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

O Thought! O Memory! gems for ever heaping
High in the illumined chambers of the mind,
And thou, divine Imagination! keeping
Thy lamp's lone star 'mid shadowy hosts enshrined;
How in one moment rent and disentwined.
At Fever's fiery touch, apart they fall,
Your glorious combinations!—broken all,
As the sand-pillars by the desert's wind
Scatter'd to whirling dust!—Oh, soon uncrown'd!
Well may your parting swift, your strange return,
Subdue the soul to lowliness profound,
Guiding its chasten'd vision to discern
How by meek Faith Heaven's portals must be pass'd
Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast.

II.—SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT.

Thou art like Night, O Sickness! deeply stilling
Within my heart the world's disturbing sound,
And the dim quiet of my chamber filling
With low sweet voices by Life's tumult drown'd,

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Thou art like awful Night!—thou gather'st round
The things that are unseen—though close they lie,—
And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound,
Givest their dread presence to our mental eye.
—Thou art like starry, spiritual Night!
High and immortal thoughts attend thy way,
And revelations, which the common light
Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray
All outward life:—Be welcome then thy rod,
Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God.

III.—ON RETZSCH'S DESIGN OF THE ANGEL OF DEATH.

Well might thine awful image thus arise
With that high calm upon thy regal brow,
And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes,
Unto the glorious Artist!—Who but thou

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The fleeting forms of beauty can endow
For Him with permanency? — who make those gleams
Of brighter life, that colour his lone dreams,
Immortal things?—Let others trembling bow,
Angel of Death! before thee.—Not to those,
Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose,
Art thou a fearful shape!—and oh! for me,
How full of welcome would thine aspect shine,
Did not the cords of strong affection twine
So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to thee!

This sonnet was suggested by the following passage out of Mrs Jameson's Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad, in a description she gives of a visit paid to the artist Retzsch, near Dresden:—“Afterwards he placed upon his easel a wonderous face, which made me shrink back—not with terror, for it was perfectly beautiful,—but with awe, for it was unspeakably fearful: the hair streamed back from the pale brow—the orbs of sight appeared at first two dark, hollow, unfathomable spaces, like those in a skull; but when I drew nearer and looked attentively, two lovely living eyes looked at me again out of the depth of the shadow, as if from the bottom of an abyss. The mouth was divinely sweet, but sad, and the softest repose rested on every feature. This, he told me, was the Angel of Death.”

IV.—REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE.

O, Nature! thou didst rear me for thine own,
With thy free singing-birds and mountain brooks;
Feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted nooks,
With fairy fantasies and wood-dreams lone;
And thou didst teach me every wandering tone
Drawn from thy many-whispering trees and waves,
And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves,
And where bright mosses wove thee a rich throne
'Midst the green hills:—and now, that far estranged
From all sweet sounds and odours of thy breath,
Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged,
So glows the love of thee, that not for Death
Seems that pure passion's fervour—but ordain'd
To meet on brighter shores thy Majesty unstain'd.

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V.—FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT.

Whither, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way?
What solemn region first upon thy sight
Shall break, unveil'd for terror or delight?
What hosts, magnificent in dread array?
My spirit! when thy prison-house of clay,
After long strife is rent?—fond, fruitless guest!
The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest
Sees but a few green branches o'er him play,
And through their parting leaves, by fits reveal'd,
A glimpse of summer sky:—nor knows the field
Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried.
—Thou art that bird!—of what beyond thee lies
Far in the untrack'd, immeasurable skies,
Knowing but this—that thou shalt find thy Guide!

VI.—FLOWERS.

Welcome, O pure and lovely forms, again
Unto the shadowy stillness of my room!
For not alone ye bring a joyous train
Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom—
Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom,
Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells,
Of stars that look down on your folded bells
Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume
Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove
Like sudden music; more than this ye bring—

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Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love,
Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing
Broods o'er the sufferer drawing fever'd breath,
Whether the couch be that of life or death.

VII.—RECOVERY.

Back then, once more to breast the waves of life,
To battle on against the unceasing spray,
To sink o'erwearied in the stormy strife,
And rise to strife again; yet on my way,
Oh! linger still, thou light of better day,
Born in the hours of loneliness, and you,
Ye childlike thoughts, the holy and the true,
Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay,
The faith, the insight of life's vernal morn
Back on my soul, a clear bright sense, new-born,
Now leave me not! but as, profoundly pure,
A blue stream rushes through a darker lake
Unchang'd, e'en thus with me your journey take,
Wafting sweet airs of heaven through this low world obscure.

Written under the false impression occasioned by a temporary improvement in strength.

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SABBATH SONNET.

COMPOSED BY MRS HEMANS A FEW DAYS BEFORE HER DEATH, AND DEDICATED TO HER BROTHER.

How many blessed groups this hour are bending,
Through England's primrose meadow-paths, their way
Towards spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending,
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow'd day!
The halls from old heroic ages grey
Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,
With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play,
Send out their inmates in a happy flow,
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread
With them those pathways,—to the feverish bed
Of sickness bound;—yet, oh, my God! I bless
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd
My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.

April 26th, 1835.