Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans

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POETICAL REMAINS

OF THE LATE

MRS HEMANS.

Biographical Memoir of the late Mrs Hemans

BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR

OF THE LATE

MRS HEMANS.

As this is the last of a series of poetical volumes, which, making their appearance at intervals during the last nineteen years, have in an especial manner arrested the attention of the imaginative and the intellectual; and, as all have naturally a desire to know something of those from whom they have received mental gratification or delight, it has been determined, that a brief biographical memoir of the accomplished and lamented author, should be prefixed to these pages.

Felicia Dorothea Browne was born in Liverpool on the 25th of September 1793. Her mother, whose family-name was Wagner, although a German by appellation, was of Italian descent. Her father was a merchant of considerable eminence; but, being engaged in extensive speculations, during the most unfixed and varying periods of the French Revolution, he, in common with many others, from the unlooked for and destructive changes of that eventful time, suffered under those reverses which are incidental to a commercial life. A few years afterwards, and while his daughter was consequently still very young, he retired with his family into Wales, and resided for some time at Gwrych, near Abergele, in Denbighshire.

In that secluded region, where the romantic varieties of sea and mountain scenery are beautifully combined and contrasted, the lamented subject of this short memoir was educated by a mother, not only of exemplary virtue, but whose acquirements were of a high order. Here also it was, that Mrs Hemans received those impressions of the sublime and lovely in the features of the external world, which ever afterwards lent a colouring to her feelings, and exercised so marked an influence on the tone of her mind and writings.

Under these fostering influences, the peculiar bias of her imagination and intellect began to develope itself at an early period of childhood. While yet only in her sixth year, she took to the reading of Shakspeare as her favourite recreation, and, such was the retentiveness of her memory, that she could repeat pages of his most striking scenes, as well as many passages from our best poets, after little more than a single perusal. The circumstance is certainly not a unique one, but, in her case, is a proof of the intense delight, which her mind enjoyed while imbibing the beautiful and grand in sentiment,—impressions so instantaneously stamped shewing their depth by their durability.

Such a prevailing love of poetry soon naturally turned to a cultivation of the art in her own person; and a volume of verses, written by her, when she was not yet eleven years old, attracted from that circumstance, as well as from their intrinsic merit, no inconsiderable share of public attention. This little volume was, in the course of the four succeeding years, followed by two others, which evinced powers gradually but steadily expanding, and which were received with increasing favour by the admirers of poetry. Her studies, up to this time, had been the world to her; with nature and her books she had lived in devoted seclusion, dreaming bright dreams; storing up knowledge; and, no doubt, enjoying by occasional anticipation, glimpses of that reputation, which was eventually to encircle her name. But a change soon passed over the spirit of that Elysian picture; and, in her nineteenth year, she was married to Captain Hemans, of the Fourth Regiment, a gentleman of highly respectable connections. Unfortunately his health had been undermined by the vicissitudes of a military life—more particularly by the hardships he had endured in the disastrous retreat to Corunna, and by the fever, which proved so fatal to many of our troops in the Walcheren expedition. Indeed to such an extent was this breaking up, as to render it necessary for him, a few years after their marriage, to exchange his native climate for the milder sky of Italy.

The literary pursuits of Mrs Hemans rendering it ineligible for her to leave England, she continued to reside with her mother and sister at a quiet and pretty spot, near St Asaph, in North Wales; where, in the bosom of her family, entirely devoted to literature, and to the education of five interesting boys, in whose welfare centred all the energies of her mind and heart, she

"Trod in gentle peace her guileless way;"

and won more and more on public regard and estimation by the simple and pathetic beauty of those highly gifted productions, which have not only thrown an additional beauty over female nature, but have, doubtless, advanced in many a meditative bosom the sacred causes of religion and virtue.

Apart from all intercourse with literary society, and acquainted only by name and occasional correspondence with any of the distinguished authors of whom England has to boast, Mrs Hemans, during the progress of her poetical career, had to contend with more and greater obstacles than usually stand in the path of female authorship. To her praise be it spoken, therefore, that it was to her own merit alone, wholly independent of adventitious circumstances, that she was indebted for the extensive share of popularity which her compositions ultimately obtained. From this studious seclusion were given forth the two poems which first permanently elevated her among the writers of her age,—the "Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy," and "Modern Greece." In these the maturity of her intellect appears; and she makes us feel, that she has marked out a path for herself through the regions of song. The versification is high-toned and musical, in accordance with the sentiment and subject; and in every page, we have evidence not only of taste and genius, but of careful elaboration and research. These efforts were favourably noticed by Lord Byron; and attracted the admiration of Shelley. Bishop Heber and other judicious and intelligent counsellors cheered her on by their approbation: the reputation, which, through years of silent study and exertion, she had, no doubt, sometimes with brightened and sometimes with doubtful hopes, looked forward to as a sufficient great reward, was at length unequivocally and unreluctantly accorded her by the world: and, probably, this was the happiest period of her life. The translations from Camoens; the Prize poem of Wallace, as also that of Dartmoor, The Tales and Historic Scenes, the Sceptic, The Welsh Melodies; the Siege of Valencia; and the Vespers of Palermo, may all be referred to this epoch of her literary career; and are characterized by beauties of a high and peculiar stamp. With reference to the two latter, it must be owned, that if the genius of Mrs Hemans was not essentially dramatic, yet that they abound with high and magnificent bursts of poetry. It was not easy to adapt her fine taste and uniformly high-toned sentiment to the varied aspects of life and character, necessary to the success of scenic exhibition; and she must have been aware of the difficulties that surrounded her in that path. If these cannot, therefore, be considered as successful tragedies, they hold their places, as dramatic poems of rich and rare poetic beauty. Indeed it would be difficult, from the whole range of Mrs Hemans's writings, to select any thing more exquisitely conceived, more skilfully managed, or more energetically written, than the Monk's Tale in the Siege of Valencia. His description of his son, in which he dwells with parental enthusiasm on his boyish beauty and accomplishments—of his horror at that son's renunciation of the Christian faith, and leaguing with the infidel—and of the twilight encounter in which he took the life of his own giving,—are all worked out in the loftiest spirit of poetry.

The life of Mrs Hemans thus continued for many years a scene of uninterrupted domestic privacy—intercourse with the world, in an extended acceptation of the term, might be said to have been dropped by her; and the ideas with which her mind was stored, were derived solely from reading, united to a deep feeling of the beauties of nature, and its own bright comprehension and discernment. Her talent for acquiring languages was very remarkable, and she was well versed in German, French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese, with a sufficient knowledge of Latin for every requisite purpose. Of these languages she preferred the first, which she cultivated with much interest, finding its literature most in unison with her own style of feeling and of thought. She took particular pleasure in the writings of Schiller and Goethe, and considered her intimacy with their works in particular, and with the many treasures of German literature generally, as having imparted an entirely new impulse to the powers of her own mind. Nor in this did she judge erroneously. About this time were composed some of those inimitable lyrics,—more especially "The Treasures of the Deep," "The Hebrew Mother," "The Voice of Spring," and "The Hour of Death," which the American critic Neale has quaintly characterized as "lumps of pure gold;" and which will find a response in the human bosom, till the end of all time. A deep and reverential study of our own Wordsworth was added to that of these continental classics; and, with what success, "The Records of Woman," "The Lays of Many Lands," "The Forest Sanctuary," "The Songs of the Affections," and the "Scenes and Hymns of Life," will long remain to testify.

In music and drawing the acquirements of Mrs Hemans were such as naturally might have been expected, in a mind so fraught with taste and imagination. She preferred in the former what was national and melancholy; and her strains adapted for singing were, of course, framed to the tones most congenial to the temperament of her own mind. How successfully wed to the magic of sweet sound many of her verses have been by her sister, no lover of music need to be reminded. The "Roman Girl's Song" is full of a solemn classic beauty; and, in one of her letters, it is said that of the "Captive Knight," Sir Walter Scott never was weary. Indeed, it seems in his mind to have been the song of Chivalry, representative of the English; as the Flowers of the Forest was of the Scottish; the Cancionella Espanola of the Spanish; and the Rhine Song of the German. In her love for painting, she had few opportunities of indulging; but those few were rich in interest and imagery.

The death of her mother in 1827, and the marriage of her sister in the following year, added to the necessity of additional facilities for the education of her boys, induced Mrs Hemans to leave Wales, and to fix her residence at Wavertree, near Liverpool. Whilst at that place, a favourable opportunity occurred for her visiting Scotland, with the scenery of which she was delighted; and, the remembrance of the friends she had made, and the courtesy she had experienced there, was never effaced from her memory. In her journeyings on this occasion, she had the pleasure of forming a personal acquaintance with Sir Walter Scott, Lord Jeffrey, Wordsworth, the author of Cyril Thornton, and other distinguished literary characters. The writer of this humble sketch had, also, at this time the honour of meeting her, and enjoying a few brief, but de hours of her society. Her residence both at Ambleside and at Abbotsford, was fortunately of sufficient duration to make her intimately acquainted with the illustrious persons there; and while in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, her principal sojourn was at Milburn Tower, the seat of the venerable Sir Robert Liston.

Shortly after her return from a second visit to Scotland, Mrs Hemans changed her residence to Dublin, where her Hymns for Childhood, and her National Lyrics and Songs for Music were published. It was impossible now, when her fame had become national, to live altogether in the quiet sequestration which she had enjoyed in Wales, and had expected to find at Wavertree; but, that she courted retirement, as much as the nature of her situation and the claims of society admitted, is evident.

The seeds of the complaint which terminated the existence of this amiable and gifted woman, had long been sown, and their growth was sadly apparent to those who formed the circle of her intimates in Dublin. Her constitution, never strong, was probably unable to resist with impunity the feverish excitement attendant on a life of such unremitted mental exertion, and the hectic changes, which latterly passed over her countenance, too clearly indicated to her anxious friends, what was working within. Yet while all around her were filled with painful, but too well-grounded apprehensions, she did not for some time appear sensible of the fearful encroachments which an insidious disease was silently making on a frame so delicate in texture. It was only a few months before her death, when staying at the country-seat of the Archbishop of Dublin (which that distinguished prelate had kindly placed at her disposal), that she began to entertain a deep presentiment that life was drawing to a close. Her mind, naturally meditative and melancholy, seemed gradually to become imbued with a deep consciousness of her situ . Instead of the steady glow of health, it was but too evident that the lamp of life was glimmering in the socket, and her compositions about that period, more especially her glorious lyric "Despondency and Aspiration," are evidently darkened by the gloom of a melancholy foreboding. Not unprofitably had the night of death cast these dreary shadows before; and on Saturday the 16th May 1835, Felicia Hemans met her fate with the calm resignation of a Christian.* Nothing can be more indicative of the tone of her mind at this period, than the Sabbath Sonnet, with which the present volume concludes, and which was dictated from her deathbed, to her brother Major Browne, a short time before her decease. In that sad but beautiful composition, the situation of the writer is plaintively indicated; but faith upholds sinking nature, and the melancholy is mingled with, and triumphed over by, the workings of a resigned and chastened spirit.

During her long illness, she was attended with the most unwearied care and disinterested kindness by Dr Graves and by Dr Croker, two eminent physicians of Dublin; nor were her last moments unsoothed by the attention of real friends, as well as by the presence of near and dear relatives. It is but justice to the illustrious living to mention, that, while confined to her sick-room, Mrs Hemans received some noble tributes of kindness from Sir Robert Peel; and that, without the slightest solicitation, he gave her fourth son a place in the Admiralty.

Many of Mrs Hemans's Works were reprinted at Boston, in the United States, under the friendly auspices of Professor Norton, who secured for her the proceeds of their very extensive sale. Indeed the genius of the author of the "Records of Woman," "the Forest Sanctuary," and "the Scenes and Hymns of Life" has been there regarded with an enthusiasm, of which few on this side of the Atlantic can have any belief. Nor was this impression confined simply to the general mind. We have only to refer to the periodical works of America, during the last ten years, to be made aware of the space she filled in literary estimation, and of the admiration with which her succeeding volumes were hailed. No better proof of this can be adduced than the shoal of imitators which sprang up among our Transatlantic brethren—for it is only what we admire most, that we most desire to copy. To their credit be it said, that they could not, among modern writers, have chosen a model of purer taste, or more classic elegance. Other minds of a higher order have avowedly lighted the torch of their inspiration at her shrine. In fact, they have selected Mrs Hemans as the head of a literary school, and have formed them selves on the most prominent excellencies of her peculiar manner.

We cannot part from this view of our subject without again adverting to the enthusiastic interest which Professor Norton has taken in the dissemination of the writings of Mrs Hemans among his countrymen. Both in her conversation and in her letters, she was eloquent in her expressions of gratitude towards him in this respect; and all her admirers are bound to respect that gentleman, for the disinterested endeavours he so successfully made, not only in rendering her genius more extensively known; but, probably, for having been the means of exciting her to exertions, which might have otherwise been damped by limited success, or altogether frustrated by critical hostility. That Felicia Hemans would have been a poetess, whether contemporary criticism had allowed the fact or not, admits not of dispute; but still we know not how far, in many respects, even the most gifted and intellectual are the children of circumstances. Many a flower of genius, which would have expanded under the sunshine of popular favour, has been nipt in the bloom by the chilling breath of disregard.

Mrs Hemans was about the middle height, and rather slenderly made than otherwise. To a countenance of great intelligence and expression, she united manners alike unassuming and playful; and with a trust arising out of the purity of her own character,—which was beyond the meanness of suspicion in others, she remained untainted by the breath of worldly guile. Her heart overflowed with tenderness in all the relations of domestic life; and the exquisite delicacy of her perceptions, regarding all that is pure, ennobling, and of good report, remains for ever stamped on her various writings.

It is beyond the scope of the present memoir to enter into any critical analysis or examination of the numerous publications of Mrs Hemans. They are now, as she has left them, at the bar of posterity; and it is pleasing to think, when we consider the degree of attention with which they have been received, that no undue or empirical means were resorted to, to influence popular suffrage. On the contrary, most of them were produced in solitude, and apart even from the exciting influences of literary society. The author experienced nothing of the fostering partiality of coteries; nor, as we have said, had she a personal acquaintance with any of the contemporary lights of poetry, until she herself had become a part of the constellation. With her sister spirits, Joanna Baillie, Caroline Bowles, Mary Mitford, Letitia Landon, and Mary Howitt, she pressed forward in generous emulation; but there was not a spark of rivalry in her bosom. Their glory was in a great measure felt as her own; and she rejoiced in their success, with a cordial warmth, which it was truly delightful to observe.

Without aspiring to the vehemence, which some writers have mistaken for energy, the poetry of Mrs Hemans is never languid, even in the depths of its taste, tenderness, and elegance. To the most graceful and harmonious diction, she wedded themes of endless variety,—the outpourings of piety, and love, and friendship,—the delights of the past and of the future,—records of household affections,—lays of patriotism,—and legends of history or romance. She has also given many beautiful and most delicate illustrations of Wordsworth’s favourite theory, regarding the subtle analogy existing between the external and the moral world; and which has embued the aspects of nature with something akin to sentiment and perception. Nothing can be richer or more glowing than her imagery, yet her pictures are never overlaid with colour; and all her delineations are clear and distinct. Many of her descriptions are ornate even to gorgeousness; but her decorations are never idle; they are brought in either to act as a foil to simple elegance, or to contrast with the anguish of de passion, and baffled hope. The whole tone of her mind was poetical, and the most trifling occurrence of the moment,—a word spoken,—a tone heard,—a circumstance of daily life,—frequently formed the germ of what, in her active imagination, was woven into a beautiful and perfect composition. Yet it should be remembered, that, instead of trusting to her natural powers of thought and fancy, she was, through the whole course of her literary career, an ardent and unwearied student. From a course of extensive reading, she enlarged her comprehension with much that was soul-stirring and noble,—with much that was gentle and refined: and if she has not often ventured,—as Wordsworth, Crabbe, and Wilson have so powerfully done,—to descend to the delineation of what is homely in life and manners, it evidently arose from no arrogance of intellect, but simply from such themes being incompatible with the system which she form for herself, and had resolved to follow out in her writings.

Mrs Jameson has truly said, that "the poetry of Mrs Hemans could only have been written by a woman." In all her thoughts and feelings she is intensely and entirely feminine; and there is a finish and completeness about her composition, singularly accordant with the fine perception, and delicate discrimination of the female mind. In her poetry religious truth and intellectual beauty meet together, and blend in delightful union; and assuredly it is not the less calculated to refine the taste and exalt the imagination, because it addresses itself only to the better feelings of our nature. Over all her pictures of humanity are spread the glory and the grace reflected from purity of morals, dignity of sentiment, beauty of imagery, sublimity of religious faith, and ardour of patriotism; and, turning from the dark and degraded, whether in circumstance or conception, she seeks out those verdant oases in the desert of human life, on which the wings of her imagination may most pleasantly rest. Her energy resembles that of the dove,

"Pecking the hand that hovers o'er its mate,"

and her exaltation of thought is not of that daring kind, which doubts, and derides, or even questions, but which clings to the anchor of hope, and looks forward with faith and reverential fear.

Mrs Hemans has written much, and on a variety of subjects; and, as with all authors of similar versatility, her strains possess different degrees of excellence. Independently of this uncertain criterion, her different works will be differently estimated, as to their relative value, by different minds. But we hesitate not to assert, that she has bequeathed to posterity many compositions, which the English language "will not willingly let die." The music of her words has interwoven itself with the national heart, and cannot fail to be breathed from the lips of our children's children.

Δ

Despondency and Aspiration

DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION.

Per correr miglior acqua alza le vele, Omai la navicella del mio Intelletto. Dante.

My soul was mantled with dark shadows, born Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain; Its phantoms hung around the star of morn, A cloud-like weeping train; Through the long day they dimm'd the autumn-gold On all the glistening leaves; and wildly roll'd, When the last farewell flush of light was glowing, Across the sunset sky; O'er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing One melancholy dye.

And when the solemn Night Came rushing with her might Of stormy oracles from caves unknown, Then with each fitful blast Prophetic murmurs pass'd, Wakening or answering some deep Sybil tone, Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise With every gusty wail that o'er the wind-harp flies. "Fold, fold thy wings," they cried, "and strive no more, Faint spirit, strive no more!—for thee too strong Are outward ill and wrong, And inward wasting fires!—Thou canst not soar Free on a starry way Beyond their blighting sway, At Heaven's high gate serenely to adore! How shouldst thou hope Earth's fetters to unbind? O passionate, yet weak! O trembler to the wind!

"Never shall aught but broken music flow From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe;

Such homeless notes as through the forest sigh, From the reed's hollow shaken, When sudden breezes waken Their vague wild symphony: No power is theirs, and no abiding-place In human hearts; their sweetness leaves no trace,— Born only so to die!

"Never shall aught but perfume, faint and vain, On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour, From thy bruis'd life again A moment's essence breathe; Thy life, whose trampled flower Into the blessed wreath Of household charities no longer bound, Lies pale and withering on the barren ground.

"So fade, fade on! thy gift of love shall cling, A coiling sadness, round thy heart and brain, A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing, All sensitive to pain!

And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall O'er thy mind's world, a daily darkening pall. Fold, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued, In cold and unrepining quietude!"

Then my soul yielded; spells of numbing breath Crept o'er it heavy with a dew of death, Its powers, like leaves before the night-rain, closing; And, as by conflict of wild sea-waves toss'd On the chill bosom of some desert coast, Mutely and hopelessly I lay reposing.

When silently it seem'd As if a soft mist gleam'd Before my passive sight, and, slowly curling, To many a shape and hue Of vision'd beauty grew, Like a wrought banner, fold by fold unfurling. Oh! the rich scenes that o'er mine inward eye Unrolling, then swept by,

With dreamy motion! Silvery seas were there Lit by large dazzling stars, and arch'd by skies Of Southern midnight's most transparent dyes, And gemm'd with many an island, wildly fair, Which floated past me into orient day, Still gathering lustre on th' illumin'd way, Till its high groves of wondrous flowering trees Colour'd the silvery seas.

And then a glorious mountain-chain uprose, Height above spiry height! A soaring solitude of woods and snows, All steep'd in golden light! While as it pass'd, those regal peaks unveiling, I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings And mighty sounds, as if the vision hailing, From lyres that quiver'd through ten thousand strings: Or as if waters forth to music leaping,

From many a cave, the Alpine Echo's hall, On their bold way victoriously were sweeping, Link'd in majestic anthems; while through all That billowy swell and fall, Voices, like ringing crystal, fill'd the air With inarticulate melody, that stirr'd My being's core; then, moulding into word Their piercing sweetness, bade me rise and bear In that great choral strain my trembling part Of tones, by Love and Faith struck from a human heart.

Return no more, vain bodings of the night! A happier oracle within my soul Hath swell'd to power;—a clear unwavering light Mounts through the battling clouds that round me roll, And to a new control Nature's full harp gives forth rejoicing tones, Wherein my glad sense owns

Th' accordant rush of elemental sound To one consummate harmony profound; One grand Creation-Hymn, Whose notes the Seraphim Lift to the glorious height of music wing'd and crown'd.

Shall not those notes find echoes in my lyre, Faithful though faint?—Shall not my spirit's fire, If slowly, yet unswervingly, ascend Now to its fount and end? Shall not my earthly love, all purified, Shine forth a heavenward guide? An angel of bright power?—and strongly bear My being upward into holier air, Where fiery passion-clouds have no abode,And the sky's temple-arch o'erflows with God?

The radiant hope new-born Expands like rising morn In my life's life: and as a ripening rose, The crimson shadow of its glory throws

More vivid, hour by hour, on some pure stream; So from that hope are spreading Rich hues, o'er nature shedding, Each day, a clearer, spiritual gleam.

Let not those rays fade from me;—once enjoy'd, Father of spirits! let them not depart! Leaving the chill'd earth, without form and void, Darken'd by mine own heart! Lift, aid, sustain me! Thou, by whom alone All lovely gifts and pure In the soul's grasp endure;— Thou, to the steps of whose eternal throne All knowledge flows—a sea for evermore Breaking its crested waves on that sole shore— O consecrate my life! that I may sing Of Thee with joy that hath a living spring, In a full heart of music!—Let my lays Through the resounding mountains waft thy praise. And with that theme the wood's green cloisters fill, And make their quivering leafy dimness thrill

To the rich breeze of song! O! let me wake The deep religion, which hath dwelt from yore, Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake, And wildest river shore! And let me summon all the voices dwelling Where eagles build, and cavern'd rills are welling, And where the cataract's organ-peal is swelling, In that one spirit gather'd to adore!

Forgive, O Father! if presumptuous thought Too daringly in aspiration rise! Let not thy child all vainly have been taught By weakness, and by wanderings, and by sighs Of sad confession!—lowly be my heart, And on its penitential altar spread The offerings worthless, till Thy grace impart The fire from Heaven, whose touch alone can shed Life, radiance, virtue!—let that vital spark Pierce my whole being, wilder'd else and dark!

Thine are all holy things—O make me Thine, So shall I too be pure—a living shrine Unto that spirit, which goes forth from Thee, Strong and divinely free, Bearing thy gifts of wisdom on its flight, And brooding o'er them with a dove-like wing, Till thought, word, song, to Thee in worship spring, Immortally endow'd for liberty and light.

The Huguenot's Farewell

THE HUGUENOT'S FAREWELL.

I stand upon the threshold stone Of mine ancestral hall; I hear my native river moan; I see the night o'er my old forests fall.

I look round on the darkening vale, That saw my childhood's plays: The low wind in its rising wail Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days.

But I must rule my swelling breast: A sign is in the sky; Bright o'er yon grey rock's eagle nest Shines forth a warning star—it bids me fly.

My father's sword is in my hand, His deep voice haunts mine ear; He tells me of the noble band, Whose lives have left a brooding glory here.