew strong! And heart and arm grew strong!
CHORUS.
Roll proudly on!—brave blood is with thee sweeping,
Pour'd out by sons of thine, pour'd out by sons of thine,
Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping,
Like thee, victorious Rhine! Like thee, victorious Rhine!
SINGLE VOICE.
Home!—Home!—thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting,
Thy path is by my home, thy path is by my home:
Even now my children count the hours till meeting,
O ransom'd ones, I come! O ransom'd ones, I come!
CHORUS.
Go, tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee never,
Sound on by hearth and shrine, sound on by hearth and shrine!
Sing through the hills that thou art free for ever—
Lift up thy voice, O Rhine! Lift up thy voice, O Rhine!
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A SONG OF DELOS.
“Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douee nature,
Je vous dois une larme aux bords de mon tombeau;
L'air est si parfumé! la lumiere est si pure!
Aux regards d'un Mourant le soleil est si beau!”
Lamartine.
Je vous dois une larme aux bords de mon tombeau;
L'air est si parfumé! la lumiere est si pure!
Aux regards d'un Mourant le soleil est si beau!”
Lamartine.
A song was heard of old—a low, sweet song,
On the blue seas by Delos: from that isle,
The Sun-god's own domain, a gentle girl,
Gentle—yet all inspired of soul, of mien,
Lit with a life too perilously bright,
Was borne away to die. How beautiful
Seems this world to the dying!—but for her,
The child of beauty and of poesy,
And of soft Grecian skies—oh! who may dream
Of all that from her changeful eye flash'd forth,
Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears,
As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane
Colour'd with loving light—she gazed her last,
Her young life's last, that hour! From her pale brow
And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back,
And bending forward—as the spirit sway'd
The reed-like form still to the shore beloved,
Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell
O'er dancing waves:—“Oh! linger yet,” she cried,
“Oh! linger, linger on the oar,
Oh! pause upon the deep!
That I may gaze yet once, once more,
Where floats the golden day o'er fane and steep;
Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore,
—Oh! linger, linger on the parting oar!
On the blue seas by Delos: from that isle,
The Sun-god's own domain, a gentle girl,
Gentle—yet all inspired of soul, of mien,
Lit with a life too perilously bright,
Was borne away to die. How beautiful
Seems this world to the dying!—but for her,
The child of beauty and of poesy,
And of soft Grecian skies—oh! who may dream
Of all that from her changeful eye flash'd forth,
Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears,
As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane
Colour'd with loving light—she gazed her last,
Her young life's last, that hour! From her pale brow
And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back,
And bending forward—as the spirit sway'd
The reed-like form still to the shore beloved,
Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell
O'er dancing waves:—“Oh! linger yet,” she cried,
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Oh! pause upon the deep!
That I may gaze yet once, once more,
Where floats the golden day o'er fane and steep;
Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore,
—Oh! linger, linger on the parting oar!
“I see the laurels fling back showers
Of soft light still on many a shrine;
I see the path to haunts of flowers
Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line;
I hear a sound of flutes—a swell of song—
Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng!
Of soft light still on many a shrine;
I see the path to haunts of flowers
Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line;
I hear a sound of flutes—a swell of song—
Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng!
“Oh! linger, linger on the oar
Beneath my native sky!
Let my life part from that bright shore
With day's last crimson—gazing let me die!
Thou bark, glide slowly!—slowly should be borne
The voyager that never shall return.
Beneath my native sky!
Let my life part from that bright shore
With day's last crimson—gazing let me die!
Thou bark, glide slowly!—slowly should be borne
The voyager that never shall return.
“A fatal gift hath been thy dower,
Lord of the Lyre! to me;
With song and wreath from bower to bower,
Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free;
While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart,
Have lain and listen'd to my beating heart.
Lord of the Lyre! to me;
With song and wreath from bower to bower,
Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free;
While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart,
Have lain and listen'd to my beating heart.
“Now, wasted by the inborn fire,
I sink to early rest;
The ray that lit the incense-pyre,
Leaves unto death its temple in my breast.
—O sunshine, skies, rich flowers! too soon I go,
While round me thus triumphantly ye glow!
I sink to early rest;
The ray that lit the incense-pyre,
Leaves unto death its temple in my breast.
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While round me thus triumphantly ye glow!
“Bright isle! might but thine echoes keep
A tone of my farewell,
One tender accent, low and deep,
Shrined 'midst thy founts and haunted rocks to dwell!
Might my last breath send music to thy shore!
—Oh! linger, seamen, linger on the oar!”
A tone of my farewell,
One tender accent, low and deep,
Shrined 'midst thy founts and haunted rocks to dwell!
Might my last breath send music to thy shore!
—Oh! linger, seamen, linger on the oar!”
ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTORY.
“Fill high the bowl with Samian wine,
Our virgins dance beneath the shade.”
Byron.
Our virgins dance beneath the shade.”
Byron.
Io! they come, they come!
Garlands for every shrine!
Strike lyres to greet them home;
Bring roses, pour ye wine!
Garlands for every shrine!
Strike lyres to greet them home;
Bring roses, pour ye wine!
Swell, swell the Dorian flute
Through the blue, triumphant sky!
Let the Cittern's tone salute
The sons of victory.
Through the blue, triumphant sky!
Let the Cittern's tone salute
The sons of victory.
With the offering of bright blood
They have ransom'd hearth and tomb,
Vineyard, and field, and flood;—
Io! they come, they come!
They have ransom'd hearth and tomb,
Vineyard, and field, and flood;—
Io! they come, they come!
Sing it where olives wave,
And by the glittering sea,
And o'er each hero's grave—
Sing, sing, the land is free!
And by the glittering sea,
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Sing, sing, the land is free!
Mark ye the flashing oars,
And the spears that light the deep?
How the festal sunshine pours
Where the lords of battle sweep!
And the spears that light the deep?
How the festal sunshine pours
Where the lords of battle sweep!
Each hath brought back his shield;—
Maid greet thy lover home!
Mother, from that proud field,
Io! thy son is come!
Maid greet thy lover home!
Mother, from that proud field,
Io! thy son is come!
Who murmur'd of the dead?
Hush, boding voice! We know
That many a shining head
Lies in its glory low.
Hush, boding voice! We know
That many a shining head
Lies in its glory low.
Breathe not those names to-day!
They shall have their praise erelong,
And a power all hearts to sway,
In ever-burning song.
They shall have their praise erelong,
And a power all hearts to sway,
In ever-burning song.
But now shed flowers, pour wine,
To hail the conquerors home!
Bring wreaths for every shrine—
Io! they come, they come!
To hail the conquerors home!
Bring wreaths for every shrine—
Io! they come, they come!
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NAPLES.
A SONG OF THE SYREN.
“Then gentle winds arose,
With many a mingled close
Of wild Æolian sound and mountain odour keen;
Where the clear Baian ocean
Welters with air-like motion
Within, above, around its bowers of starry green.”
Shelley.
With many a mingled close
Of wild Æolian sound and mountain odour keen;
Where the clear Baian ocean
Welters with air-like motion
Within, above, around its bowers of starry green.”
Shelley.
Still is the Syren warbling on thy shore,
Bright city of the waves!—her magic song
Still with a dreamy sense of ecstasy
Fills thy soft Summer air:—and while my glance
Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay
Floats thus o'er fancy's ear; and thus to thee,
Daughter of sunshine! doth the Syren sing.
Bright city of the waves!—her magic song
Still with a dreamy sense of ecstasy
Fills thy soft Summer air:—and while my glance
Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay
Floats thus o'er fancy's ear; and thus to thee,
Daughter of sunshine! doth the Syren sing.
“Thine is the glad wave's flashing play,
Thine is the laugh of the golden day,
The golden day, and the glorious night,
And the vine with its clusters all bathed in light!
—Forget, forget, that thou art not free!
Queen of the Summer sea.
Thine is the laugh of the golden day,
The golden day, and the glorious night,
And the vine with its clusters all bathed in light!
—Forget, forget, that thou art not free!
Queen of the Summer sea.
“Favour'd and crown'd of the earth and sky!
Thine are all voices of melody,
Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower,
Floating o'er fountain and myrtle bower;
Hark! how they melt o'er thy glittering sea;
—Forget that thou art not free!
Thine are all voices of melody,
Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower,
Floating o'er fountain and myrtle bower;
Hark! how they melt o'er thy glittering sea;
—Forget that thou art not free!
“Let the wine flow in thy marble halls!
Let the lute answer thy fountain falls!
And deck thy feasts with the myrtle bough,
And cover with roses thy glowing brow!
Queen of the day and the summer sea,
Forget that thou art not free!”
Let the lute answer thy fountain falls!
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And cover with roses thy glowing brow!
Queen of the day and the summer sea,
Forget that thou art not free!”
So doth the Syren sing, while sparkling waves
Dance to her chant. But sternly, mournfully,
O city of the deep! from Sybil grots
And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore
Take up the cadence of her strain alone,
Murmuring—Thou art not free!”
Dance to her chant. But sternly, mournfully,
O city of the deep! from Sybil grots
And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore
Take up the cadence of her strain alone,
Murmuring—Thou art not free!”
THE FALL OF D'ASSAS.
A BALLAD OF FRANCE.
Alone through gloomy forest-shades
A soldier went by night;
No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades,
No star shed guiding light.
A soldier went by night;
No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades,
No star shed guiding light.
Yet on his vigil's midnight round
The youth all cheerly pass'd;
Uncheck'd by aught of boding sound
That mutter'd in the blast.
The youth all cheerly pass'd;
Uncheck'd by aught of boding sound
That mutter'd in the blast.
323
Where were his thoughts that lonely hour?
—In his far home, perchance;
His father's hall, his mother's bower,
'Midst the gay vines of France:
—In his far home, perchance;
His father's hall, his mother's bower,
'Midst the gay vines of France:
Wandering from battles lost and won,
To hear and bless again
The rolling of the wide Garonne,
Or murmur of the Seine.
To hear and bless again
The rolling of the wide Garonne,
Or murmur of the Seine.
—Hush! hark!—did stealing steps go by,
Came not faint whispers near?
No! the wild wind hath many a sigh,
Amidst the foliage sere.
Came not faint whispers near?
No! the wild wind hath many a sigh,
Amidst the foliage sere.
Hark, yet again!—and from his hand,
What grasp hath wrench'd the blade?
—Oh! single 'midst a hostile band,
Young soldier! thou'rt betray'd!
What grasp hath wrench'd the blade?
—Oh! single 'midst a hostile band,
Young soldier! thou'rt betray'd!
“Silence!” in under-tones they cry—
“No whisper—not a breath!
The sound that warns thy comrades nigh
Shall sentence thee to death.”
“No whisper—not a breath!
The sound that warns thy comrades nigh
Shall sentence thee to death.”
—Still, at the bayonet's point he stood,
And strong to meet the blow;
And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood,
“Arm, arm, Auvergne! the foe!”
And strong to meet the blow;
And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood,
“Arm, arm, Auvergne! the foe!”
The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call—
He heard their tumults grow;
And sent his dying voice through all—
“Auvergne, Auvergne! the foe!”
He heard their tumults grow;
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“Auvergne, Auvergne! the foe!”
THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR,
AT CAEN IN NORMANDY—1087.
Lowly upon his bier
The royal conqueror lay;
Baron and chief stood near,
Silent in war-array.
The royal conqueror lay;
Baron and chief stood near,
Silent in war-array.
Down the long minster's aisle
Crowds mutely gazing stream'd,
Altar and tomb the while
Through mists of incense gleam'd.
Crowds mutely gazing stream'd,
Altar and tomb the while
Through mists of incense gleam'd.
325
And, by the torches' blaze,
The stately priest had said
High words of power and praise
To the glory of the dead.
The stately priest had said
High words of power and praise
To the glory of the dead.
They lower'd him, with the sound
Of requiems, to repose;
When from the throngs around
A solemn voice arose:—
Of requiems, to repose;
When from the throngs around
A solemn voice arose:—
“Forbear! forbear!” it cried,
“In the holiest name forbear!
He hath conquered regions wide,
But he shall not slumber there!
“In the holiest name forbear!
He hath conquered regions wide,
But he shall not slumber there!
“By the violated hearth
Which made way for yon proud shrine;
By the harvests which this earth
Hath borne for me and mine;
Which made way for yon proud shrine;
By the harvests which this earth
Hath borne for me and mine;
“By the house e'en here o'erthrown,
On my brethren's native spot;
Hence! with his dark renown,
Cumber our birthplace not!
On my brethren's native spot;
Hence! with his dark renown,
Cumber our birthplace not!
“Will my sire's unransom'd field,
O'er which your censers wave,
To the buried spoiler yield
Soft slumbers in the grave?
O'er which your censers wave,
To the buried spoiler yield
Soft slumbers in the grave?
“The tree before him fell
Which we cherish'd many a year,
But its deep root yet shall swell,
And heave against his bier.
Which we cherish'd many a year,
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And heave against his bier.
“The land that I have till'd
Hath yet its brooding breast
With my home's white ashes fill'd,
And it shall not give him rest!
Hath yet its brooding breast
With my home's white ashes fill'd,
And it shall not give him rest!
“Each pillar's massy bed
Hath been wet by weeping eyes—
Away! bestow your dead
Where no wrong against him cries.”
Hath been wet by weeping eyes—
Away! bestow your dead
Where no wrong against him cries.”
—Shame glow'd on each dark face
Of those proud and steel-girt men,
And they bought with gold a place
For their leader's dust e'en then.
Of those proud and steel-girt men,
And they bought with gold a place
For their leader's dust e'en then.
A little earth for him
Whose banner flew so far!
And a peasant's tale could dim
The name, a nation's star!
Whose banner flew so far!
And a peasant's tale could dim
The name, a nation's star!
One deep voice thus arose
From a heart which wrongs had riven:
Oh! who shall number those
That were but heard in heaven?
From a heart which wrongs had riven:
Oh! who shall number those
That were but heard in heaven?
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |