The Poetical Works of Mrs. Felicia Hemans

strings?

Seems not our sainted mother's voice to murmur It was not vain, the hallow'd and the triedin the strain?

It was not vain!

I watch again!

Kind sister! gentlest Leonor! say, shall it plead Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side,

in vain ?

From our own paths, our love's attesting bowers,
I am not gone;

In the deep calm of midnight's whispering hours,
Thou art not lone:

Know'st thou the mountain ?-high its bridge is hung,

Where the mule seeks thro' mist and cloud his
way;

There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among,
Know'st thou it well?

Not lone, when by the haunted stream thou O'er beetling rocks there foams the torrent spray, weepest,

That stream, whose tone

With thee, with thee, Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest, There lies my path, O father! let us flee!

We two have known:

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea?
Sound in thy scorn and pride!

I ask not, alien world, from thee,

of Goethe's romances, from which Sir Walter Scott's Feneila What my own kindred earth hath still denied.

is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in early childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons. are perpetually haunting her, and at times break forth into the following song. The original has been set to exquisite music, by Zelter, the friend of Goethe.

Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhn?

KNOW'ST thou the land where bloom the Citron
bowers,

Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove?
High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers,
And thro' a still blue heaven the sweet winds

rove:

Know'st thou it well?

-There, there, with thee, O friend, O loved one! fain my steps would flee.

Know'st thou the dwelling ?-there the pillars rise,
Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow;
And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes
To say "Poor child! what thus hath wrought
thee woe?"
Know'st thou it well?

There, there with thee,
O'my protector! homewards might I flee!

And yet I loved that earth so well
With all its lovely things!

-Was it for this the death-wind fell
On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings?

-Let them be silent at my feet!

Since broken even as they,

The heart whose music made them sweet, Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away.

Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name,
The laurel-wreath is mine-
-With a lone heart, a weary frame-
O restless deep! I come to make them thine!

Give to that crown, that burning crown,
Place in thy darkest hold!
Bury my anguish, my renown,
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold.

Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest,
Thou hast thy love, thy home;
They wait thee in the quiet nest,
And I, th' unsought, unwatch'd-for-I too come!

I, with this winged nature fraught,

These visions wildly free,

This boundless love, this fiery thought

-Alone I come-oh! give me peace, dark sea!

DIRGE.

WHERE shall we make her grave? -Oh! where the wild-flowers wave In the free air!

Where shower and singing-bird
'Midst the young leaves are heard-
There-lay her there!

Harsh was the world to her-
Now may sleep minister

Balm for each ill;
Low on sweet nature's breast,
Let the meek heart find rest,
Deep, deep and still!

Murmur, glad waters, by!
Faint gales, with happy sigh,
Come wandering o'er
That green and mossy bed,
Where, on a gentle head,

Storms beat no more!

What though for her in vain
Falls now the bright spring-rain,
Plays the soft wind;

Yet still, from where she lies,
Should blessed breathings rise,
Gracious and kind.

Therefore let song and dew
Thence, in the heart renew
Life's vernal glow!
And, o'er that holy earth
Scents of the violet's birth

Still come and go!

Oh! then where wild flowers wave,

Make ye

her mossy grave

In the free air!

Where shower and singing-bird 'Midst the young leaves are heardThere, lay her there!

A SONG OF THE ROSE.

Cosi fior diverrai che non soggiace

All 'acqua, al gelo, al vento ed allo scherno,
D'una stagion volubile e fugace;

E a piu fido Cultor posto in governo,
Unir potrai nella tranquilla pace,
Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno.

Crown'st thou but the daughters
Of our tearful race?
-Heaven's own purest waters

Well might wear the trace

Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace.

Will that clime enfold thee

With immortal air?

Shall we not behold thee
Bright and deathless there?

Pietro Metastasio. In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendantly more fair?

ROSE! what dost thou here? Bridal, royal rose?

How, 'midst grief and fear, Canst thou thus disclose

Yes! my fancy sees thee

In that light disclose,

And its dream thus frees thee From the mist of woes,

That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal, royal

glows?

rose!

NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.

CHILDREN of night! unfolding meekly, slowly
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours,
When dark-blue heavens look softest and most
holy,

And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers;
To solemn things and deep,
To spirit-haunted sleep,
To thoughts, all purified
From earth, ye seem allied;

O dedicated flowers!

Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling,
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined;
Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing,
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind.

-So doth love's dreaming heart
Dwell from the throng apart,
And but to shades disclose
The inmost thought which glows
With its pure life entwined.

Shot from the sounds wherein the day rejoices,
To no triumphant song your petals thrill,
But send forth odours with the faint soft voices
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still.
So doth lone prayer arise,
Mingling with secret sighs,
When grief unfolds, like you,
Her breast, for heavenly dew
In silent hours to fill.

THE

WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS.

CALL back your odours, lovely flowers,
From the night-winds call them back,
And fold your leaves to the laughing hours:
Come forth in the sunbeam's track.

The lark lies couch'd in her grassy nest, And the honey-bee is gone,

And all bright things are away to rest, Why watch ye here alone?

Is not your world a mournful one,
When your sisters close their eyes,

And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone
Of song in the starry skies?

Take ye no joy in the day-spring's birth,
When it kindles the sparks of dew?

And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth
Shall they gladden all but you?

Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out
On the sunny turf to play,
And the woodland child with a fairy shout
Goes dancing on its way!

'MIDST the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream
Unto the faint wind sigh'd melodiously,
And where the sculpture of a broken shrine
Sent out, through shadowy grass and thick wild
flowers

Dim Alabaster gleams-a lonely Swan
Warbled his death-chaunt; and a poet stood
Listening to that strange music, as it shook
The lilies on the wave; and made the pines
And all the laurels of the haunted shore
Thrill to its passion. Oh! the tones were sweet,
Ev'n painfully-
-as with the sweetness wrung
From parting love; and to the Poet's thought
This was their language.

And fare ye well, young flowers!

Ye will not mourn! ye will shed odour still And wave in glory, colouring every rill, Known to my youth's fresh hours.

And ye, bright founts, that lie

Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep,

Will ye not send one tone

Of sorrow thro' the pines ?--one murmur low? Shall not the green leaves from your voices know That I, your child, am gone?

No, ever glad and free!

Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell;
Waves, joyous waves, flow on, and fare ye well!
Ye will not mourn for me.

But thou, sweet boon, too late

Pour'd on my parting breath, vain gift of song! Why com'st thou thus, o'ermastering rich and strong,

In the dark hour of fate?

Only to wake the sighs

Of echo-voices from their sparry cell; Only to say-"O sunshine and blue skies! O life and love, farewell!"

Thus flow'd the death-chaunt on; while mournfully

Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones
Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream,
Rocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy,
Woke to respond: and all the air was fill'd
With that one sighing sound-" Farewell, Fare-
well!"

-Fill'd with that sound! high in the calm blue heaven

Ev'n then a Sky-lark hung; soft summer clouds Were floating round him, all transpierced with light,

And, 'midst that pearly radiance, his dark wings
Quiver'd with song:-such free triumphant song,
As if tears were not,-as if breaking hearts
Had not a place below-and thus that strain
Spoke to the Poet's ear exultingly.

"The summer is come; she hath said, 'Rejoice!"
The wild woods thrill to her merry voice;
Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high:
-Sing, sing thro' the echoing sky!

"There is joy in the mountains; the bright waves leap

Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep; Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along

-Let the heavens ring with song!

"There is joy in the forests; the bird of night Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight; But mine is the glory to sunshine given

Sing, sing thro' the echoing heav'n!

"Mine are the wings of the soaring morn, Mine are the fresh gales with day-spring born: Only young rapture can mount so high

-Sing, sing through the echoing sky!""

So those two voices met; so Joy and Death Mingled their accents; and amidst the rush

My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep-Of many thoughts, the listening Poet cried,

-Sweet waters! I must die.

"Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful,

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The Poetical Works of Mrs. Felicia Hemans: Complete in One Volume