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

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.

Where Syria's mountains rise, or Yemen's groves, Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave, Life to his eye, as wearily it roves, Wears but two forms--the tyrant and the slave! There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde Where sweeps the sand-storm o'er the burning wild; There stern Oppression waves the wasting sword O'er plains that smile as ancient Eden smiled; And the vale's bosom, and the desert's gloom, Yield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb.

But thou, fair world! whose fresh unsullied charms Welcomed Columbus from the western wave, Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms, The lost descendant of the immortal brave? Amidst the wild magnificence of shades That o'er thy floods their twilight-grandeur cast, In the green depth of thine untrodden glades Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last? Yes! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene, Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne'er hath been.

There by some lake, whose blue expansive breast Bright from afar, an inland ocean, gleams, Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dress'd In tints like those that float o'er poet's dreams; Or where some flood from pine-clad mountain pours Its might of waters, glittering in their foam, Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores, The exiled Greek hath fix'd his sylvan home: So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat Scarce have the paths been trod by Indian huntsman's feet.

The forests are around him in their pride, The green savannas, and the mighty waves; And isles of flowers, bright-floating o'er the tide, That images the fairy worlds it laves, And stillness, and luxuriance. O'er his head The ancient cedars wave their peopled bowers, On high the palms their graceful foliage spread, Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers; And from those green arcades a thousand tones Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Nature's temple moans.

And there, no traces left by brighter days For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief; Some grassy mound, perchance, may meet his gaze, The lone memorial of an Indian chief. There man not yet hath mark'd the boundless plain With marble records of his fame and power; The forest is his everlasting fane, The palm his monument, the rock his tower: Th' eternal torrent and the giant tree Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly free.

But doth the exile's heart serenely there In sunshine dwell?--Ah! when was exile blest? When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or summer air, Chase from his soul the fever of unrest? --There is a heart-sick weariness of mood, That like slow poison wastes the vital glow, And shrines itself in mental solitude, An uncomplaining and a nameless woe. That coldly smiles midst pleasure's brightest ray, As the chill glacier's peak reflects the flush of day.

Such grief is theirs, who, fix'd on foreign shore, Sigh for the spirit of their native gales, As pines the seaman, midst the ocean's roar, For the green earth, with all its woods and vales. Thus feels thy child, whose memory dwells with thee, Loved Greece! all sunk and blighted as thou art Though thought and step in western wilds be free, Yet thine are still the daydreams of his heart: The deserts spread between, the billows foam, Thou, distant and in chains, are yet his spirit's home.

In vain for him the gay liannes entwine, Or the green fire-fly sparkles through the brakes, Or summer-winds waft odours from the pine, As eve's last blush is dying on the lakes. Through thy fair vales his fancy roves the while, Or breathes the freshness of Cithaeron's height, Or dreams how softly Athens' towers would smile, Or Sunium's ruins, in the fading light; On Corinth's cliff what sunset hues may sleep, Or, at that placid hour, how calm th' AEgean deep!

What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him like thine? E'en to the stranger's roving eye, they shine Soft as a vision of remember'd joy. And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day, A passing wanderer o'er each Attic hill, Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy decay, To laughing climes, where all is splendour still; And views with fond regret thy lessening shore, As he would watch a star that sets to rise no more.

Realm of sad beauty! thou art as a shrine That Fancy visits with Devotion's zeal, To catch high thoughts and impulses divine, And all the glow of soul enthusiasts feel Amidst the tombs of heroes--for the brave Whose dust, so many an age, hath been thy soil, Foremost in honour's phalanx, died to save The land redeem'd and hallow'd by their toil; And there is language in thy lightest gale, That o'er the plains they won seems murmuring yet their tale.

And he, whose heart is weary of the strife Of meaner spirits, and whose mental gaze Would shun the dull cold littleness of life, Awhile to dwell amidst sublimer days, Must turn to thee, whose every valley teems With proud remembrances that cannot die. Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams, Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by; And midst thy laurel shades the wanderer hears The sound of mighty names, the hymns of vanish'd years.

Beneath thy mountain battlements and towers, Where the rich arbute's coral berries glow, Or midst th' exuberance of thy forest bowers, Casting deep shadows o'er the current's flow, Oft shall the pilgrim pause, in lone recess, As rock and stream some glancing light have caught, And gaze, till Nature's mighty forms impress His soul with deep sublimity of thought; And linger oft, recalling many a tale, That breeze, and wave, and wood seem whispering through thy dale.

Or let his steps the rude gray cliffs explore Of that wild pass, once dyed with Spartan blood, When by the waves that break on OEta's shore, The few, the fearless, the devoted, stood! Or rove where, shadowing Mantinea's plain, Bloom the wild laurels o'er the warlike dead, Or lone Plataea's ruins yet remain To mark the battle-field of ages fled: Still o'er such scenes presides a sacred power, Though Fiction's gods have fled from fountain, grot, and bower.

Oh! still unblamed may fancy fondly deem That, lingering yet, benignant genii dwell Where mortal worth has hallow'd grove or stream, To sway the heart with some ennobling spell; For mightiest minds have felt their blest control In the wood's murmur, in the zephyr's sigh, And these are dreams that lend a voice and soul, And a high power, to Nature's majesty! And who can rove o'er Grecian shores, nor feel, Soft o'er his inmost heart, their secret magic steal?

Yet many a sad reality is there, That Fancy's bright illusions cannot veil. Pure laughs the light, and balmy breathes the air, But Slavery's mien will tell its bitter tale; And there, not Peace, but Desolation, throws Delusive quiet o'er full many a scene-- Deep as the brooding torpor of repose That follows where the earthquake's track hath been; Or solemn calm on Ocean's breast that lies, When sinks the storm, and death has hush'd the seamen's cries.

So mayst thou gaze, in sad and awe-struck thought, On the deep fall of that yet lovely clime: Such there the ruin Time and Fate have wrought, So changed the bright, the splendid, the sublime. There the proud monuments of Valour's name, The mighty works Ambition piled on high, The rich remains by Art bequeath'd to Fame-- Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength, and symmetry, Blend in decay; while all that yet is fair Seems only spared to tell how much hath perish'd there!

There, while around lie mingling in the dust The column's graceful shaft, with weeds o'er grown, The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust. The warrior's urn, the altar's mossy stone-- Amidst the loneliness of shatter'd fanes, Still matchless monuments of other years-- O'er cypress groves or solitary plains, Its eastern form the minaret proudly rears: As on some captive city's ruin'd wall The victor's banner waves, exulting o'er its fall.

Still, where that column of the mosque aspires, Landmark of slavery, towering o'er the waste, There science droops, the Muses hush their lyres And o'er the blooms of fancy and of taste Spreads the chill blight;--as in that orient isle Where the dark upas taints the gale around, Within its precincts not a flower may smile, Nor dew nor sunshine fertilise the ground; Nor wild birds' music float on zephyr's breath, But all is silence round, and solitude, and death.

Far other influence pour'd the Crescent's light O'er conquer'd realms, in ages pass'd away; Full and alone it beam'd, intensely bright, While distant climes in midnight darkness lay. Then rose th' Alhambra, with its founts and shades, Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bowers: Its sculptured lions, richly wrought arcades, A?rial pillars, and enchanted towers; Light, splendid, wild, as some Arabian tale Would picture fairy domes that fleet before the gale.

Then foster'd genius lent each caliph's throne Lustre barbaric pomp could ne'er attain; And stars unnumber'd o'er the orient shone, Bright as that Ple?ad, sphered in Mecca's fane. From Bagdat's palaces the choral strains Rose and re-echoed to the desert's bound, And Science, woo'd on Egypt's burning plains, Rear'd her majestic head with glory crown'd; And the wild Muses breathed romantic lore From Syria's palmy groves to Andalusia's shore.

Those years have past in radiance--they have past, As sinks the daystar in the tropic main; His parting beams no soft reflection cast, They burn--are quench'd--and deepest shadows reign. And Fame and Science have not left a trace In the vast regions of the Moslem's power,-- Regions, to intellect a desert space, A wild without a fountain or a flower, Where towers Oppression midst the deepening glooms, As dark and lone ascends the cypress midst the tombs.

Alas for thee, fair Greece! when Asia pour'd Her fierce fanatics to Byzantium's wall; When Europe sheath'd, in apathy, her sword, And heard unmoved the fated city's call. No bold crusaders ranged their serried line Of spears and banners round a falling throne; And thou, O last and noblest Constantine! Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alone. Oh! blest to die in freedom, though in vain-- Thine empire's proud exchange the grave, and not the chain!

Hush'd is Byzantium--'tis the dead of night-- The closing night of that imperial race! And all is vigil--but the eye of light Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace: There is a murmuring stillness on the train Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to die; And to the cross, in fair Sophia's fane, For the last time is raised Devotion's eye; And, in his heart while faith's bright visions rise, There kneels the high-soul'd prince, the summon'd of the skies.

Day breaks in light and glory--'tis the hour Of conflict and of fate--the war-note calls-- Despair hath lent a stern, delirious power To the brave few that guard the rampart walls. Far over Marmora's waves th' artillery's peal Proclaims an empire's doom in every note; Tambour and trumpet swell the clash of steel, Round spire and dome the clouds of battle float; From camp and wave rush on the Crescent's host, And the Seven Towers are scaled, and all is won and lost.

Then, Greece! the tempest rose that burst on thee, Land of the bard, the warrior, and the sage! Oh! where were then thy sons, the great, the free, Whose deeds are guiding stars from age to age? Though firm thy battlements of crags and snows, And bright the memory of thy days of pride, In mountain might though Corinth's fortress rose, On, unresisted, roll'd th' invading tide! Oh! vain the rock, the rampart, and the tower, If Freedom guard them not with Mind's unconquer'd power.

XL.

Where were th' avengers then, whose viewless might Preserved inviolate their awful fane, When through the steep defiles, to Delphi's height, In martial splendour pour'd the Persian's train? Then did those mighty and mysterious Powers, Arm'd with the elements, to vengeance wake, Call the dread storms to darken round their towers, Hurl down the rocks, and bid the thunders break; Till far around, with deep and fearful clang, Sounds of unearthly war through wild Parnassus rang.

Where was the spirit of the victor-throng Whose tombs are glorious by Scamander's tide, Whose names are bright in everlasting song, The lords of war, the praised, the deified? Where he, the hero of a thousand lays, Who from the dead at Marathon arose All arm'd; and beaming on the Athenians' gaze, A battle-meteor, guided to their foes? Or they whose forms to Alaric's awe-struck eye, Hovering o'er Athens, blazed in airy panoply?

Ye slept, O heroes! chief ones of the earth! High demigods of ancient days! ye slept: There lived no spark of your ascendant worth When o'er your land the victor Moslem swept. No patriot then the sons of freedom led, In mountain pass devotedly to die; The martyr-spirit of resolve was fled, And the high soul's unconquer'd buoyancy; And by your graves, and on your battle-plains, Warriors! your children knelt to wear the stranger's chains.

Now have your trophies vanish'd, and your homes Are moulder'd from the earth, while scarce remain E'en the faint traces of the ancient tombs That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain. Your deeds are with the days of glory flown, The lyres are hush'd that swell'd your fame afar, The halls that echo'd to their sounds are gone, Perish'd the conquering weapons of your war; And if a mossy stone your names retain, 'Tis but to tell your sons, for them ye died in vain.

Yet, where some lone sepulchral relic stands, That with those names tradition hallows yet, Oft shall the wandering son of other lands Linger in solemn thought and hush'd regret. And still have legends mark'd the lonely spot Where low the dust of Agamemnon lies; And shades of kings and leaders unforgot, Hovering around, to fancy's vision rise. Souls of the heroes! seek your rest again, Nor mark how changed the realms that saw your glory's reign.

Lo, where th' Albanian spreads his despot sway O'er Thessaly's rich vales and glowing plains, Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey, Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains: Oh! doth the land that gave Achilles birth, And many a chief of old illustrious line, Yield not one spirit of unconquer'd worth To kindle those that now in bondage pine? No! on its mountain-air is slavery's breath, And terror chills the hearts whose utter'd plaints were death.

Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there, How rich in charms were that romantic clime, With streams, and woods, and pastoral valleys fair, And wall'd with mountains, haughtily sublime! Heights that might well be deem'd the Muses' reign, Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies, They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain-- Meet home for those retired divinities That love, where nought of earth may e'er intrude, Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude.

There in rude grandeur daringly ascends Stern Pindus, rearing many a pine-clad height; He with the clouds his bleak dominion blends, Frowning o'er vales in woodland verdure bright. Wild and august in consecrated pride, There through the deep-blue heaven Olympus towers, Girdled with mists, light-floating as to hide The rock-built palace of immortal powers; Where far on high the sunbeam finds repose, Amidst th' eternal pomp of forests and of snows.

Those savage cliffs and solitudes might seem The chosen haunts where Freedom's foot would roam; She loves to dwell by glen and torrent-stream, And make the rocky fastnesses her home. And in the rushing of the mountain flood, In the wild eagle's solitary cry, In sweeping winds that peal through cave and wood, There is a voice of stern sublimity, That swells her spirit to a loftier mood Of solemn joy severe, of power, of fortitude.

But from those hills the radiance of her smile Hath vanish'd long, her step hath fled afar; O'er Suli's frowning rocks she paused a while, Kindling the watch-fires of the mountain war. And brightly glow'd her ardent spirit there, Still brightest midst privation: o'er distress It cast romantic splendour, and despair But fann'd that beacon of the wilderness; And rude ravine, and precipice, and dell Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying voice to swell.

Dark children of the hills! 'twas then ye wrought Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand; As midst your craggy citadels ye fought, And women mingled with your warrior band. Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood High o'er the river's darkly-rolling wave, And hurl'd, in dread delirium, to the flood Her free-born infant, ne'er to be a slave. For all was lost--all, save the power to die The wild indignant death of savage liberty.

Now is that strife a tale of vanish'd days, With mightier things forgotten soon to lie; Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays, Deeds less adventurous, energies less high. And the dread struggle's fearful memory still O'er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws; Sheds darker shadows o'er the frowning hill, More solemn quiet o'er the glen's repose; Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan, And the hoarse river's voice a murmur not its own.

For stillness now--the stillness of the dead-- Hath wrapt that conflict's lone and awful scene; And man's forsaken homes, in ruin spread, Tell where the storming of the cliffs hath been. And there, o'er wastes magnificently rude, What race may rove, unconscious of the chain? Those realms have now no desert unsubdued, Where Freedom's banner may be rear'd again: Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame, The children of her sons inherit but their name.

Go, seek proud Sparta's monuments and fanes! In scatter'd fragments o'er the vale they lie; Of all they were not e'en enough remains To lend their fall a mournful majesty. Birth-place of those whose names we first revered In song and story--temple of the free! O thou, the stern, the haughty, and the fear'd, Are such thy relics, and can this be thee? Thou shouldst have left a giant wreck behind, And e'en in ruin claim'd the wonder of mankind.

For thine were spirits cast in other mould Than all beside--and proved by ruder test; They stood alone--the proud, the firm, the bold, With the same seal indelibly imprest. Theirs were no bright varieties of mind, One image stamp'd the rough, colossal race, In rugged grandeur frowning o'er mankind, Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace; As to the sky some mighty rock may tower, Whose front can brave the storm, but will not rear the flower.

Hadst thou but perish'd with the free, nor known A second race, when glory's noon went by, Then had thy name in single brightness shone A watchword on the helm of liberty! Thou shouldst have pass'd with all the light of fame, And proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains. But slowly set thy star midst clouds of shame, And tyrants rose amidst thy falling fanes; And thou, surrounded by thy warriors' graves, Hast drain'd the bitter cup once mingled for thy slaves.

Now all is o'er--for thee alike are flown Freedom's bright noon and slavery's twilight cloud; And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone, Deep solitude is round thee as a shroud. Home of Leonidas! thy halls are low; From their cold altars have thy Lares fled; O'er thee, unmark'd, the sunbeams fade or glow, And wild-flowers wave, unbent by human tread; And midst thy silence, as the grave's profound, A voice, a step, would seem as some unearthly sound.

Oh, thus it is with man! A tree, a flower, While nations perish, still renews its race, And o'er the fallen records of his power Spreads in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace. The laurel shoots when those have pass'd away, Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free; The rose is flourishing o'er beauty's clay, The myrtle blows when love hath ceased to be; Green waves the bay when song and bard are fled, And all that round us blooms is blooming o'er the dead.

And still the olive spreads its foliage round Morea's fallen sanctuaries and towers. Once its green boughs Minerva's votaries crown'd, Deem'd a meet offering for celestial powers. The suppliant's hand its holy branches bore; They waved around the Olympic victor's head; And, sanctified by many a rite of yore, Its leaves the Spartan's honour'd bier o'erspread. Those rites have vanish'd--but o'er vale and hill Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallow'd still.

Where now thy shrines, Eleusis! where thy fane Of fearful visions, mysteries wild and high? The pomp of rites, the sacrificial train, The long procession's awful pageantry? Quench'd is the torch of Ceres--all around Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign; There never more shall choral hymns resound O'er the hush'd earth and solitary main, Whose wave from Salamis deserted flows, To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose.

And oh, ye secret and terrific powers! Dark oracles! in depth of groves that dwelt, How are they sunk, the altars of your bowers, Where Superstition trembled as she knelt! Ye, the unknown, the viewless ones! that made The elements your voice, the wind and wave; Spirits! whose influence darken'd many a shade, Mysterious visitants of fount and cave! How long your power the awe-struck nations sway'd, How long earth dreamt of you, and shudderingly obey'd!

And say, what marvel, in those early days, While yet the light of heaven-born truth was not, If man around him cast a fearful gaze, Peopling with shadowy powers each dell and grot? Awful is nature in her savage forms, Her solemn voice commanding in its might, And mystery then was in the rush of storms, The gloom of woods, the majesty of night; And mortals heard Fate's language in the blast, And rear'd your forest-shrines, ye phantoms of the past!

Then through the foliage not a breeze might sigh But with prophetic sound--a waving tree, A meteor flashing o'er the summer sky, A bird's wild flight reveal'd the things to be. All spoke of unseen natures, and convey'd Their inspiration; still they hover'd round, Hallow'd the temple, whisper'd through the shade, Pervaded loneliness, gave soul to sound; Of them the fount, the forest, murmur'd still, Their voice was in the stream, their footstep on the hill.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet