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

“Your tents are desolate; your stately steps,
Of all their choral dances, have not left
One trace beside the fountains: your full cup
Of gladness and of trembling, each alike
Is broken; yet, amidst undying things,
The mind still keeps your loveliness, and still
All the fresh glories of the early world
Hang round you in the spirit's pictured halls,
Never to change!”

I.—INVOCATION.

As the tired voyager on stormy seas
Invokes the coming of bright birds from shore,
To waft him tidings, with the gentler breeze,
Of dim sweet woods that hear no billows roar;

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So, from the depth of days, when earth yet wore
Her solemn beauty and primeval dew,
I call you, gracious Forms! Oh! come, restore
Awhile that holy freshness, and renew
Life's morning dreams. Come with the voice, the lyre,
Daughters of Judah! with the timbrel rise!
Ye of the dark prophetic eastern eyes,
Imperial in their visionary fire;
Oh! steep my soul in that old glorious time,
When God's own whisper shook the cedars of your clime!

II.—INVOCATION CONTINUED.

And come, ye faithful! round Messiah seen,
With a soft harmony of tears and light
Streaming through all your spiritual mien,
As in calm clouds of pearly stillness bright,
Showers weave with sunshine, and transpierce their slight
Ethereal cradle.—From your heart subdued
All haughty dreams of power had wing'd their flight,
And left high place for martyr fortitude,
True faith, long-suffering love.—Come to me, come!
And, as the seas beneath your master's tread
Fell into crystal smoothness, round him spread
Like the clear pavement of his heavenly home;
So in your presence, let the soul's great deep
Sink to the gentleness of infant sleep.

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III.—THE SONG OF MIRIAM.

A song for Israel's God!—Spear, crest, and helm,
Lay by the billows of the old Red Sea,
When Miriam's voice o'er that sepulchral realm
Sent on the blast a hymn of jubilee;
With her lit eye, and long hair floating free,
Queen-like she stood, and glorious was the strain,
E'en as instinct with the tempestuous glee
Of the dark waters, tossing o'er the slain.

A song for God's own victory!—O, thy lays,
Bright poesy! were holy in their birth:—
How hath it died, thy seraph note of praise,
In the bewildering melodies of earth!
Return from troubling bitter founts—return,
Back to the life-springs of thy native urn!

IV.—RUTH.

The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn,
By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann'd,
Still brings me back thine image—Oh! forlorn,
Yet not forsaken, Ruth!—I see thee stand
Lone, 'midst the gladness of the harvest band—
Lone, as a wood-bird on the ocean's foam,
Fall'n in its weariness. Thy fatherland
Smiles far away! yet to the sense of home,
That finest, purest, which can recognise
Home in affection's glance, for ever true

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Beats thy calm heart; and if thy gentle eyes
Gleam tremulous through tears, 'tis not to rue
Those words, immortal in their deep love's tone,
“Thy people and thy God shall be mine own!”

V.—THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH.

“And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until water dropped upon them out of heaven; and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night.” 2 Sam. xxi. 10.

Who watches on the mountain with the dead,
Alone before the awfulness of night?—
A seer awaiting the deep spirit's might?
A warrior guarding some dark pass of dread
No, a lorn woman!—On her drooping head,
Once proudly graceful, heavy beats the rain;
She recks not—living for the unburied slain,
Only to scare the vulture from their bed.

So, night by night, her vigil hath she kept
With the pale stars, and with the dews hath wept;—
Oh! surely some bright Presence from above
On those wild rocks the lonely one must aid!—
E'en so; a strengthener through all storm and shade,
Th' unconquerable angel, mightiest love!

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VI.—THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMITE WOMAN.

“And she answered, I dwell among mine own people.” 2 Kings iv. 13.

“I dwell among mine own,”—Oh! happy thou!
Not for the sunny clusters of the vine,
Not for the olives on the mountain's brow;
Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line
Of streams, that make the green land where they shine
Laugh to the light of waters—not for these,
Nor the soft shadow of ancestral trees,
Whose kindly whisper floats o'er thee and thine—
Oh! not for these I call thee richly blest,
But for the meekness of thy woman's breast,
Where that sweet depth of still contentment lies;
And for thy holy household love, which clings
Unto all ancient and familiar things,
Weaving from each some link for home's dear charities.

VII.—THE ANNUNCIATION.

Lowliest of women, and most glorified!
In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone,
A brightness round thee grew—and by thy side
Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone,
Solemn, yet breathing gladness. From her throne
A queen had risen with more imperial eye,

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A stately prophetess of victory
From her proud lyre had struck a tempest's tone,
For such high tidings as to thee were brought,
Chosen of Heaven! that hour:—but thou, O thou!
E'en as a flower with gracious rains o'erfraught,
Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow,
And take to thy meek breast th' all holy word,
And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord.

VIII.—THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN.

Yet as a sunburst flushing mountain snow,
Fell the celestial touch of fire erelong
On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow,
And thy calm spirit lighten'd into song.
Unconsciously, perchance, yet free and strong
Flow'd the majestic joy of tuneful words,
Which living harps the quires of Heaven among
Might well have link'd with their divinest chords.
Full many a strain, borne far on glory's blast,
Shall leave, where once its haughty music pass'd,
No more to memory than a reed's faint sigh;
While thine, O childlike virgin! through all time
Shall send its fervent breath o'er every clime,
Being of God, and therefore not to die.

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IX.—THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST'S FEET.

There was a mournfulness in angel eyes,
That saw thee, woman! bright in this world's train,
Moving to pleasure's airy melodies,
Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain.
But from thy beauty's garland, brief and vain,
When one by one the rose-leaves had been torn,
When thy heart's core had quiver'd to the pain
Through every life-nerve sent by arrowy scorn;
When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odours forth
On the Redeemer's feet, with many a sigh,
And showering tear-drop, of yet richer worth
Than all those costly balms of Araby;
Then was there joy, a song of joy in heaven,
For thee, the child won back, the penitent forgiven!

X.—MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST.

Oh! bless'd beyond all daughters of the earth!
What were the Orient's thrones to that low seat
Where thy hush'd spirit drew celestial birth?
Mary! meek listener at the Saviour's feet!
No feverish cares to that divine retreat
Thy woman's heart of silent worship brought,
But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to meet,
With love, and wonder, and submissive thought.
Oh! for the holy quiet of thy breast,
'Midst the world's eager tones and footsteps flying
Thou, whose calm soul was like a well-spring, lying

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So deep and still in its transparent rest,
That e'en when noontide burns upon the hills,
Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirror fills.

XI.—THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER THE

DEATH OF LAZARUS.
One grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead!
Was in your bosoms—thou, whose steps, made fleet
By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled,
Bore thee, as wings, the Lord of Life to greet;
And thou, that duteous in thy still retreat
Didst wait his summons—then with reverent love
Fall weeping at the bless'd Deliverer's feet,
Whom e'en to heavenly tears thy woe could move.
And which to Him, the All Seeing and All Just,
Was loveliest, that quick zeal, or lowly trust?
Oh! question not, and let no law be given
To those unveilings of its deepest shrine,
By the wrung spirit made in outward sign:
Free service from the heart is all in all to Heaven.

XII.—THE MEMORIAL OF MARY.

“Verily I say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, there shall also this, that this woman hath done, be told for a memorial of her.”—Matthew, xxvi. 13.—See also John, xii. 3.

Thou hast thy record in the monarch's hall;
And on the waters of the far mid sea;

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And where the mighty mountain-shadows fall,
The alpine hamlet keeps a thought of thee:
Where'er, beneath some oriental tree,
The Christian traveller rests—where'er the child
Looks upward from the English mother's knee,
With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild,
There art thou known—where'er the Book of light
Bears hope and healing, there, beyond all blight,
Is borne thy memory, and all praise above:
Oh! say what deed so lifted thy sweet name,
Mary! to that pure silent place of fame?
One lowly offering of exceeding love.

XIII.—THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE CROSS.

Like those pale stars of tempest hours, whose gleam
Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast,
Such by the cross doth your bright lingering seem,
Daughters of Zion! faithful to the last!
Ye, through the darkness o'er the wide earth cast
By the death-cloud within the Saviour's eye,
E'en till away the heavenly spirit pass'd,
Stood in the shadow of his agony.
O blessed faith! a guiding lamp, that hour
Was lit for woman's heart; to her, whose dower
Is all of love and suffering from her birth;
Still hath your act a voice—through fear, through strife,
Bidding her bind each tendril of her life,
To that which her deep soul hath proved of holiest worth.

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XIV.—MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE.

Weeper! to thee how bright a morn was given
After thy long, long vigil of despair,
When that high voice which burial rocks had riven,
Thrill'd with immortal tones the silent air!
Never did clarion's royal blast declare
Such tale of victory to a breathless crowd,
As the deep sweetness of one word could bear
Into thy heart of hearts, O woman! bow'd
By strong affection's anguish! one low word—
“Mary!”—and all the triumph wrung from death
Was thus reveal'd! and thou, that so hadst err'd,
So wept, and been forgiven, in trembling faith
Didst cast thee down before the all-conquering Son,
Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had won!

XV.—MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS OF THE RESURRECTION.

Then was a task of glory all thine own,
Nobler than e'er the still small voice assign'd
To lips, in awful music making known
The stormy splendours of some prophet's mind.
“Christ is arisen!”—by thee, to wake mankind,
First from the sepulchre those words were brought!
Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind

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First on its way, with those high tidings fraught—
“Christ is arisen!”—Thou, thou, the sin enthrall'd,
Earth's outcast, Heaven's own ransom'd one, wert call'd
In human hearts to give that rapture birth:
Oh! raised from shame to brightness!—there doth lie
The tenderest meaning of His ministry,
Whose undespairing love still own'd the spirit's worth.

THE TWO MONUMENTS.

“Oh! bless'd are they who live and die like ‘him,’
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn'd!”
Wordsworth.

Banners hung drooping from on high
In a dim cathedral's nave,
Making a gorgeous canopy
O'er a noble, noble grave!

And a marble warrior's form beneath,
With helm and crest array'd,
As on his battle-bed of death,
Lay in their crimson shade.

Triumph yet linger'd in his eye,
Ere by the dark night seal'd,

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And his head was pillow'd haughtily
On standard and on shield.

And shadowing that proud trophy pile
With the glory of his wing,
An eagle sat;—yet seem'd the while
Panting through heaven to spring.

He sat upon a shiver'd lance,
There by the sculptor bound;
But in the light of his lifted glance
Was that which scorn'd the ground.

And a burning flood of gem-like hues
From a storied window pour'd,
There fell, there centred, to suffuse
The conqueror and his sword.

A flood of hues; but one rich dye
O'er all supremely spread,
With a purple robe of royalty
Mantling the mighty dead.

Meet was that robe for him whose name
Was a trumpet note in war,
His pathway still the march of fame,
His eye the battle star.

But faintly, tenderly was thrown,
From the colour'd light, one ray,
Where a low and pale memorial stone
By the couch of glory lay.

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Few were the fond words chisell'd there,
Mourning for parted worth;
But the very heart of love and prayer
Had given their sweetness forth.

They spoke of one whose life had been
As a hidden streamlet's course,
Bearing on health and joy unseen,
From its clear mountain-source:

Whose young pure memory, lying deep
'Midst rock, and wood, and hill,
Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,
A soft light meek and still:

Whose gentle voice, too early call'd
Unto Music's land away,
Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd,
By words of silvery sway.

These were his victories—yet enroll'd
In no high song of fame,
The pastor of the mountain-fold
Left but to heaven his name.

To heaven and to the peasant's hearth,
A blessed household sound—
And finding lowly love on earth,
Enough, enough, he found!

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Bright and more bright before me gleam'd
That sainted image still;
Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd
The regal fane to fill.

Oh! how my silent spirit turn'd
From those proud trophies nigh!
How my full heart within me burn'd
Like Him to live and die!

Suggested by a passage in Captain Sherer's “Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.”

Love had he seen in huts where poor men lie. Wordsworth.

THE COTTAGE GIRL.

A child beside a hamlet's fount at play,
Her fair face laughing at the sunny day;
A gush of waters tremulously bright,
Kindling the air to gladness with their light;
And a soft gloom beyond, of summer trees,
Darkening the turf, and shadow'd o'er by these,
A low, dim, woodland cottage—this was all!
What had the scene for memory to recall
With a fond look of love! What secret spell
With the heart's pictures made its image dwell?

What but the spirit of the joyous child,
That freshly forth o'er stream and verdure smiled,
Casting upon the common things of earth
A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth!

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THE BATTLE-FIELD.

I look'd on the field where the battle was spread,
When thousands stood forth in their glancing array;
And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed
Through the dun-rolling clouds that o'ershadow'd the fray.

I saw the dark forest of lances appear,
As the ears of the harvest unnumber'd they stood,
I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near,
Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of the wood.

Afar, the harsh notes of the war-drum were roll'd,
Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair;
On high to the gust stream'd the banner's red fold,
O'er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of despair.

I look'd on the field of contention again,
When the sabre was sheath'd and the tempest had past;
The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain,
And the fern softly sigh'd in the low wailing blast.

Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose,
And bright shone the stars through the sky's deepen'd blue;
And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose,
Where the fox-glove lay gemm'd with its pearldrops of dew.

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But where swept the ranks of that dark frowning host,
As the ocean in might—as the storm-cloud in speed!
Where now were the thunders of victory's boast—
The slayer's dread wrath, and the strength of the steed?

Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone,
To mark the lone scene of their shame or their pride;
One grass-cover'd mound told the traveller alone,
Where thousands lay down in their anguish, and died!

Oh, glory! behold thy famed guerdon's extent:
For this, toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot;
A name like the mist, when the night-beams are spent—
A grave with its tenants unwept and forgot!

A PENITENT'S RETURN.

“Can guilt or misery ever enter here?
Ah! no, the spirit of domestic peace,
Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove,
And ever murmuring forth a quiet song,
Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim,
The hallow'd porch. She hath a heavenly smile,
That sinks into the sullen soul of vice,
And wins him o'er to virtue.”
Wilson.

My father's house once more,
In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around,
Something, amidst the dewy calm profound,
Broods, never mark'd before!

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Is it the brooding night,
Is it the shivery creeping on the air,
That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair,
O'erwhelming to my sight?

All solemnized it seems,
And still'd, and darken'd in each time-worn hue,
Since the rich clustering roses met my view,
As now, by starry gleams.

And this high elm, where last
I stood and linger'd—where my sisters made
Our mother's bower—I deem'd not that it cast
So far and dark a shade!

How spirit-like a tone
Sighs through yon tree! My father's place was there
At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair!
Now those grey locks are gone!

My soul grows faint with fear!
Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod.
I tremble where I move—the voice of God
Is in the foliage here!

Is it indeed the night
That makes my home so awful? Faithless hearted!
'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed
The inborn gladd'ning light!

No outward thing is changed;
Only the joy of purity is fled,

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And, long from nature's melodies estranged,
Thou hear'st their tones with dread.

Therefore the calm abode,
By thy dark spirit, is o'erhung with shade;
And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God
Makes thy sick heart afraid!

The night-flowers round that door
Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air;
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more
To pass, and rest thee there.

And must I turn away?—
Hark, hark!—it is my mother's voice I hear—
Sadder than once it seem'd—yet soft and clear—
Doth she not seem to pray?

My name!—I caught the sound!
Oh! blessed tone of love—the deep, the mild—
Mother, my mother! Now receive thy child,
Take back the lost and found!

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A THOUGHT OF PARADISE.

“We receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live;
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud;
And, would we aught behold of higher worth
Than that inanimate cold world allow'd
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud,
Enveloping the earth;
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element.”
Coleridge.

Green spot of holy ground!
If thou couldst yet be found,
Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers;
If not one sullying breath
Of time, or change, or death,
Had touch'd the vernal glory of thy bowers;

Might our tired pilgrim-feet,
Worn by the desert's heat,
On the bright freshness of thy turf repose?
Might our eyes wander there
Through heaven's transparent air,
And rest on colours of the immortal rose?

Say, would thy balmy skies
And fountain-melodies
Our heritage of lost delight restore?
Could thy soft honey-dews
Through all our veins diffuse
The early, child-like, trustful sleep once more?

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And might we, in the shade
By thy tall cedars made,
With angel voices high communion hold?
Would their sweet solemn tone
Give back the music gone,
Our Being's harmony, so jarr'd of old?

Oh! no—thy sunny hours
Might come with blossom showers,
All thy young leaves to spirit lyres might thrill;
But we—should we not bring
Into thy realms of spring
The shadows of our souls to haunt us still?

What could thy flowers and airs
Do for our earth-born cares?
Would the world's chain melt off and leave us free?
No!—past each living stream,
Still would some fever dream
Track the lorn wand'rers, meet no more for thee!

Should we not shrink with fear,
If angel steps were near,
Feeling our burden'd souls within us die?
How might our passions brook
The still and searching look,
The starlike glance of seraph purity?

Thy golden-fruited grove
Was not for pining love;
Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies!

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Oh! Thou wert but a part
Of what man's exiled heart
Hath lost—the dower of inborn Paradise!

LET US DEPART.

Night hung on Salem's towers,
And a brooding hush profound
Lay where the Roman eagle shone,
High o'er the tents around,

The tents that rose by thousands,
In the moonlight glimmering pale;
Like white waves of a frozen sea,
Filling an Alpine vale.

And the temple's massy shadow
Fell broad, and dark, and still,
In peace, as if the Holy One
Yet watch'd his chosen hill.

But a fearful sound was heard
In that old fane's deepest heart,

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As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a dread voice raised the cry,
“Let us depart!”

Within the fated city
E'en then fierce discord raved,
Though o'er night's heaven the comet sword
Its vengeful token waved.

There were shouts of kindred warfare
Through the dark streets ringing high,
Though every sign was full which told
Of the bloody vintage nigh.

Though the wild red spears and arrows
Of many a meteor host,
Went flashing o'er the holy stars,
In the sky now seen, now lost.

And that fearful sound was heard
In the Temple's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a voice cried mournfully,
“Let us depart!”

But within the fated city
There was revelry that night;
The wine-cup and the timbrel note,
And the blaze of banquet light.

The footsteps of the dancer
Went bounding through the hall,

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And the music of the dulcimer
Summon'd to festival.

While the clash of brother weapons
Made lightning in the air,
And the dying at the palace gates
Lay down in their despair.

And that fearful sound was heard
At the Temple's thrilling heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a dread voice raised the cry,
“Let us depart!”

ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING THE CROSS,

PAINTED BY VELASQUEZ.

By the dark stillness brooding in the sky,
Holiest of sufferers! round thy path of woe,
And by the weight of mortal agony
Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek brow,
My heart was awed: the burden of thy pain
Sank on me with a mystery and a chain.

I look'd once more, and, as the virtue shed
Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray

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Of victory from thy mien! and round thy head,
The halo, melting spirit-like away,
Seem'd of the very soul's bright rising born,
To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn.

And upwards, through transparent darkness gleaming,
Gazed in mute reverence, woman's earnest eye,
Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming,
With quenchless faith, and deep love's fervency;
Gathering, like incense, round some dim-veil'd shrine,
About the form, so mournfully divine!

Oh! let thine image, as e'en then it rose,
Live in my soul for ever, calm and clear,
Making itself a temple of repose,
Beyond the breath of human hope or fear!
A holy place, where through all storms may lie
One living beam of dayspring from on high.

This picture is in the possession of the Viscount Harberton, Merrion Square, Dublin.

COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT.

“Could we but keep our spirits to that height,
We might be happy; but this clay will sink
Its spark immortal.”
Byron.

Return my thoughts, come home!
Ye wild and wing'd! what do ye o'er the deep?
And wherefore thus the abyss of time o'ersweep,
As birds the ocean foam?

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Swifter than shooting star,
Swifter than lances of the northern light,
Upspringing through the purple heaven of night,
Hath been your course afar!

Through the bright battle-clime,
Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams,
And reeds are whispering of heroic themes,
By temples of old time:

Through the north's ancient halls,
Where banners thrill'd of yore—where harp-strings rung;
But grass waves now o'er those that fought and sung—
Hearth-light hath left their walls!

Through forests old and dim,
Where o'er the leaves dread magic seems to brood;
And sometimes on the haunted solitude
Rises the pilgrim's hymn:

Or where some fountain lies,
With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleaming!
There have ye been, ye wanderers! idly dreaming
Of man's lost paradise!

Return, my thoughts, return!
Cares wait your presence in life's daily track,
And voices, not of music, call you back—
Harsh voices, cold and stern!

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Oh! no, return ye not!
Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be!
Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and free,
O'er many a haunted spot.

Go, seek the martyr's grave,
'Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast;
Or, through the ruin'd cities of the past,
Follow the wise and brave!

Go, visit cell and shrine!
Where woman hath endured!—through wrong, through scorn,
Uncheer'd by fame, yet silently upborne
By promptings more divine!

Go, shoot the gulf of death!
Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind,
Where the heart's boundless love its rest may find,
Where the storm sends no breath!

Higher, and yet more high!
Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would lay
On your victorious wings—mount, mount!—Your way
Is through eternity!

Suggested by the perusal of Mrs Sandford's Woman.