Read Ebook: The Poems of Felicia Hemans by Hemans Mrs

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 6937 lines and 562034 words, and 139 pages

AS INTENDED TO BE PERFORMED BY THE OFFICERS OF THE 34TH REGIMENT AT CLONMEL.

To-night, kind friends, at your tribunal here, Stands "The Poor Gentleman," with many a fear; Since well he knows, whoe'er may judge his cause, That Poverty's no title to applause. Genius or Wit, pray, who'll admire or quote, If all their drapery be a threadbare coat? Who, in a world where all is bought and sold, Minds a man's worth--except his worth in gold? Who'll greet poor Merit if she lacks a dinner! Hence, starving saint, but welcome, wealthy sinner! Away with Poverty! let none receive her, She bears contagion as a plague or fever; "Bony, and gaunt, and grim"--like jaundiced eyes, Discolouring all within her sphere that lies. "Poor Gentleman!" and by poor soldiers, too! Oh, matchless impudence! without a sous! In scenes, in actors poor, and what far worse is, With heads, perhaps, as empty as their purses, How shall they dare at such a bar appear? What are their tactics and manoeuvres here?

While thoughts like these come rushing o'er our mind, Oh! may we still indulgence hope to find! Brave sons of Erin! whose distinguish'd name Shines with such brilliance in the page of Fame, And you, fair daughters of the Emerald Isle! View our weak efforts with approving smile! School'd in rough camps, and still disdaining art, Ill can the soldier act a borrow'd part; The march, the skirmish, in this warlike age, Are his rehearsals, and the field his stage; His theatre is found in every land, Where wave the ensigns of a hostile band: Place him in danger's front--he recks not where-- Be your own Wellington his prompter there, And on that stage he trusts, with fearful mien, He'll act his part in glory's tragic scene. Yet here, though friends are gaily marshall'd round, And from bright eyes alone he dreads a wound, Here, though in ambush no sharpshooter's wile Aims at his breast, save hid in beauty's smile; Though all unused to pause, to doubt, to fear, Yet his heart sinks, his courage fails him here. No scenic pomp to him its aid supplies, No stage effect of glittering pageantries: No, to your kindness he must look alone To realise the hope he dares not own; And trusts, since here he meets no cynic eye, His wish to please may claim indemnity.

And why despair, indulgence when we crave From Erin's sons, the generous and the brave? Theirs the high spirit, and the liberal thought, Kind, warm, sincere, with native candour fraught; Still has the stranger, in their social isle, Met the frank welcome and the cordial smile, And well their hearts can share, though unexpress'd, Each thought, each feeling, of the soldier's breast.

These verses were written about the same time as the preceding humorous epitaphs.

THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY.

"Italia, Italia! O tu cui die la sorte Dono infelice di bellezza, ond' hai Funesta dote d'infiniti guai, Che'n fronte scritte per gran doglia porte; Deh, fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte."

Filicaja.

Land of departed fame! whose classic plains Have proudly echo'd to immortal strains; Whose hallow'd soil hath given the great and brave, Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave; Home of the Arts! where glory's faded smile Sheds lingering light o'er many a mouldering pile; Proud wreck of vanish'd power, of splendour fled, Majestic temple of the mighty dead! Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay, Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day; Though dimm'd thy brightness, riveted thy chain, Yet, fallen Italy! rejoice again! Lost, lovely realm! once more 'tis thine to gaze On the rich relics of sublimer days.

Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades, Or sacred Tivoli's romantic glades; Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil's tomb; Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga's lonely wave, Swell'd the deep echoes of the fountain's cave, Or thrill'd the soul in Tasso's numbers high-- Those magic strains of love and chivalry! If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove, Haunting the myrtle vale, the laurel grove, Oh! rouse once more the daring soul of song, Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long, And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered, Hallow'd by time, by absence more endear'd.

And breathe to Those the strain, whose warrior-might Each danger stemm'd, prevail'd in every fight-- Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured, Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured. Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant mind Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind; Whose banners track'd the vanquish'd Eagle's flight O'er many a plain, and dark sierra's height; Who bade once more the wild heroic lay Record the deeds of Roncesvalles' day; Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and snow, An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck foe; Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales, Rich Languedoc! that fan thy glowing vales, And 'midst those scenes renew'd th' achievements high Bequeath'd to fame by England's ancestry.

Yet, when the storm seem'd hush'd, the conflict past, One strife remain'd--the mightest and the last! Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour Untamed Ambition summon'd all his power: Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were there, And the stern might of resolute Despair. Isle of the free! 'twas then thy champions stood, Breasting unmoved the combat's wildest flood; Sunbeam of battle! then thy spirit shone, Glow'd in each breast, and sunk with life alone.

O hearts devoted! whose illustrious doom Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb, Ye firm and faithful, in the ordeal tried Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified; Shrined, not entomb'd, ye rest in sacred earth, Hallow'd by deeds of more than mortal worth. What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust, No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust, Yours, on the scene where valour's race was run, A prouder sepulchre--the field ye won! There every mead, each cabin's lowly name, Shall live a watchword blended with your fame; And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown That ask no urn to blazon their renown! There shall the bard in future ages tread, And bless each wreath that blossoms o'er the dead; Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave O'er the low mounds, the altars of the brave! Pause o'er each warrior's grass-grown bed, and hear In every breeze some name to glory dear; And as the shades of twilight close around, With martial pageants people all the ground. Thither unborn descendants of the slain Still throng as pilgrims to the holy fane, While as they trace each spot, whose records tell Where fought their fathers, and prevail'd, and fell, Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow, Claiming proud kindred with the dust below! And many an age shall see the brave repair To learn the Hero's bright devotion there.

And well, Ausonia! may that field of fame, From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. Land of the lyre! 'twas there th' avenging sword Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored; Those precious trophies o'er thy realms that throw A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe, And bid the stranger for awhile forget How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet.

Yes, fair creations! to perfection wrought, Embodied visions of ascending thought! Forms of sublimity! by Genius traced In tints that vindicate adoring taste! Whose bright originals, to earth unknown, Live in the spheres encircling glory's throne; Models of art, to deathless fame consign'd, Stamp'd with the high-born majesty of mind; Yes, matchless works! your presence shall restore One beam of splendour to your native shore, And her sad scenes of lost renown illume, As the bright sunset gilds some hero's tomb.

Oh! ne'er, in other climes, though many an eye Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasy-- Ne'er was it yours to bid the soul expand With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand, As in that realm, where each faint breeze's moan Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone; Where midst the ruin'd shrines of many a vale, E'en Desolation tells a haughty tale, And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends, But its proud name with song eternal blends!

Fair Florence! queen of Arno's lovely vale! Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale, And sternly smiled, in retribution's hour, To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler's power. Too long the spirits of thy noble dead Mourn'd o'er the domes they rear'd in ages fled. Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced, Temples of genius, palaces of taste, Too long, with sad and desolated mien, Reveal'd where Conquest's lawless track had been; Reft of each form with brighter light imbued, Lonely they frown'd, a desert solitude. Florence! th' Oppressor's noon of pride is o'er, Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more!

Athens of Italy! once more are thine Those matchless gems of Art's exhaustless mine. For thee bright Genius darts his living beam, Warm o'er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream, And forms august as natives of the sky Rise round each fane in faultless majesty-- So chastely perfect, so serenely grand, They seem creations of no mortal hand.

Ye at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance, Burst in full splendour from her deathlike trance-- Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake, And daring Intellect his bondage break-- Beneath whose eye the lords of song arose, And snatch'd the Tuscan lyre from long repose, And bade its pealing energies resound With power electric through the realms around; O high in thought, magnificent in soul! Born to inspire, enlighten, and control; Cosmo, Lorenzo! view your reign once more, The shrine where nations mingle to adore! Again th' enthusiast there, with ardent gaze, Shall hail the mighty of departed days: Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind Seems in the marble's breathing mould enshrined; Still with ascendant power the world to awe, Still the deep homage of the heart to draw; To breathe some spell of holiness around, Bid all the scene be consecrated ground, And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought, Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought.

There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind! Love's radiant goddess, idol of mankind! Once the bright object of Devotion's vow, Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now. Oh! who can tell what beams of heavenly light Flash'd o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight, How many a glimpse, reveal'd to him alone, Made brighter beings, nobler worlds, his own; Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless, Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness!

Young Genius there, while dwells his kindling eye On forms instinct with bright divinity, While new-born powers, dilating in his heart, Embrace the full magnificence of Art; From scenes by Raphael's gifted hand array'd, From dreams of heaven by Angelo portray'd; From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime, Seal'd with perfection, "sanctified by time;" Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel His spirit burn with emulative zeal: Buoyant with loftier hopes, his soul shall rise, Imbued at once with nobler energies; O'er life's dim scenes on rapid pinions soar, And worlds of visionary grace explore, Till his bold hand give glory's daydream birth, And with new wonders charm admiring earth.

Venice exult! and o'er thy moonlight seas Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze! What though long fled those years of martial fame That shed romantic lustre o'er thy name; Though to the winds thy streamers idly play, And the wild waves another Queen obey; Though quench'd the spirit of thine ancient race, And power and freedom scarce have left a trace; Yet still shall Art her splendours round thee cast, And gild the wreck of years for ever past. Again thy fanes may boast a Titian's dyes, Whose clear soft brilliance emulates thy skies, And scenes that glow in colouring's richest bloom With life's warm flush Palladian halls illume. From thy rich dome again th' unrivall'd steed Starts to existence, rushes into speed, Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame, Panting with ardour, vivified with flame.

And thou, whose Eagle towering plume unfurl'd Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world, Eternal city! round whose Curule throne The lords of nations knelt in ages flown; Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time Immortal records of their glorious prime; When deathless bards, thine olive-shades among, Swell'd the high raptures of heroic song; Fair, fallen Empress! raise thy languid head From the cold altars of th' illustrious dead, And once again with fond delight survey The proud memorials of thy noblest day.

Lo! where thy sons, O Rome! a godlike train, In imaged majesty return again! Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien august O'er scenes that shrine their venerable dust. Those forms, those features, luminous with soul, Still o'er thy children seem to claim control; With awful grace arrest the pilgrim's glance, Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance, And bid the past, to fancy's ardent eyes, From time's dim sepulchre in glory rise.

Souls of the lofty! whose undying names Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims; Oh! with your images could fate restore Your own high spirit to your sons once more; Patriots and Heroes! could those flames return That bade your hearts with freedom's ardours burn; Then from the sacred ashes of the first, Might a new Rome in phoenix grandeur burst! With one bright glance dispel th' horizon's gloom, With one loud call wake empire from the tomb; Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown, Lift her dread aegis with majestic frown, Unchain her eagle's wing, and guide his flight To bathe his plumage in the fount of light!

Vain dream! Degraded Rome! thy noon is o'er; Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more. It sleeps with those, the sons of other days, Who fix'd on thee the world's adoring gaze; Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high, More blest, ere darkness quench'd its beam, to die!

Oh! ne'er again may War, with lightning-stroke, Rend its last honours from the shatter'd oak! Long be those works, revered by ages, thine, To lend one triumph to thy dim decline.

Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful fire. In all the grandeur of celestial ire, Once more thine own, th' immortal Archer's form Sheds radiance round, with more than Being warm! Oh! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame A living temple of ethereal flame?

Lord of the daystar! how may words portray Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray? Whate'er the soul could dream, the hand could trace, Of regal dignity and heavenly grace; Each purer effluence of the fair and bright, Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight Each bold idea, borrow'd from the sky, To vest th' embodied form of Deity; All, all in thee, ennobled and refined, Breathe and enchant, transcendently combined! Son of Elysium! years and ages gone Have bow'd in speechless homage at thy throne, And days unborn, and nations yet to be, Shall gaze, absorb'd in ecstasy, on thee!

And thou, triumphant wreck, e'en yet sublime, Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and time: Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught From thee its fervours of diviner thought! Where He, th' inspired One, whose gigantic mind Lived in some sphere to him alone assign'd; Who from the past, the future, and th' unseen Could call up forms of more than earthly mien: Unrivall'd Angelo on thee would gaze, Till his full soul imbibed perfection's blaze! And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare Thy sovereign greatness view without despair? Emblem of Rome! from power's meridian hurl'd, Yet claiming still the homage of the world.

What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hands defaced The work of wonder, idolised by taste? Oh! worthy still of some divine abode, Mould of a Conqueror! ruin of a God! Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless beam From each bright fragment pours its vital stream, 'Tis thine, by fate unconquer'd, to dispense From every part some ray of excellence! E'en yet, inform'd with essence from on high, Thine is no trace of frail mortality! Within that frame a purer being glows, Through viewless veins a brighter current flows; Fill'd with immortal life each muscle swells, In every line supernal grandeur dwells,

Consummate work! the noblest and the last Of Grecian Freedom, ere her reign was past: Nurse of the mighty, she, while lingering still, Her mantle flow'd o'er many a classic hill, Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed, A hero's image to the world bequeathed; Enshrined in thee th' imperishable ray Of high-soul'd Genius, foster'd by her sway, And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn, What lofty dreams were hers--who never shall return!

And mark yon group, transfix'd with many a throe, Seal'd with the image of eternal woe: With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest, Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonise the breast, And the stern combat picture to mankind Of suffering nature and enduring mind. Oh, mighty conflict! though his pains intense Distend each nerve, and dart through every sense; Though fix'd on him, his children's suppliant eyes Implore the aid avenging fate denies; Though with the giant-snake in fruitless strife, Heaves every muscle with convulsive life, And in each limb existence writhes, enroll'd Midst the dread circles of the venom'd fold; Yet the strong spirit lives--and not a cry Shall own the might of Nature's agony! That furrow'd brow unconquer'd soul reveals, That patient eye to angry Heaven appeals, That struggling bosom concentrates its breath, Nor yields one moan to torture or to death!

Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art! With speechless horror to congeal the heart, To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain; Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power May brave the pangs of fate's severest hour.

Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze On scenes where painting all her skill displays: Landscapes, by colouring dress'd in richer dyes, More mellow'd sunshine, more unclouded skies, Or dreams of bliss to dying martyrs given, Descending seraphs robed in beams of heaven.

Oh! sovereign Masters of the Pencil's might, Its depths of shadow and its blaze of light; Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound, Explored the worlds above, below, around, Children of Italy! who stand alone And unapproach'd, midst regions all your own; What scenes, what beings bless'd your favour'd sight, Severely grand, unutterably bright! Triumphant spirits! your exulting eye Could meet the noontide of eternity, And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontroll'd, On all that Fancy trembles to behold.

Bright on your view such forms their splendour shed As burst on prophet-bards in ages fled: Forms that to trace no hand but yours might dare, Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair; These o'er the walls your magic skill array'd, Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting shade, Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower, And breathe and move, the records of your power. Inspired of heaven! what heighten'd pomp ye cast O'er all the deathless trophies of the past! Round many a marble fane and classic dome, Asserting still the majesty of Rome-- Round many a work that bids the world believe What Grecian Art could image and achieve, Again, creative minds, your visions throw Life's chasten'd warmth and Beauty's mellowest glow. And when the Morn's bright beams and mantling dyes Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies, Or evening suns illume with purple smile The Parian altar and the pillar'd aisle, Then, as the full or soften'd radiance falls On angel-groups that hover o'er the walls, Well may those temples, where your hand has shed Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead, Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair, That nought of earth should find admittance there, Some sphere, where beings, to mankind unknown, Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone!

Oh! mark where Raphael's pure and perfect line Portrays that form ineffably divine! Where with transcendant skill his hand has shed Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour's head; Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued With all the fulness of beatitude, And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight Sinks overpower'd by that excess of light!

The Belvidere Torso, the favourite study of Michael Angelo, and of many other distinguished artists.

MODERN GREECE.

"O Greece! thou sapient nurse of finer arts, Which to bright Science blooming Fancy bore, Be this thy praise, that thou, and thou alone, In these hast led the way, in these excell'd, Crown'd with the laurel of assenting Time."

Oh! who hath trod thy consecrated clime, Fair land of Phidias! theme of lofty strains! And traced each scene that, midst the wrecks of time, The print of Glory's parting step retains; Nor for awhile, in high-wrought dreams, forgot, Musing on years gone by in brightness there, The hopes, the fears, the sorrows of his lot, The hues his fate hath worn, or yet may wear; As when, from mountain-heights, his ardent eye Of sea and heaven hath track'd the blue infinity?

Is there who views with cold unalter'd mien, His frozen heart with proud indifference fraught, Each sacred haunt, each unforgotten scene, Where Freedom triumph'd, or where Wisdom taught? Souls that too deeply feel! oh, envy not The sullen calm your fate hath never known: Through the dull twilight of that wintery lot Genius ne'er pierced, nor Fancy's sunbeam shone, Nor those high thoughts that, hailing Glory's trace, Glow with the generous flames of every age and race.

But blest the wanderer whose enthusiast mind Each muse of ancient days hath deep imbued With lofty lore, and all his thoughts refined In the calm school of silent solitude; Pour'd on his ear, midst groves and glens retired, The mighty strains of each illustrious clime, All that hath lived, while empires have expired, To float for ever on the winds of time; And on his soul indelibly portray'd Fair visionary forms, to fill each classic shade.

Is not this mind, to meaner thoughts unknown, A sanctuary of beauty and of light? There he may dwell in regions all his own, A world of dreams, where all is pure and bright. For him the scenes of old renown possess Romantic charms, all veil'd from other eyes; There every form of nature's loveliness Wakes in his breast a thousand sympathies; As music's voice, in some lone mountain dell, From rocks and caves around calls forth each echo's swell.

For him Italia's brilliant skies illume The bard's lone haunts, the warrior's combat-plains, And the wild rose yet lives to breath and bloom Round Doric Paestum's solitary fanes. But most, fair Greece! on thy majestic shore He feels the fervours of his spirit rise; Thou birth-place of the Muse! whose voice of yore Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies; And lingers still around the well-known coast, Murmuring a wild farewell to fame and freedom lost.

Hush'd are the Paeans whose exulting tone Swell'd o'er that tide--the sons of battle sleep-- The wind's wild sigh, the halcyon's voice alone Blend with the plaintive murmur of the deep. Yet when those waves have caught the splendid hues Of morn's rich firmament, serenely bright, Or setting suns the lovely shore suffuse With all their purple mellowness of light, Oh! who could view the scene, so calmly fair, Nor dream that peace, and joy, and liberty were there?

Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs blow, 'Tis hard to deem that misery can be nigh; Where the clear heavens in blue transparence glow, Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky; --Yet o'er the low, dark dwellings of the dead, Verdure and flowers in summer-bloom may smile, And ivy-boughs their graceful drapery spread In green luxuriance o'er the ruin'd pile; And mantling woodbine veil the wither'd tree;-- And thus it is, fair land! forsaken Greece, with thee.

For all the loveliness, and light, and bloom That yet are thine, surviving many a storm, Are but as heaven's warm radiance on the tomb, The rose's blush that masks the canker-worm. And thou art desolate--thy morn hath pass'd! So dazzling in the splendour of its sway, That the dark shades the night hath o'er thee cast Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay. Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair, Thy fate hath been unmatch'd--in glory and despair.

For thee, lost land! the hero's blood hath flow'd, The high in soul have brightly lived and died; For thee the light of soaring genius glow'd O'er the fair arts it form'd and glorified. Thine were the minds whose energies sublime So distanced ages in their lightning-race, The task they left the sons of later time Was but to follow their illumined trace. --Now, bow'd to earth, thy children, to be free, Must break each link that binds their filial hearts to thee.

Lo! to the scenes of fiction's wildest tales, Her own bright East, thy son, Morea! flies, To seek repose midst rich, romantic vales, Whose incense mounts to Asia's vivid skies. There shall he rest?--Alas! his hopes in vain Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm: Peace dwells not now on oriental plain, Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm; And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes, Where patriarchs reign'd of old in pastoral repose.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet