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← The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Opening

Part 1 of 15 · Hemans, Mrs. · Public domain text

About this edition

Source: Project Gutenberg e-text #66785, public domain in the United States · text not rewritten or summarized · How RedLectern is built

 

Contents (70)
  1. Opening about 3 h 48 min
  2. Canto II about 20 min
  3. Canto III about 39 min
  4. Part II about 1 h 48 min
  5. Act I, Scene II about 28 min
  6. Act I, Scene II — The House of Carmagnola. about 4 min
  7. Act I, Scene IV — A Prison. about 1 min
  8. Act I, Scene V about 1 h 5 min
  9. Dramatis Personæ under 1 min
  10. Act I, Scene I — A Valley, with vineyards and cottages. about 4 min
  11. Act I, Scene II — The Terrace of a Castle. about 5 min
  12. Act I, Scene III — The Sea-shore. about 9 min
  13. Act II, Scene I — Apartment in a Palace. about 2 min
  14. Act II, Scene II — A ruined Tower surrounded by woods. about 2 min
  15. Act II, Scene III — A Chapel, with a monument on which is laid a sword.--Moonlight. about 13 min
  16. Act III, Scene I — Apartment in a Palace. about 3 min
  17. Act III, Scene II — The Sea-shore. about 3 min
  18. Act III, Scene III — Gardens of a Palace. about 4 min
  19. Act III, Scene IV — Room in the Citadel of Palermo. about 1 min
  20. Act III, Scene V — A Banqueting Hall.--Provençal Nobles assembled. about 8 min
  21. Act IV, Scene I — A Street in Palermo. about 7 min
  22. Act IV, Scene II — A Hermitage surrounded by the Ruins of an Ancient Temple. about 6 min
  23. Act IV, Scene III — Hall of a Public Building. about 7 min
  24. Act V, Scene I — A Prison dimly lighted. about 5 min
  25. Act V, Scene II — A Street of Palermo. about 2 min
  26. Act V, Scene III — Prison of Raimond about 6 min
  27. Act V, Scene IV — Before the Gates of Palermo. about 1 min
  28. Act V, Scene V — Part of the Field of Battle. about 1 min
  29. Act V, Scene VI — Another part of the Field. about 1 min
  30. Act V, Scene VII — Garden of a Convent. about 56 min
  31. Part II about 2 h 35 min
  32. Dramatis Personæ under 1 min
  33. I. The sea-shore near Lisbon. about 7 min
  34. II. A Street in Lisbon illuminated. about 3 min
  35. III. The Portico of a Palace. about 2 min
  36. IV. A Hall within the Palace. about 6 min
  37. Dramatis Personæ about 1 min
  38. I. Room in a Palace of Valencia.--Ximena singing to a lute about 17 min
  39. II. The Aisle of a Gothic Church. about 17 min
  40. III. A Street in the City. about 2 min
  41. IV. A Tent in the Moorish Camp. about 9 min
  42. V. The Garden of a Palace in Valencia. about 21 min
  43. VII. The walls of the city. The plains beneath, with the Moorish Camp and Army. about 6 min
  44. VIII. Before the Altar of a Church. about 11 min
  45. IX. The walls of the city. about 27 min
  46. I. , ODE XXX under 1 min
  47. I. , ODE XXXVIII under 1 min
  48. II. , ODE III about 1 min
  49. III. , ODE XIII about 1 min
  50. III. , ODE XVIII about 2 min
  51. Dramatis Personæ under 1 min
  52. Act I, Scene I — Before the gates of a city in Palestine. about 2 min
  53. Act I, Scene II — A Hall of Oriental architecture, opening upon gardens. A fountain in the centre. about 2 min
  54. Act I, Scene III — A square of the city--a church in the background. about 4 min
  55. Act II, Scene I — A room in the Citadel. about 1 min
  56. Act II, Scene II — Garden of a Palace. about 2 min
  57. Act II, Scene III — Before a gateway within the city. about 2 min
  58. Act II, Scene IV — Before a Church. about 2 min
  59. Act III, Scene I — A platform before the Citadel. Knights entering. about 6 min
  60. Act III, Scene III — A hall in the citadel, hung with arms and banners. about 3 min
  61. Act IV, Scene I — Camp of Melech, the Saracen Emir. about 2 min
  62. Act IV, Scene II — Before a Fortress amongst Rocks, with a Desert beyond.--Military Music. about 7 min
  63. Act V, Scene I — A Hall in the Fortress occupied by De Chatillon’s followers about 3 min
  64. Act V, Scene II — A Pavilion in the Camp of Melech. about 39 min
  65. Part II (part 1 of 2) about 6 h 37 min
  66. Part II (part 2 of 2) about 3 h 26 min
  67. Introduction about 54 min
  68. I. A Prison. about 4 min
  69. II. Another part of the Prison. about 2 h 44 min
  70. Appendix about 2 h 6 min
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Opening

POEMS OF FELICIA HEMANS

MURRAY AND GIBB, EDINBURGH, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY’S STATIONERY OFFICE.

THE POEMS OF FELICIA HEMANS.

COMPLETE COPYRIGHT EDITION.

WILLIAM P. NIMMO, LONDON: 14 KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND; AND EDINBURGH.

1875.

JUVENILE POEMS. Page On my Mother’s Birthday. Written at the age of eight 1 A Prayer. Written at the age of nine ib. Address to the Deity. Written at the age of eleven ib. Shakspeare. Written at the age of eleven 2 To my Brother and Sister in the country. Written at the age of eleven ib. Sonnet to my Mother. Written at the age of twelve ib. Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteen 3 Rural Walks. Written at the age of thirteen ib. Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteen ib. England and Spain; or, Valour and Patriotism. Written at the age of fourteen 4

THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, &c.

The Silver Locks. Addressed to an Ancient Friend 10 To my Mother 11 To my Younger Brother. On his Return from Spain, after the fatal Retreat under Sir John Moore and the battle of Corunna ib. To my Eldest Brother, with the British army in Portugal 12 Lines written in the Memoirs of Elizabeth Smith ib. The Ruin and its Flowers 13 Christmas Carol 14 The Domestic Affections 15 To Mr Edwards, the Harper of Conway 19 Epitaph on Mr W----, a celebrated Mineralogist 20 Epitaph on the Hammer of the aforesaid Mineralogist ib. Prologue to The Poor Gentleman. As intended to be performed by the Officers of the 34th Regiment at Clonmel 21

THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY 22

MODERN GREECE 28 Critical Annotations 42

TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS.

Sonnet 70 43 Sonnet 282 From Psalm 137 ib. Part of Eclogue 15 44 Sonnet 271 44 Sonnet 186 ib. Sonnet 108 44 Sonnet 23 To a Lady who died at Sea 45 Sonnet 19 ib. “Que estranho caso de amor!” ib. Sonnet 58 ib. Sonnet 178 ib. Sonnet 80 46 Sonnet 239 From Psalm 137 ib. Sonnet 128 ib. “Polomeu apartamento” ib. Sonnet 205 47 Sonnet 133 ib. Sonnet 181 ib. Sonnet 278 ib. “Mi nueve y dulce querella” ib.

Metastasio.--“Dunque si sfoga in pianto” ib. -- “Al furor d’avversa Sorte” 48 -- “Quella onda che ruina” ib. -- “Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie” ib. -- “Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine” ib. -- “Parlagli d’un periglio” ib. -- “Sprezza il furor del vento” ib. -- “Sol può dir che sia contento” ib. -- “Ah! frenate le piante imbelle!” 49 Vincenzo da Filicaja.--“Italia! Italia! O tu cui diè la sorte” ib. Pastorini.--“Genova mia! se con asciutto ciglio” ib. Lope de Vega.--“Estese el cortesano” ib. Francisco Manuel.--On ascending a Hill leading to a Convent ib. Della Casa.--Venice 50 Il Marchese Cornelio Bentivoglio.--“L’anima bella, che dal vero Eliso” ib. Quevedo.--Rome buried in her own Ruins ib. El conde Juan de Tarsis.--“Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos”ib. Torquato Tasso.--“Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa” ib. Bernardo Tasso.--“Quest’ ombra che giammai non vide il sole” 51 Petrarch.--“Chi vuol veder quantunque può natura” ib. -- “Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde” ib. Pietro Bembo.--“O Muerte! que sueles ser” ib. Francesco Lorenzini.--“O Zefiretto, che movendo vai” ib. Gesner.--Morning Song 52 German Song.--“Mädchen, lernet Amor kennen” ib. Chaulieu.--“Grotte, d’où sort ce clair ruisseau” ib. Garcilaso de Vega.--“Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera” 52 Lorenzo de Medici.--Violets 53 Pindemonte.--On the Hebe of Canova ib.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Lines written in a Hermitage on the Sea-shore 54 Dirge of a Child ib. Invocation 55 To the Memory of General Sir E--D P--K--M ib. To the Memory of Sir H--Y E--LL--S, who fell in the battle of Waterloo 56 Guerilla Song. Founded on the story related of the Spanish patriot Mina ib. The Aged Indian, ib. Evening amongst the Alps 57 Dirge of the Highland Chief in “Waverley” ib. The Crusaders’ War-Song 58 The Death of Clanronald ib. To the Eye 59 The Hero’s Death, ib. Stanzas on the Death of the Princess Charlotte ib.

WALLACE’S INVOCATION TO BRUCE. 63 Advertisement by the Author, &c. ib.

TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.

The Abencerrage 67 The Widow of Crescentius 85 The Last Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra 93 Alaric in Italy 95 The Wife of Asdrubal 97 Heliodorus in the Temple 98 Night-scene in Genoa. From Sismondi’s “Républiques Italiennes” 99 The Troubadour and Richard Cœur-de-Lion 101 The Death of Conradin 103 Critical Annotations 105

THE SCEPTIC 106 Critical Annotations 113

SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION 114

ITALIAN LITERATURE.

The Basvigliana of Monti 118 The Alcestis of Alfieri 121 Il Conte di Carmagnola. A tragedy. By Alessandro Manzoni 125 Caius Gracchus. A tragedy. By Monti 133

PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN POETS. Vincenzo da Filicaja 138 Carlo Maria Maggi ib. Alessandro Marchetti ib. Alessandro Pegolotti ib. Francesco Maria de Conti.--The Shore of Africa ib. ---- Jeu-d’Esprit on the word “Barb” 139 The Fever-Dream ib.

DARTMOOR 141

WELSH MELODIES.

The Harp of Wales. Introductory stanzas 145 Druid Chorus on the Landing of the Romans ib. The Green Isles of Ocean 146 The Sea-Song of Gafran ib. The Hirlas Horn ib. The Hall of Cynddylan 147 The Lament of Llywarch Hen ib. Grufydd’s Feast 148 The Cambrian in America ib. Taliesin’s Prophecy ib. Owen Glyndwr’s War-Song 149 Prince Madoc’s Farewell ib. Caswallon’s Triumph 150 Howel’s Song ib. The Mountain Fires ib. Eryri Wen 151 Chant of the Bards before their Massacre by Edward I. ib. The Dying Bard’s Prophecy 152 The Fair Isle. For the melody called the “Welsh Ground” ib. The Rock of Cader Idris ib.

THE VESPERS OF PALERMO 153 Critical Annotations 186 ---- Stanzas to the Memory of George the Third 187

TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.

The Maremma 191 A Tale of the Secret Tribunal 194 The Caravan in the Deserts 210 Marius amongst the Ruins of Carthage 212 A Tale of the Fourteenth Century. A Fragment 213 Belshazzar’s Feast 219 The Last Constantine 221 Annotations on the Last Constantine 234 The League of the Alps; or, the Meeting of the Field of Grütli ib.

SONGS OF THE CID.

The Cid’s Departure into Exile 238 The Cid’s Deathbed ib. The Cid’s Funeral Procession 239 The Cid’s Rising 241

GREEK SONGS.

The Storm of Delphi 241 The Bowl of Liberty 242 The Voice of Scio 243 The Spartans’ March ib. The Urn and Sword 244 The Myrtle Bough ib.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

On a Flower from the Field of Grütli 244 On a Leaf from the Tomb of Virgil 245 The Chieftain’s Son ib. A Fragment ib. England’s Dead 246 The Meeting of the Bards. Written for an Eisteddvod, or meeting of Welsh Bards, held in London, May 22, 1822 246 The Voice of Spring 247 Elysium 249 The Funeral Genius. An Ancient Statue 250 The Tombs of Platæa 251 The View from Castri ib. The Festal Hour 252 Song of the Battle of Morgarten 253 Ode on the Defeat of King Sebastian of Portugal and his army in Africa. Translated from the Spanish of Herrera 254

SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL 256

THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA 262 Advertisement by the Author, ib. Critical Annotations 292

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Song. Founded on an Arabian Anecdote 293 Alp-Horn Song. Translated from the German of Tieck 294 The Cross of the South ib. The Sleeper of Marathon 295 To Miss F. A. L. on her Birthday ib. Written on the First Leaf of the Album of the Same ib. To the Same, on the Death of her Mother 296 From the Spanish of Garcilaso de la Vega ib. From the Italian of Sannazaro ib. Appearance of the Spirit of the Cape to Vasco de Gama. Translated from Camoens 297 A Dirge 298

TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE To Venus 298 To his Attendant ib. To Delius 299 To the Fountain of Bandusia ib. To Faunus ib.

DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS 300 Critical Annotations 315

THE FOREST SANCTUARY 316 Critical Annotations 336

LAYS OF MANY LANDS.

Moorish Bridal-Song 338 The Bird’s Release ib. The Sword of the Tomb. A Northern Legend 339 Valkyriur Song 340 The Cavern of the Three Tells. A Swiss Tradition 341 Swiss Song. On the Anniversary of an Ancient Battle 342 The Messenger Bird 343 Answer to The Messenger Bird, by an American Quaker Lady note, ib. The Stranger in Louisiana ib. The Isle of Founts. An Indian Tradition 344 The Bended Bow 345 He never smiled again 346 Cœur-de-Lion at the Bier of his Father ib. The Vassal’s Lament for the Fallen Tree 347 The Wild Huntsman 348 Brandenburg Harvest-Song. From the German of La Motte Fouqué 348 The Shade of Theseus. An Ancient Greek Tradition 349 Ancient Greek Song of Exile ib. Greek Funeral Chant, or Myriologue ib. Greek Parting Song 351 The Suliote Mother 352 The Farewell to the Dead 353

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

I go, Sweet Friends! 354 Angel Visits ib. Ivy Song. Written on receiving some Ivy-leaves gathered from the ruined Castle of Rheinfels, on the Rhine ib. To one of the Author’s children on his Birthday 355 On a Similar Occasion ib. Christ Stilling the Tempest ib. Epitaph over the Grave of Two Brothers 356 Monumental Inscription ib. The Sound of the Sea ib. The Child and Dove. Suggested by Chantrey’s statue of Lady Louisa Russell 357 A Dirge ib. Scene in a Dalecarlian Mine ib. English Soldier’s Song of Memory. To the air of “Am Rhein! Am Rhein!” 358 Haunted Ground ib. The Child of the Forests. Written after reading the Memoirs of John Hunter 359 Stanzas to the Memory of * * * 360 The Vaudois Valleys ib. Song of the Spanish Wanderer 361 The Contadina. Written for a Picture ib. Troubadour Song ib. The Treasures of the Deep ib. Bring Flowers 362 The Crusader’s Return 363 Thekla’s Song; or, the Voice of a Spirit. From the German of Schiller 364 The Revellers ib. The Conqueror’s Sleep 365 Our Lady’s Well ib. The Parting of Summer 366 The Songs of our Fathers ib. The World in the Open Air 367 Kindred Hearts ib. The Traveller at the Source of the Nile 368 Casabianca 369 The Dial of Flowers ib. Our Daily Paths 370 The Cross in the Wilderness 371 Last Rites 372 The Hebrew Mother ib. The Wreck 373 The Trumpet 374 Evening Prayer at a Girls’ School ib. The Hour of Death 375 The Lost Pleiad ib. The Cliffs of Dover 376 The Graves of Martyrs ib. The Hour of Prayer 377 The Voice of Home to the Prodigal ib. The Wakening 378 The Breeze from Shore ib. The Dying Improvisatore 379 Music of Yesterday ib. The Forsaken Hearth 380 The Dreamer ib. The Wings of the Dove 381 Psyche borne by Zephyrs to the Island of Pleasure 382 The Boon of Memory ib. Dramatic scene between Bronwylfa and Rhyllon 383

RECORDS OF WOMAN.

Arabella Stuart 385 The Bride of the Greek Isle 388 The Bride’s Farewell 389 The Switzer’s Wife 391 Properzia Rossi 392 Gertrude; or, Fidelity till Death 394 Imelda ib. Edith. A Tale of the Woods 396 The Indian City 398 The Peasant Girl of the Rhone 401 Indian Woman’s Death-Song 402 Joan of Arc in Rheims 403 Pauline 404 Juana 405 The American Forest Girl 406 Costanza 407 Madeline. A Domestic Tale 408 The Queen of Prussia’s Tomb 409 The Memorial Pillar 410 The Grave of a Poetess 411

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

The Homes of England 412 The Sicilian Captive ib. Ivan the Czar 413 Carolan’s Prophecy 414 The Lady of the Castle. From the “Portrait Gallery,” an unfinished poem 416 The Mourner for the Barmecides 417 The Spanish Chapel 418 The Kaiser’s Feast 419 Tasso and his Sister 420 Ulla; or, The Adjuration 421 To Wordsworth 422 A Monarch’s Death-bed 423 To the Memory of Heber ib. The Adopted Child ib. Invocation 424 Körner and his Sister ib. The Death-Day of Körner 425 An Hour of Romance 427 A Voyager’s Dream of Land ib. The Effigies 428 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England 429 The Spirit’s Mysteries ib. The Departed 430 The Palm-Tree ib. The Child’s Last Sleep. Suggested by a Monument of Chantrey’s 431 The Sunbeam ib. Breathings of Spring 432 The Illuminated City ib. The Spells of Home 433 Roman Girl’s Song ib. The Distant Ship 434 The Birds of Passage ib. The Graves of a Household 435 Mozart’s Requiem ib. The Image in Lava 436 Christmas Carol 437 A Father Reading the Bible ib. The Meeting of the Brothers ib. The Last Wish 438 Fairy Favours 439 Critical Annotations 440

SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.

A Spirit’s Return 442 The Lady of Provence 446 The Coronation of Inez de Castro 448 Italian Girl’s Hymn to the Virgin 449 To a Departed Spirit ib. The Chamois Hunter’s Love 450 The Indian with his Dead Child ib. Song of Emigration 451 The King of Arragon’s Lament for his Brother 452 The Return 453 The Vaudois Wife ib. The Guerilla Leader’s Vow 454 Thekla at her Lover’s Grave 455 The Sisters of Scio ib. Bernardo del Carpio 456 The Tomb of Madame Langhans 457 The Exile’s Dirge ib. The Dreaming Child 458 The Charmed Picture ib. Parting Words 459 The Message to the Dead ib. The Two Homes 460 The Soldier’s Death-bed 461 The Image in the Heart ib. The Land of Dreams 462 Woman on the Field of Battle ib. The Deserted House 463 The Stranger’s Heart 464 To a Remembered Picture ib. Come Home 465 The Fountain of Oblivion ib.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

The Bridal-Day 466 The Ancestral Song 467 The Magic Glass 468 Corinne at the Capitol 469 The Ruin ib. The Minster 470 The Song of Night 471 The Storm-Painter in his Dungeon ib. The Two Voices 472 The Parting Ship 473 The Last Tree of the Forest ib. The Streams 474 The Voice of the Wind 475 The Vigil of Arms 476 The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey ib. Nature’s Farewell 477 The Beings of the Mind ib. The Lyre’s Lament 478 Tasso’s Coronation 479 The Better Land ib. The Wounded Eagle 480 Sadness and Mirth ib. The Nightingale’s Death-Song 481 The Diver ib. The Requiem of Genius 482 Triumphant Music 483 Second-Sight ib. The Sea-Bird flying inland 484 The Sleeper ib. The Mirror in the Deserted Hall ib. To the Daughter of Bernard Barton, the Quaker Poet 485 The Star of the Mine ib. Washington’s Statue. Sent from England to America ib. A Thought of Home at Sea 486 To the Memory of a Sister-in-Law ib. To an Orphan ib. Hymn by the Sickbed of a Mother 487 Where is the Sea? Song of the Greek Islander in Exile ib. To my own Portrait ib. No More 488 Passing Away 489 The Angler ib. Death and the Warrior 490 Song. For an air by Hummel ib. To the Memory of Lord Charles Murray, son of the Duke of Atholl, who died in the cause and lamented by the people of Greece ib. The Broken Chain 491 The Shadow of a Flower ib. Lines to a Butterfly resting on a Skull ib. The Bell at Sea 492 The Subterranean Stream ib. The Silent Multitude 493 The Antique Sepulchre ib. Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants 494 The Memory of the Dead ib. He walked with God 495 The Rod of Aaron ib. The Voice of God ib. The Fountain of Marah 496 The Penitent’s Offering ib. The Sculptured Children ib. Woman and Fame 497 A Thought of the Future 498 The Voice of Music ib. The Angel’s Greeting 499 A Farewell to Wales ib. Impromptu Lines addressed to Miss F. A. L. on receiving from her some Flowers when confined by illness ib. A Parting Song 500 We return no more ib. To a Wandering Female Singer 501 Lights and Shades ib. The Palmer ib. The Child’s First Grief 502 To the New-Born ib. The Death-Song of Alcestis ib. The Home of Love 503 Books and Flowers 504 For a Picture of St Cecilia attended by Angels 505 The Brigand Leader and his Wife. Suggested by a picture of Eastlake’s 506 The Child’s Return from the Woodlands 506 The Faith of Love 507 The Sister’s Dream, ib. A Farewell to Abbotsford 508 O’Connor’s Child ib. The Prayer for Life 509 The Welcome to Death ib. The Victor 510 Lines written for the Album at Rosanna ib. The Voice of the Waves. Written near the scene of a recent Shipwreck 511 The Haunted House ib. The Shepherd-Poet of the Alps 512 To the Mountain-Winds 514 The Procession 515 The Broken Lute ib. The Burial in the Desert 516 To a Picture of the Madonna 517 A Thought of the Rose 518 Dreams of Heaven ib. The Wish 519 Written after visiting a Tomb near Woodstock, in the county of Kilkenny ib. Epitaph 520 Prologue to the Tragedy of Fiesco ib. To Giulio Regondi, the Boy Guitarist ib. O ye Hours! ib. The Freed Bird 521 Marguerite of France ib. The Wanderer 523 The Last Words of the Last Wasp of Scotland ib. To Caroline 524 The Flower of the Desert ib. Critical Annotations ib.

HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD.

Introductory Verses 528 The Rainbow 529 The Sun ib. The Rivers ib. The Stars 530 The Ocean ib. The Thunder-storm 531 The Birds ib. The Skylark. Child’s Morning Hymn 532 The Nightingale. Child’s Evening Hymn ib. The Northern Spring 533 Paraphrase of Psalm 148 ib.

NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC.

NATIONAL LYRICS.

The Themes of Song 534

Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after Victory. To the air of “Am Rhein! Am Rhein!” ib. A Song of Delos 535 Ancient Greek Chant of Victory 536 Naples. A Song of the Syren ib. The Fall of D’Assas. A Ballad of France 537 The Burial of William the Conqueror ib.

SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. Near thee! still near thee! 538 Oh! Droop thou not ib.

SONGS OF SPAIN. Ancient Battle-Song 539 The Zegri Maid ib. The Rio Verde Song ib. Seek by the Silvery Darro 540 Spanish Evening Hymn ib. Bird that art Singing on Ebro’s Side! ib. Moorish Gathering-Song ib. The Song of Mina’s Soldiers 541 Mother! Oh, sing me to rest ib. There are Sounds in the Dark Roncesvalles ib.

SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS. And I too in Arcadia 541 The Wandering Wind 542 Ye are not miss’d, fair Flowers! ib. The Willow Song ib. Leave me not yet 543 The Orange Bough ib. The Stream set Free ib. The Summer’s Call ib. Oh! Skylark, for thy Wing! 544

SONGS OF CAPTIVITY. Introduction 545 The Brother’s Dirge ib. The Alpine Horn ib. O ye Voices! ib. I Dream of all things Free 546 Far o’er the Sea ib. The Invocation ib. The Song of Hope ib.

MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. The Call to Battle 547 Mignon’s Song. Translated from Goethe ib. The Sisters. A Ballad 548 The Last Song of Sappho 549 Dirge ib. A Song of the Rose 550 Night-Blowing Flowers 551 The Wanderer and the Night-Flowers ib. Echo-Song ib. The Muffled Drum 552 The Swan and the Skylark ib. The Curfew-Song of England 553 Genius Singing to Love 554 Music at a Deathbed ib. Marshal Schwerin’s Grave 555 The Fallen Lime-Tree ib. The Bird at Sea 556 The Dying Girl and Flowers ib. The Ivy-Song 557 The Music of St Patrick’s ib. Keene; or, Lament of an Irish Mother over her Son Far Away 558 The Lyre and Flower 559 Sister! since I met thee last ib. The Lonely Bird ib. Dirge at Sea ib. Pilgrim’s Song to the Evening Star 560 The Meeting of the Ships ib. Come Away ib. Fair Helen of Kirkconnel 561 Music from Shore ib. Look on me with thy cloudless eyes 561 If thou hast crush’d a flower 562 Brightly hast thou fled ib. The Bed of Heath ib. Fairy Song ib. What Woke the Buried Sound 563 Sing to me, Gondolier! ib. Look on me thus no more ib. O’er the far blue Mountains ib. O thou Breeze of Spring! ib. Come to me, Dreams of Heaven! 564 Good-Night ib. Let her Depart ib. How can that Love so deep, so lone 565 Water-Lilies. A Fairy Song ib. The Broken Flower ib. I would we had not met again ib. Fairies’ Recall ib. The Rock beside the Sea 566 O ye Voices gone! ib. By a Mountain-Stream at rest ib. Is there some Spirit sighing ib. The Name of England 567 Old Norway. A Mountain War-song ib. Come to me, Gentle Sleep! ib.

SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE.

Preface 568 The English Martyrs. A scene of the days of Queen Mary ib. Flowers and Music in a Room of Sickness 572 Cathedral Hymn 574 Wood Walk and Hymn 576 Prayer of the Lonely Student 577 The Traveller’s Evening Song 579 Burial of an Emigrant’s Child in the Forests ib. Easter-Day in a Mountain Churchyard 581 The Child Reading the Bible 583 A Poet’s Dying Hymn ib. The Funeral-Day of Sir Walter Scott 585 The Prayer in the Wilderness 586 Prisoners’ Evening Service. A Scene of the French Revolution 587 Hymn of the Vaudois Mountaineers in times of Persecution 588 Prayer at Sea after Victory 589 The Indian’s Revenge. Scene in the life of a Moravian Missionary 590 Evening Song of the Weary 592 The Day of Flowers ib. Hymn of the Traveller’s Household on his Return--in the Olden Time 594 The Painter’s Last Work 595 A Prayer of Affection 596 Mother’s Litany by the Sick-bed of a Child ib. Night-Hymn at Sea. The words written for a melody by Felton 597

SONNETS.

FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE. Invocation ib. Invocation continued ib. The Song of Miriam 598 Ruth 598 The Vigil of Rizpah ib. The Reply of the Shunamite Woman ib. The Annunciation ib. The Song of the Virgin 599 The Penitent anointing Christ’s Feet ib. Mary at the Feet of Christ ib. The Sisters of Bethany after the Death of Lazarus ib. The Memorial of Mary 599 The Women of Jerusalem at the Cross ib. Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre 600 Mary Magdalene bearing Tidings of the Resurrection ib.

SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL. The Sacred Harp 600 To a Family Bible ib. Repose of a Holy Family. From an old Italian Picture ib. Picture of the Infant Christ with Flowers 601 On a Remembered Picture of Christ--an Ecce Homo by Leonardo da Vinci ib. The Children whom Jesus Blessed ib. Mountain Sanctuaries ib. The Lilies of the Field ib. The Birds of the Air 602 The Raising of the Widow’s Son ib. The Olive Tree ib. The Darkness of the Crucifixion ib. Places of Worship ib. Old Church in an English Park 603 A Church in North Wales ib. Louise Schepler ib. To the Same ib.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

The Two Monuments 604 The Cottage Girl ib. The Battle-Field 605 A Penitent’s Return ib. A Thought of Paradise 606 Let us Depart ib. On a Picture of Christ Bearing the Cross--painted by Velasquez 607 Communings with Thought ib. The Water-Lily 608 The Song of Penitence. Unfinished 609 Troubadour Song ib. The English Boy ib. To the Blue Anemone 610

SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE. Scenes from “Tasso” 611 Scenes from “Iphigenia.” A Fragment 616

RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834. A Vernal Thought 617 To the Sky ib. On Records of Immature Genius ib. On Watching the Flight of a Skylark 618 A Thought of the Sea ib. Distant Sound of the Sea at Evening ib. The River Clwyd in North Wales ib. Orchard-Blossoms 619 To a Distant Scene ib. A Remembrance of Grasmere ib. Thoughts connected with Trees ib. The Same ib. On Reading Paul and Virginia in Childhood 620 A Thought at Sunset ib. Images of Patriarchal Life ib. Attraction of the East ib. To an Aged Friend 620 A Happy Hour 621 Foliage ib. A Prayer ib. Prayer continued ib. Memorial of a Conversation 622

RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834. The Return to Poetry 622 To Silvio Pellico, on Reading his “Prigione” ib. To the Same released ib. On a Scene in the Dargle 623 On the Datura Arborea ib. On Reading Coleridge’s Epitaph ib. Design and Performance ib. Hope of Future Communion with Nature ib. Dreams of the Dead 624 The Poetry of the Psalms ib. Despondency and Aspiration ib. The Huguenot’s Farewell 626 Antique Greek Lament 627

THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. Intellectual Powers 627 Sickness like Night ib. On Retzsch’s Design of the Angel of Death ib. Remembrance of Nature ib. Flight of the Spirit ib. Flowers ib. Recovery 629 Sabbath Sonnet. Composed by Mrs Hemans a few days before her death ib. ---- Appendix 630 Index 642 Index to first lines 647

CHRONOLOGY OF MRS HEMANS’ LIFE AND WORKS

1793.

Felicia Dorothea Browne, born at Liverpool, Sept 25.

1800, (æt. 7.)

Removes with family from Liverpool to Gwrych, near Abergele, Denbighshire.--Shortly afterwards composes Lines on her Mother’s Birthday.

1804, (11.)

Spends winter in London.--Writes thence letter in rhyme to brother and sister in Wales.

1808, (15.)

Collection of poems printed in 4to.--England and Spain written.--Becomes acquainted with Captain Hemans.

1809, (16.)

Family remove to Bronwylfa in Flintshire.--Pursues her studies in French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese.--Acquires the elements of German; and shows a taste for drawing and music.

1812, (19.)

Domestic Affections and other poems published.--Marries Captain Hemans.--Takes up residence at Daventry, Northamptonshire.

1813, (20.)

Son Arthur born.--Returns to Bronwylfa.

1816, (23.)

Publishes Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy; also Modern Greece.

1818, (25.)

Makes Translations from Camoens and others.--Publishes Stanzas on the Death of Princess Charlotte, (Blackwood’s Magazine, April.)

1819, (26.)

Tales and Historic Scenes published.--Gains prize for best poem on the Meeting of Wallace and Bruce.--Captain Hemans takes up residence in Italy.--Family consists of five sons.

1820, (27.)

Publishes poem of Sceptic.--Becomes acquainted with Bishop Heber and his brother Richard.--Corresponds with Mr Gifford.--Contributes papers on Foreign Literature to Edinburgh Magazine.--Publishes Stanzas to the Memory of George the Third.--Visits Wavertree Lodge, near Liverpool, (October.)

1821, (28.)

Poem of Dartmoor obtains prize offered by Royal Society of Literature.--Corresponds with Rev. Mr Milman, and Dr Croly.--Writes Vespers of Palermo.--Extends her German studies. Writes Welsh Melodies.

1822, (29.)

Siege of Valencia, and Songs of the Cid written;--also dramatic fragment of Don Sebastian.

1823, (30.)

Contributes to Thomas Campbell’s New Monthly Magazine.--Voice of Spring written, (March.)--Siege of Valencia published, along with Last Constantine and Belshazzar’s Feast.--Vespers of Palermo performed at Covent Garden, (Dec. 12.)

1824, (31.)

Composes De Chatillon, revised MS. of which unfortunately lost.--Writes Lays of Many Lands.--Removes with family from Bronwylfa to Rhyllon.

1825, (32.)

Treasures of the Deep, The Hebrew Mother, The Hour of Death, Graves of a Household, The Cross in the Wilderness, and many other of her best lyrics written.

1826, (33.)

The Forest Sanctuary published, together with Lays of Many Lands.--Commences correspondence with Professor Norton of Boston, U.S., who republishes her works there.

1827, (34.)

Mrs Hemans loses her mother (11th January.)--Writes Hymns for Childhood, which are first published in America.--Corresponds with Joanna Baillie, Anne Grant, Mary Mitford, Caroline Bowles, Mary Howitt, and M. J. Jewsbury.--Writes Körner to his Sister, Homes of England, An Hour of Romance, The Palm-Tree, and many other lyrics.--Health becomes impaired.

1828, (35.)

Publishes with Mr Blackwood Records of Woman, and collected Miscellanies, (May.)--Contributes regularly to Blackwood’s Magazine.--Visits Wavertree Lodge early in summer.--Removes to village of Wavertree with family in September.

1829, (36.)

Writes Lady of Provence, To a Wandering Female Singer, The Child’s First Grief, The Better Land, and Miscellanies.--Voyages to Scotland, (June,) and visits Mr Henry M’Kenzie, Rev. Mr Alison, Lord Jeffrey, Sir Walter Scott, Captain Hamilton, Captain Basil Hall, and other distinguished literati.--Returns to England, (Sept.)--A Spirit’s Return composed.

1830, (37.)

Songs of the Affections published.--Visits the Lakes and Mr Wordsworth.--Domiciles during part of summer at Dove’s Nest, near Ambleside.--Revisits Scotland, (Aug.)--Returns by Dublin and Holyhead to Wales.

1831, (38.)

State of health delicate.--Quits England for last time, (April,) and proceeds to Dublin.--Visits the Hermitage, near Kilkenny, and Woodstock.--Returns to Dublin, (Aug.)--Writes various lyrics.

1832, (39.)

Health continues greatly impaired.--Writes Miscellaneous Lyrics, Songs of Spain, and Songs of a Guardian Spirit.

1833, (40.)

Feels recruited during spring.--Writes Songs of Captivity, Songs for Summer Hours, and many of Scenes and Hymns of Life.--Composes Sonnets Devotional and Memorial.--Commences translation of Scenes and Passages from German Authors, (December.)

1834, (41.)

Hymns for Childhood published (March;) also National Lyrics and Songs for Music.--Paper on Tasso, published in New Monthly Magazine, (May.)--Writes Fragment of Paper on Iphigenia.--Records of Spring 1834 written, (April, May, June.)--Is seized with fever; during convalescence retires into county of Wicklow.--Returns to Dublin in autumn, and has attack of ague.--Composes Records of Autumn 1834.--Writes Despondency and Aspiration, (Oct. and Nov.)--The Huguenot’s Farewell and Antique Greek Lament, (Nov.)--Thoughts during Sickness written, (Nov. and Dec.)--Retires during convalescence to Redesdale, a country-seat of the Archbishop of Dublin.

1835, (42.)

Returns to Dublin, (March.)--Debility gradually increases.--Corresponds regarding Sir Robert Peel’s appointment of her son Henry.--Dictates Sabbath Sonnet, (April 26.)--Departs this life, (16th May.)--Remains interred in vault beneath St Anne’s Church, Dublin.

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

MRS HEMANS

JUVENILE POEMS

ON MY MOTHER’S BIRTHDAY.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF EIGHT.

Clad in all their brightest green, This day the verdant fields are seen; The tuneful birds begin their lay, To celebrate thy natal day.

The breeze is still, the sea is calm, And the whole scene combines to charm; The flowers revive, this charming May, Because it is thy natal day.

The sky is blue, the day serene, And only pleasure now is seen; The rose, the pink, the tulip gay, Combine to bless thy natal day.

A PRAYER.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF NINE.

O God! my Father and my Friend, Ever thy blessings to me send; Let me have Virtue for my guide, And Wisdom always at my side. Thus cheerfully through life I’ll go, Nor ever feel the sting of woe; Contented with the humblest lot-- Happy, though in the meanest cot.

ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.

The infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire To swell the adoration of the lyre: Source of all good! oh, teach my voice to sing Thee, from whom Nature’s genuine beauties spring; Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise, Who saidst to Chaos, “let the earth arise.” O Author of the rich luxuriant year! Love, Truth, and Mercy in thy works appear: Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep, And e’en hast limited the mighty deep. Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways, And wake the voice of animated praise! Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub’s note; To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float. ’Tis not for me in lowly strains to sing Thee, God of mercy,--heaven’s immortal King! Yet to that happiness I’d fain aspire-- Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire: With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend, The grateful offering shall to Thee ascend. Yes! Thou wilt breathe a spirit o’er my lyre, And “fill my beating heart with sacred fire!” And when to Thee my youth, my life, I’ve given, Raise me to join Eliza,[1] blest in Heaven.

[1] A sister whom the author had lost.

SHAKSPEARE.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.

[One of her earliest tastes was a passion for Shakspeare, which she read, as her choicest recreation, at six years old; and in later days she would often refer to the hours of romance she had passed in a secret haunt of her own--a seat amongst the branches of an old apple-tree--where, revelling in the treasures of the cherished volume, she would become completely absorbed in the imaginative world it revealed to her. The following lines, written at eleven years old, may be adduced as a proof of her juvenile enthusiasm.--Memoir of Mrs Hemans by her Sister, p. 6, 7.]

I love to rove o’er history’s page, Recall the hero and the sage; Revive the actions of the dead, And memory of ages fled: Yet it yields me greater pleasure, To read the poet’s pleasing measure. Led by Shakspeare, bard inspired, The bosom’s energies are fired; We learn to shed the generous tear, O’er poor Ophelia’s sacred bier; To love the merry moonlit scene, With fairy elves in valleys green; Or, borne on fancy’s heavenly wings, To listen while sweet Ariel sings. How sweet the “native woodnotes wild” Of him, the Muse’s favourite child! Of him whose magic lays impart Each various feeling to the heart!

TO MY BROTHER AND SISTER IN THE COUNTRY.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.

[At about the age of eleven, she passed a winter in London with her father and mother; and a similar sojourn was repeated in the following year, after which she never visited the metropolis. The contrast between the confinement of a town life, and the happy freedom of her own mountain home, was even then so distasteful to her, that the indulgences of plays and sights soon ceased to be cared for, and she longed to rejoin her younger brother and sister in their favourite rural haunts and amusements--the nuttery wood, the beloved apple-tree, the old arbour, with its swing, the post-office tree, in whose trunk a daily interchange of family letters was established, the pool where fairy ships were launched (generally painted and decorated by herself,) and, dearer still, the fresh free ramble on the seashore, or the mountain expedition to the Signal Station, or the Roman Encampment. In one of her letters, the pleasure with which she looked forward to her return home was thus expressed in rhyme.--Mem. p. 8, 9.]

Happy soon we’ll meet again, Free from sorrow, care, and pain; Soon again we’ll rise with dawn, To roam the verdant dewy lawn; Soon the budding leaves we’ll hail, Or wander through the well-known vale; Or weave the smiling wreath of flowers; And sport away the light-wing’d hours. Soon we’ll run the agile race; Soon, dear playmates, we’ll embrace;-- Through the wheat-field or the grove, We’ll hand in hand delighted rove; Or, beneath some spreading oak, Ponder the instructive book; Or view the ships that swiftly glide, Floating on the peaceful tide; Or raise again the caroll’d lay; Or join again in mirthful play; Or listen to the humming bees, As their murmurs swell the breeze; Or seek the primrose where it springs; Or chase the fly with painted wings; Or talk beneath the arbour’s shade; Or mark the tender shooting blade: Or stray beside the babbling stream, When Luna sheds her placid beam; Or gaze upon the glassy sea---- Happy, happy shall we be!

SONNET TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TWELVE.

To thee, maternal guardian of my youth, I pour the genuine numbers free from art-- The lays inspired by gratitude and truth; For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart. Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care, To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief; With soothing tenderness to chase the tear, With fond endearments to impart relief: Be mine thy warm affection to repay With duteous love in thy declining hours; My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers, Perennial roses, to adorn thy way: Still may thy grateful children round thee smile-- Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile.

SONNET.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.

’Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest May hover round the virtuous man’s repose; And oft in visions animate his breast, And scenes of bright beatitude disclose. The ministers of Heaven, with pure control, May bid his sorrow and emotion cease, Inspire the pious fervour of his soul, And whisper to his bosom hallow’d peace. Ah, tender thought! that oft with sweet relief May charm the bosom of a weeping friend, Beguile with magic power the tear of grief, And pensive pleasure with devotion blend; While oft he fancies music, sweetly faint, The airy lay of some departed saint.

RURAL WALKS.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.

Oh! may I ever pass my happy hours In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowers; For every spot in sylvan beauty drest, And every landscape, charms my youthful breast. And much I love to hail the vernal morn, When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn; And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray, To cull the tender rosebuds in my way; And seek in every wild secluded dell, The weeping cowslip and the azure bell; With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew, To form the gay festoon of varied hue. And oft I seek the cultivated green, The fertile meadow, and the village scene; Where rosy children sport around the cot, Or gather woodbine from the garden spot. And there I wander by the cheerful rill, That murmurs near the osiers and the mill; To view the smiling peasants turn the hay, And listen to their pleasing festive lay. I love to loiter in the spreading grove, Or in the mountain scenery to rove; Where summits rise in awful grace around, With hoary moss and tufted verdure crown’d; Where cliffs in solemn majesty are piled, “And frown upon the vale” with grandeur wild: And there I view the mouldering tower sublime, Array’d in all the blending shades of Time.

The airy upland and the woodland green, The valley, and romantic mountain scene; The lowly hermitage, or fair domain, The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane; “And every spot in sylvan beauty drest, And every landscape, charms my youthful breast.”

SONNET.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.

[In 1808, a collection of her poems, which had long been regarded amongst her friends with a degree of admiration perhaps more partial than judicious, was submitted to the world, in the form (certainly an ill-advised one) of a quarto volume. Its appearance drew down the animadversions of some self-constituted arbiter of public taste,[2] and the young poetess was thus early initiated into the pains and perils attendant upon the career of an author;--though it may here be observed, that, as far as criticism was concerned, this was at once the first and last time she was destined to meet with any thing like harshness or mortification. Though this unexpected severity was felt bitterly for a few days, her buoyant spirit soon rose above it, and her effusions continued to be poured forth as spontaneously as the song of the skylark.]

I love to hail the mild and balmy hour When evening spreads around her twilight veil. When dews descend on every languid flower, And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale. Then let me wander by the peaceful tide, While o’er the wave the breezes lightly play; To hear the waters murmur as they glide, To mark the fading smile of closing day. There let me linger, blest in visions dear, Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas; While melting sounds decay on fancy’s ear, Of airy music floating on the breeze. For still when evening sheds the genial dews, That pensive hour is sacred to the muse.

[2] The criticism referred to, and which, considering the circumstances under which the volume appeared, was certainly somewhat ungenerous, and quite uncalled for, ran as follows:

--“We hear that these poems are the ‘genuine productions of a young lady, written between the ages of eight and thirteen years,’ and we do not feel inclined to question the intelligence; but although the fact may insure them an indulgent reception from all those who have ‘children dear,’ yet, when a little girl publishes a large quarto, we are disposed to examine before we admit her claims to public attention. Many of Miss Browne’s compositions are extremely jejune. However, though Miss Browne’s poems contain some erroneous and some pitiable lines, we must praise the ‘Reflections in a ruined Castle,’ and the poetic strain in which they are delivered. The lines to ‘Patriotism’ contain good thoughts and forcible images; and if the youthful author were to content herself for some years with reading instead of writing, we should open any future work from her pen with an expectation of pleasure, founded on our recollection of this publication; though we must, at the same time, observe, that premature talents are not always to be considered as signs of future excellence. The honeysuckle attains maturity before the oak.”--Monthly Review, 1809.

ENGLAND AND SPAIN; OR, VALOUR AND PATRIOTISM.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

----“His sword the brave man draws, And asks no omen but his country’s cause.”--Pope.

[New sources of inspiration were now opening to her view. Birthday addresses, songs by the seashore, and invocations to fairies, were henceforth to be diversified with warlike themes; and trumpets and banners now floated through the dreams in which birds and flowers had once reigned paramount. Her two elder brothers had entered the army at an early age, and were both serving in the 23d Royal Welsh Fusiliers. One of them was now engaged in the Spanish campaign under Sir John Moore; and a vivid imagination and enthusiastic affections being alike enlisted in the cause, her young mind was filled with glorious visions of British valour and Spanish patriotism. In her ardent view, the days of chivalry seemed to be restored, and the very names which were of daily occurrence in the despatches, were involuntarily associated with the deeds of Roland and his Paladins, or of her own especial hero, “The Cid Ruy Diaz,” the Campeador. Under the inspiration of these feelings, she composed a poem entitled “England and Spain,” which was published and afterwards translated into Spanish. This cannot but be considered as a very remarkable production for a girl of fourteen; lofty sentiments, correctness of language, and historical knowledge, being all strikingly displayed in it.--Memoir, p. 10, 11.]

Too long have Tyranny and Power combined To sway, with iron sceptre, o’er mankind; Long has Oppression worn th’ imperial robe, And Rapine’s sword has wasted half the globe! O’er Europe’s cultured realms, and climes afar, Triumphant Gaul has pour’d the tide of war: To her fair Austria veil’d the standard bright; Ausonia’s lovely plains have own’d her might; While Prussia’s eagle, never taught to yield, Forsook her towering height on Jena’s field!

O gallant Frederic! could thy parted shade Have seen thy country vanquish’d and betray’d, How had thy soul indignant mourn’d her shame, Her sullied trophies, and her tarnish’d fame! When Valour wept lamented Brunswick’s doom, And nursed with tears the laurels on his tomb; When Prussia, drooping o’er her hero’s grave, Invoked his spirit to descend and save; Then set her glories--then expired her sun, And fraud achieved e’en more than conquest won!

O’er peaceful realms, that smiled with plenty gay, Has desolation spread her ample sway; Thy blast, O Ruin! on tremendous wings, Has proudly swept o’er empires, nations, kings. Thus the wild hurricane’s impetuous force With dark destruction marks its whelming course, Despoils the woodland’s pomp, the blooming plain, Death on its pinion, vengeance in its train! --Rise, Freedom, rise! and, breaking from thy trance, Wave the dread banner, seize the glittering lance! With arm of might assert thy sacred cause, And call thy champions to defend thy laws! How long shall tyrant power her throne maintain? How long shall despots and usurpers reign? Is honour’s lofty soul for ever fled! Is virtue lost? is martial ardour dead? Is there no heart where worth and valour dwell, No patriot Wallace, no undaunted Tell? Yes, Freedom! yes! thy sons, a noble band, Around thy banner, firm, exulting stand; Once more, ’tis thine, invincible to wield The beamy spear and adamantine shield! Again thy cheek with proud resentment glows, Again thy lion-glance appals thy foes; Thy kindling eye-beam darts unconquer’d fires, Thy look sublime the warrior’s heart inspires; And, while to guard thy standard and thy right, Castilians rush, intrepid, to the fight, Lo! Britain’s generous host their aid supply, Resolved for thee to triumph or to die; And Glory smiles to see Iberia’s name Enroll’d with Albion’s in the book of fame!

Illustrious names! still, still united beam, Be still the hero’s boast, the poet’s theme: So, when two radiant gems together shine, And in one wreath their lucid light combine; Each, as it sparkles with transcendant rays, Adds to the lustre of its kindred blaze.

Descend, O Genius! from thy orb descend! Thy glowing thought, thy kindling spirit lend! As Memnon’s harp (so ancient fables say) With sweet vibration meets the morning ray, So let the chords thy heavenly presence own, And swell a louder note, a nobler tone; Call from the sun, her burning throne on high, The seraph Ecstasy, with lightning eye; Steal from the source of day empyreal fire, And breathe the soul of rapture o’er the lyre!

Hail, Albion! hail, thou land of freedom’s birth! Pride of the main, and Phœnix of the earth! Thou second Rome, where mercy, justice, dwell, Whose sons in wisdom as in arms excel!

Thine are the dauntless bands, like Spartans brave, Bold in the field, triumphant on the wave; In classic elegance and arts divine, To rival Athens’ fairest palm is thine; For taste and fancy from Hymettus fly, And richer bloom beneath thy varying sky, Where Science mounts in radiant car sublime To other worlds beyond the sphere of time! Hail, Albion, hail! to thee has fate denied Peruvian mines and rich Hindostan’s pride, The gems that Ormuz and Golconda boast, And all the wealth of Montezuma’s coast: For thee no Parian marbles brightly shine, No glowing suns mature the blushing vine; No light Arabian gales their wings expand, To waft Sabæan incense o’er the land; No graceful cedars crown thy lofty hills, No trickling myrrh for thee its balm distils; Not from thy trees the lucid amber flows, And far from thee the scented cassia blows: Yet fearless Commerce, pillar of thy throne, Makes all the wealth of foreign climes thy own; From Lapland’s shore to Afric’s fervid reign, She bids thy ensigns float above the main; Unfurls her streamers to the favouring gale, And shows to other worlds her daring sail: Then wafts their gold, their varied stores to thee, Queen of the trident! empress of the sea!

For this thy noble sons have spread alarms, And bade the zones resound with Britain’s arms! Calpè’s proud rock, and Syria’s palmy shore, Have heard and trembled at their battle’s roar; The sacred waves of fertilising Nile Have seen the triumphs of the conquering isle; For this, for this, the Samiel-blast of war Has roll’d o’er Vincent’s cape and Trafalgar! Victorious Rodney spread thy thunder’s sound, And Nelson fell, with fame immortal crown’d-- Blest if their perils and their blood could gain, To grace thy hand, the sceptre of the main! The milder emblems of the virtues calm-- The poet’s verdant bay, the sage’s palm-- These in thy laurel’s blooming foliage twine, And round thy brows a deathless wreath combine: Not Mincio’s banks, nor Meles’ classic tide, Are hallow’d more than Avon’s haunted side; Nor is thy Thames a less inspiring theme Than pure Ilissus, or than Tiber’s stream.

Bright in the annals of th’ impartial page, Britannia’s heroes live from age to age! From ancient days, when dwelt her savage race, Her painted natives, foremost in the chase, Free from all cares for luxury or gain, Lords of the wood and monarchs of the plain; To these Augustan days, when social arts Refine and meliorate her manly hearts; From doubtful Arthur--hero of romance, King of the circled board, the spear, the lance-- To those whose recent trophies grace her shield, The gallant victors of Vimeira’s field; Still have her warriors borne th’ unfading crown And made the British flag the ensign of renown.

Spirit of Alfred! patriot soul sublime! Thou morning-star of error’s darkest time! Prince of the Lion-heart! whose arm in fight, On Syria’s plains repell’d Saladin’s might! Edward! for bright heroic deeds revered, By Cressy’s fame to Britain still endear’d! Triumphant Henry! thou, whose valour proud, The lofty plume of crested Gallia bow’d! Look down, look down, exalted shades! and view Your Albion still to freedom’s banner true! Behold the land, ennobled by your fame, Supreme in glory, and of spotless name: And, as the pyramid indignant rears Its awful head, and mocks the waste of years; See her secure in pride of virtue tower, While prostrate nations kiss the rod of power!

Lo! where her pennons, waving high, aspire, Bold Victory hovers near, “with eyes of fire!” While Lusitania hails, with just applause, The brave defenders of her injured cause; Bids the full song, the note of triumph rise, And swells th’ exulting pæan to the skies!

And they, who late with anguish, hard to tell, Breathed to their cherish’d realms a sad farewell! Who, as the vessel bore them o’er the tide, Still fondly linger’d on its deck, and sigh’d; Gazed on the shore, till tears obscured their sight, And the blue distance melted into light-- The Royal exiles, forced by Gallia’s hate To fly for refuge in a foreign state-- They, soon returning o’er the western main, Ere long may view their clime beloved again: And as the blazing pillar led the host Of faithful Israel o’er the desert coast, So may Britannia guide the noble band O’er the wild ocean to their native land. O glorious isle!--O sovereign of the waves! Thine are the sons who “never will be slaves!” See them once more, with ardent hearts advance, And rend the laurels of insulting France; To brave Castile their potent aid supply, And wave, O Freedom! wave thy sword on high!

Is there no bard of heavenly power possess’d To thrill, to rouse, to animate the breast? Like Shakspeare o’er the secret mind to sway, And call each wayward passion to obey? Is there no bard, imbued with hallow’d fire, To wake the chords of Ossian’s magic lyre; Whose numbers breathing all his flame divine, The patriot’s name to ages might consign? Rise, Inspiration! rise! be this thy theme, And mount, like Uriel, on the golden beam!

Oh, could my muse on seraph pinion spring, And sweep with rapture’s hand the trembling string! Could she the bosom energies control, And pour impassion’d fervour o’er the soul! Oh, could she strike the harp to Milton given, Brought by a cherub from th’ empyrean heaven! Ah, fruitless wish! ah, prayer preferr’d in vain, For her--the humblest of the woodland train; Yet shall her feeble voice essay to raise The hymn of liberty, the song of praise!

Iberian bands! whose noble ardour glows To pour confusion on oppressive foes; Intrepid spirits, hail! ’tis yours to feel The hero’s fire, the freeman’s godlike zeal! Not to secure dominion’s boundless reign, Ye wave the flag of conquest o’er the slain; No cruel rapine leads you to the war, Nor mad ambition, whirl’d in crimson car. No, brave Castilians! yours a nobler end, Your land, your laws, your monarch to defend! For these, for these, your valiant legions rear The floating standard, and the lofty spear! The fearless lover wields the conquering sword, Fired by the image of the maid adored! His best-beloved, his fondest ties, to aid, The father’s hand unsheaths the glittering blade! For each, for all, for ev’ry sacred right, The daring patriot mingles in the fight! And e’en if love or friendship fail to warm, His country’s name alone can nerve his dauntless arm!

He bleeds! he falls! his deathbed is the field! His dirge the trumpet, and his bier the shield! His closing eyes the beam of valour speak, The flush of ardour lingers on his cheek; Serene he lifts to heaven those closing eyes, Then for his country breathes a prayer--and dies! Oh! ever hallow’d be his verdant grave-- There let the laurel spread, the cypress wave! Thou, lovely Spring! bestow, to grace his tomb, Thy sweetest fragrance, and thy earliest bloom; There let the tears of heaven descend in balm, There let the poet consecrate his palm! Let honour, pity, bless the holy ground, And shades of sainted heroes watch around! ’Twas thus, while Glory rung his thrilling knell, Thy chief, O Thebes! at Mantinea fell; Smiled undismay’d within the arms of death, While Victory, weeping nigh, received his breath!

O thou, the sovereign of the noble soul! Thou source of energies beyond control! Queen of the lofty thought, the generous deed, Whose sons unconquer’d fight, undaunted bleed,-- Inspiring Liberty! thy worshipp’d name The warm enthusiast kindles to a flame; Thy charms inspire him to achievements high, Thy look of heaven, thy voice of harmony. More blest with thee to tread perennial snows, Where ne’er a flower expands, a zephyr blows; Where Winter, binding nature in his chain, In frost-work palace holds perpetual reign; Than, far from thee, with frolic step to rove The green savannas and the spicy grove; Scent the rich balm of India’s perfumed gales, In citron-woods and aromatic vales: For oh! fair Liberty, when thou art near, Elysium blossoms in the desert drear!

Where’er thy smile its magic power bestows, There arts and taste expand, there fancy glows; The sacred lyre its wild enchantment gives, And every chord to swelling transport lives; There ardent Genius bids the pencil trace The soul of beauty, and the lines of grace; With bold Promethean hand, the canvass warms, And calls from stone expression’s breathing forms. Thus, where the fruitful Nile o’erflows its bound, Its genial waves diffuse abundance round, Bid Ceres laugh o’er waste and sterile sands, And rich profusion clothe deserted lands.

Immortal Freedom! daughter of the skies! To thee shall Britain’s grateful incense rise. Ne’er, goddess! ne’er forsake thy favourite isle, Still be thy Albion brighten’d with thy smile! Long had thy spirit slept in dead repose, While proudly triumph’d thine insulting foes; Yet, though a cloud may veil Apollo’s light, Soon, with celestial beam, he breaks to sight: Once more we see thy kindling soul return, Thy vestal-flame with added radiance burn; Lo! in Iberian hearts thine ardour lives, Lo! in Iberian hearts thy spark revives!

Proceed, proceed, ye firm undaunted band! Still sure to conquer, if combined ye stand. Though myriads flashing in the eye of day Stream’d o’er the smiling land in long array, Though tyrant Asia pour’d unnumber’d foes, Triumphant still the arm of Greece arose;-- For every state in sacred union stood, Strong to repel invasion’s whelming flood; Each heart was glowing in the general cause, Each hand prepared to guard their hallow’d laws; Athenian valour join’d Laconia’s might, And but contended to be first in fight; From rank to rank the warm contagion ran, And Hope and Freedom led the flaming van. Then Persia’s monarch mourn’d his glories lost, As wild confusion wing’d his flying host; Then Attic bards the hymn of victory sung, The Grecian harp to notes exulting rung! Then Sculpture bade the Parian stone record The high achievements of the conquering sword. Thus, brave Castilians! thus may bright renown And fair success your valiant efforts crown!

Genius of chivalry! whose early days Tradition still recounts in artless lays; Whose faded splendours fancy oft recalls-- The floating banners and the lofty halls, The gallant feats thy festivals display’d, The tilt, the tournament, the long crusade; Whose ancient pride Romance delights to hail, In fabling numbers, or heroic tale: Those times are fled, when stern thy castles frown’d, Their stately towers with feudal grandeur crown’d; Those times are fled, when fair Iberia’s clime Beheld thy Gothic reign, thy pomp sublime; And all thy glories, all thy deeds of yore, Live but in legends wild, and poet’s lore. Lo! where thy silent harp neglected lies, Light o’er its chords the murmuring zephyr sighs; Thy solemn courts, where once the minstrel sung, The choral voice of mirth and music rung; Now, with the ivy clad, forsaken, lone, Hear but the breeze and echo to its moan: Thy lonely towers deserted fall away, Thy broken shield is mouldering in decay. Yet, though thy transient pageantries are gone, Like fairy visions, bright, yet swiftly flown; Genius of chivalry! thy noble train, Thy firm, exalted virtues yet remain! Fair truth, array’d in robes of spotless white, Her eye a sunbeam, and her zone of light; Warm emulation, with aspiring aim, Still darting forward to the wreath of fame; And purest love, that waves his torch divine, At awful honour’s consecrated shrine; Ardour, with eagle-wing and fiery glance; And generous courage, resting on his lance; And loyalty, by perils unsubdued; Untainted faith, unshaken fortitude; And patriot energy, with heart of flame-- These, in Iberia’s sons are yet the same! These from remotest days their souls have fired, “Nerved every arm,” and every breast inspired! When Moorish bands their suffering land possess’d, And fierce oppression rear’d her giant crest, The wealthy caliphs on Cordova’s throne In eastern gems and purple splendour shone; Theirs was the proud magnificence that vied With stately Bagdat’s oriental pride; Theirs were the courts in regal pomp array’d, Where arts and luxury their charms display’d; ’Twas theirs to rear the Zehrar’s costly towers, Its fairy-palace and enchanted bowers; There all Arabian fiction e’er could tell Of potent genii or of wizard spell-- All that a poet’s dream could picture bright, One sweet Elysium, charm’d the wondering sight! Too fair, too rich, for work of mortal hand, It seem’d an Eden from Armida’s wand!

Yet vain their pride, their wealth, and radiant state, When freedom waved on high the sword of fate! When brave Ramiro bade the despots fear, Stem retribution frowning on his spear; And fierce Almanzor, after many a fight, O’erwhelm’d with shame, confess’d the Christian’s might.

In later times the gallant Cid arose, Burning with zeal against his country’s foes; His victor-arm Alphonso’s throne maintain’d, His laureate brows the wreath of conquest gain’d! And still his deeds Castilian bards rehearse, Inspiring theme of patriotic verse! High in the temple of recording fame, Iberia points to great Gonsalvo’s name! Victorious chief! whose valour still defied The arms of Gaul, and bow’d her crested pride; With splendid trophies graced his sovereign’s throne, And bade Granada’s realms his prowess own. Nor were his deeds thy only boast, O Spain! In mighty Ferdinand’s illustrious reign; ’Twas then thy glorious Pilot spread the sail, Unfurl’d his flag before the eastern gale; Bold, sanguine, fearless, ventured to explore Seas unexplored, and worlds unknown before. Fair science guided o’er the liquid realm, Sweet hope, exulting, steer’d the daring helm; While on the mast, with ardour-flashing eye, Courageous enterprise still hover’d nigh: The hoary genius of th’ Atlantic main Saw man invade his wide majestic reign-- His empire, yet by mortal unsubdued, The throne, the world of awful solitude. And e’en when shipwreck seem’d to rear his form, And dark destruction menaced in the storm; In every shape when giant-peril rose, To daunt his spirit and his course oppose; O’er ev’ry heart when terror sway’d alone, And hope forsook each bosom but his own: Moved by no dangers, by no fears repell’d, His glorious track the gallant sailor held; Attentive still to mark the sea-birds lave, Or high in air their snowy pinions wave. Thus princely Jason, launching from the steep, With dauntless prow explored th’ untravell’d deep; Thus, at the helm, Ulysses’ watchful sight View’d ev’ry star and planetary light. Sublime Columbus! when, at length descried, The long-sought land arose above the tide, How every heart with exultation glow’d, How from each eye the tear of transport flow’d! Not wilder joy the sons of Israel knew When Canaan’s fertile plains appear’d in view. Then rose the choral anthem on the breeze, Then martial music floated o’er the seas; Their waving streamers to the sun display’d, In all the pride of warlike pomp array’d. Advancing nearer still, the ardent band Hail’d the glad shore, and bless’d the stranger land; Admired its palmy groves and prospects fair, With rapture breathed its pure ambrosial air: Then crowded round its free and simple race, Amazement pictured wild on every face; Who deem’d that beings of celestial birth, Sprung from the sun, descended to the earth. Then first another world, another sky, Beheld Iberia’s banner blaze on high!

Still prouder glories beam on history’s page, Imperial Charles! to mark thy prosperous age Those golden days of arts and fancy bright, When Science pour’d her mild, refulgent light; When Painting bade the glowing canvass breathe Creative Sculpture claim’d the living wreath; When roved the Muses in Ausonian bowers, Weaving immortal crowns of fairest flowers; When angel-truth dispersed, with beam divine, The clouds that veil’d religion’s hallow’d shrine Those golden days beheld Iberia tower High on the pyramid of fame and power; Vain all the efforts of her numerous foes, Her might, superior still, triumphant rose. Thus on proud Lebanon’s exalted brow, The cedar, frowning o’er the plains below, Though storms assail, its regal pomp to rend, Majestic, still aspires, disdaining e’er to bend!

When Gallia pour’d to Pavia’s trophied plain, Her youthful knights, a bold, impetuous train; When, after many a toil and danger past, The fatal morn of conflict rose at last; That morning saw her glittering host combine, And form in close array the threat’ning line; Fire in each eye, and force in ev’ry arm, With hope exulting, and with ardour warm; Saw to the gale their streaming ensigns play, Their armour flashing to the beam of day; Their gen’rous chargers panting, spurn the ground, Roused by the trumpet’s animating sound; And heard in air their warlike music float, The martial pipe, the drum’s inspiring note!

Pale set the sun--the shades of evening fell, The mournful night-wind rung their funeral knell; And the same day beheld their warriors dead, Their sovereign captive, and their glories fled! Fled, like the lightning’s evanescent fire, Bright, blazing, dreadful--only to expire! Then, then, while prostrate Gaul confess’d her might, Iberia’s planet shed meridian light! Nor less, on famed St Quintin’s deathful day, Castilian spirit bore the prize away-- Laurels that still their verdure shall retain, And trophies beaming high in glory’s fane! And lo! her heroes, warm with kindred flame, Still proudly emulate their fathers’ fame; Still with the soul of patriot-valour glow, Still rush impetuous to repel the foe; Wave the bright falchion, lift the beamy spear, And bid oppressive Gallia learn to fear! Be theirs, be theirs unfading honour’s crown, The living amaranths of bright renown! Be theirs th’ inspiring tribute of applause, Due to the champions of their country’s cause! Be theirs the purest bliss that virtue loves, The joy when conscience whispers and approves! When every heart is fired, each pulse beats high, To fight, to bleed, to fall, for liberty; When every hand is dauntless and prepared The sacred charter of mankind to guard; When Britain’s valiant sons their aid unite, Fervent and glowing still for freedom’s right, Bid ancient enmities for ever cease, And ancient wrongs forgotten sleep in peace. When, firmly leagued, they join the patriot band, Can venal slaves their conquering arms withstand? Can fame refuse their gallant deeds to bless? Can victory fail to crown them with success? Look down, O Heaven! the righteous cause maintain, Defend the injured, and avenge the slain! Despot of France! destroyer of mankind! What spectre-cares must haunt thy sleepless mind! Oh! if at midnight round thy regal bed, When soothing visions fly thine aching head; When sleep denies thy anxious cares to calm, And lull thy senses in his opiate balm; Invoked by guilt, if airy phantoms rise, And murder’d victims bleed before thine eyes; Loud let them thunder in thy troubled ear, “Tyrant! the hour, th’ avenging hour is near!” It is, it is! thy star withdraws its ray-- Soon will its parting lustre fade away; Soon will Cimmerian shades obscure its light, And veil thy splendours in eternal night! Oh! when accusing conscience wakes thy soul With awful terrors and with dread control, Bids threat’ning forms, appalling, round thee stand, And summons all her visionary band; Calls up the parted shadows of the dead, And whispers, peace and happiness are fled; E’en at the time of silence and of rest, Paints the dire poniard menacing thy breast; Is then thy cheek with guilt and horror pale? Then dost thou tremble, does thy spirit fail? And wouldst thou yet by added crimes provoke The bolt of heaven to launch the fatal stroke? Bereave a nation of its rights revered, Of all to morals sacred and endear’d? And shall they tamely liberty resign, The soul of life, the source of bliss divine? Canst thou, supreme destroyer! hope to bind, In chains of adamant, the noble mind? Go, bid the rolling orbs thy mandate hear-- Go, stay the lightning in its wing’d career! No, tyrant! no! thy utmost force is vain The patriot-arm of freedom to restrain. Then bid thy subject-bands in armour shine, Then bid thy legions all their power combine! Yet couldst thou summon myriads at command, Did boundless realms obey thy sceptred hand, E’en then her soul thy lawless might would spurn, E’en then, with kindling fire, with indignation burn!

Ye sons of Albion! first in danger’s field, The sword of Britain and of truth to wield! Still prompt the injured to defend and save, Appal the despot, and assist the brave; Who now intrepid lift the generous blade, The cause of Justice and Castile to aid! Ye sons of Albion! by your country’s name, Her crown of glory, her unsullied fame; Oh! by the shades of Cressy’s martial dead, By warrior-bands at Agincourt who bled; By honours gain’d on Blenheim’s fatal plain, By those in Victory’s arms at Minden slain; By the bright laurels Wolfe immortal won, Undaunted spirit! valour’s favourite son! By Albion’s thousand, thousand deeds sublime, Renown’d from zone to zone, from clime to clime; Ye British heroes! may your trophies raise A deathless monument to future days! Oh! may your courage still triumphant rise, Exalt the “lion banner” to the skies! Transcend the fairest names in history’s page, The brightest actions of a former age; The reign of Freedom let your arms restore, And bid oppression fall--to rise no more! Then soon returning to your native isle, May love and beauty hail you with their smile; For you may conquest weave th’ undying wreath, And fame and glory’s voice the song of rapture breathe!

Ah! when shall mad ambition cease to rage? Ah! when shall war his demon-wrath assuage? When, when, supplanting discord’s iron reign, Shall mercy wave her olive-wand again? Not till the despot’s dread career is closed, And might restrain’d and tyranny deposed!

Return, sweet Peace, ethereal form benign! Fair blue-eyed seraph! balmy power divine! Descend once more! thy hallow’d blessings bring, Wave thy bright locks, and spread thy downy wing! Luxuriant plenty, laughing in thy train, Shall crown with glowing stores the desert-plain: Young smiling Hope, attendant on thy way, Shall gild thy path with mild celestial ray. Descend once more, thou daughter of the sky! Cheer every heart, and brighten every eye; Justice, thy harbinger, before thee send, Thy myrtle-sceptre o’er the globe extend: Thy cherub-look again shall soothe mankind, Thy cherub-hand the wounds of discord bind; Thy smile of heaven shall every muse inspire, To thee the bard shall strike the silver lyre. Descend once more! to bid the world rejoice-- Let nations hail thee with exulting voice, Around thy shrine with purest incense throng, Weave the fresh palm, and swell the choral song! Then shall the shepherd’s flute, the woodland reed, The martial clarion and the drum succeed; Again shall bloom Arcadia’s fairest flowers, And music warble in Idalian bowers. Where war and carnage blew the blast of death, The gale shall whisper with Favonian breath; And golden Ceres bless the festive swain, Where the wild combat redden’d o’er the plain. These are thy blessings, fair benignant maid! Return, return, in vest of light array’d! Let angel-forms and floating sylphids bear Thy car of sapphire through the realms of air: With accents milder than Æolian lays, When o’er the harp the fanning zephyr plays, Be thine to charm the raging world to rest, Diffusing round the heaven that glows within thy breast!

O Thou! whose fiat lulls the storm asleep! Thou, at whose nod subsides the rolling deep! Whose awful word restrains the whirlwind’s force, And stays the thunder in its vengeful course; Fountain of life! Omnipotent Supreme! Robed in perfection! crown’d with glory’s beam! Oh! send on earth thy consecrated dove, To bear the sacred olive from above; Restore again the blest, the halcyon time, The festal harmony of nature’s prime! Bid truth and justice once again appear, And spread their sunshine o’er this mundane sphere; Bright in their path, let wreaths unfading bloom, Transcendant light their hallow’d fane illume; Bid war and anarchy for ever cease, And kindred seraphs rear the shrine of Peace; Brothers once more, let men her empire own, And realms and monarchs bend before the throne, While circling rays of angel-mercy shed Eternal haloes round her sainted head!

THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, AND OTHER POEMS.

[In 1812, another and much smaller volume, entitled The Domestic Affections, and other Poems, was given to the world--the last that was to appear with the name of Felicia Browne; for, in the summer of the same year, its author exchanged that appellation for the one under which she has become so much more generally known. Captain Hemans had returned to Wales in the preceding year, when the acquaintance was renewed which had begun so long before at Gwrych; and as the sentiments then mutually awakened continued unaltered, no further opposition was made to a union, on which (however little in accordance with the dictates of worldly prudence) the happiness of both parties seemed so entirely to depend.--Memoir, p. 24.]

THE SILVER LOCKS.

ADDRESSED TO AN AGED FRIEND.

Though youth may boast the curls that flow In sunny waves of auburn glow; As graceful on thy hoary head Has Time the robe of honour spread, And there, oh! softly, softly shed His wreath of snow!

As frost-work on the trees display’d When weeping Flora leaves the shade, E’en more than Flora, charms the sight; E’en so thy locks of purest white Survive, in age’s frost-work bright, Youth’s vernal rose decay’d!

To grace the nymph whose tresses play Light on the sportive breeze of May, Let other bards the garland twine, Where sweets of every hue combine; Those locks revered, that silvery shine, Invite my lay!

Less white the summer-cloud sublime, Less white the winter’s fringing rime; Nor do Belinda’s lovelier seem (A Poet’s blest immortal theme) Than thine, which wear the moonlight beam Of reverend Time!

Long may the graceful honours smile, Like moss on some declining pile; O much revered! may filial care Around thee, duteous, long repair, Thy joys with tender bliss to share, Thy pains beguile!

Long, long, ye snowy ringlets, wave! Long, long, your much-loved beauty save! May bliss your latest evening crown, Disarm life’s winter of its frown, And soft, ye hoary hairs, go down In gladness to the grave!

And as the parting beams of day On mountain-snows reflected play, And tints of roseate lustre shed; Thus, on the snow that crowns thy head, May joy, with evening planet, shed His mildest ray!

August 18, 1809.

TO MY MOTHER.

If e’er from human bliss or woe I feel the sympathetic glow; If e’er my heart has learn’d to know The generous wish or prayer; Who sow’d the germ with tender hand? Who mark’d its infant leaves expand?-- My mother’s fostering care. And if one flower of charms refined May grace the garden of my mind, ’Twas she who nursed it there: She loved to cherish and adorn Each blossom of the soil; To banish every weed and thorn That oft opposed her toil!

And oh! if e’er I sigh’d to claim The palm, the living palm of fame, The glowing wreath of praise; If e’er I wish’d the glittering stores That Fortune on her favourite pours; ’Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine, Round thee with streaming rays might shine, And gild thy sun-bright days!

Yet not that splendour, pomp, and power Might then irradiate every hour; For these, my mother! well I know, On thee no raptures could bestow;-- But could thy bounty, warm and kind, Be, like thy wishes, unconfined, And fall as manna from the skies, And bid a train of blessings rise, Diffusing joy and peace; The tear-drop, grateful, pure, and bright, For thee would beam with softer light Than all the diamond’s crystal rays, Than all the emerald’s lucid blaze; And joys of heaven would thrill thy heart To bid one bosom-grief depart, One tear, one sorrow cease!

Then, oh! may Heaven, that loves to bless, Bestow the power to cheer distress; Make thee its minister below, To light the cloudy path of woe; To visit the deserted cell, Where indigence is doom’d to dwell; To raise, when drooping to the earth, The blossoms of neglected worth; And round, with liberal hand, dispense The sunshine of beneficence! But ah! if Fate should still deny Delights like these, too rich and high; If grief and pain thy steps assail, In life’s remote and wintry vale; Then, as the wild Æolian lyre Complains with soft entrancing number, When the lone storm awakes the wire, And bids enchantment cease to slumber; So filial love, with soothing voice, E’en then shall teach thee to rejoice; E’en then shall sweeter, milder sound, When sorrow’s tempest raves around; While dark misfortune’s gales destroy, The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy!

TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER,

ON HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN, AFTER THE FATAL RETREAT UNDER SIR JOHN MOORE, AND THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA.

Though dark are the prospects and heavy the hours, Though life is a desert, and cheerless the way; Yet still shall affection adorn it with flowers, Whose fragrance shall never decay!

And lo! to embrace thee, my Brother! she flies, With artless delight, that no words can bespeak; With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes, With a smile and a glow on her cheek!

From the trophies of war, from the spear and the shield, From scenes of destruction, from perils unblest; Oh! welcome again, to the grove and the field, To the vale of retirement and rest.

Then warble, sweet muse! with the lyre and the voice, Oh! gay be the measure and sportive the strain; For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice To meet thee, my Brother! again. When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true, Were bleeding, were falling, with victory crown’d, How often would fancy present to my view The horrors that waited thee round!

How constant, how fervent, how pure was my prayer, That Heaven would protect thee from danger and harm; That angels of mercy would shield thee with care, In the heat of the combat’s alarm!

How sad and how often descended the tear, (Ah, long shall remembrance the image retain!) How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with fear I might never behold thee again!

But the prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o’er, And the tear-drop is fled, like the dew on the rose; Thy dangers, our tears, have endear’d thee the more, And my bosom with tenderness glows.

And oh! when the dreams, the enchantments of youth, Bright and transient, have fled like the rainbow away; My affection for thee, still unfading in truth, Shall never, oh! never decay!

No time can impair it, no change can destroy, Whate’er be the lot I am destined to share; It will smile in the sunshine of hope and of joy, And beam through the cloud of despair!

TO MY ELDEST BROTHER.

(WITH THE BRITISH ARMY IN PORTUGAL.)

How many a day, in various hues array’d, Bright with gay sunshine, or eclipsed with shade, How many an hour, on silent wing is past, O my loved Brother! since we saw thee last! Since then has childhood ripen’d into youth, And fancy’s dreams have fled from sober truth; Her splendid fabrics melting into air, As sage experience waved the wand of care! Yet still thine absence wakes the tender sigh, And the tear trembles in affection’s eye! When shall we meet again?--with glowing ray Heart-soothing hope illumes some future day; Checks the sad thought, beguiles the starting tear, And sings benignly still--that day is near! She, with bright eye, and soul-bewitching voice, Wins us to smile, inspires us to rejoice; Tells that the hour approaches, to restore Our cherish’d wanderer to his home once more; Where sacred ties his manly worth endear, To faith still true, affection still sincere! Then the past woes, the future’s dubious lot, In that blest meeting shall be all forgot! And joy’s full radiance gild that sun-bright hour, Though all around th’ impending storm should lower.

Now distant far, amidst the intrepid host, Albion’s firm sons, on Lusitania’s coast, (That gallant band, in countless dangers tried, Where glory’s pole-star beams their constant guide,) Say, do thy thoughts, my Brother, fondly stray To Cambria’s vales and mountains far away? Does fancy oft in busy day-dreams roam, And paint the greeting that awaits at home? Does memory’s pencil oft, in mellowing hue, Dear social scenes, departed joys renew; In softer tints delighting to retrace Each tender image and each well-known face? Yes, wanderer! yes! thy spirit flies to those Whose love, unalter’d, warm and faithful glows.

Oh! could that love, through life’s eventful hours, Illume thy scenes and strew thy path with flowers! Perennial joy should harmonise thy breast, No struggle rend thee, and no cares molest! But though our tenderness can but bestow The wish, the hope, the prayer, averting woe, Still shall it live, with pure, unclouded flame, In storms, in sunshine, far and near--the same! Still dwell enthroned within th’ unvarying heart, And, firm and vital, but with life depart!

Bronwylfa, Feb. 8, 1811.

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE MEMOIRS OF ELIZABETH SMITH.

O thou! whose pure, exalted mind, Lives in this record, fair and bright; O thou! whose blameless life combined Soft female charms, and grace refined, With science and with light! Celestial maid! whose spirit soar’d Beyond this vale of tears-- Whose clear, enlighten’d eye explored The lore of years!

Daughter of Heaven! if here, e’en here, The wing of towering thought was thine; If, on this dim and mundane sphere, Fair truth illumed thy bright career, With morning-star divine; How must thy bless’d ethereal soul Now kindle in her noontide ray, And hail, unfetter’d by control, The Fount of Day!

E’en now, perhaps, thy seraph eyes, Undimm’d by doubt, nor veil’d by fear, Behold a chain of wonders rise-- Gaze on the noon-beam of the skies, Transcendant, pure, and clear! E’en now, the fair, the good, the true, From mortal sight conceal’d, Bless in one blaze thy raptured view, In light reveal’d!

If here the lore of distant time, And learning’s flowers, were all thine own; How must thy mind ascend sublime, Matured in heaven’s empyreal clime, To light’s unclouded throne! Perhaps e’en now thy kindling glance Each orb of living fire explores, Darts o’er creation’s wide expanse, Admires--adores!

Oh! if that lightning-eye surveys This dark and sublunary plain; How must the wreath of human praise Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze, So dim, so pale, so vain! How, like a faint and shadowy dream, Must quiver learning’s brightest ray; While on thine eyes, with lucid stream, The sun of glory pours his beam, Perfection’s day!

[The reader may contrast these early lines of Mrs Hemans with the maturer ones on the same subject by Professor Wilson.--Poems, vol. ii. p. 140-9.]

THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS.

Sweets of the wild! that breathe and bloom On this lone tower, this ivied wall, Lend to the gale a rich perfume, And grace the ruin in its fall. Though doom’d, remote from careless eye, To smile, to flourish, and to die In solitude sublime, Oh! ever may the spring renew, Your balmy scent and glowing hue, To deck the robe of time!

Breathe, fragrance! breathe! enrich the air, Though wasted on its wing unknown! Blow, flowerets! blow! though vainly fair, Neglected and alone! These flowers that long withstood the blast, These mossy towers, are mouldering fast, While Flora’s children stay-- To mantle o’er the lonely pile, To gild Destruction with a smile, And beautify Decay!

Sweets of the wild! uncultured blowing, Neglected in luxuriance glowing; From the dark ruins frowning near, Your charms in brighter tints appear, And richer blush assume; You smile with softer beauty crown’d, Whilst all is desolate around, Like sunshine on a tomb!

Thou hoary pile, majestic still, Memento of departed fame! While roving o’er the moss-clad hill, I ponder on thine ancient name!

Here Grandeur, Beauty, Valour sleep, That here, so oft, have shone supreme; While Glory, Honour, Fancy, weep That vanish’d is the golden dream!

Where are the banners, waving proud, To kiss the summer-gale of even-- All purple as the morning-cloud, All streaming to the winds of heaven?

Where is the harp, by rapture strung To melting song or martial story? Where are the lays the minstrel sung To loveliness or glory?

Lorn Echo of these mouldering walls, To thee no festal measure calls; No music through the desert halls, Awakes thee to rejoice! How still thy sleep! as death profound-- As if, within this lonely round, A step--a note--a whisper’d sound Had ne’er aroused thy voice!

Thou hear’st the zephyr murmuring, dying, Thou hear’st the foliage waving, sighing; But ne’er again shall harp or song, These dark deserted courts along, Disturb thy calm repose. The harp is broke, the song is fled, The voice is hush’d, the bard is dead; And never shall thy tones repeat Or lofty strain or carol sweet With plaintive close!

Proud Castle! though the days are flown When once thy towers in glory shone; When music through thy turrets rung, When banners o’er thy ramparts hung, Though ’midst thine arches, frowning lone, Stern Desolation rear his throne; And Silence, deep and awful, reign Where echo’d once the choral strain; Yet oft, dark ruin! lingering here, The Muse will hail thee with a tear; Here when the moonlight, quivering, beams, And through the fringing ivy streams, And softens every shade sublime, And mellows every tint of Time-- Oh! here shall Contemplation love, Unseen and undisturb’d, to rove; And bending o’er some mossy tomb, Where Valour sleeps or Beauties bloom, Shall weep for Glory’s transient day And Grandeur’s evanescent ray; And listening to the swelling blast, Shall wake the Spirit of the Past-- Call up the forms of ages fled, Of warriors and of minstrels dead, Who sought the field, who struck the lyre, With all Ambition’s kindling fire!

Nor wilt thou, Spring! refuse to breathe Soft odours on this desert air; Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath, And fringe these towers with garlands fair!

Sweets of the wild, oh! ever bloom Unheeded on this ivied wall! Lend to the gale a rich perfume, And grace the ruin in its fall!

Thus round Misfortune’s holy head, Would Pity wreaths of honour spread; Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile, She seeks Despair, with heart-reviving smile!

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Fair Gratitude! in strain sublime, Swell high to heaven thy tuneful zeal; And, hailing this auspicious time, Kneel, Adoration! kneel!

CHORUS.

For lo! the day, th’ immortal day, When Mercy’s full, benignant ray Chased every gathering cloud away, And pour’d the noon of light! Rapture! be kindling, mounting, glowing, While from thine eye the tear is flowing, Pure, warm, and bright!

’Twas on this day--oh, love divine!-- The Orient Star’s effulgence rose; Then waked the Morn, whose eye benign Shall never, never close!

CHORUS.

Messiah! be thy name adored, Eternal, high, redeeming Lord! By grateful worlds be anthems pour’d-- Emanuel! Prince of Peace! This day, from heaven’s empyreal dwelling, Harp, lyre, and voice, in concert swelling, Bade discord cease!

Wake the loud pæan, tune the voice, Children of heaven and sons of earth! Seraphs and men! exult, rejoice, To bless the Saviour’s birth!

CHORUS.

Devotion! light thy purest fire! Transport! on cherub wing aspire! Praise! wake to Him thy golden lyre, Strike every thrilling chord! While, at the Ark of Mercy kneeling, We own thy grace, reviving, healing, Redeemer! Lord!

THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

Whence are those tranquil joys in mercy given, To light the wilderness with beams of heaven? To soothe our cares, and through the cloud diffuse Their temper’d sunshine and celestial hues? Those pure delights, ordain’d on life to throw Gleams of the bliss ethereal natures know? Say, do they grace Ambition’s regal throne, When kneeling myriads call the world his own? Or dwell with Luxury, in th’ enchanted bowers Where taste and wealth exert creative powers?

Favour’d of heaven! O Genius! are they thine, When round thy brow the wreaths of glory shine; While rapture gazes on thy radiant way, Midst the bright realms of clear and mental day? No! sacred joys! ’tis yours to dwell enshrined, Most fondly cherish’d, in the purest mind; To twine with flowers those loved, endearing ties, On earth so sweet--so perfect in the skies!

Nursed in the lap of solitude and shade, The violet smiles, embosom’d in the glade There sheds her spirit on the lonely gale, Gem of seclusion! treasure of the vale! Thus, far retired from life’s tumultuous road, Domestic Bliss has fixed her calm abode Where hallow’d Innocence and sweet Repose May strew her shadowy path with many a rose. As, when dread thunder shakes the troubled sky, The cherub, Infancy, can close its eye, And sweetly smile, unconscious of a tear, While viewless angels wave their pinions near; Thus, while around the storms of Discord roll, Borne on resistless wing from pole to pole, While War’s red lightnings desolate the ball, And thrones and empires in destruction fall; Then calm as evening on the silvery wave, When the wind slumbers in the ocean cave, She dwells unruffled, in her bower of rest, Her empire Home!--her throne, Affection’s breast!

For her, sweet Nature wears her loveliest blooms, And softer sunshine every scene illumes. When Spring awakes the spirit of the breeze, Whose light wing undulates the sleeping seas; When Summer, waving her creative wand, Bids verdure smile, and glowing life expand; Or Autumn’s pencil sheds, with magic trace, O’er fading lowliness, a moonlight grace; Oh! still for her, through Nature’s boundless reign, No charm is lost, no beauty blooms in vain; While mental peace, o’er every prospect bright, Throws mellowing tints and harmonising light! Lo! borne on clouds, in rushing might sublime, Stern Winter, bursting from the polar clime, Triumphant waves his signal-torch on high, The blood-red meteor of the northern sky! And high through darkness rears his giant-form, His throne the billow, and his flag the storm! Yet then, when bloom and sunshine are no more, And the wild surges foam along the shore, Domestic Bliss, thy heaven is still serene, Thy star unclouded, and thy myrtle green! Thy fane of rest no raging storms invade-- Sweet peace is thine, the seraph of the shade! Clear through the day, her light around thee glows, And gilds the midnight of thy deep repose! --Hail, sacred Home! where soft Affection’s hand With flowers of Eden twines her magic band! Where pure and bright the social ardours rise, Concentring all their holiest energies!-- When wasting toil has dimm’d the vital flame, And every power deserts the sinking frame, Exhausted nature still from sleep implores The charm that lulls, the manna that restores! Thus, when oppress’d with rude, tumultuous cares, To thee, sweet Home! the fainting mind repairs; Still to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies, Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies!

Bower of repose! when, torn from all we love, Through toil we struggle, or through distance rove; To thee we turn, still faithful, from afar-- Thee, our bright vista! thee, our magnet-star! And from the martial field, the troubled sea, Unfetter’d thought still roves to bliss and thee!

When ocean-sounds in awful slumber die, No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh; Wide o’er the world when Peace and Midnight reign, And the moon trembles on the sleeping main; At that still hour, the sailor wakes to keep, Midst the dead calm, the vigil of the deep! No gleaming shores his dim horizon bound, All heaven--and sea--and solitude--around! Then, from the lonely deck, the silent helm, From the wide grandeur of the shadowy realm, Still homeward borne, his fancy unconfined, Leaving the worlds of ocean far behind, Wings like a meteor-flash her swift career, To the loved scenes, so distant, and so dear!

Lo! the rude whirlwind rushes from its cave, And Danger frowns--the monarch of the wave! Lo! rocks and storms the striving bark repel, And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming swell!

Child of the ocean! is thy bier the surge, Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge? Yes! thy long toil, thy weary conflict o’er, No storm shall wake, no perils rouse thee more! Yet, in that solemn hour, that awful strife, The struggling agony for death or life, E’en then thy mind, embittering every pain, Retraced the image so beloved--in vain! Still to sweet Home thy last regrets were true, Life’s parting sigh--the murmur of adieu!

Can war’s dread scenes the hallow’d ties efface, Each tender thought, each fond remembrance chase? Can fields of carnage, days of toil, destroy The loved impression of domestic joy?

Ye daylight dreams! that cheer the soldier’s breast, In hostile climes, with spells benign and blest, Soothe his brave heart, and shed your glowing ray O’er the long march through Desolation’s way; Oh! still ye bear him from th’ ensanguined plain, Armour’s bright flash, and Victory’s choral strain, To that loved Home where pure affection glows, That shrine of bliss! asylum of repose! When all is hush’d--the rage of combat past, And no dread war-note swells the moaning blast; When the warm throb of many a heart is o’er, And many an eye is closed to wake no more; Lull’d by the night-wind, pillow’d on the ground, (The dewy deathbed of his comrades, round!) While o’er the slain the tears of midnight weep, Faint with fatigue, he sinks in slumbers deep! E’en then, soft visions, hovering round, portray The cherish’d forms that o’er his bosom sway; He sees fond transport light each beaming face, Meets the warm tear-drop and the long embrace! While the sweet welcome vibrates through his heart, “Hail, weary soldier!--never more to part!”

And lo! at last, released from every toil, He comes!--the wanderer views his native soil! Then the bright raptures words can never speak Flash in his eye and mantle o’er his cheek! Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing prayer Implored for him each guardian-spirit’s care; Who, for his fate, through sorrow’s lingering year, Had proved each thrilling pulse of hope and fear; In that blest moment, all the past forget-- Hours of suspense and vigils of regret!

And oh! for him, the child of rude alarms, Rear’d by stern danger in the school of arms! How sweet to change the war-song’s pealing note For woodland-sounds in summer air that float! Through vales of peace, o’er mountain wilds to roam, And breathe his native gales, that whisper--‘Home!’

Hail, sweet endearments of domestic ties, Charms of existence! angel sympathies! Though Pleasure smile, a soft Circassian queen! And guide her votaries through a fairy scene, Where sylphid forms beguile their vernal hours With mirth and music in Arcadian bowers; Though gazing nations hail the fiery car That bears the Son of Conquest from afar, While Fame’s loud pæan bids his heart rejoice, And every life-pulse vibrates to her voice;-- Yet from your source alone, in mazes bright, Flows the full current of serene delight!

On Freedom’s wing, that every wild explores, Through realms of space, th’ aspiring eagle soars! Darts o’er the clouds, exulting to admire, Meridian glory--on her throne of fire! Bird of the Sun! his keen unwearied gaze Hails the full noon, and triumphs in the blaze; But soon, descending from his height sublime. Day’s burning fount, and light’s empyreal clime, Once more he speeds to joys more calmly blest, Midst the dear inmates of his lonely nest!

Thus Genius, mounting on his bright career Through the wide regions of the mental sphere, And proudly waving in his gifted hand, O’er Fancy’s worlds, Invention’s plastic wand, Fearless and firm, with lightning-eye surveys The clearest heaven of intellectual rays! Yet, on his course though loftiest hopes attend, And kindling raptures aid him to ascend, (While in his mind, with high-born grandeur fraught, Dilate the noblest energies of thought;) Still, from the bliss, ethereal and refined, Which crowns the soarings of triumphant mind, At length he flies, to that serene retreat, Where calm and pure the mild affections meet; Embosom’d there, to feel and to impart The softer pleasures of the social heart!

Ah! weep for those, deserted and forlorn, From every tie by fate relentless torn; See, on the barren coast, the lonely isle, Mark’d with no step, uncheer’d by human smile, Heart-sick and faint the ship-wreck’d wanderer stand, Raise the dim eye, and lift the suppliant hand! Explore with fruitless gaze the billowy main, And weep--and pray--and linger--but in vain!

Thence, roving wild through many a depth of shade, Where voice ne’er echo’d, footstep never stray’d, He fondly seeks, o’er cliffs and deserts rude, Haunts of mankind midst realms of solitude! And pauses oft, and sadly hears alone The wood’s deep sigh, the surge’s distant moan! All else is hush’d! so silent, so profound, As if some viewless power, presiding round, With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath, Had spread for ages the repose of death! Ah! still the wanderer, by the boundless deep, Lives but to watch--and watches but to weep! He sees no sail in faint perspective rise, His the dread loneliness of sea and skies! Far from his cherish’d friends, his native shore, Banish’d from being--to return no more; There must he die!--within that circling wave, That lonely isle--his prison and his grave!

Lo! through the waste, the wilderness of snows, With fainting step, Siberia’s exile goes! Homeless and sad, o’er many a polar wild, Where beam, or flower, or verdure never smiled; Where frost and silence hold their despot-reign, And bind existence in eternal chain! Child of the desert! pilgrim of the gloom! Dark is the path which leads thee to the tomb! While on thy faded cheek the arctic air Congeals the bitter tear-drop of despair! Yet not that fate condemns thy closing day In that stern clime to shed its parting ray; Not that fair nature’s loveliness and light No more shall beam enchantment on thy sight; Ah! not for this--far, far beyond relief, Deep in thy bosom dwells the hopeless grief; But that no friend of kindred heart is there, Thy woes to mitigate, thy toils to share; That no mild soother fondly shall assuage The stormy trials of thy lingering age; No smile of tenderness, with angel power, Lull the dread pangs of dissolution’s hour; For this alone, despair, a withering guest, Sits on thy brow, and cankers in thy breast! Yes! there, e’en there, in that tremendous clime, Where desert grandeur frowns in pomp sublime; Where winter triumphs, through the polar night, In all his wild magnificence of might; E’en there, affection’s hallow’d spell might pour The light of heaven around th’ inclement shore! And, like the vales with gloom and sunshine graced, That smile, by circling Pyrenees embraced, Teach the pure heart with vital fires to glow, E’en ’midst the world of solitude and snow! The halcyon’s charm, thus dreaming fictions feign, With mystic power could tranquillise the main; Bid the loud wind, the mountain billow sleep, And peace and silence brood upon the deep!

And thus, Affection, can thy voice compose The stormy tide of passions and of woes; Bid every throb of wild emotion cease, And lull misfortune in the arms of peace!

Oh! mark yon drooping form, of aged mien, Wan, yet resign’d, and hopeless, yet serene! Long ere victorious time had sought to chase The bloom, the smile, that once illumed his face, That faded eye was dimm’d with many a care, Those waving locks were silver’d by despair! Yet filial love can pour the sovereign balm, Assuage his pangs, his wounded spirit calm! He, a sad emigrant! condemn’d to roam In life’s pale autumn from his ruin’d home, Has borne the shock of Peril’s darkest wave, Where joy--and hope--and fortune--found a grave! ’Twas his to see Destruction’s fiercest band Rush, like a Typhon, on his native land, And roll triumphant on their blasted way, In fire and blood, the deluge of dismay! Unequal combat raged on many a plain, And patriot-valour waved the sword in vain! Ah! gallant exile! nobly, long, he bled, Long braved the tempest gathering o’er his head! Till all was lost! and horror’s darken’d eye Roused the stern spirit of despair to die!

Ah! gallant exile! in the storm that roll’d Far o’er his country, rushing uncontroll’d, The flowers that graced his path with loveliest bloom, Torn by the blast, were scatter’d on the tomb! When carnage burst, exulting in the strife, The bosom ties that bound his soul to life, Yet one was spared! and she, whose filial smile Can soothe his wanderings and his tears beguile, E’en then could temper, with divine relief, The wild delirium of unbounded grief; And, whispering peace, conceal with duteous art Her own deep sorrows in her inmost heart! And now, though time, subduing every trace, Has mellow’d all, he never can erase; Oft will the wanderer’s tears in silence flow, Still sadly faithful to remember’d woe! Then she, who feels a father’s pang alone, (Still fondly struggling to suppress her own,) With anxious tenderness is ever nigh, To chase the image that awakes the sigh! Her angel-voice his fainting soul can raise To brighter visions of celestial days! And speak of realms, where Virtue’s wing shall soar On eagle-plume--to wonder and adore; And friends, divided here, shall meet at last, Unite their kindred souls--and smile on all the past!

Yes! we may hope that nature’s deathless ties, Renew’d, refined, shall triumph in the skies! Heart-soothing thought! whose loved, consoling powers With seraph-dreams can gild reflection’s hours, Oh! still be near, and brightening through the gloom, Beam and ascend! the day-star of the tomb! And smile for those, in sternest ordeals proved, Those lonely hearts, bereft of all they loved.

Lo! by the couch where pain and chill disease In every vein the ebbing life-blood freeze; Where youth is taught, by stealing, slow decay, Life’s closing lesson--in its dawning day; Where beauty’s rose is withering ere its prime, Unchanged by sorrow and unsoil’d by time; There, bending still, with fix’d and sleepless eye, There, from her child, the mother learns to die; Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace Of lingering sickness in the faded face; Through the sad night, when every hope is fled, Keeps her lone vigil by the sufferer’s bed; And starts each morn, as deeper marks declare The spoiler’s hand--the blight of death is there! He comes! now feebly in the exhausted frame, Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame; From the glazed eye-ball sheds its parting ray-- Dim, transient spark, that fluttering fades away! Faint beats the hovering pulse, the trembling heart; Yet fond existence lingers ere she part!

’Tis past! the struggle and the pang are o’er, And life shall throb with agony no more; While o’er the wasted form, the features pale, Death’s awful shadows throw their silvery veil. Departed spirit! on this earthly sphere Though poignant suffering mark’d thy short career, Still could maternal love beguile thy woes, And hush thy sighs--an angel of repose!

But who may charm her sleepless pang to rest, Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast? And, while she bends in silence o’er thy bier, Assuage the grief, too heart-sick for a tear? Visions of hope in loveliest hues array’d, Fair scenes of bliss by fancy’s hand portray’d! And were ye doom’d with false, illusive smile, With flattering promise, to enchant awhile? And are ye vanish’d, never to return, Set in the darkness of the mouldering urn? Will no bright hour departed joys restore? Shall the sad parent meet her child no more? Behold no more the soul-illumined face, The expressive smile, the animated grace! Must the fair blossom, wither’d in the tomb, Revive no more in loveliness and bloom? Descend, blest faith! dispel the hopeless care, And chase the gathering phantoms of despair; Tell that the flower, transplanted in its morn, Enjoys bright Eden, freed from every thorn; Expands to milder suns, and softer dews, The full perfection of immortal hues; Tell, that when mounting to her native skies, By death released, the parent spirit flies; There shall the child, in anguish mourn’d so long, With rapture hail her midst the cherub throng, And guide her pinion on exulting flight, Through glory’s boundless realms, and worlds of living light.

Ye gentle spirits of departed friends! If e’er on earth your buoyant wing descends; If, with benignant care, ye linger near, To guard the objects in existence dear; If, hovering o’er, ethereal band! ye view The tender sorrows, to your memory true; Oh! in the musing hour, at midnight deep, While for your loss affection wakes to weep; While every sound in hallow’d stillness lies, But the low murmur of her plaintive sighs; Oh! then, amidst that holy calm be near, Breathe your light whisper softly in her ear; With secret spells her wounded mind compose, And chase the faithful tear--for you that flows: Be near--when moonlight spreads the charm you loved O’er scenes where once your earthly footstep roved. Then, while she wanders o’er the sparkling dew, Through glens and wood-paths, once endear’d by you, And fondly lingers in your favourite bowers, And pauses oft, recalling former hours; Then wave your pinion o’er each well-known vale, Float in the moonbeam, sigh upon the gale; Bid your wild symphonies remotely swell, Borne by the summer-wind from grot and dell; And touch your viewless harps, and soothe her soul With soft enchantments and divine control! Be near, sweet guardians! watch her sacred rest, When Slumber folds her in his magic vest; Around her, smiling, let your forms arise, Return’d in dreams, to bless her mental eyes; Efface the memory of your last farewell-- Of glowing joys, of radiant prospects tell; The sweet communion of the past renew, Reviving former scenes, array’d in softer hue.

Be near when death, in virtue’s brightest hour, Calls up each pang, and summons all his power; Oh! then, transcending Fancy’s loveliest dream, Then let your forms unveil’d around her beam; Then waft the vision of unclouded light, A burst of glory, on her closing sight; Wake from the harp of heaven th’ immortal strain, To hush the final agonies of pain; With rapture’s flame the parting soul illume, And smile triumphant through the shadowy gloom! Oh! still be near, when, darting into day, Th’ exulting spirit leaves her bonds of clay; Be yours to guide her fluttering wings on high O’er many a world, ascending to the sky; There let your presence, once her earthly joy, Though dimm’d with tears and clouded with alloy, Now form her bliss on that celestial shore Where death shall sever kindred hearts no more.

Yes! in the noon of that Elysian clime, Beyond the sphere of anguish, death, or time; Where mind’s bright eye, with renovated fire, Shall beam on glories never to expire; Oh! there th’ illumined soul may fondly trust, More pure, more perfect, rising from the dust, Those mild affections, whose consoling light Sheds the soft moonbeam on terrestrial night, Sublimed, ennobled, shall for ever glow, Exalting rapture--not assuaging woe!

TO MR EDWARDS, THE HARPER OF CONWAY.

[Some of the happiest days the young poetess ever passed were during occasional visits to some friends at Conway, where the charms of the scenery, combining all that is most beautiful in wood, water, and ruin, are sufficient to inspire the most prosaic temperament with a certain degree of enthusiasm; and it may therefore well be supposed how fervently a soul constituted like hers would worship Nature at so fitting a shrine. With that happy versatility which was at all times a leading characteristic of her mind, she would now enter with child-like playfulness into the enjoyments of a mountain scramble, or a pic-nic water party, the gayest of the merry band, of whom some are now, like herself, laid low, some far away in foreign lands, some changed by sorrow, and all by time; and then, in graver mood, dream away hours of pensive contemplation amidst the gray ruins of that noblest of Welsh castles, standing, as it then did, in solitary grandeur, unapproached by bridge or causeway, flinging its broad shadow across the tributary waves which washed its regal walls. These lovely scenes never ceased to retain their hold over the imagination of her whose youthful muse had so often celebrated their praises. Her peculiar admiration of Mrs Joanna Baillie’s play of Ethwald was always pleasingly associated with the recollection of her having first read it amidst the ruins of Conway Castle. At Conway, too, she first made acquaintance with the lively and graphic Chronicles of the chivalrous Froissart, whose inspiring pages never lost their place in her favour. Her own little poem, “The Ruin and its Flowers,” which will be found amongst the earlier pieces in the present collection, was written on an excursion to the old fortress of Dyganwy, the remains of which are situated on a bold promontory near the entrance of the river Conway; and whose ivied walls, now fast mouldering into oblivion, once bore their part bravely in the defence of Wales; and are further endeared to the lovers of song and tradition as having echoed the complaints of the captive Elphin, and resounded to the harp of Taliesin. A scarcely degenerate representative of that gifted bard[3] had, at the time now alluded to, his appropriate dwelling-place at Conway; but his strains have long been silenced, and there now remain few, indeed, on whom the Druidical mantle has fallen so worthily. In the days when his playing was heard by one so fitted to enjoy its originality and beauty,

“The minstrel was infirm and old;”

but his inspiration had not yet forsaken him; and the following lines (written in 1811) will give an idea of the magic power he still knew how to exercise over the feelings of his auditors.]

Minstrel! whose gifted hand can bring Life, rapture, soul, from every string; And wake, like bards of former time, The spirit of the harp sublime;-- Oh! still prolong the varying strain! Oh! touch th’ enchanted chords again!

Thine is the charm, suspending care, The heavenly swell, the dying close, The cadence melting into air, That lulls each passion to repose; While transport, lost in silence near, Breathes all her language in a tear.

Exult, O Cambria!--now no more With sighs thy slaughter’d bards deplore: What though Plinlimmon’s misty brow And Mona’s woods be silent now, Yet can thy Conway boast a strain Unrivall’d in thy proudest reign.

For Genius, with divine control, Wakes the bold chord neglected long, And pours Expression’s glowing soul O’er the wild Harp, renown’d in song; And Inspiration, hovering round, Swells the full energies of sound.

Now Grandeur, pealing in the tone, Could rouse the warrior’s kindling fire, And now, ’tis like the breeze’s moan, That murmurs o’er th’ Eolian lyre: As if some sylph, with viewless wing, Were sighing o’er the magic string.

Long, long, fair Conway! boast the skill That soothes, inspires, commands, at will! And oh! while rapture hails the lay, Far distant be the closing day, When Genius, Taste, again shall weep, And Cambria’s Harp lie hush’d in sleep!

[3] Mr Edwards, the Harper of Conway, as he was generally called, had been blind from his birth, and was endowed with that extraordinary musical genius by which persons suffering under such a visitation are not unfrequently indemnified. From the respectability of his circumstances, he was not called upon to exercise his talents with any view to remuneration. He played to delight himself and others; and the innocent complacency with which he enjoyed the ecstasies called forth by his skill, and the degree of appreciation with which he regarded himself, as in a manner consecrated, by being made the depositary of a direct gift from Heaven, were as far as possible removed from any of the common modifications of vanity or self-conceit.

EPITAPH ON MR W----,

A CELEBRATED MINERALOGIST.[4]

Stop, passenger! a wondrous tale to list-- Here lies a famous Mineralogist. Famous indeed! such traces of his power, He’s left from Penmaenbach to Penmaenmawr, Such caves, and chasms, and fissures in the rocks, His works resemble those of earthquake shocks; And future ages very much may wonder What mighty giant rent the hills asunder, Or whether Lucifer himself had ne’er Gone with his crew to play at foot-ball there.

His fossils, flints, and spars, of every hue, With him, good reader, here lie buried too-- Sweet specimens! which, toiling to obtain, He split huge cliffs, like so much wood, in twain. We knew, so great the fuss he made about them, Alive or dead, he ne’er would rest without them; So, to secure soft slumber to his bones, We paved his grave with all his favourite stones. His much-loved hammer’s resting by his side; Each hand contains a shell-fish petrified: His mouth a piece of pudding-stone incloses, And at his feet a lump of coal reposes: Sure he was born beneath some lucky planet!-- His very coffin-plate is made of granite.

Weep not, good reader! he is truly blest Amidst chalcedony and quartz to rest: Weep not for him! but envied be his doom, Whose tomb, though small, for all he loved had room: And, O ye rocks!--schist, gneiss, whate’er ye be, Ye varied strata!--names too hard for me-- Sing, “Oh, be joyful!” for your direst foe By death’s fell hammer is at length laid low. Ne’er on your spoils again shall W---- riot. Clear up your cloudy brows, and rest in quiet-- He sleeps--no longer planning hostile actions, As cold as any of his petrifactions; Enshrined in specimens of every hue, Too tranquil e’en to dream, ye rocks, of you.

[4] “Whilst on the subject of Conway, it may not be amiss to introduce two little pieces of a very different character from the foregoing, [Lines to Mr. Edward the Harper,] which were written at the same place, three or four years afterwards, and will serve as a proof of that versatility of talent before alluded to. As may easily be supposed, they were never intended for publication, but were merely a jeu d’esprit of the moment, in good-humoured raillery of the indefatigable zeal and perseverance of one of the party in his geological researches.”--Memoir, p. 20.

EPITAPH

ON THE HAMMER OF THE AFORESAID MINERALOGIST.

Here in the dust, its strange adventures o’er, A hammer rests, that ne’er knew rest before. Released from toil, it slumbers by the side Of one who oft its temper sorely tried; No day e’er pass’d, but in some desperate strife He risk’d the faithful hammer’s limbs and life: Now laying siege to some old limestone wall, Some rock now battering, proof to cannon-ball Now scaling heights like Alps or Pyrenees, Perhaps a flint, perhaps a slate to seize; But, if a piece of copper met his eyes, He’d mount a precipice that touch’d the skies, And bring down lumps so precious, and so many, I’m sure they almost would have made--a penny! Think, when such deeds as these were daily done, What fearful risks this hammer must have run. And, to say truth, its praise deserves to shine In lays more lofty and more famed than mine: Oh! that in strains which ne’er should be forgot, Its deeds were blazon’d forth by Walter Scott! Then should its name with his be closely link’d, And live till every mineral were extinct. Rise, epic bards! be yours the ample field-- Bid W----’s hammer match Achilles’ shield: As for my muse, the chaos of her brain, I search for specimens of wit in vain; Then let me cease ignoble rhymes to stammer, And seek some theme less arduous than the hammer; Remembering well, “what perils do environ” Woman or “man that meddles with cold iron.”

PROLOGUE TO THE POOR GENTLEMAN,

AS INTENDED TO BE PERFORMED BY THE OFFICERS OF THE 34TH REGIMENT AT CLONMEL.[5]

Enter Captain George Browne, in the character of Corporal Foss.

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 manœuvres 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.

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

[As, in the present collected edition of the writings of Mrs Hemans, chronological arrangement has been for the first time strictly attended to, a selection from her Juvenile compositions has been given, chiefly as a matter of curiosity--for her real career as an authoress cannot be said to have commenced before the publication of the section which immediately follows.

In a very general point of view, the intellectual history of Mrs Hemans’ mind may be divided into two distinct and separate eras--the first of which may be termed the classical, and comprehends the productions of her pen, from “The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,” and “Modern Greece,” down to the “Historical Scenes,” and the “Translations from Camoens;” and the last, the romantic, which commences with “The Forest Sanctuary,” and includes “The Records of Woman,” together with nearly all her later efforts. In regard to excellence, there can be little doubt that the last section as far transcends the first as that does the merely Juvenile Poems now given, and which certainly appear to us to exhibit occasional scintillations of the brightness which followed. Even after the early poetical attempts of Cowley and Pope, of Chatterton, Kirke White, and Byron, these immature outpourings of sentiment and description may be read with an interest which diminishes not by comparison.]

THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY.

[“The French, who in every invasion have been the scourge of Italy, and have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapacity of the Goths and Vandals, laid their sacrilegious hands on the unparalleled collection of the Vatican, tore its masterpieces from their pedestals, and, dragging them from their temples of marble, transported them to Paris, and consigned them to the dull sullen halls, or rather stables, of the Louvre.... But the joy of discovery was short, and the triumph of taste transitory.”--Eustace’s Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. p. 60.]

“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!

Yes! in those scenes where every ancient stream Bids memory kindle o’er some lofty theme; Where every marble deeds of fame records, Each ruin tells of Earth’s departed lords; And the deep tones of inspiration swell From each wild olive-wood, and Alpine dell; Where heroes slumber on their battle plains, Midst prostrate altars and deserted fanes, And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot, With shades of those who ne’er shall be forgot; There was your home, and there your power imprest, With tenfold awe, the pilgrim’s glowing breast; And, as the wind’s deep thrills and mystic sighs Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies, Thus at your influence, starting from repose, Thought Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose.

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!

As one who, starting at the dawn of day From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay, With transport heighten’d by those ills of night, Hails the rich glories of expanding light; E’en thus, awakening from thy dream of woe, While heaven’s own hues in radiance round thee glow, With warmer ecstasy ’tis thine to trace Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace; More bright, more prized, more precious, since deplored As loved lost relics, ne’er to be restored-- Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed By fond affection bending o’er the dead.

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.

Proud Racers of the Sun! to fancy’s thought Burning with spirit, from his essence caught, No mortal birth ye seem--but form’d to bear Heaven’s car of triumph through the realms of air; To range uncurb’d the pathless fields of space, The winds your rivals in the glorious race; Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet, Free as the zephyr, as the shot-star fleet; And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray, The flame that wakes creations into day. Creatures of fire and ether! wing’d with light, To track the regions of the Infinite! From purer elements whose life was drawn, Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn What years, on years in silence gliding by, Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry! Moulded by Art to dignify alone Her own bright deity’s resplendent throne, Since first her skill their fiery grace bestow’d Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode, How many a race, whose tales of glory seem An echo’s voice--the music of a dream, Whose records feebly from oblivion save A few bright traces of the wise and brave; How many a state, whose pillar’d strength sublime Defied the storms of war, the waves of time, Towering o’er earth majestic and alone, Fortress of power--has flourish’d and is gone! And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne, Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn, They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won Have seen the noontide and the setting sun, Consummate still in every grace remain, As o’er their heads had ages roll’d in vain! Ages, victorious in their ceaseless flight O’er countless monuments of earthly might! While she, from fair Byzantium’s lost domain, Who bore those treasures to her ocean-reign. ’Midst the blue deep, who rear’d her island throne, And called th’ infinitude of waves her own; Venice the proud, the Regent of the sea, Welcomes in chains the trophies of the Free!

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 phœnix 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 ægis 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!

Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers, Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way, Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay! Oh! what can realms in fame’s full zenith boast To match the relics of thy splendour lost! By Tiber’s waves, on each illustrious hill, Genius and Taste shall love to wander still; For there has Art survived an empire’s doom, And rear’d her throne o’er Latium’s trophied tomb: She from the dust recalls the brave and free, Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee!

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,[6] 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![7] 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:[8] 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![9]

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!

Hence, ye vain fictions! fancy’s erring theme! Gods of illusion! phantoms of a dream! Frail, powerless idols of departed time, Fables of song, delusive, though sublime! To loftier tasks has Roman Art assign’d Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind! From brighter streams her vast ideas flow’d, With purer fire her ardent spirit glow’d. To her ’twas given in fancy to explore The land of miracles, the holiest shore; That realm where first the Light of Life was sent, The loved, the punish’d, of th’ Omnipotent! O’er Judah’s hills her thoughts inspired would stray, Through Jordan’s valleys trace their lonely way; By Siloa’s brook, or Almotana’s deep,[10] Chain’d in dead silence, and unbroken sleep; Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell Where pass’d th’ Eternal, where his anger fell! Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal’d, Swell’d in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal’d, Or, heard by prophets in some palmy vale, “Breathed still small” whispers on the midnight gale. There dwelt her spirit--there her hand portray’d, Midst the lone wilderness or cedar-shade, Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught, Or patriarch-seers absorb’d in sacred thought, Bards, in high converse with the world of rest, Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest. But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave, Who lived to guide us, and who died to save; Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled, And soul return’d to animate the dead; Whom the waves own’d--and sunk beneath his eye, Awed by one accent of Divinity; To Him she gave her meditative hours, Hallow’d her thoughts, and sanctified her powers. O’er her bright scenes sublime repose she threw, As all around the Godhead’s presence knew, And robed the Holy One’s benignant mien In beaming mercy, majesty serene.

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;[11] 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!

Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art, By truth inspired, to elevate the heart! To bid the soul exultingly possess, Of all her powers, a heighten’d consciousness; And, strong in hope, anticipate the day, The last of life, the first of freedom’s ray; To realise, in some unclouded sphere, Those pictured glories feebly imaged here! Dim, cold reflections from her native sky, Faint effluence of “the Dayspring from on high!”

[This poem is thus alluded to by Lord Byron, in one of his published letters to Mr Murray, dated from Diodati, Sept. 30th, 1818:--“Italy or Dalmatia and another summer may, or may not, set me off again.... I shall take Felicia Hemans’s Restoration, &c., with me--it is a good poem--very.”]

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

[7] “Quoique cette statue d’Hercule ait été maltraitée et mutilée d’une manière étrange, se trouvant sans tête, sans bras, et sans jambes, elle est cependant encore un chef-d’œuvre aux yeux des connoisseurs; et ceux qui savent percer dans les mystères de l’art, se la représentent dans toute sa beauté. L’Artiste, en voulant représenter Hercule, a formé un corps idéal audessus de la nature * * * Cet Hercule paroît donc ici tel qu’il put être lorsque, purifié par le feu des foiblesses de l’humanité, il obtint l’immortalité et prit place auprès des Dieux. Il est représenté sans aucun besoin de nourriture et de réparation de forces. Les veines y sont tout invisibles.”--Winckelmann, Histoire de l’Art chez les Anciens, torn. ii. p. 248.

[8] “Le Torso d’Hercule paroît un des derniers ouvrages parfaits que l’art ait produit en Grèce, avant la perte de sa libérté. Car après que la Grèce fut réduite en province Romaine, l’histoire ne fait mention d’aucun artiste célèbre de cette nation, jusqu’aux temps du Triumvirat Romain.”--Winckelmann, ibid. tom. ii. p. 250.

[9] “It is not, in the same manner, in the agonised limbs, or in the convulsed muscles of the Laocoon, that the secret grace of its composition resides; it is in the majestic air of the head, which has not yielded to suffering, and in the deep serenity of the forehead, which seems to be still superior to all its afflictions, and significant of a mind that cannot be subdued.”--Alison’s Essays, vol. ii. p. 400.

“Laocoon nous offre le spectacle de la nature humaine dans la plus grande douleur dont elle soit susceptible, sous l’image d’un homme qui tâche de rassembler contre elle toute la force de l’esprit. Tandis que l’excès de la souffrance enfle les muscles, et tire violemment les nerfs, le courage se montre sur le front gonflé: la poitrine s’élève avec peine par la nécessité de la respiration, qui est également contrainte par le silence que la force de l’âme impose à la douleur qu’elle voudrait étouffer * * * * Son air est plaintif, et non criard.”---Winckelmann, Histoire de l’Art chez les Anciens, tom. ii. p. 214.

[10] Almotana. The name given by the Arabs to the Dead Sea.

[11] The Transfiguration, thought to be so perfect a specimen of art, that, in honour of Raphael, it was carried before his body to the grave.

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.”

Thomson’s Liberty.

I.

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?

II.

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.

III.

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.

IV.

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.

V.

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 Pæstum’s solitary fanes.[12] 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.

VI.

By seas that flow in brightness as they lave Thy rocks, th’ enthusiast rapt in thought may stray, While roves his eye o’er that deserted wave, Once the proud scene of battle’s dread array. --O ye blue waters! ye, of old that bore The free, the conquering, hymn’d by choral strains, How sleep ye now around the silent shore, The lonely realm of ruins and of chains! How are the mighty vanish’d in their pride! E’en as their barks have left no traces on your tide.

VII.

Hush’d are the Pæans whose exulting tone Swell’d o’er that tide[13]--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?

VIII.

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.

IX.

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.

X.

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.

XI.

Lo! to the scenes of fiction’s wildest tales, Her own bright East, thy son, Morea! flies,[14] 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.

XII.

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.

XIII.

But thou, fair world! whose fresh unsullied charms Welcomed Columbus from the western wave, Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms,[15] 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.

XIV.

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.

XV.

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,[16] 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.

XVI.

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.

XVII.

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.

XVIII.

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.

XIX.

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 Cithæron’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’ Ægean deep!

XX.

What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him like thine? (The all of thine no tyrant could destroy!) 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.

XXI.

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.

XXII.

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.

XXIII.

Through that deep solitude be his to stray, By Faun and Oread loved in ages past, Where clear Peneus winds his rapid way Though the cleft heights, in antique grandeur vast. Romantic Tempe! thou art yet the same-- Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time:[17] Years, that have changed thy river’s classic name,[18] Have left thee still in savage pomp sublime; And from thine Alpine clefts and marble caves, In living lustre still break forth the fountain waves.

XXIV.

Beneath thy mountain battlements and towers, Where the rich arbute’s coral berries glow,[19] 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.

XXV.

He, thought-entranced, may wander where of old From Delphi’s chasm the mystic vapour rose, And trembling nations heard their doom foretold By the dread spirit throned midst rocks and snows. Though its rich fanes be blended with the dust, And silence now the hallow’d haunt possess, Still is the scene of ancient rites august, Magnificent in mountain loneliness; Still inspiration hovel’s o’er the ground, Where Greece her councils held,[20] her Pythian victors crown’d.

XXVI.

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 Œta’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,[21] Or lone Platæa’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.

XXVII.

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?

XXVIII.

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.

XXIX.

Hast thou beheld some sovereign spirit, hurl’d By Fate’s rude tempest from its radiant sphere, Doom’d to resign the homage of a world, For Pity’s deepest sigh and saddest tear? Oh! hast thou watch’d the awful wreck of mind That weareth still a glory in decay? Seen all that dazzles and delights mankind-- Thought, science, genius--to the storm a prey; And o’er the blasted tree, the wither’d ground, Despair’s wild nightshade spread, and darkly flourish round?

XXX.

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!

XXXI.

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.

XXXII.

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,[22] 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.

XXXIII.

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,[23] richly wrought arcades, Aërial pillars, and enchanted towers; Light, splendid, wild, as some Arabian tale Would picture fairy domes that fleet before the gale.

XXXIV.

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 Pleïad, sphered in Mecca’s fane.[24] 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.

XXXV.

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.

XXXVI.

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![25] 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!

XXXVII.

Hush’d is Byzantium--’tis the dead of night-- The closing night of that imperial race![26] 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.

XXXVIII.

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[27] are scaled, and all is won and lost.

XXXIX.

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,[28] 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.

XLI.

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[29] 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,[30] Hovering o’er Athens, blazed in airy panoply?

XLII.

Ye slept, O heroes! chief ones of the earth![31] 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.

XLIII.

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;[32] And if a mossy stone your names retain, ’Tis but to tell your sons, for them ye died in vain.

XLIV.

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.

XLV.

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.

XLVI.

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.

XLVII.

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.

XLVIII.

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.

XLIX.

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,[33] 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.

L.

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[34] 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.

LI.

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.

LII.

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.

LIII.

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.[35] 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.

LIV.

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.

LV.

Such were thy sons--their life a battle-day! Their youth one lesson how for thee to die! Closed is that task, and they have passed away Like softer beings train’d to aims less high. Yet bright on earth their fame who proudly fell, True to their shields, the champions of thy cause, Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell How died the brave, obedient to thy laws![36] O lofty mother of heroic worth, How couldst thou live to bring a meaner offspring forth?

LVI.

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.

LVII.

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.

LVIII.

Taÿgetus still lifts his awful brow High o’er the mouldering city of the dead, Sternly sublime; while o’er his robe of snow Heaven’s floating tints their warm suffusions spread. And yet his rippling wave Eurotas leads By tombs and ruins o’er the silent plain; While, whispering there, his own wild graceful reeds Rise as of old, when hail’d by classic strain; There the rose-laurels still in beauty wave,[37] And a frail shrub survives to bloom o’er Sparta’s grave.

LIX.

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.

LX.

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;[38] 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.[39]

LXI.

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[40]--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.

LXII.

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!

LXIII.

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!

LXIV.

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.

LXV.

Now is the train of Superstition flown! Unearthly beings walk on earth no more; The deep wind swells with no portentous tone, The rustling wood breathes no fatidic lore. Fled are the phantoms of Livadia’s cave, There dwell no shadows, but of crag and steep; Fount of Oblivion! in thy gushing wave,[41] That murmurs nigh, those powers of terror sleep. Oh that such dreams alone had fled that clime! But Greece is changed in all that could be changed by time!

LXVI.

Her skies are those whence many a mighty bard Caught inspiration, glorious as their beams; Her hills the same that heroes died to guard, Her vales, that foster’d Art’s divinest dreams! But that bright spirit o’er the land that shone, And all around pervading influence pour’d, That lent the harp of Æschylus its tone, And proudly hallow’d Lacedæmon’s sword, And guided Phidias o’er the yielding stone, With them its ardours lived--with them its light is flown.

LXVII.

Thebes, Corinth, Argos!--ye renown’d of old, Where are your chiefs of high romantic name? How soon the tale of ages may be told! A page, a verse, records the fall of fame, The work of centuries. We gaze on you, O cities! once the glorious and the free, The lofty tales that charm’d our youth renew, And wondering ask, if these their scenes could be? Search for the classic fane, the regal tomb, And find the mosque alone--a record of their doom!

LXVIII.

How oft hath war his host of spoilers pour’d, Fair Elis! o’er thy consecrated vales?[42] There have the sunbeams glanced on spear and sword, And banners floated on the balmy gales. Once didst thou smile, secure in sanctitude, As some enchanted isle mid stormy seas; On thee no hostile footstep might intrude, And pastoral sounds alone were on thy breeze. Forsaken home of peace! that spell is broke: Thou too hast heard the storm, and bow’d beneath the yoke.

LXIX.

And through Arcadia’s wild and lone retreats Far other sounds have echo’d than the strain Of faun and dryad, from their woodland seats, Or ancient reed of peaceful mountain-swain! There, though at times Alpheus yet surveys, On his green banks renew’d, the classic dance, And nymph-like forms, and wild melodious lays, Revive the sylvan scenes of old romance; Yet brooding fear and dark suspicion dwell Midst Pan’s deserted haunts, by fountain, cave, and dell.

LXX.

But thou, fair Attica! whose rocky bound All art and nature’s richest gifts enshrined, Thou little sphere, whose soul-illumined round Concentrated each sunbeam of the mind; Who, as the summit of some Alpine height Glows earliest, latest, with the blush of day, Didst first imbibe the splendours of the light,[43] And smile the longest in its lingering ray; Oh! let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem The past awhile restored, the present but a dream.

LXXI.

Let Fancy’s vivid hues awhile prevail-- Wake at her call--be all thou wert once more! Hark! hymns of triumph swell on every gale-- Lo! bright processions move along thy shore; Again thy temples, midst the olive-shade, Lovely in chaste simplicity arise; And graceful monuments, in grove and glade, Catch the warm tints of thy resplendent skies; And sculptured forms, of high and heavenly mien, In their calm beauty smile around the sun-bright scene.

LXXII.

Again renew’d by Thought’s creative spells, In all her pomp thy city, Theseus! towers: Within, around, the light of glory dwells On art’s fair fabrics, wisdom’s holy bowers. There marble fanes in finish’d grace ascend, The pencil’s world of life and beauty glows; Shrines, pillars, porticoes, in grandeur blend, Rich with the trophies of barbaric foes; And groves of platane wave in verdant pride, The sage’s blest retreats, by calm Ilissus’ tide.

LXXIII.

Bright as that fairy vision of the wave, Raised by the magic of Morgana’s wand,[44] On summer seas that undulating lave Romantic Sicily’s Arcadian strand; That pictured scene of airy colonnades, Light palaces, in shadowy glory drest, Enchanted groves, and temples, and arcades, Gleaming and floating on the ocean’s breast; Athens! thus fair the dream of thee appears, As Fancy’s eye pervades the veiling cloud of years.

LXXIV.

Still be that cloud withdrawn--oh! mark on high, Crowning yon hill, with temples richly graced, That fane, august in perfect symmetry, The purest model of Athenian taste. Fair Parthenon! thy Doric pillars rise In simple dignity, thy marble’s hue Unsullied shines, relieved by brilliant skies, That round thee spread their deep ethereal blue; And art o’er all thy light proportions throws The harmony of grace, the beauty of repose.

LXXV.

And lovely o’er thee sleeps the sunny glow, When morn and eve in tranquil splendour reign, And on thy sculptures, as they smile, bestow Hues that the pencil emulates in vain. Then the fair forms by Phidias wrought, unfold Each latent grace, developing in light; Catch, from soft clouds of purple and of gold, Each tint that passes, tremulously bright; And seem indeed whate’er devotion deems, While so suffused with heaven, so mingling with its beams.

LXXVI.

But oh! what words the vision may portray, The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine? There stands thy goddess, robed in war’s array, Supremely glorious, awfully divine! With spear and helm she stands, and flowing vest, And sculptured ægis, to perfection wrought; And on each heavenly lineament imprest, Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought-- The pure intelligence, the chaste repose-- All that a poet’s dream around Minerva throws.

LXXVII.

Bright age of Pericles! let fancy still Through time’s deep shadows all thy splendour trace, And in each work of art’s consummate skill Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race: That spirit, roused by every proud reward That hope could picture, glory could bestow, Foster’d by all the sculptor and the bard Could give of immortality below. Thus were thy heroes form’d, and o’er their name, Thus did thy genius shed imperishable fame.

LXXVIII.

Mark in the throng’d Ceramicus, the train Of mourners weeping o’er the martyr’d brave: Proud be the tears devoted to the slain, Holy the amaranth strew’d upon their grave![45] And hark! unrivall’d eloquence proclaims Their deeds, their trophies, with triumphant voice! Hark! Pericles records their honour’d names![46] Sons of the fallen, in their lot rejoice: What hath life brighter than so bright a doom? What power hath fate to soil the garlands of the tomb?

LXXIX.

Praise to the valiant dead! for them doth art Exhaust her skill, their triumphs bodying forth; Theirs are enshrinèd names, and every heart Shall bear the blazon’d impress of their worth. Bright on the dreams of youth their fame shall rise, Their fields of fight shall epic song record; And, when the voice of battle rends the skies, Their name shall be their country’s rallying word! While fane and column rise august to tell How Athens honours those for her who proudly fell.

LXXX.

City of Theseus! bursting on the mind, Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled! Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind, Thus hallow’d by the memory of the dead: Alone in beauty and renown--a scene Whose tints are drawn from freedom’s loveliest ray. ’Tis but a vision now--yet thou hast been More than the brightest vision might portray; And every stone, with but a vestige fraught Of thee, hath latent power to wake some lofty thought.

LXXXI.

Fall’n are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung To choral melodies and tragic lore; Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung, The song that hail’d Harmodius peals no more. Thy proud Piræus is a desert strand, Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their hill, Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor’s hand, The magic voice of eloquence is still; Minerva’s veil is rent[47]--her image gone; Silent the sage’s bower--the warrior’s tomb o’erthrown.

LXXXII.

Yet in decay thine exquisite remains Wondering we view, and silently revere, As traces left on earth’s forsaken plains By vanish’d beings of a nobler sphere! Not all the old magnificence of Rome, All that dominion there hath left to time-- Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome, Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime, Can bid such reverence o’er the spirit steal, As aught by thee imprest with beauty’s plastic seal.

LXXXIII.

Though still the empress of the sunburnt waste, Palmyra rises, desolately grand-- Though with rich gold[48] and massy sculpture graced, Commanding still, Persepolis may stand In haughty solitude--though sacred Nile The first-born temples of the world surveys, And many an awful and stupendous pile Thebes of the hundred gates e’en yet displays; City of Pericles! oh who, like thee, Can teach how fair the works of mortal hand may be?

LXXXIV.

Thou led’st the way to that illumined sphere Where sovereign beauty dwells; and thence didst bear, Oh, still triumphant in that high career! Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair. And still to thee th’ enlighten’d mind hath flown As to her country,--thou hast been to earth A cynosure,--and, e’en from victory’s throne, Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth; And nations, rising to their fame afar, Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star.

LXXXV.

Glory to those whose relics thus arrest The gaze of ages! Glory to the free! For they, they only, could have thus imprest Their mighty image on the years to be! Empires and cities in oblivion lie, Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot,-- To leave on earth renown that cannot die, Of high-soul’d genius is th’ unrivall’d lot. Honour to thee, O Athens! thou hast shown What mortals may attain, and seized the palm alone.

LXXXVI.

Oh! live there those who view with scornful eyes All that attests the brightness of thy prime? Yes; they who dwell beneath thy lovely skies, And breathe th’ inspiring ether of thy clime! Their path is o’er the mightiest of the dead, Their homes are midst the works of noblest arts; Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread, Not one proud thrill of loftier thought imparts. Such are the conquerors of Minerva’s land, Where Genius first reveal’d the triumphs of his hand!

LXXXVII.

For them in vain the glowing light may smile O’er the pale marble, colouring’s warmth to shed, And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile Still o’er the dust of heroes lift its head. No patriot feeling binds them to the soil, Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have not rear’d; Their glance is cold indifference, and their toil But to destroy what ages have revered-- As if exulting sternly to erase Whate’er might prove that land had nursed a nobler race.

LXXXVIII.

And who may grieve that, rescued from their hands, Spoilers of excellence and foes to art, Thy relics, Athens! borne to other lands, Claim homage still to thee from every heart Though now no more th’ exploring stranger’s sight, Fix’d in deep reverence on Minerva’s fane, Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light, All that remain’d of forms adored in vain; A few short years--and, vanish’d from the scene, To blend with classic dust their proudest lot had been.

LXXXIX.

Fair Parthenon! yet still must Fancy weep For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown. Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o’er thee sleep In all their beauty still--and thine is gone! Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered, And varying rights have sanctified thy shrine. The dust is round thee of the race that rear’d Thy walls; and thou--their fate must soon be thine! But when shall earth again exult to see Visions divine like theirs renew’d in aught like thee?

XC.

Lone are thy pillars now--each passing gale Sighs o’er them as a spirit’s voice, which moan’d That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale Of the bright synod once above them throned. Mourn, graceful ruin! on thy sacred hill, Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared: Yet art thou honour’d in each fragment still That wasting years and barbarous hands had spared; Each hallow’d stone, from rapine’s fury borne, Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet unborn.

XCI.

Yes! in those fragments, though by time defaced And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains All that may charm th’ enlighten’d eye of taste, On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. As vital fragrance breathes from every part Of the crush’d myrtle, or the bruisèd rose, E’en thus th’ essential energy of art There in each wreck imperishably glows![49] The soul of Athens lives in every line, Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine.

XCII.

Mark on the storied frieze the graceful train, The holy festival’s triumphal throng, In fair procession to Minerva’s fane, With many a sacred symbol, move along. There every shade of bright existence trace, The fire of youth, the dignity of age; The matron’s calm austerity of grace, The ardent warrior, the benignant sage; The nymph’s light symmetry, the chief’s proud mien-- Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the scene.

XCIII.

Art unobtrusive there ennobles form,[50] Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows; There e’en the steed, withhold expression warm,[51] Is clothed with majesty, with being glows. One mighty mind hath harmonised the whole; Those varied groups the same bright impress bear; One beam and essence of exalting soul Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair; And well that pageant of the glorious dead Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled.

XCIV.

O conquering Genius! that couldst thus detain The subtle graces, fading as they rise, Eternalise expression’s fleeting reign, Arrest warm life in all its energies, And fix them on the stone--thy glorious lot Might wake ambition’s envy, and create Powers half divine: while nations are forgot, A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquish’d fate! And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth, The realms that hail them now scarce claim’d a name on earth.

XCV.

Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere But once beheld, and never to return? No--we may hail again thy bright career, Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn! Though thy least relics, e’en in ruin, bear A stamp of heaven, that ne’er hath been renew’d-- A light inherent--let not man despair: Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued; For still is nature fair, and thought divine, And art hath won a world in models pure as thine.[52]

XCVI.

Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced-- Yet there the germ of future glory lies! Their virtual grandeur could not be erased; It clothes them still, though veil’d from common eyes. They once were gods and heroes[53]--and beheld As the blest guardians of their native scene; And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, have swell’d With awe that own’d their sovereignty of mien. Ages have vanish’d since those hearts were cold, And still those shatter’d forms retain their godlike mould.

XCVII.

Midst their bright kindred, from their marble throne They have look’d down on thousand storms of time; Surviving power, and fame, and freedom flown, They still remain’d, still tranquilly sublime! Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave marr’d. The Olympian groups have sunk, and are forgot-- Not e’en their dust could weeping Athens guard; But these were destined to a nobler lot! And they have borne, to light another land, The quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously expand.

XCVIII.

Phidias! supreme in thought! what hand but thine, In human works thus blending earth and heaven, O’er nature’s truth had spread that grace divine, To mortal form immortal grandeur given? What soul but thine, infusing all its power In these last monuments of matchless days, Could from their ruins bid young Genius tower, And Hope aspire to more exalted praise; And guide deep Thought to that secluded height Where excellence is throned in purity of light?

XCIX.

And who can tell how pure, how bright a flame, Caught from these models, may illume the west? What British Angelo may rise to fame,[54] On the free isle what beams of art may rest? Deem not, O England! that by climes confined, Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray;[55] Deem not the eternal energies of mind Sway’d by that sun whose doom is but decay! Shall thought be foster’d but by skies serene? No! thou hast power to be what Athens e’er hath been.

C.

But thine are treasures oft unprized, unknown, And cold neglect hath blighted many a mind, O’er whose young ardours had thy smile but shone, Their soaring flight had left a world behind! And many a gifted hand, that might have wrought To Grecian excellence the breathing stone, Or each pure grace of Raphael’s pencil caught, Leaving no record of its power, is gone! While thou hast fondly sought, on distant coast, Gems far less rich than those, thus precious, and thus lost

CI.

Yet rise, O Land, in all but art alone! Bid the sole wreath that is not thine be won! Fame dwells around thee--Genius is thine own; Call his rich blooms to life--be thou their sun! So, should dark ages o’er thy glory sweep, Should thine e’er be as now are Grecian plains, Nations unborn shall track thine own blue deep To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains; Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace, And cry, “This ancient soil hath nursed a glorious race!”

[12] “The Pæstan rose, from its peculiar fragrance and the singularity of blooming twice a-year, is often mentioned by the classic poets. The wild rose, which now shoots up among the ruins, is of the small single damask kind, with a very high perfume; as a farmer assured me on the spot, it flowers both in spring and autumn.”--Swinburne’s Travels in the Two Sicilies.

[13] In the naval engagements of the Greeks, “it was usual for the soldiers before the fight to sing a pæan, or hymn, to Mars, and after the fight another to Apollo.”--See Potter’s Antiquities of Greece, vol. ii. p. 155.

[14] The emigration of the natives of the Morea to different parts of Asia is thus mentioned by Châteaubriand in his Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem--“Parvenu au dernier degré du malheur, le Moraïte s’arrache de son pays, et va chercher en Asie un sort moins rigoureux. Vain espoir! il retrouve des cadis et des pachas jusques dans les sables du Jourdain et dans les déserts de Palmyre.”

[15] In the same work, Châteaubriand also relates his having met with several Greek emigrants who had established themselves in the woods of Florida.

[16] “La grâce est toujours unie à la magnificence dans les scènes de la nature: et tandis que le courant du milieu entraine vers la mer les cadavres des pins et des chênes, on voit sur les deux courants latéraux, remonter, le long des rivages des îles flottantes de Pistia et de Nénuphar, dont les roses jaunes s’élèvent comme de petits papillons.”--Description of the Banks of the Mississippi, Chateaubriand’s Atala.

[17] “Looking generally at the narrowness and abruptness of this mountain-channel, (Tempe,) and contrasting it with the course of the Peneus through the plains of Thessaly, the imagination instantly recurs to the tradition that these plains were once covered with water, for which some convulsion of nature had subsequently opened this narrow passage. The term vale, in our language, is usually employed to describe scenery in which the predominant features are breadth, beauty, and repose. The reader has already perceived that the term is wholly inapplicable to the scenery at this spot, and that the phrase, vale of Tempe, is one that depends on poetic fiction.... The real character of Tempe, though it perhaps be less beautiful, yet possesses more of magnificence than is implied in the epithet given to it.... To those who have visited St Vincent’s rocks, below Bristol, I cannot convey a more sufficient idea of Tempe, than by saying that its scenery resembles, though on a much larger scale, that of the former place. The Peneus, indeed, as it flows through the valley, is not greatly wider than the Avon; and the channel between the cliffs is equally contracted in its dimensions: but these cliffs themselves are much loftier and more precipitous, and project their vast masses of rock with still more extraordinary abruptness over the hollow beneath.”--Holland’s Travels in Albania, &c.

[18] The modern name of the Peneus is Salympria.

[19] “Towards the lower part of Tempe, these cliffs are peaked in a very singular manner, and form projecting angles on the vast perpendicular faces of rock which they present towards the chasm; where the surface renders it possible, the summits and ledges of the rocks are for the most part covered with small wood, chiefly oak, with the arbutus and other shrubs. On the banks of the river, wherever there is a small interval between the water and the cliffs, it is covered by the rich and widely spreading foliage of the plane, the oak, and other forest trees, which in these situations have attained a remarkable size, and in various places extend their shadow far over the channel of the stream.... The rocks on each side of the vale of Tempe are evidently the same; what may be called, I believe, a coarse bluish-gray marble, with veins and portions of the rock in which the marble is of finer quality.”--Holland’s Travels in Albania, &c.

[20] The Amphictyonic Council was convened in spring and autumn at Delphi or Thermopylæ, and presided at the Pythian games which were celebrated at Delphi every fifth year.

[21] “This spot, (the field of Mantinea,) on which so many brave men were laid to rest, is now covered with rosemary and laurels.”--Pouqueville’s Travels in the Morea.

[22] For the accounts of the upas or poison tree of Java, now generally believed to be fabulous, or greatly exaggerated, see the notes to Darwin’s Botanic Garden.

[23] “The court most to be admired of the Alhambra is that called the court of the Lions; it is ornamented with sixty elegant pillars of an architecture which bears not the least resemblance to any of the known orders, and might be called the Arabian order.... But its principal ornament, and that from which it took its name, is an alabaster cup, six feet in diameter, supported by twelve lions, which is said to have been made in imitation of the Brazen Sea of Solomon’s temple.”--Burgoanne’s Travels in Spain.

[24] “Sept des plus fameux parmi les anciens poëtes Arabiques sont désignés par les écrivains orientaux sous le nom de Pleïade Arabique, et leurs ouvrages étaient suspendus autour de la Caaba, ou Mosque de la Mecque.”--Sismondi, Littérature du Midi.

[25] “The distress and fall of the last Constantine are more glorious than the long prosperity of the Byzantine Cæsars.”--Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, &c. vol. xii. p. 226.

[26] See the description of the night previous to the taking of Constantinople by Mahomet II.--Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, &c. vol. xii. p. 225.

[27] “This building (the Castle of the Seven Towers) is mentioned as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as a spot which contributed to the defence of Constantinople; and it was the principal bulwark of the town on the coast of the Propontis, in the last periods of the empire.”--Pouqueville’s Travels in the Morea.

[28] See the account from Herodotus of the supernatural defence of Delphi.--Mitford’s Greece, vol. i. p. 396-7.

[29] “In succeeding ages the Athenians honoured Theseus as a demigod, induced to it as well by other reasons as because, when they were fighting the Medes at Marathon, a considerable part of the army thought they saw the apparition of Theseus completely armed, and bearing down before them upon the barbarians.”--Langhorne’s Plutarch, Life of Theseus.

[30] “From Thermopylæ to Sparta, the leader of the Goths (Alaric) pursued his victorious march without encountering any mortal antagonist; but one of the advocates of expiring paganism has confidently asserted that the walls of Athens were guarded by the goddess Minerva, with her formidable ægis, and by the angry phantom of Achilles, and that the conqueror was dismayed by the presence of the hostile deities of Greece.”--Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, &c. vol. v. p. 183.

[31] “Even all the chief ones of the earth.”--Isaiah, xiv.

[32] “How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!”--Samuel, book ii. chap. i.

[33] For several interesting particulars relative to the Suliote warfare with Ali Pasha, see Holland’s Travels in Albania.

[34] “It is related, as an authentic story, that a group of Suliote women assembled on one of the precipices adjoining the modern seraglio, and threw their infants into the chasm below, that they might not become the slaves of the enemy.”--Holland’s Travels, &c.

[35] The ruins of Sparta, near the modern town of Mistra, are very inconsiderable, and only sufficient to mark the site of the ancient city. The scenery around them is described by travellers as very striking.

[36] The inscription composed by Simonides for the Spartan monument in the pass of Thermopylæ has been thus translated:--“Stranger, go tell the Lacedemonians that we have obeyed their laws, and that we lie here.”

[37] “In the Eurotas I observed abundance of those famous reeds which were known in the earliest ages; and all the rivers and marshes of Greece are replete with rose-laurels, while the springs and rivulets are covered with lilies, tuberoses, hyacinths, and narcissus orientalis.”--Pouqueville’s Travels in the Morea.

[38] It was usual for suppliants to carry an olive branch bound with wool.

[39] The olive, according to Pouqueville, is still regarded with veneration by the people of the Morea.

[40] It was customary at Eleusis, on the fifth day of the festival, for men and women to run about with torches in their hands, and also to dedicate torches to Ceres, and to contend who should present the largest. This was done in memory of the journey of Ceres in search of Proserpine, during which she was lighted by a torch kindled in the flames of Etna.--Porter’s Antiquities of Greece, vol. i. p. 392.

[41] The fountains of Oblivion and Memory, with the Hercynian fountain, are still to be seen amongst the rocks near Livadia, though the situation of the cave of Trophonius, in their vicinity, cannot be exactly ascertained.--See Holland’s Travels.

[42] Elis was anciently a sacred territory, its inhabitants being considered as consecrated to the service of Jupiter. All armies marching through it delivered up their weapons, and received them again when they had passed its boundary.

[43] “We are assured by Thucydides that Attica was the province of Greece in which population first became settled, and where the earliest progress was made toward civilisation.”--Mitford’s Greece, vol. i. p. 35.

[44] Fata Morgana. This remarkable aërial phenomenon, which is thought by the lower order of Sicilians to be the work of a fairy, is thus described by Father Angelucci, whose account is quoted by Swinburne:--

“On the 15th August 1643, I was surprised, as I stood at my window, with a most wonderful spectacle: the sea that washes the Sicilian shore swelled up, and became, for ten miles in length, like a chain of dark mountains, while the waters near our Calabrian coast grew quite smooth, and in an instant appeared like one clear polished mirror. On this glass was depicted, in chiaro-scuro, a string of several thousands of pilasters, all equal in height, distance, and degrees of light and shade. In a moment they bent into arcades, like Roman aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed at the top, and above it rose innumerable castles, all perfectly alike; these again changed into towers, which were shortly after lost in colonnades, then windows, and at last ended in pines, cypresses, and other trees.”--Swinburne’s Travels in the Two Sicilies.

[45] All sorts of purple and white flowers were supposed by the Greeks to be acceptable to the dead, and used in adorning tombs; as amaranth, with which the Thessalians decorated the tomb of Achilles.--Potter’s Antiquities of Greece, vol. ii. p. 232.

[46] Pericles, on his return to Athens after the reduction of Samos, celebrated in a splendid manner the obsequies of his countrymen who fell in that war, and pronounced himself the funeral oration usual on such occasions. This gained him great applause; and when he came down from the rostrum the women paid their respects to him, and presented him with crowns and chaplets, like a champion just returned victorious from the lists.--Langhorne’s Plutarch, Life of Pericles.

[47] The peplus, which is supposed to have been suspended as an awning over the statue of Minerva in the Parthenon, was a principal ornament of the Panathenaic festival; and it was embroidered with various colours, representing the battle of the gods and Titans, and the exploits of Athenian heroes. When the festival was celebrated, the peplus was brought from the Acropolis, and suspended as a sail to the vessel, which on that day was conducted through the Ceramicus and principal streets of Athens, till it had made the circuit of the Acropolis. The peplus was then carried to the Parthenon, and consecrated to Minerva.--See Chandler’s Travels, Stuart’s Athens, &c.

[48] The gilding amidst the ruins of Persepolis is still, according to Winckelmann, in high preservation.

[49] “In the most broken fragment, the same great principle of life can be proved to exist, as in the most perfect figure,” is one of the observations of Mr Haydon on the Elgin Marbles.

[50] “Every thing here breathes life, with a veracity, with an exquisite knowledge of art, but without the least ostentation or parade of it, which is concealed by consummate and masterly skill.”--Canova’s Letter to the Earl of Elgin.

[51] Mr West, after expressing his admiration of the horse’s head in Lord Elgin’s collection of Athenian sculpture, thus proceeds:--“We feel the same, when we view the young equestrian Athenians, and, in observing them, we are insensibly carried on with the impression that they and their horses actually existed, as we see them, at the instant when they were converted into marble.”--West’s Second Letter to Lord Elgin.

[52] Mr Flaxman thinks that sculpture has very greatly improved within these last twenty years, and that his opinion is not singular--because works of such prime importance as the Elgin Marbles could not remain in any country without a consequent improvement of the public taste, and the talents of the artist.--See the Evidence given in reply to Interrogatories from the Committee on the Elgin Marbles.

[53] The Theseus and Ilissus, which are considered by Sir T. Lawrence, Mr Westmacott, and other distinguished artists, to be of a higher class than the Apollo Belvidere, “because there is in them a union of very grand form, with a more true and natural expression of the effect of action upon the human frame than there is in the Apollo, or any of the other more celebrated statues.”--See The Evidence, &c.

[54] “Let us suppose a young man at this time in London, endowed with powers such as enabled Michael Angelo to advance the arts, as he did, by the aid of one mutilated specimen of Grecian excellence in sculpture, to what an eminence might not such a genius carry art, by the opportunity of studying those sculptures, in the aggregate, which adorned the temple of Minerva at Athens?”--West’s Second Letter to Lord Elgin.

[55] In allusion to the theories of Du Bos, Winckelmann, Montesquieu, &c., with regard to the inherent obstacles in the climate of England to the progress of genius and the arts.--See Hoare’s Epochs of the Arts, p. 84, 85.

EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS.

Blackwood’s Magazine.--“In our reviews of poetical productions, the better efforts of genius hold out to us a task at once more useful and delightful than those of inferior merit. In the former the beautiful predominate, and expose while they excuse the blemishes. But the public taste would receive no benefit from a detail of mediocrity, relieved only by the censure of faults uncompensated by excellencies. We have great pleasure in calling the attention of our readers to the beautiful poem before us, which we believe to be the work of the same lady who last year put her name to the second edition of another poem on a kindred subject, ‘The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy’--namely, Mrs Hemans of North Wales. That the author’s fame has not altogether kept pace with her merit, we are inclined to think is a reproach to the public. Poetry is at present experiencing the fickleness of fashion, and may be said to have had its day. Very recently, the reading public, as the phrase is, was immersed in poetry, but seems to have had enough; and, excepting always that portion of it who are found to relish genuine poetry on its own intrinsic account, and will never tire of the exquisite enjoyment which it affords, the said public seldom read poetry at all.

* * * * *

“But so little is that excitement which the bulk of readers covet necessarily connected with poetry, that these readers have tired even of romances in a metrical form, and are regarding all their late rhythmical favourites alike, with that sort of ingratitude with which repletion would lead them to regard a banquet when the dishes are removing from the table. But this is no proof that these great poets have forfeited their title to be admired. They are fixed orbs, which stand just where they did, and shine just as they were wont, although they seem to decline to the world, which revolves the opposite way. But if the world will turn from the poet, whatever be his merit, there is an end of his popularity, inasmuch as the most approved conductor of the latter is the multitude, as essentially as is the air of the sound of his voice. Profit will also fail from the lack of purchasers; and poetry, high as it may intrinsically seem, must fall, commercially speaking, to its ancient proverbially unprofitable level. Yet poetry will still be poetry, however it may cease to pay; and although the acclaim of multitudes is one thing, and the still small voice of genuine taste and feeling another, the nobler incense of the latter will ever be its reward.

“Our readers will now cease to wonder that an author like the present, who has had no higher aim than to regale the imagination with imagery, warm the heart with sentiment and feeling, and delight the ear with music, without the foreign aid of tale or fable, has hitherto written to a select few, and passed almost unnoticed by the multitude.

“With the exception of Lord Byron, who has made the theme peculiarly his own, no one has more feelingly contrasted ancient with modern Greece.

“The poem on the Restoration of the Louvre Collection, has, of course, more allusions to ancient Rome; and nothing can be more spirited than the passages in which the author invokes for modern Rome the return of her ancient glories. In a cursory but graphic manner, some of the most celebrated of the ancient statues are described. Referring our readers, with great confidence, to the works themselves, our extracts may be limited.”

Edinburgh Monthly Review.--“The grand act of retribution--the restoration of the treasures of the Louvre--occasioned Mrs Hemans’ first publication. ‘Modern Greece’ next appeared, and soared still higher into the regions of beauty and pathos. It is a highly promising symptom, that each new effort of her genius excels its predecessor. The present volume strikingly confirms this observation, and leads us to think that we have yet seen no more than the trials of her strength.”

TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS, AND OTHER POETS.

“Siamo nati veramente in un secolo in cui gl’ingegni e gli studj degli uomini sono rivolti all’ utilità. L’Agricoltura, le Arti, il Commercio acquistano tutto dì novi lumi dalle ricerche de’ Saggi; e il voler farsi un nome tentando di dilettare, quand’ altri v’aspira con più giustizia giovando, sembra impresa dura e difficile.”--Savioli.

SONNET 70.

“Na metade do ceo subido ardia.”

High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam, The sun had reach’d the zenith of his reign, And for the living fount, the gelid stream, Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain: Midst the dark foliage of the forest shade, The birds had shelter’d from the scorching ray; Hush’d were their melodies--and grove and glade Resounded but the shrill cicada’s lay: When, through the grassy vale, a love-lorn swain, To seek the maid who but despised his pain, Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion, roved: “Why pine for her,” the slighted wanderer cried, “By whom thou art not loved?” and thus replied An echo’s murmuring voice--“Thou art not loved!”

SONNET 282.

FROM PSALM CXXXVII.

“Na ribeira de Euprates assentado.”

Wrapt in sad musings, by Euphrates’ stream I sat, retracing days for ever flown, While rose thine image on the exile’s dream, O much-loved Salem! and thy glories gone: When they who caused the ceaseless tears I shed, Thus to their captive spoke--“Why sleep thy lays? Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendour fled, And all thy triumphs in departed days! Know’st thou not Harmony’s resistless charm Can soothe each passion, and each grief disarm? Sing then, and tears will vanish from thine eye.” With sighs I answer’d,--“When the cup of woe Is fill’d, till misery’s bitter draught o’erflow, The mourner’s cure is not to sing--but die.”

PART OF ECLOGUE 15.

“Se lá no assento da maior alteza.”

If in thy glorious home above Thou still recallest earthly love, If yet retain’d a thought may be Of him whose heart hath bled for thee;

Remember still how deeply shrined Thine image in his joyless mind: Each well-known scene, each former care, Forgotten--thou alone art there!

Remember that thine eye-beam’s light Hath fled for ever from his sight, And, with that vanish’d sunshine, lost Is every hope he cherish’d most.

Think that his life, from thee apart, Is all but weariness of heart; Each stream, whose music once was dear, Now murmurs discord to his ear.

Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays Woke him to joy in other days, Now, in the light of beauty drest, Brings but new sorrows to his breast.

Through thee, the heavens are dark to him, The sun’s meridian blaze is dim; And harsh were e’en the bird of eve, But that her song still loves to grieve.

All it hath been, his heart forgets, So alter’d by its long regrets; Each wish is changed, each hope is o’er, And joy’s light spirit wakes no more.

SONNET 271.

“A formosura desta fresca serra.”

This mountain-scene with sylvan grandeur crown’d, These chestnut-woods, in summer verdure bright; These founts and rivulets, whose mingling sound Lulls every bosom to serene delight; Soft on these hills the sun’s declining ray; This clime, where all is new; these murmuring seas; Flocks, to the fold that bend their lingering way; Light clouds, contending with the genial breeze; And all that Nature’s lavish hands dispense, In gay luxuriance, charming every sense, Ne’er in thy absence can delight my breast: Nought, without thee, my weary soul beguiles: And joy may beam; yet, midst her brightest smiles, A secret grief is mine, that will not rest.

SONNET 186.

“Os olhos onde o casto Amor ardia.”

Those eyes, whence Love diffused his purest light, Proud in such beaming orbs his reign to show; That face, with tints of mingling lustre bright, Where the rose mantled o’er the living snow; The rich redundance of that golden hair, Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day; That form so graceful, and that hand so fair, Where now those treasures?--mouldering into clay! Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn, Hath young Perfection wither’d in its morn, Touch’d by the hand that gathers but to blight? Oh, how could Love survive his bitter tears! Shed, not for her, who mounts to happier spheres, But for his own sad fate, thus wrapt in starless night!

SONNET 108.

“Brandas aguas do Tejo que passando.”

Fair Tajo! thou whose calmly-flowing tide Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains, Enlivening all where’er thy waves may glide, Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs and swains. Sweet stream! I know not when my steps again Shall tread thy shores; and while to part I mourn, I have no hope to meliorate my pain, No dream that whispers--I may yet return! My frowning destiny, whose watchful care Forbids me blessings and ordains despair, Commands me thus to leave thee, and repine And I must vainly mourn the scenes I fly, And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigh, And blend my tears with other waves than thine!

SONNET 23.

TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA.

“Chara minha inimiga, em cuja mao.”

Thou to whose power my hopes, my joys I gave, O fondly loved! my bosom’s dearest care! Earth, which denied to lend thy form a grave, Yields not one spell to soothe my deep despair! Yes! the wild seas entomb those charms divine, Dark o’er thy head th’ eternal billows roll; But while one ray of life or thought is mine, Still shalt thou live, the inmate of my soul. And if the tones of my uncultured song Have power the sad remembrance to prolong, Of love so ardent, and of faith so pure; Still shall my verse thine epitaph remain, Still shall thy charms be deathless in my strain, While Time, and Love, and Memory shall endure.

SONNET 19.

“Alma minha gentil, que te partiste.”

Spirit beloved! whose wing so soon hath flown The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere, How is yon Heaven eternally thine own, Whilst I deplore thy loss, a captive here! Oh! if allow’d in thy divine abode Of aught on earth an image to retain, Remember still the fervent love which glow’d In my fond bosom, pure from every stain. And if thou deem’d that all my faithful grief, Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief, Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies! Oh! ask of Heaven, which call’d thee soon away, That I may join thee in those realms of day, Swiftly as thou hast vanish’d from mine eyes.

“Que estranho caso de amor!”

How strange a fate in love is mine! How dearly prized the pains I feel! Pangs, that to rend my soul combine, With avarice I conceal: For did the world the tale divine, My lot would then be deeper woe-- And mine is grief that none must know.

To mortal ears I may not dare Unfold the cause, the pain I prove; ’Twould plunge in ruin and despair Or me, or her I love. My soul delights alone to bear Her silent, unsuspected woe, And none shall pity, none shall know.

Thus buried in my bosom’s urn, Thus in my inmost heart conceal’d, Let me alone the secret mourn, In pangs unsoothed and unreveal’d. For whether happiness or woe, Or life or death its power bestow, It is what none on earth must know.

SONNET 58.

“Se as penas com que Amor tao mal me trata.”

Should Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart Yet long enough protract his votary’s days To see the lustre from those eyes depart, The lode-stars[56] now that fascinate my gaze; To see rude Time the living roses blight That o’er thy cheek their loveliness unfold, And, all unpitying, change thy tresses bright To silvery whiteness, from their native gold; Oh! then thy heart an equal change will prove, And mourn the coldness that repell’d my love, When tears and penitence will all be vain; And I shall see thee weep for days gone by, And in thy deep regret and fruitless sigh, Find amplest vengeance for my former pain.

[56] “Your eyes are lode-stars.”--Shakespeare.

SONNET 178.

“Já cantei, já chorei a dura guerra.”

Oft have I sung and mourn’d the bitter woes Which love for years hath mingled with my fate, While he the tale forbade me to disclose, That taught his votaries their deluded state. Nymphs! who dispense Castalia’s living stream, Ye, who from Death oblivion’s mantle steal, Grant me a strain in powerful tone supreme, Each grief by love inflicted to reveal: That those whose ardent hearts adore his sway, May hear experience breathe a warning lay-- How false his smiles, his promises how vain! Then, if ye deign this effort to inspire, When the sad task is o’er, my plaintive lyre, For ever hush’d, shall slumber in your fane.

SONNET 80.

“Como quando do mar tempestuoso.”

Saved from the perils of the stormy wave, And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main, But just escaped from shipwreck’s billowy grave, Trembles to hear its horrors named again. How warm his vow, that Ocean’s fairest mien No more shall lure him from the smiles of home! Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene, Once more he turns, o’er boundless deeps to roam. Lady! thus I, who vainly oft in flight Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight, Make the firm vow to shim thee and be free: But my fond heart, devoted to its chain, Still draws me back where countless perils reign, And grief and ruin spread their snares for me.

SONNET 239.

FROM PSALM CXXXVII.

“Em Babylonia sobre os rios, quando.”

Beside the streams of Babylon, in tears Of vain desire, we sat; remembering thee, O hallow’d Sion! and the vanish’d years, When Israel’s chosen sons were blest and free: Our harps, neglected and untuned, we hung Mute on the willows of the stranger’s land; When songs, like those that in thy fanes we sung, Our foes demanded from their captive band. “How shall our voices, on a foreign shore,” (We answer’d those whose chains the exile wore,) “The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew? If I forget, midst grief and wasting toil, Thee, O Jerusalem! my native soil! May my right hand forget its cunning too!”

SONNET 128.

“Huma admiravel herva se conhece.”

There blooms a plant, whose gaze from hour to hour Still to the sun with fond devotion turns, Wakes when Creation hails his dawning power, And most expands when most her idol burns: But when he seeks the bosom of the deep, His faithful plant’s reflected charms decay; Then fade her flowers, her leaves discolour’d weep, Still fondly pining for the vanish’d ray. Thou whom I love, the day-star of my sight! When thy dear presence wakes me to delight, Joy in my soul unfolds her fairest flower: But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms, And, of their light deprived, in grief consumes, Born but to live within thine eye-beam’s power.

“Polomeu apartamento.”

Amidst the bitter tears that fell In anguish at my last farewell, Oh! who would dream that joy could dwell, To make that moment bright? Yet be my judge, each heart! and say, Which then could most my bosom sway, Affliction or delight?

It was when Hope, oppress’d with woes, Seem’d her dim eyes in death to close, That rapture’s brightest beam arose In sorrow’s darkest night. Thus, if my soul survive that hour, ’Tis that my fate o’ercame the power Of anguish with delight.

For oh! her love, so long unknown, She then confess’d was all my own, And in that parting hour alone Reveal’d it to my sight. And now what pangs will rend my soul, Should fortune still, with stern control, Forbid me this delight!

I know not if my bliss were vain, For all the force of parting pain Forbade suspicious doubts to reign, When exiled from her sight: Yet now what double woe for me, Just at the close of eve, to see The dayspring of delight!

SONNET 205.

“Quem diz que Amor he falso, o enganoso.”

He who proclaims that Love is light and vain, Capricious, cruel, false in all his ways, Ah! sure too well hath merited his pain, Too justly finds him all he thus portrays: For Love is pitying, Love is soft and kind. Believe not him who dares the tale oppose; Oh! deem him one whom stormy passions blind, One to whom earth and heaven may well be foes. If Love bring evils, view them all in me! Here let the world his utmost rigour see, His utmost power exerted to annoy: But all his ire is still the ire of love; And such delight in all his woes I prove, I would not change their pangs for aught of other joy.

SONNET 133.

“Doces e claras aguas do Mondego.”

Waves of Mondego! brilliant and serene, Haunts of my thought, where memory fondly strays, Where hope allured me with perfidious mien, Witching my soul, in long-departed days; Yes, I forsake your banks! but still my heart Shall bid remembrance all your charms restore, And, suffering not one image to depart, Find lengthening distance but endear you more. Let Fortune’s will, through many a future day, To distant realms this mortal frame convey, Sport of each wind, and tost on every wave; Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true, On thought’s light pinion still shall fly to you, And still, bright waters! in your current lave.

SONNET 181.

“Onde acharei lugar taō apartado.”

Where shall I find some desert-scene so rude, Where loneliness so undisturb’d may reign, That not a step shall ever there intrude Of roving man, or nature’s savage train-- Some tangled thicket, desolate and drear, Or deep wild forest, silent as the tomb, Boasting no verdure bright, no fountain clear, But darkly suited to my spirit’s gloom? That there, midst frowning rocks, alone with grief Entomb’d in life, and hopeless of relief, In lonely freedom I may breathe my woes. For oh! since nought my sorrows can allay, There shall my sadness cloud no festal day, And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose.

SONNET 278.

“Eu vivia de lagrimas isento.”

Exempt from every grief,’twas mine to live In dreams so sweet, enchantments so divine, A thousand joys propitious Love can give Were scarcely worth one rapturous pain of mine Bound by soft spells, in dear illusions blest, I breathed no sigh for fortune or for power; No care intruding to disturb my breast, I dwelt entranced in Love’s Elysian bower: But Fate, such transports eager to destroy, Soon rudely woke me from the dream of joy, And bade the phantoms of delight begone: Bade hope and happiness at once depart, And left but memory to distract my heart, Retracing every hour of bliss for ever flown.

“Mi nueve y dulce querella.”

No searching eye can pierce the veil That o’er my secret love is thrown; No outward signs reveal its tale, But to my bosom known. Thus, like the spark whose vivid light In the dark flint is hid from sight, It dwells within, alone.

METASTASIO.

“Dunque si sfoga in pianto.”

In tears, the heart oppress’d with grief Gives language to its woes; In tears, its fulness finds relief, When rapture’s tide o’erflows! Who, then, unclouded bliss would seek On this terrestrial sphere; When e’en Delight can only speak, Like Sorrow--in a tear?

“Al furor d’avversa Sorte.”

He shall not dread Misfortune’s angry mien, Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude, Whose soul hath learn’d, through many a trying scene, To smile at fate, and suffer unsubdued.

In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms, Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art: Thus Fate’s dread ire, by many a conflict, forms The lofty spirit and enduring heart!

“Quella onda che ruina.”

The torrent wave, that breaks with force Impetuous down the Alpine height, Complains and struggles in its course, But sparkles, as the diamond bright.

The stream in shadowy valley deep May slumber in its narrow bed; But silent, in unbroken sleep, Its lustre and its life are fled.

“Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie.”

Sweet rose! whose tender foliage to expand Her fostering dews the Morning lightly shed, Whilst gales of balmy breath thy blossoms fann’d, And o’er thy leaves the soft suffusion spread: That hand, whose care withdrew thee from the ground, To brighter worlds thy favour’d charms hath borne; Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crown’d, There breathe and bloom, released from every thorn. Thus, far removed, and now transplanted flower! Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude, Shelter’d with tenderest care from frost or shower, And each rough season’s chill vicissitude, Now may thy form in bowers of peace assume Immortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom.

“Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine.”

Fortune! why thus, where’er my footsteps tread, Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like these? Think’st thou that I thy threatening mien shall dread, Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize? Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude, For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway! My constant soul should triumph unsubdued, Were the wide universe destruction’s prey. Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried? No! I have long thine utmost power defied, And drawn fresh energies from every fight. Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel, With each successive shock the temper’d steel More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright.

“Parlagli d’un periglio.”

Wouldst thou to Love of danger speak?-- Veil’d are his eyes, to perils blind! Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek?-- He is a child of wayward mind!

But with a doubt, a jealous fear, Inspire him once--the task is o’er; His mind is keen, his sight is clear, No more an infant, blind no more.

“Sprezza il furor del vento.”

Unbending midst the wintry skies, Rears the firm oak his vigorous form, And stem in rugged strength, defies The rushing of the storm.

Then sever’d from his native shore, O’er ocean-worlds the sail to bear, Still with those winds he braved before, He proudly struggles there.

“Sol può dir che sia contento.”

Oh! those alone whose sever’d hearts Have mourn’d through lingering years in vain, Can tell what bliss fond Love imparts, When Fate unites them once again. Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear, Whose language hails that moment bright, When past afflictions but endear The presence of delight!

“Ah! frenate le piante imbelle!”

Ah! cease--those fruitless tears restrain! I go misfortune to defy, To smile at fate with proud disdain, To triumph--not to die!

I with fresh laurels go to crown My closing days at last, Securing all the bright renown Acquired in dangers past.

VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.

“Italia! Italia! O tu cui diè la sorte.”

Italia! O Italia! thou, so graced With ill-starr’d beauty, which to thee hath been A dower whose fatal splendour may be traced In the deep-graven sorrows of thy mien; Oh that more strength, or fewer charms were thine! That those might fear thee more, or love thee less, Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine, Then pierce thee with the death-pang’s bitterness! Not then would foreign hosts have drain’d the tide Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed: Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew’d, Pour down; nor wouldst thou wield an alien brand, And fight thy battles with the stranger’s hand, Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued!

PASTORINI.

“Genova mia! se con asciutto ciglio.”

If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold, My native Genoa! with a tearless eye, Think not thy son’s ungrateful heart is cold; But know--I deem rebellious every sigh! Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey, Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot might! And in each trace of devastation’s way, Thy worth, thy courage, meet my wandering sight. Triumphs far less than suffering virtue shine! And on the spoilers high revenge is thine, While thy strong spirit unsubdued remains. And lo! fair Liberty rejoicing flies To kiss each noble relic, while she cries, “Hail! though in ruins, thou wert ne’er in chains!”

LOPE DE VEGA.

“Estese el cortesano.”

Let the vain courtier waste his days, Lured by the charms that wealth displays, The couch of down, the board of costly fare; Be his to kiss th’ ungrateful hand That waves the sceptre of command, And rear full many a palace in the air; Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined, The glowing sun, the genial wind, And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assign’d; And prize far more, in peace and health, Contented indigence than joyless wealth.

Not mine in Fortune’s fane to bend, At Grandeur’s altar to attend, Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown; Nor mine a fond aspiring thought, A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught With Fame’s bright phantom, Glory’s deathless crown! Nectareous draughts and viands pure Luxuriant nature will insure; These the clear fount and fertile field Still to the wearied shepherd yield; And when repose and visions reign, Then we are equals all, the monarch and the swain.

FRANCISCO MANUEL.

ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENT.

“No baxes temeroso, o peregrino!”

Pause not with lingering foot, O pilgrim! here, Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side; Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear-- To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide. Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode, So near the mansions of supreme delight; Pause not, but tread this consecrated road-- ’Tis the dark basis of the heavenly height. Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way, How many a fountain glitters down the hill! Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play, Bright sunshine guides--and wilt thou linger still? Oh! enter there, where, freed from human strife, Hope is reality, and time is life.

DELLA CASA.

VENICE.

“Quest! palazzi, e queste logge or colte.”

These marble domes, by wealth and genius graced, With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian stone, Were once rude cabins midst a lonely waste, Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. Pure from each vice, ’twas here a venturous train Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea; Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign, They sought these island precincts--to be free. Ne’er in their souls ambition’s flame arose, No dream of avarice broke their calm repose; Fraud, more than death, abhorr’d each artless breast: Oh! now, since fortune gilds their brightening day, Let not those virtues languish and decay, O’erwhelm’d by luxury, and by wealth opprest!

IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO.

“L’anima bella, che dal vero Eliso.”

The sainted spirit which, from bliss on high, Descends like dayspring to my favour’d sight, Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky, Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright! But with the sweetness of her well-known smile, That smile of peace! she bids my doubts depart, And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while, And heaven’s full glory pictures to my heart. Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold, And now, e’en now, in thought my wings unfold, To soar with her, and mingle with the blest! But ah! so swift her buoyant pinion flies, That I, in vain aspiring to the skies, Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds deprest.

QUEVEDO.

ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS.

“Buscas en Roma á Roma, o peregrino!”

Amidst these scenes, O pilgrim! seek’st thou Rome? Vain is thy search--the pomp of Rome is fled; Her silent Aventine is glory’s tomb; Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. That hill, where Cæsars dwelt in other days, Forsaken mourns, where once it tower’d sublime; Each mouldering medal now far less displays The triumphs won by Latium than by Time. Tiber alone survives--the passing wave That bathed her towers now murmurs by her grave, Wailing with plaintive sound her fallen fanes. Rome! of thine ancient grandeur all is past, That seem’d for years eternal framed to last: Nought but the wave--a fugitive, remains.

EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS.

“Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos.”

Thou, who hast fled from life’s enchanted bowers, In youth’s gay spring, in beauty’s glowing morn, Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers, For the rude convent-garb and couch of thorn; Thou that, escaping from a world of cares, Hast found thy haven in devotion’s fane, As to the port the fearful bark repairs To shim the midnight perils of the main-- Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour, While on thy soul the beams of glory rise! For if the pilot hail the welcome shore With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies, Oh! how shouldst thou the exulting pæan raise, Now heaven’s bright harbour opens on thy gaze!

TORQUATO TASSO.

“Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa.”

Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose To the mild sunshine only half display’d, That shunn’d its bashful graces to disclose, And in its veil of verdure sought a shade: Or like Aurora did thy charms appear, (Since mortal form ne’er vied with aught so bright,) Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere, O’er vale and mountain shedding dew and light. Now riper years have doom’d no grace to fade; Nor youthful charms, in all their pride array’d, Excel, or equal, thy neglected form. Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower, And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour, More brilliant shines, in genial radiance warm.

BERNARDO TASSO.

“Quest’ ombra che giammai non vide il sole.”

This green recess, where through the bowery gloom Ne’er, e’en at noontide hours, the sunbeam play’d, Where violet-beds in soft luxuriance bloom Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade; Where through the grass a sparkling fountain steals, Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows, No more its bed of yellow sand conceals Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose; This bower of peace, thou soother of our care, God of soft slumbers and of visions fair! A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee! Then breathe around some spell of deep repose, And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close, Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops never free.

PETRARCH.

“Chi vuol veder quantunque può natura.”

Thou that wouldst mark, in form of human birth, All heaven and nature’s perfect skill combined, Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth, Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind: And haste! for Death, who spares the guilty long, First calls the brightest and the best away; And to her home, amidst the cherub throng, The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay! Haste! and each outward charm, each mental grace, In one consummate form thine eye shall trace, Model of loveliness, for earth too fair! Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays, My spirit dazzled by perfection’s blaze: But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare.

“Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde.”

If to the sighing breeze of summer hours Bend the green leaves; if mourns a plaintive bird; Or from some fount’s cool margin, fringed with flowers, The soothing murmur of the wave is heard; Her whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies, I see and hear: though dwelling far above, Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs, Visits the lone retreat of pensive love. “Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day,” (Her gentle accents thus benignly say,) “While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flows? Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight, Died, to be deathless; and on heavenly light Whose eyes but open’d, when they seem’d to close!”

VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO.

“O Muerte! que sueles ser.”

Thou, the stem monarch of dismay, Whom nature trembles to survey, O Death! to me, the child of grief, Thy welcome power would bring relief, Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. And though thy stroke may thrill with pain Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein; The pangs that bid existence close, Ah! sure are far less keen than those Which cloud its lingering moments with despair.

FRANCESCO LORENZINI.

“O Zefiretto, che movendo vai.”

Sylph of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light Wave gently round the tree I planted here, Sacred to her whose soul hath wing’d its flight To the pure ether of her lofty sphere; Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale! To fan its leaves in summer’s noontide hour; Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail To rend its honours from the sylvan bower. Then shall it spread, and rear th’ aspiring form. Pride of the wood, secure from every storm, Graced with her name, a consecrated tree! So may thy Lord, thy monarch of the wind, Ne’er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind, But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and free!

GESNER.

MORNING SONG.

“Willkommen, fruhe morgensonn.”

Hail! morning sun, thus early bright; Welcome, sweet dawn! thou younger day! Through the dark woods that fringe the height, Beams forth, e’en now, thy ray.

Bright on the dew it sparkles clear, Bright on the water’s glittering fall, And life, and joy, and health appear, Sweet Morning! at thy call.

Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring From beds of fragrance, where they lay, And roving wild on dewy wing, Drive slumber far away.

Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat, Now from each mind withdraw their spell; While the young loves delighted meet, On Rosa’s cheek to dwell.

Speed, zephyr! kiss each opening flower, Its fragrant spirit make thine own; Then wing thy way to Rosa’s bower, Ere her light sleep is flown.

There, o’er her downy pillow fly, Wake the sweet maid to life and day; Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh, And o’er her bosom play;

And whisper, when her eyes unveil, That I, since morning’s earliest call, Have sigh’d her name to ev’ry gale By the lone waterfall.

GERMAN SONG.

“Mädchen, lernet Amor kennen.”

Listen, fair maid! my song shall tell How Love may still be known full well-- His looks the traitor prove. Dost thou not see that absent smile, That fiery glance replete with guile? Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love.

When varying still the sly disguise, Child of caprice, he laughs and cries, Or with complaint would move; To-day is bold, to-morrow shy, Changing each hour, he knows not why. Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love.

There’s magic in his every wile, His lips, well practised to beguile, Breathe roses when they move; See! now with sudden rage he burns, Disdains, implores, commands, by turns. Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love.

He comes, without the bow and dart, That spare not e’en the purest heart; His looks the traitor prove; That glance is fire, that mien is guile, Deceit is lurking in that smile-- Oh! trust him not--’tis Love!

CHAULIEU.

“Grotte, d’où sort ce clair ruisseau.”

Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring, Its margin fringed with moss and flowers, Still bid its voice of murmurs bring Peace to my musing hours.

Sweet Fontenay! where first for me The dayspring of existence rose, Soon shall my dust return to thee, And midst my sires repose.

Muses! that watch’d my childhood’s morn, Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye-- Fair trees! that here beheld me born, Soon shall ye see me die.

GARCILASO DE VEGA.

“Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera.”

Enjoy the sweets of life’s luxuriant May Ere envious Age is hastening on his way With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow; The rose will fade when storms assail the year, And Time, who changeth not his swift career, Constant in this, will change all else below!

LORENZO DE MEDICI.

VIOLETS.

“Non di verdi giardin ornati e colti.”

We come not, fair one! to thy hand of snow From the soft scenes by Culture’s hand array’d; Not rear’d in bowers where gales of fragrance blow, But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade! There once, as Venus wander’d, lost in woe, To seek Adonis through th’ entangled wood, Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurk’d below With print relentless drew celestial blood! Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms fraught, Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught, Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes; We were not foster’d in our shadowy vales By guided rivulets or summer gales-- Our dew and air have been Love’s balmy tears and sighs!

PINDEMONTE.

ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA.

“Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi?”

Whither, celestial maid, so fast away? What lures thee from the banquet of the skies? How canst thou leave thy native realms of day For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs? O thou, Canova! soaring high above Italian art--with Grecian magic vying! We knew thy marble glow’d with life and love, But who had seen thee image footsteps flying? Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying In many a line of undulating grace; While Nature, ne’er her mighty laws suspending, Stands, before marble thus with motion blending, One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause to trace.

[A volume of translations published in 1818, might have been called by anticipation, “Lays of many Lands.” At the time now alluded to, her inspirations were chiefly derived from classical subjects. The “graceful superstitions” of Greece, and the sublime patriotism of Rome, held an influence over her thoughts which is evinced by many of the works of this period--such as “The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,” “Modern Greece,” and several of the poems which formed the volume entitled “Tales and Historic Scenes.”

“Apart from all intercourse,” says Delta, “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, and the Sceptic, may all be referred to this epoch of her literary career.”--Biographical Sketch, prefixed, to Poetical Remains, 1836.

In reference to the same period of Mrs Hemans’ career, the late acute and accomplished Miss Jewsbury (afterwards Mrs Fletcher) has the following judicious observations:--

“At this stage of transition, her poetry was correct, classical, and highly polished; but it wanted warmth: it partook more of the nature of statuary than of painting. She fettered her mind with facts and authorities, and drew upon her memory when she might have relied upon her imagination. She was diffident of herself, and, to quote her own admission, ‘loved to repose under the shadow of mighty names.’”--Athenæum, Feb. 1831.]

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE.

O wanderer! would thy heart forget Each earthly passion and regret, And would thy wearied spirit rise To commune with its native skies; Pause for a while, and deem it sweet To linger in this calm retreat; And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense, Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence.

Unmix’d with aught of meaner tone, Here Nature’s voice is heard alone: When the loud storm, in wrathful hour, Is rushing on its wing of power, And spirits of the deep awake, And surges foam, and billows break, And rocks and ocean-caves around Reverberate each awful sound-- That mighty voice, with all its dread control, To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul.

But when no more the sea-winds rave, When peace is brooding on the wave, And from earth, air, and ocean rise No sounds but plaintive melodies; Soothed by their softly mingling swell, As daylight bids the world farewell, The rustling wood, the dying breeze, The faint low rippling of the seas, A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast, A gleam reflected from the realms of rest.

Is thine a heart the world hath stung, Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung? Hast thou some grief that none may know, Some lonely, secret, silent woe? Or have thy fond affections fled From earth, to slumber with the dead?-- Oh! pause awhile--the world disown, And dwell with Nature’s self alone! And though no more she bids arise Thy soul’s departed energies, And though thy joy of life is o’er, Beyond her magic to restore; Yet shall her spells o’er every passion steal, And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal.

DIRGE OF A CHILD.

No bitter tears for thee be shed, Blossom of being! seen and gone! With flowers alone we strew thy bed, O blest departed One! Whose all of life, a rosy ray, Blush’d into dawn and pass’d away.

Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power To stain thy cherub-soul and form, Closed is the soft ephemeral flower That never felt a storm! The sunbeam’s smile, the zephyr’s breath, All that it knew from birth to death.

Thou wert so like a form of light, That heaven benignly call’d thee hence, Ere yet the world could breathe one blight O’er thy sweet innocence: And thou, that brighter home to bless, Art pass’d, with all thy loveliness!

Oh I hadst thou still on earth remain’d, Vision of beauty! fair, as brief! How soon thy brightness had been stain’d With passion or with grief! Now not a sullying breath can rise To dim thy glory in the skies.

We rear no marble o’er thy tomb-- No sculptured image there shall mourn; Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom Such dwelling to adorn. Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be The only emblems meet for thee.

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, Adorn’d with Nature’s brightest wreath; Each glowing season shall combine Its incense there to breathe; And oft, upon the midnight air, Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.

And oh! sometimes in visions blest, Sweet spirit! visit our repose; And bear, from thine own world of rest, Some balm for human woes! What form more lovely could be given Than thine to messenger of heaven?[57]

INVOCATION.

Hush’d is the world in night and sleep-- Earth, sea, and air are still as death; Too rude to break a calm so deep Were music’s faintest breath. Descend, bright visions! from aërial bowers, Descend to gild your own soft silent hours.

In hope or fear, in toil or pain, The weary day have mortals pass’d; Now, dreams of bliss! be yours to reign, And all your spells around them cast; Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear, And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.

Oh, bear your softest balm to those Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead! To them that world of peace disclose Where the bright soul is fled: Whore Love, immortal in his native clime, Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time.

Or to his loved, his distant land On your light wings the exile bear, To feel once more his heart expand In his own genial mountain-air; Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat, And bless each note, as heaven’s own music sweet.

But oh! with fancy’s brightest ray, Blest dreams! the bard’s repose illume; Bid forms of heaven around him play, And bowers of Eden bloom! And waft his spirit to its native skies Who finds no charm in life’s realities.

No voice is on the air of night, Through folded leaves no murmurs creep, Nor star nor moonbeam’s trembling light Falls on the placid brow of sleep. Descend, bright visions! from your airy bower: Dark, silent, solemn is your favourite hour.

[57] Vide Annotation from Quarterly Review, p. 62.

TO THE MEMORY OF

GENERAL SIR E--D P--K--M.[58]

Brave spirit! mourn’d with fond regret, Lost in life’s pride, in valour’s noon, Oh, who could deem thy star should set So darkly and so soon!

Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind Which mark’d and closed thy brief career, And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined, Lies wither’d on thy bier.

The soldier’s death hath been thy doom, The soldier’s tear thy mead shall be; Yet, son of war! a prouder tomb Might Fate have rear’d for thee.

Thou shouldst have died, O high-soul’d chief! In those bright days of glory fled, When triumph so prevail’d o’er grief We scarce could mourn the dead.

Noontide of fame! each tear-drop then Was worthy of a warrior’s grave: When shall affection weep again So proudly o’er the brave?

There, on the battle-fields of Spain, Midst Roncesvalles’ mountain-scene, Or on Vitoria’s blood-red plain, Meet had thy deathbed been.

We mourn not that a hero’s life Thus in its ardent prime should close; Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife, But died midst conquer’d foes!

Yet hast thou still (though victory’s flame In that last moment cheer’d thee not) Left Glory’s isle another name, That ne’er may be forgot:

And many a tale of triumph won Shall breathe that name in Memory’s ear, And long may England mourn a son Without reproach or fear.

[58] Major-general Sir Edward Pakenham, the gallant officer to whose memory these verses are dedicated, fell at the head of the British troops in the unfortunate attack on New Orleans, 8th January 1814. “Six thousand combatants on the British side,” says Mr Alison, “were in the field: a slender force to attack double their number, intrenched to the teeth in works bristling with bayonets and loaded with heavy artillery.”--History of Europe, vol. x. p. 743.

The death of Sir Edward is thus alluded to in the official account of General Keane, communicating the result of the action:--“The advancing columns were discernible from the enemy’s line at more than two hundred yards’ distance, when a destructive fire was instantly opened, not only from all parts of the enemy’s line, but from the battery on the opposite side of the river. The gallant Pakenham, who, during his short but brilliant career, was always foremost in the path of glory and of danger, galloped forward to the front, to animate his men by his presence. He had reached the crest of the glacis, and was in the act of cheering his troops with his hat off, when he received two balls, one in the knee and another in the body. He fell into the arms of Major Macdougal, his aide-de-camp, and almost instantly expired.”--Edinr. An. Regist. 1815, p. 356.

TO THE MEMORY OF

SIR H--Y E--LL--S,

WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

“Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around them.”--Ossian.

Weep’st thou for him, whose doom was seal’d On England’s proudest battle-field? For him, the lion-heart, who died In victory’s full resistless tide? Oh, mourn him not! By deeds like his that field was won, And Fate could yield to Valour’s son No brighter lot.

He heard his band’s exulting cry, He saw the vanquish’d eagles fly; And envied be his death of fame! It shed a sunbeam o’er his name That nought shall dim: No cloud obscured his glory’s day, It saw no twilight of decay. Weep not for him!

And breathe no dirge’s plaintive moan, A hero claims far loftier tone! Oh, proudly shall the war-song swell, Recording how the mighty fell In that dread hour, When England, midst the battle-storm-- The avenging angel--rear’d her form In tenfold power.

Yet, gallant heart! to swell thy praise, Vain were the minstrel’s noblest lays; Since he, the soldier’s guiding star, The Victor-chief, the lord of war, Has own’d thy fame: And oh! like his approving word, What trophied marble could record A warrior’s name?

GUERILLA SONG.

FOUNDED ON THE STORY RELATED OF THE SPANISH PATRIOT MINA.

Oh! forget not the hour when through forest and vale We return’d with our chief to his dear native halls; Through the woody sierra there sigh’d not a gale, And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement-walls; And nature lay sleeping in calmness and light, Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our sight.

We enter’d that home--all was loneliness round, The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave; Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound: Ah, such was the welcome that waited the brave! For the spoilers had pass’d, like the poison-wind’s breath, And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death.

Oh! forget not that hour--let its image be near, In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest, Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear, And rouse into vengeance each arm and each breast, Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine O’er the plains of the olive and hills of the vine.

THE AGED INDIAN.

Warriors! my noon of life is past, The brightness of my spirit flown; I crouch before the wintry blast, Amidst my tribe I dwell alone; The heroes of my youth are fled, They rest among the warlike dead.

Ye slumberers of the narrow cave! My kindred chiefs in days of yore! Ye fill an unremember’d grave, Your fame, your deeds, are known no more. The records of your wars are gone, Your names forgot by all but one.

Soon shall that one depart from earth, To join the brethren of his prime; Then will the memory of your birth Sleep with the hidden things of time. With him, ye sons of former days! Fades the last glimmering of your praise.

His eyes, that hail’d your spirits’ flame, Still kindling in the combat’s shock, Have seen, since darkness veil’d your fame, Sons of the desert and the rock! Another and another race Rise to the battle and the chase.

Descendants of the mighty dead! Fearless of heart, and firm of hand! Oh, let me join their spirits fled-- Oh! send me to their shadowy land. Age hath not tamed Ontara’s heart-- He shrinks not from the friendly dart.

These feet no more can chase the deer, The glory of this arm is flown;-- Why should the feeble linger here When all the pride of life is gone? Warriors! why still the stroke deny? Think ye Ontara fears to die?

He fear’d not in his flower of days, When strong to stem the torrent’s force, When through the desert’s pathless maze His way was as an eagle’s course! When war was sunshine to his sight, And the wild hurricane delight!

Shall, then, the warrior tremble now? Now when his envied strength is o’er-- Hung on the pine his idle bow, His pirogue useless on the shore? When age hath dimm’d his failing eye, Shall he, the joyless, fear to die?

Sons of the brave! delay no more-- The spirits of my kindred call. ’Tis but one pang, and all is o’er! Oh, bid the aged cedar fall! To join the brethren of his prime, The mighty of departed time.

EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS.

Soft skies of Italy! how richly drest, Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glow! What glorious hues, reflected from the west, Float o’er the dwellings of eternal snow! Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep, Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam; Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep, Where pipes the goat-herd by his mountain-stream. Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray, That still at eve its lofty temple knows; From rock and torrent fade the tints away, And all is wrapt in twilight’s deep repose: While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper star, And roves the Alpine gale o’er solitudes afar.

DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN “WAVERLEY.”[59]

Son of the mighty and the free! High-minded leader of the brave! Was it for lofty chief like thee To fill a nameless grave? Oh! if amidst the valiant slain The warrior’s bier had been thy lot, E’en though on red Culloden’s plain, We then had mourn’d thee not.

But darkly closed thy dawn of fame, That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair; Vengeance alone may breathe thy name, The watchword of Despair! Yet, oh! if gallant spirit’s power Hath e’er ennobled death like thine, Then glory mark’d thy parting hour, Last of a mighty line!

O’er thy own towers the sunshine falls, But cannot chase their silent gloom; Those beams that gild thy native walls Are sleeping on thy tomb! Spring on thy mountains laughs the while, Thy green woods wave in vernal air, But the loved scenes may vainly smile: Not e’en thy dust is there.

On thy blue hills no bugle-sound Is mingling with the torrent’s roar; Unmark’d, the wild deer sport around: Thou lead’st the chase no more! Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still, Those halls where peal’d the choral strain; They hear the wind’s deep murmuring thrill, And all is hush’d again.

No banner from the lonely tower Shall wave its blazon’d folds on high; There the tall grass and summer flower Unmark’d shall spring and die. No more thy bard for other ear Shall wake the harp once loved by thine-- Hush’d be the strain thou canst not hear, Last of a mighty line!

[59] These very beautiful stanzas first appeared in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1815, (p. 255,) with the following interesting heading.

“A literary friend of ours received these verses with a letter of the following tenor:--

“‘A very ingenious young friend of mine has just sent me the enclosed, on reading Waverley. To you the world gives that charming work; and if in any future edition you should like to insert the Dirge to a Highland Chief, you would do honour to

Your Sincere Admirer.’

“The individual to whom this obliging letter was addressed, having no claim to the honour which is there done him, does not possess the means of publishing the verses in the popular novel alluded to. But that the public may sustain no loss, and that the ingenious author of Waverley may be aware of the honour intended him, our correspondent has ventured to send the verses to our Register.”

Notwithstanding the mysticism in the note about the “very ingenious young friend of mine” and “your sincere admirer,” on the one hand; and the disclaimer by “a literary friend of ours,” on the other, there can be little doubt that the Dirge was sent by Mrs Hermans to Sir Walter, then Mr Scott, and by him to the Register--of which he himself wrote that year the historical department.--Vide Lockhart’s Life of Scott, vol. iv. p. 80.

THE CRUSADERS’ WAR-SONG.

Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high-- Lead on to Salem’s towers! Who would not deem it bliss to die, Slain in a cause like ours? The brave who sleep in soil of thine, Die not entomb’d but shrined, O Palestine!

Souls of the slain in holy war! Look from your sainted rest. Tell us ye rose in Glory’s car, To mingle with the blest; Tell us how short the death-pang’s power, How bright the joys of your immortal bower.

Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train! Pour forth your loftiest lays; Each heart shall echo to the strain Breathed in the warrior’s praise. Bid every string triumphant swell Th’ inspiring sounds that heroes love so well.

Salem! amidst the fiercest hour, The wildest rage of fight, Thy name shall lend our falchions power, And nerve our hearts with might. Envied be those for thee that fall, Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall.

For them no need that sculptured tomb Should chronicle their fame, Or pyramid record their doom, Or deathless verse their name; It is enough that dust of thine Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine!

Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high For combat’s glorious hour; Soon shall the red-cross banner fly On Salem’s loftiest tower! We burn to mingle in the strife, Where but to die insures eternal life.

THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD.

[It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourning!” The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them.--See the Quarterly Review article of “Culloden Papers.”]

Oh, ne’er be Clanronald the valiant forgot! Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell; But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o’er the spot, We spared not one moment to murmur “Farewell.” We heard but the battle-word given by the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”

And wildly, Clanronald! we echo’d the vow, With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our hand; Young son of the brave! we may weep for thee now, For well has thy death been avenged by thy band, When they joined in wild chorus the cry of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”

Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle’s wild call, The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave; But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall, And the soft voice of melody sigh o’er thy grave-- While Albyn remembers the words of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”

Thou art fallen, O fearless one! flower of thy race! Descendant of heroes! thy glory is set: But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase, Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet! Nor vainly have echo’d the words of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”

TO THE EYE.

Throne of expression! whence the spirit’s ray Pours forth so oft the light of mental day, Where fancy’s fire, affection’s mental beam, Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme, And many a feeling, words can ne’er impart, Finds its own language to pervade the heart: Thy power, bright orb! what bosom hath not felt, To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt! And, by some spell of undefined control, With magnet-influence touch the secret soul!

Light of the features! in the morn of youth Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth; And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway, Hath taught e’en thee to flatter and betray, Th’ ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal, Or speak one thought that interest would conceal. While yet thou seem’st the cloudless mirror given But to reflect the purity of heaven, Oh! then how lovely, there unveil’d, to trace Th’ unsullied brightness of each mental grace!

When Genius lends thee all his living light, Where the full beams of intellect unite; When love illumes thee with his varying ray, Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play; Or Pity’s melting cloud thy beam subdues, Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews; Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well, Bid some new feeling to existence start From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart. And oh! when thought, in ecstasy sublime, That soars triumphant o’er the bounds of time, Fires thy keen glance with inspiration’s blaze, The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days, (As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high, Flash through the mist of dim mortality;) Who does not own, that through thy lightning-beams A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams? That pure, though captive effluence of the sky, The vestal-ray, the spark that cannot die!

THE HERO’S DEATH.

Life’s parting beams were in his eye, Life’s closing accents on his tongue, When round him, pealing to the sky, The shout of victory rung!

Then, ere his gallant spirit fled, A smile so bright illumed his face-- Oh! never, of the light it shed, Shall memory lose a trace!

His was a death whose rapture high Transcended all that life could yield; His warmest prayer was so to die, On the red battle-field!

And they may feel, who loved him most, A pride so holy and so pure: Fate hath no power o’er those who boast A treasure thus secure!

STANZAS

ON

THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

[“Hélas! nous composions son histoire de tout ce qu’on peut imaginer de plus glorieux.... Le passé et le présent nous garantissoient l’avenir.... Telle étoit l’agréable histoire que nous faisions; et pour achever ces nobles projets, il n’y avoit que la durée de sa vie; dont nous ne croyions pas devoir être en peine, car qui eût pu seulement penser, que les années eussent dû manquer à une jeunesse qui sembloit si vive?”--Bossuet.]

I.

Mark’d ye the mingling of the city’s throng, Each mien, each glance, with expectation bright? Prepare the pageant and the choral song, The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light! And hark! what rumour’s gathering sound is nigh? Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep? Away! be hush’d, ye sounds of revelry! Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep! Weep! for the storm hath o’er us darkly pass’d, And England’s royal flower is broken by the blast!

II.

Was it a dream? so sudden and so dread That awful fiat o’er our senses came! So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled, Whose early grandeur promised years of fame? Oh! when hath life possess’d, or death destroy’d More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that smiled? When hath the spoiler left so dark a void? For all is lost--the mother and her child! Our morning-star hath vanish’d, and the tomb Throws its deep lengthen’d shade o’er distant years to come.

III.

Angel of Death! did no presaging sign Announce thy coming, and thy way prepare? No warning voice, no harbinger was thine, Danger and fear seem’d past--but thou wert there! Prophetic sounds along the earthquake’s path Foretell the hour of nature’s awful throes; And the volcano, ere it burst in wrath, Sends forth some herald from its dread repose: But thou, dark Spirit! swift and unforeseen, Cam’st like the lightning’s flash, when heaven is all serene.

IV.

And she is gone!--the royal and the young, In soul commanding, and in heart benign! Who, from a race of kings and heroes sprung, Glow’d with a spirit lofty as her line. Now may the voice she loved on earth so well Breathe forth her name unheeded and in vain; Nor can those eyes on which her own would dwell Wake from that breast one sympathy again: The ardent heart, the towering mind are fled, Yet shall undying love still linger with the dead.

V.

Oh, many a bright existence we have seen Quench’d in the glow and fulness of its prime; And many a cherish’d flower, ere now, hath been Cropt ere its leaves were breathed upon by time. We have lost heroes in their noon of pride, Whose fields of triumph gave them but a bier; And we have wept when soaring genius died, Check’d in the glory of his mid career! But here our hopes were centred--all is o’er: All thought in this absorb’d,--she was--and is no more!

VI.

We watch’d her childhood from its earliest hour, From every word and look blest omens caught; While that young mind developed all its power, And rose to energies of loftiest thought. On her was fix’d the patriot’s ardent eye-- One hope still bloom’d, one vista still was fair; And when the tempest swept the troubled sky, She was our dayspring--all was cloudless there; And oh! how lovely broke on England’s gaze, E’en through the mist and storm, the fight of distant days.

VII.

Now hath one moment darken’d future years, And changed the track of ages yet to be!-- Yet, mortal! midst the bitterness of tears, Kneel, and adore th’ inscrutable decree! Oh! while the clear perspective smiled in light, Wisdom should then have temper’d hope’s excess; And, lost One! when we saw thy lot so bright, We might have trembled at its loveliness. Joy is no earthly flower--nor framed to bear, In its exotic bloom, life’s cold, ungenial air.

VIII.

All smiled around thee: Youth, and Love, and Praise, Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine! On thee was riveted a nation’s gaze, As on some radiant and unsullied shrine. Heiress of empires! thou art pass’d away Like some fair vision, that arose to throw O’er one brief hour of life a fleeting ray, Then leave the rest to solitude and woe! Oh! who shall dare to woo such dreams again! Who hath not wept to know that tears for thee were vain?

IX.

Yet there is one who loved thee--and whose soul With mild affections nature form’d to melt; His mind hath bow’d beneath the stern control Of many a grief--but this shall be unfelt! Years have gone by--and given his honour’d head A diadem of snow; his eye is dim; Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spread-- The past, the future, are a dream to him! Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone[60] He dwells on earth, while thou in life’s full pride art gone!

X.

The Chastener’s hand is on us--we may weep, But not repine--for many a storm hath pass’d, And, pillow’d on her own majestic deep, Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast! And War hath raged o’er many a distant plain, Trampling the vine and olive in his path; While she, that regal daughter of the main, Smiled in serene defiance of his wrath! As some proud summit, mingling with the sky, Hears calmly far below the thunders roll and die.

XI.

Her voice hath been th’ awakener--and her name The gathering-word of nations. In her might, And all the awful beauty of her fame, Apart she dwelt, in solitary light. High on her cliffs, alone and firm she stood, Fixing the torch upon her beacon-tower-- That torch whose flame, far streaming o’er the flood, Hath guided Europe through her darkest hour. Away, vain dreams of glory!--in the dust Be humbled, Ocean-queen! and own thy sentence just!

XII.

Hark! ’twas the death-bell’s note! which, full and deep, Unmix’d with aught of less majestic tone, While all the murmurs of existence sleep, Swell’d on the stillness of the air alone! Silent the throngs that fill the darken’d street, Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart; And all is still, where countless thousands meet, Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart! All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene, As in each ravaged home th’ avenging one had been.

XIII.

The sun goes down in beauty--his farewell, Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright; And his last mellow’d rays around us dwell, Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight. They smile and fade--but, when the day is o’er, What slow procession moves with measured tread?-- Lo! those who weep, with her who weeps no more, A solemn train--the mourners and the dead! While, throned on high, the moon’s untroubled ray Looks down, as earthly hopes are passing thus away.

XIV.

But other light is in that holy pile, Where, in the house of silence, kings repose; There, through the dim arcade and pillar’d aisle, The funeral torch its deep-red radiance throws. There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain, And all around the stamp of woe may bear; But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain, Grief unexpress’d, unsoothed by them--is there. No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns, Than when the all he loved, as dust, to dust returns.

XV.

We mourn--but not thy fate, departed One! We pity--but the living, not the dead; A cloud hangs o’er us[61]--“the bright day is done,” And with a father’s hopes, a nation’s fled. And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast, Whose soul with thine had mingled every thought-- He, with thine early fond affections blest, Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught; What but a desert to his eye, that earth, Which but retains of thee the memory of thy worth?

XVI.

Oh! there are griefs for nature too intense, Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul; Nor hath the fragile and o’erlabour’d sense Strength e’en to feel at once their dread control. But when ’tis past, that still and speechless hour Of the seal’d bosom and the tearless eye, Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power To grasp the fulness of its agony! Its deathlike torpor vanish’d--and its doom, To cast its own dark hues o’er life and nature’s bloom.

XVII.

And such his lot whom thou hast loved and left, Spirit! thus early to thy home recall’d! So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft, A warrior’s heart, which danger ne’er appall’d. Years may pass on--and, as they roll along, Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend; And he once more, with life’s unheeding throng, May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend; Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory’s temple shrined.

XVIII.

Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal Aught from his grief whose spirit dwells with thee: Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may heal, But all it was--oh! never more shall be. The flower, the leaf, o’erwhelm’d by winter snow, Shall spring again, when beams and showers return, The faded cheek again with health may glow, And the dim eye with life’s warm radiance burn; But the pure freshness of the mind’s young bloom, Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the tomb.

XIX.

But thou! thine hour of agony is o’er, And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run; While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no more, Tells that thy crown--though not on earth--is won. Thou, of the world so early left, hast known Nought but the bloom and sunshine--and for thee, Child of propitious stars! for thee alone, The course of love ran smooth[62] and brightly free. Not long such bliss to mortal could be given: It is enough for earth to catch one glimpse of heaven.

XX.

What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame Rose in its glory on thine England’s eye, The grave’s deep shadows o’er thy prospect came? Ours is that loss--and thou wert blest to die! Thou mightst have lived to dark and evil years, To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o’ercast; But thy spring morn was all undimm’d by tears, And thou wert loved and cherish’d to the last! And thy young name, ne’er breathed in ruder tone, Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone.

XXI.

Daughter of Kings! from that high sphere look down Where still, in hope, affection’s thoughts may rise; Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown Which earth display’d to claim thee from the skies. Look down! and if thy spirit yet retain Memory of aught that once was fondly dear, Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn in vain, And in their hours of loneliness--be near! Blest was thy lot e’en here--and one faint sigh, Oh! tell those hearts, hath made that blest eternity![63]

[60]

“I saw him last on this terrace proud, Walking in health and gladness; Begirt with his court--and in all the crowd Not a single look of sadness.

* * * * *

“The time since he walk’d in glory thus, To the grave till I saw him carried, Was an age of the mightiest change to us, But to him a night unvaried.

* * * * *

“A daughter beloved--a queen--a son-- And a son’s sole child had perish’d; And sad was each heart, save the only one By which they were fondest cherish’d.”

--“The Contrast,” written under Windsor Terrace, 17th Feb. 1820, by Horace Smith, Esq.

[61]

“The bright day is done, And we are for the dark.”--Shakspeare.

[62] “The course of true love never did run smooth.”

Shakspeare.

[63] These stanzas were dated, Brownwhylfa, 23d Dec. 1817, and first appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, vol. iii. April 1818.

EXTRACT FROM QUARTERLY REVIEW.

“The next volume in order consists principally of translations. It will give our readers some idea of Mrs Hemans’ acquaintance with books, to enumerate the authors from whom she has chosen her subjects;--they are Camoens, Metastasio, Filicaja, Pastorini, Lope de Vega, Francisco Manuel, Della Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Quevedo, Juan de Tarsis, Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesner, Chaulieu, Garcilaso de Vega--names embracing almost every language in which the muse has found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations are very pretty, but it would be less interesting to select any of them for citation, as our readers might not be possessed of or acquainted with the originals. We will pass on, therefore, to the latter part of the volume, which contains much that is very pleasing and beautiful. The poem which we are about to transcribe is on a subject often treated--and no wonder; it would be hard to find another which embraces so many of the elements of poetic feeling; so soothing a mixture of pleasing melancholy and pensive hope; such an assemblage of the ideas of tender beauty, of artless playfulness, of spotless purity, of transient yet imperishable brightness, of affections wounded, but not in bitterness, of sorrows gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted happiness. We know so little of the heart of man, that when we stand by the grave of him whom we deem most excellent, the thought of death will be mingled with some awe and uncertainty; but the gracious promises of scripture leave no doubt as to the blessedness of departed infants; and when we think what they now are and what they might have been, what they now enjoy and what they might have suffered, what they have now gained and what they might have lost, we may, indeed, yearn to follow them; but we must be selfish indeed to wish them again ‘constrained’ to dwell in these tenements of pain and sorrow. The ‘Dirge of a Child,’ which follows, embodies these thoughts and feelings, but in more beautiful order and language:--

“No bitter tears for thee be shed,” etc.--Vide page 55.

WALLACE’S INVOCATION TO BRUCE.[64]

“Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief!”

The morn rose bright on scenes renown’d, Wild Caledonia’s classic ground, Where the bold sons of other days Won their high fame in Ossian’s lays, And fell--but not till Carron’s tide With Roman blood was darkly dyed. The morn rose bright--and heard the cry Sent by exulting hosts on high, And saw the white-cross banner float (While rung each clansman’s gathering-note) O’er the dark plumes and serried spears Of Scotland’s daring mountaineers; As, all elate with hope, they stood, To buy their freedom with their blood.

The sunset shone--to guide the flying, And beam a farewell to the dying! The summer moon, on Falkirk’s field, Streams upon eyes in slumber seal’d; Deep slumber--not to pass away When breaks another morning’s ray, Nor vanish when the trumpet’s voice Bids ardent hearts again rejoice: What sunbeam’s glow, what clarion’s breath, May chase the still cold sleep of death? Shrouded in Scotland’s blood-stain’d plaid, Low are her mountain-warriors laid; They fell, on that proud soil whose mould Was blent with heroes’ dust of old, And, guarded by the free and brave, Yielded the Roman--but a grave! Nobly they fell; yet with them died The warrior’s hope, the leader’s pride. Vainly they fell--that martyr host-- All, save the land’s high soul, is lost. Blest are the slain! they calmly sleep, Nor hear their bleeding country weep! The shouts of England’s triumph telling Reach not their dark and silent dwelling; And those surviving to bequeath Their sons the choice of chains or death, May give the slumberer’s lowly bier An envying glance--but not a tear.

But thou, the fearless and the free, Devoted Knight of Ellerslie! No vassal-spirit, form’d to bow When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow; No shade of fear or weak despair Blends with indignant sorrow there! The ray which streams on yon red field, O’er Scotland’s cloven helm and shield, Glitters not there alone, to shed Its cloudless beauty o’er the dead; But where smooth Carron’s rippling wave Flows near that deathbed of the brave, Illuming all the midnight scene, Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien. But other beams, O Patriot! shine In each commanding glance of thine, And other fight hath fill’d thine eye With inspiration’s majesty, Caught from th’ immortal flame divine Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine! Thy voice a prophet’s tone hath won, The grandeur Freedom lends her son; Thy bearing a resistless power, The ruling genius of the hour! And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride, Whom Carron’s waves from thee divide, Whose haughty gesture fain would seek To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek, Feels his reluctant mind controll’d By thine of more heroic mould: Though struggling all in vain to war With that high soul’s ascendant star, He, with a conqueror’s scornful eye, Would mock the name of Liberty.

Heard ye the Patriot’s awful voice?-- “Proud Victor! in thy fame rejoice! Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain, The harvest of the battle-plain, And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot Eternity shall cancel not? Rejoice!--with sounds of wild lament O’er her dark heaths and mountains sent, With dying moan and dirge’s wail, Thy ravaged country bids thee hail! Rejoice!--while yet exulting cries From England’s conquering host arise, And strains of choral triumph tell Her Royal Slave hath fought too well! Oh, dark the clouds of woe that rest Brooding o’er Scotland’s mountain-crest! Her shield is cleft, her banner torn, O’er martyr’d chiefs her daughters mourn, And not a breeze but wafts the sound Of wailing through the land around. Yet deem not thou, till life depart, High hope shall leave the patriot’s heart; Or courage to the storm inured, Or stern resolve by woes matured, Oppose, to Fate’s severest hour, Less than unconquerable power! No! though the orbs of heaven expire, Thine, Freedom! is a quenchless fire; And woe to him whose might would dare The energies of thy despair! No!--when thy chain, O Bruce! is cast O’er thy land’s charter’d mountain-blast, Then in my yielding soul shall die The glorious faith of Liberty!”

“Wild hopes! o’er dreamer’s mind that rise!” With haughty laugh the Conqueror cries, (Yet his dark cheek is flush’d with shame, And his eye fill’d with troubled flame;) “Vain, brief illusions! doom’d to fly England’s red path of victory! Is not her sword unmatch’d in might? Her course a torrent in the fight? The terror of her name gone forth Wide o’er the regions of the north? Far hence, midst other heaths and snows, Must freedom’s footstep now repose. And thou--in lofty dreams elate, Enthusiast! strive no more with Fate! ’Tis vain--the land is lost and won: Sheathed be the sword--its task is done. Where are the chiefs that stood with thee First in the battles of the free? The firm in heart, in spirit high?-- They sought yon fatal field to die. Each step of Edward’s conquering host Hath left a grave on Scotland’s coast.”

“Vassal of England, yes! a grave Where sleep the faithful and the brave; And who the glory would resign Of death like theirs, for life like thine? They slumber--and the stranger’s tread May spurn thy country’s noble dead; Yet, on the land they loved so well, Still shall their burning spirit dwell, Their deeds shall hallow minstrel’s theme, Their image rise on warrior’s dream, Their names be inspiration’s breath, Kindling high hope and scorn of death, Till bursts, immortal from the tomb, The flame that shall avenge their doom! This is no land for chains--away! O’er softer climes let tyrants sway. Think’st thou the mountain and the storm Their hardy sons for bondage form? Doth our stern wintry blast instil Submission to a despot’s will? No! we were cast in other mould Than theirs by lawless power controll’d; The nurture of our bitter sky Calls forth resisting energy; And the wild fastnesses are ours, The rocks with their eternal towers. The soul to struggle and to dare Is mingled with our northern air, And dust beneath our soil is lying Of those who died for fame undying.

“Tread’st thou that soil! and can it be No loftier thought is roused in thee? Doth no high feeling proudly start From slumber in thine inmost heart? No secret voice thy bosom thrill, For thine own Scotland pleading still? Oh! wake thee yet--indignant, claim A nobler fate, a purer fame, And cast to earth thy fetters riven, And take thine offer’d crown from heaven. Wake! in that high majestic lot May the dark past be all forgot; And Scotland shall forgive the field Where with her blood thy shame was seal’d. E’en I--though on that fatal plain Lies my heart’s brother with the slain; Though, reft of his heroic worth, My spirit dwells alone on earth; And when all other grief is past, Must this be cherish’d to the last-- Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne, With faith unspotted as his own; Nor in thy noon of fame recall Whose was the guilt that wrought his fall.”

Still dost thou hear in stern disdain? Are Freedom’s warning accents vain? No! royal Bruce! within thy breast Wakes each high thought, too long suppress’d. And thy heart’s noblest feelings live, Blent in that suppliant word--“Forgive!” “Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done! Wallace! thy fairest palm is won; And, kindling at my country’s shrine, My soul hath caught a spark from thine. Oh! deem not, in the proudest hour Of triumph and exulting power-- Deem not the light of peace could find A home within my troubled mind. Conflicts by mortal eye unseen, Dark, silent, secret, there have been, Known but to Him whose glance can trace Thought to its deepest dwelling-place! --’Tis past--and on my native shore I tread, a rebel son no more. Too blest, if yet my lot may be In glory’s path to follow thee; If tears, by late repentance pour’d, May lave the blood-stains from my sword!”

Far other tears, O Wallace! rise From the heart’s fountain to thine eyes; Bright, holy, and uncheck’d they spring, While thy voice falters, “Hail! my King! Be every wrong, by memory traced, In this full tide of joy effaced: Hail! and rejoice!--thy race shall claim A heritage of deathless fame, And Scotland shall arise at length Majestic in triumphant strength, An eagle of the rock, that won A way through tempests to the sun. Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand, The prophet-spirit of thy land: By torrent-wave, in desert vast, Those visions o’er my thought have pass’d; Where mountain vapours darkly roll, That spirit hath possess’d my soul; And shadowy forms have met mine eye. The beings of futurity; And a deep voice of years to be Hath told that Scotland shall be free! He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings! From thee the chief, th’ avenger springs! Far o’er the land he comes to save, His banners in their glory wave, And Albyn’s thousand harps awake On hill and heath, by stream and lake, To swell the strains that far around Bid the proud name of Bruce resound! And I--but wherefore now recall The whisper’d omens of my fall? They come not in mysterious gloom-- There is no bondage in the tomb! O’er the soul’s world no tyrant reigns, And earth alone for man hath chains! What though I perish ere the hour When Scotland’s vengeance wakes in power? If shed for her, my blood shall stain The field or scaffold not in vain: Its voice to efforts more sublime Shall rouse the spirit of her clime; And in the noontide of her lot, My country shall forget me not!”

* * * * *

Art thou forgot? and hath thy worth Without its glory pass’d from earth? Rest with the brave, whose names belong To the high sanctity of song! Charter’d our reverence to control, And traced in sunbeams on the soul, Thine, Wallace! while the heart hath still One pulse a generous thought can thrill-- While youth’s warm tears are yet the meed Of martyr’s death or hero’s deed, Shall brightly live from age to age, Thy country’s proudest heritage! Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling, Thy deeds her mountain winds are telling, Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave, Thy step hath hallow’d rock and cave, And cold the wanderer’s heart must be That holds no converse there with thee! Yet, Scotland! to thy champion’s shade Still are thy grateful rites delay’d; From lands of old renown, o’erspread With proud memorials of the dead, The trophied urn, the breathing bust, The pillar guarding noble dust, The shrine where art and genius high Have labour’d for eternity-- The stranger comes: his eye explores The wilds of thy majestic shores, Yet vainly seeks one votive stone Raised to the hero all thine own.

Land of bright deeds and minstrel-lore! Withhold that guerdon now no more. On some bold height of awful form, Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm, Sublimely mingling with the skies, Bid the proud Cenotaph arise: Not to record the name that thrills Thy soul, the watchword of thy hills; Not to assert, with needless claim, The bright for ever of its fame; But, in the ages yet untold, When ours shall be the days of old, To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride In him, for thee who lived and died.

[64] Advertisement by the Author.--“A native of Edinburgh, and member of the Highland Society of London, with a view to give popularity to the project of rearing a suitable national monument to the memory of Wallace, lately offered prizes for the three best poems on the subject of that illustrious patriot inviting Bruce to the Scottish throne. The following poem obtained the first of these prizes. It would have appeared in the same form in which it is now offered to the public, under the direction of its proper editor, the giver of the prize; but his privilege has, with pride as well as pleasure, been yielded to a lady of the author’s own country, who solicited permission to avail herself of this opportunity of honouring and further remunerating the genius of the poet; and, at the same time, expressing her admiration of the theme in which she has triumphed.

“It is a noble feature in the character of a generous and enlightened people, that, in England, the memory of the patriots and martyrs of Scotland has long excited an interest not exceeded in strength by that which prevails in the country which boasts their birth, their deeds, and their sufferings.”

[“Mrs Hemans was recommended by a zealous friend in Edinburgh to enter the lists as a competitor, which she accordingly did, though without being in the slightest degree sanguine of success; so that the news of the prize having been decreed to her was no less unexpected than gratifying. The number of candidates, for this distinction, was so overwhelming as to cause not a little embarrassment to the judges appointed to decide on their merits. A letter, written at this time, describes them as being reduced to absolute despair by the contemplation of the task which awaited them, having to read over a mass of poetry that would require a month at least to wade through. Some of the contributions were from the strangest aspirants imaginable; and one of them is mentioned as being as long as Paradise Lost. At length, however, the Herculean labour was accomplished; and the honour awarded to Mrs Hemans, on this occasion, seemed an earnest of the warm kindness and encouragement she was ever afterwards to receive at the hands of the Scottish public.”--Memoir, p. 31-2.

Although two-thirds of the compositions sent to the arbiters, on the occasion alluded to, are understood to have been mere trash, yet several afterwards came to light, through the press, of very considerable excellence. We would especially mention “Wallace and Bruce, a Vision,” published in Constable’s Magazine for Dec. 1819; and “Wallace,” by James Hogg, subsequently included in the fourth volume of his Collected Works--Edin. 1822, p. 143-160.

“The Vision” is thus prefaced:--“Though far from entering into a hopeless competition with Mrs Hemans, I think the far-famed interview of our patriot heroes ought not to be left entirely to English celebration. Mrs Hemans has adorned the subject with the finest strains of pure poetry. Receive here, as a humble contrast, a simple strain of genuine Scottish feeling, flowing from a mind that owns no other muse but the amor patriæ, and seeks no other praise but what is due to heartfelt interest in the glory of our ancient kingdom, and no higher name than that of ‘a kindly Scot.’”

The Ettrick Shepherd is equally gallant in his laudations, and forgets his discomfiture in generous acknowledgement of the merits of his rival. “This poem,” (Wallace,) says he, “was hurriedly and reluctantly written, in compliance with the solicitations of a friend who would not be gainsayed, to compete for a prize offered by a gentleman for the best poem on the subject. The prize was finally awarded to Mrs Felicia Hemans; and, as far as the merits of mine went, very justly, hers being greatly superior both in elegance of thought and composition. Had I been constituted the judge myself, I would have given hers the preference by many degrees; and I estimated it the more highly as coming from one of the people that were the hero’s foes, oppressors, and destroyers. I think my heart never warmed so much to an author for any poem that ever was written.”

Acceptable praise this must have been, coming from such a man as the Author of “The Queen’s Wake”--a production entitled to a permanent place in British poetry, independently of the extraordinary circumstances under which it was composed. Whatever may be its blemishes, taken as a whole, “Kilmeny,” “Glenavin,” “Earl Walter,” “The Abbot Mackinnon,” and “The Witch of Fife”--more especially the first and the last--possess peculiar merits, and of a high kind; and are, I doubt not, destined to remain for ever embalmed in the memories of all true lovers of imaginative verse. Poor Hogg was the very reverse of Antæus--he was always in power except when he touched the earth.]

[These verses were thus critically noticed at the time of publication:--

“When we mentioned in the tent, that Mrs Hemans had authorised the judges who awarded to her the prize to send her poem to us, it is needless to say with what enthusiasm the proposal of reading it aloud was received on all sides; and at its conclusion thunders of applause crowned the genius of the fair poet. Scotland has her Baillie--Ireland her Tighe--England her Hemans.”--Blackwood’s Magazine, vol. v. Sept. 1819.

“Mrs Hemans so soon again!--and with a palm in her hand! We welcome her cordially, and rejoice to find the high opinion of her genius which we lately expressed so unequivocally confirmed.

“On this animating theme, (the meeting of Wallace and Bruce,) several of the competitors, we understand, were of the other side of the Tweed--a circumstance, we learn, which was known from the references before the prizes were determined. Mrs Hemans’s was the first prize, against fifty-seven competitors. That a Scottish prize, for a poem on a subject purely, proudly Scottish, has been adjudged to an English candidate, is a proof at once of the perfect fairness of the award, and of the merit of the poem. It further demonstrates the disappearance of those jealousies which, not a hundred years ago, would have denied to such a candidate any thing like a fair chance with a native--if we can suppose any poet in the south then dreaming of making the trial, or viewing Wallace in any other light than that of an enemy, and a rebel against the paramount supremacy of England. We delight in every gleam of high feeling which warms the two nations alike, and ripens yet more that confidence and sympathy which bind them together in one great family.”--Edin. Monthly Review, vol. ii.

The estimation into which the poetry of Mrs Hemans was rising at this time, (1819,) is indicated by the following passage, from a clever and not very lenient satire, entitled “Common Sense,” then published, and currently believed to have emanated from the pen of the Rev. Mr Terrot, now Diocesan Bishop of Edinburgh. When alluding to the female writers of the age, Miss Baillie is the first mentioned and characterised. He then proceeds--

----“Next I’d place Felicia Hemans, second in the race; I wonder the Reviews, who make such stir Oft about rubbish, never mention her. They might have said, I think, from mere good breeding-- Mistress Felicia’s works are worth the reading.”

“Mrs Hemans,” adds the critical satirist in a note, “is a lady, (a young lady, I believe,) of very considerable merit. Her imagination is vigorous, her language copious and elegant, her information extensive. I have no means of ascertaining the extent of her fame, but she certainly deserves well of the republic of letters.”

The worthy bishop has lived to read “The Records of Woman;” and, we have no doubt, rejoices to know that the aspirant of 1819 has now taken her place among British classics.]

TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.

THE ABENCERRAGE.

[The events with which the following tale is interwoven are related in the Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada. They occurred in the reign of Abo Abdeli, or Abdali, the last Moorish king of that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey Chico. The conquest of Granada, by Ferdinand and Isabella, is said by some historians to have been greatly facilitated by the Abencerrages, whose defection was the result of the repeated injuries they had received from the king, at the instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beautiful halls of the Alhambra is pointed out as the scene where so many of the former celebrated tribe were massacred; and it still retains their name, being called the “Sala de los Abencerrages.” Many of the most interesting old Spanish ballads relate to the events of this chivalrous and romantic period.]

“Le Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colère dure encore, mais parce que la vengeance seule peut écarter de sa tête le poids d’infamie dont il est accablé.--Il se venge, parce qu’à ses yeux il n’y a qu’une âme basse qui puisse pardonner les affronts; et il nourrit sa rancune, parce que s’il la sentoit s’éteindre, il croiroit avec elle avoir perdu une vertu.”

Sismondi.

Lonely and still are now thy marble halls, Thou fair Alhambra! there the feast is o’er; And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more.

Hush’d are the voices that in years gone by Have mourn’d, exulted, menaced, through thy towers; Within thy pillar’d courts the grass waves high, And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers.

Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows, Through tall arcades unmark’d the sunbeam smiles, And many a tint of soften’d brilliance throws O’er fretted walls and shining peristyles.

And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone, So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair, Some charm’d abode of beings all unknown, Powerful and viewless, children of the air.

For there no footstep treads th’ enchanted ground, There not a sound the deep repose pervades, Save winds and founts, diffusing freshness round, Through the light domes and graceful colonnades.

Far other tones have swell’d those courts along In days romance yet fondly loves to trace The clash of arms, the voice of choral song, The revels, combats of a vanish’d race.

And yet awhile, at Fancy’s potent call, Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold; Peopling once more each fair forsaken hall With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old.

----The sun declines: upon Nevada’s height There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light; Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow Smiles in the richness of that parting glow, And Darro’s wave reflects each passing dye That melts and mingles in th’ empurpled sky. Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower, Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour; Hush’d are the winds, and nature seems to sleep In light and stillness; wood, and tower, and steep, Are dyed with tints of glory, only given To the rich evening of a southern heaven-- Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught --Yes, Nature sleeps; but not with her at rest The fiery passions of the human breast, Hark! from th’ Alhambra’s towers what stormy sound, Each moment deepening, wildly swells around? Those are no tumults of a festal throng, Not the light zambra[65] nor the choral song: The combat rages--’tis the shout of war, ’Tis the loud clash of shield and scimitar. Within the Hall of Lions,[66] where the rays Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze; There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands, And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands: There the strife centres--swords around him wave, There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave; While echoing domes return the battle-cry, “Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!” And onward rushing, and prevailing still, Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill. But first and bravest of that gallant train, Where foes are mightiest, charging ne’er in vain; In his red hand the sabre glancing bright, His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light, Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds, His Aben-Zurrahs[67] there young Hamet leads; While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high, “Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!”

Yes! trace the footsteps of the warrior’s wrath By helm and corslet shatter’d in his path, And by the thickest harvest of the slain, And by the marble’s deepest crimson stain: Search through the serried fight, where loudest cries From triumph, anguish, or despair, arise; And brightest where the shivering falchions glare, And where the ground is reddest--he is there. Yes! that young arm, amidst the Zegri host, Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost.

They perish’d--not as heroes should have died, On the red field, in victory’s hour of pride, In all the glow and sunshine of their fame, And proudly smiling as the death-pang came: Oh! had they thus expired, a warrior’s tear Had flow’d, almost in triumph, o’er their bier. For thus alone the brave should weep for those Who brightly pass in glory to repose. --Not such their fate: a tyrant’s stern command Doom’d them to fall by some ignoble hand, As, with the flower of all their high-born race, Summon’d Abdallah’s royal feast to grace, Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh, They sought the banquet’s gilded hall--to die. Betray’d, unarm’d, they fell--the fountain wave Flow’d crimson with the life-blood of the brave, Till far the fearful tidings of their fate Through the wide city rang from gate to gate, And of that lineage each surviving son Rush’d to the scene where vengeance might be won.

For this young Hamet mingles in the strife, Leader of battle, prodigal of life, Urging his followers, till their foes, beset, Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet. Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on! one effort more, Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o’er.

But lo! descending o’er the darken’d hall, The twilight-shadows fast and deeply fall, Nor yet the strife hath ceased--though scarce they know, Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe; Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray, The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay.

Where lurks Abdallah?--midst his yielding train They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain. He lies not number’d with the valiant dead, His champions round him have not vainly bled; But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil, And his last warriors found each effort fail, In wild despair he fled--a trusted few, Kindred in crime, are still in danger true; And o’er the scene of many a martial deed, The Vega’s[68] green expanse, his flying footsteps lead. He pass’d th’ Alhambra’s calm and lovely bowers, Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers In dew and starlight--there, from grot and cave, Gush’d in wild music many a sparkling wave; There on each breeze the breath of fragrance rose, And all was freshness, beauty, and repose.

But thou, dark monarch! in thy bosom reign Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again. Oh! vainly bright is nature in the course Of him who flies from terror or remorse! A spell is round him which obscures her bloom, And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb; There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale roves Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange-groves; Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that rise, Wild notes of nature’s vesper-melodies; Marks not how lovely, on the mountain’s head, Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread; But urges onward, till his weary band, Worn with their toil, a moment’s pause demand. He stops, and turning, on Granada’s fanes In silence gazing, fix’d awhile remains In stern, deep silence: o’er his feverish brow, And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow, But waft in fitful murmurs, from afar, Sounds indistinctly fearful--as of war. What meteor bursts with sudden blaze on high, O’er the blue clearness of the starry sky? Awful it rises, like some Genie-form, Seen midst the redness of the desert storm, Magnificently dread--above, below, Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow. Lo! from the Alhambra’s towers the vivid glare Streams through the still transparence of the air! Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre, Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire; And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height, From dim perspective start to ruddy light.

Oh Heaven! the anguish of Abdallah’s soul, The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control! Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly For life--such life as makes it bliss to die! On yon green height, the mosque, but half reveal’d Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield. Thither his steps are bent--yet oft he turns, Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. But paler grow the sinking flames at last, Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past; And spiry vapours, rising o’er the scene, Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. And now his feet have reach’d that lonely pile, Where grief and terror may repose awhile; Embower’d it stands, midst wood and cliff on high, Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh: He hails the scene where every care should cease, And all--except the heart he brings--is peace.

There is deep stillness in those halls of state Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late; Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin’s blast Hath o’er the dwellings of the desert pass’d.[70] Fearful the calm--nor voice, nor step, nor breath Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death: Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound, Save the wild gush of waters--murmuring round In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone, Through chambers peopled by the dead alone. O’er the mosaic floors, with carnage red, Breastplate and shield and cloven helm are spread In mingled fragments--glittering to the light Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright, Their streaming lustre tremulously shed, And smile in placid beauty o’er the dead: O’er features where the fiery spirit’s trace E’en death itself is powerless to efface; O’er those who flush’d with ardent youth awoke, When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke, Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep; In the low silent house, the narrow spot, Home of forgetfulness--and soon forgot.

But slowly fade the stars--the night is o’er-- Morn beams on those who hail her light no more; Slumberers who ne’er shall wake on earth again, Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain. Yet smiles the day--oh! not for mortal tear Doth nature deviate from her calm career: Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair, Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share. O’er the cold urn the beam of summer glows, O’er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows; Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below, And skies arch cloudless o’er a world of woe; And flowers renew’d in spring’s green pathway bloom, Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb.

Within Granada’s walls the funeral rite Attends that day of loveliness and light; And many a chief, with dirges and with tears, Is gather’d to the brave of other years: And Hamet, as beneath the cypress shade His martyr’d brother and his sire are laid, Feels every deep resolve and burning thought Of ampler vengeance e’en to passion wrought; Yet is the hour afar--and he must brood O’er those dark dreams awhile in solitude. Tumult and rage are hush’d--another day In still solemnity hath pass’d away, In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath, The calm that follows in the tempest’s path.

And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane, His ravaged city traversing again. No sound of gladness his approach precedes, No splendid pageant the procession leads; Where’er he moves the silent streets along, Broods a stern quiet o’er the sullen throng. No voice is heard; but in each alter’d eye, Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh, And in each look of those whose love hath fled From all on earth to slumber with the dead, Those by his guilt made desolate, and thrown On the bleak wilderness of life alone-- In youth’s quick glance of scarce-dissembled rage, And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age, May well be read a dark and fearful tale Of thought that ill the indignant heart can veil, And passion like the hush’d volcano’s power, That waits in stillness its appointed hour.

No more the clarion from Granada’s walls, Heard o’er the Vega, to the tourney calls; No more her graceful daughters, throned on high, Bend o’er the lists the darkly-radiant eye: Silence and gloom her palaces o’erspread, And song is hush’d, and pageantry is fled. --Weep, fated city! o’er thy heroes weep-- Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep! Furl’d are their banners in the lonely hall, Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the wall, Wildly their chargers range the pastures o’er-- Their voice in battle shall be heard no more. And they, who still thy tyrant’s wrath survive, Whom he hath wrong’d too deeply to forgive, That race of lineage high, of worth approved, The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved-- Thine Aben-Zurrahs--they no more shall wield In thy proud cause the conquering lance and shield: Condemn’d to bid the cherish’d scenes farewell Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell, And far o’er foreign plains as exiles roam, Their land the desert, and the grave their home. Yet there is one shall see that race depart In deep though silent agony of heart: One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone, Unseen her sorrows and their cause unknown, And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to wear That smile in which the spirit hath no share-- Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless glow O’er the cold solitude of Alpine snow.

Soft, fresh, and silent is the midnight hour, And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower; That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind One name is deeply, secretly enshrined. That name in vain stern reason would efface: Hamet! ’tis thine, thou foe to all her race!

And yet not hers in bitterness to prove The sleepless pangs of unrequited love-- Pangs which the rose of wasted youth consume, And make the heart of all delight the tomb, Check the free spirit in its eagle flight, And the spring-morn of early genius blight: Not such her grief--though now she wakes to weep, While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep.[71]

A step treads lightly through the citron-shade, Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betray’d-- Doth her young hero seek that well-known spot, Scene of past hours that ne’er may be forgot? ’Tis he--but changed that eye, whose glance of fire Could like a sunbeam hope and joy inspire, As, luminous with youth, with ardour fraught, It spoke of glory to the inmost thought: Thence the bright spirit’s eloquence hath fled, And in its wild expression may be read Stem thoughts and fierce resolves--now veil’d in shade, And now in characters of fire portray’d. Changed e’en his voice--as thus its mournful tone Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own.

“Zayda! my doom is fix’d--another day And the wrong’d exile shall be far away; Far from the scenes where still his heart must be, His home of youth, and, more than all--from thee. Oh! what a cloud hath gather’d o’er my lot Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot! Lovely as then the soft and silent hour, And not a rose hath faded from thy bower; But I--my hopes the tempest hath o’erthrown, And changed my heart, to all but thee alone. Farewell, high thoughts! inspiring hopes of praise! Heroic visions of my early days! In me the glories of my race must end-- The exile hath no country to defend! E’en in life’s morn my dreams of pride are o’er, Youth’s buoyant spirit wakes for me no more, And one wild feeling in my alter’d breast Broods darkly o’er the ruins of the rest. Yet fear not thou--to thee, in good or ill, The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still! But when my steps are distant, and my name Thou hear’st no longer in the song of fame; When Time steals on, in silence to efface Of early love each pure and sacred trace, Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem But as the moonlight pictures of a dream,-- Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth And all the fervour of affection’s youth? If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play In lonely beauty o’er thy wanderer’s way.”

“Ask not if such my love! Oh! trust the mind To grief so long, so silently resign’d! Let the light spirit, ne’er by sorrow taught The pure and lofty constancy of thought, Its fleeting trials eager to forget, Rise with elastic power o’er each regret! Foster’d in tears, our young affection grew, And I have learn’d to suffer and be true. Deem not my love a frail, ephemeral flower, Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower; No! ’tis the child of tempests, and defies, And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies! Too well I feel, with grief’s prophetic heart, That ne’er to meet in happier days we part. We part! and e’en this agonising hour, When love first feels his own o’erwhelming power, Shall soon to memory’s fix’d and tearful eye Seem almost happiness--for thou wert nigh! Yes! when this heart in solitude shall bleed, As days to days all wearily succeed, When doom’d to weep in loneliness, ’twill be Almost like rapture to have wept with thee!

“But thou, my Hamet! thou canst yet bestow All that of joy my blighted lot can know. Oh! be thou still the high-soul’d and the brave, To whom my first and fondest vows I gave; In thy proud fame’s untarnish’d beauty still The lofty visions of my youth fulfil. So shall it soothe me, midst my heart’s despair, To hold undimm’d one glorious image there!”

“Zayda, my best-beloved! my words too well, Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel; Yet must my soul to thee unveil’d be shown, And all its dreams and all its passions known. Thou shalt not be deceived--for pure as heaven Is thy young love, in faith and fervour given. I said my heart was changed--and would thy thought Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought, In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes, Crush’d by the earthquake, strew its ravaged plains; And such that heart where desolation’s hand Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand! But Vengeance, fix’d upon her burning throne, Sits midst the wreck in silence and alone; And I, in stem devotion at her shrine, Each softer feeling, but my love, resign. Yes! they whose spirits all my thoughts control, Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul; They, the betray’d, the sacrificed, the brave, Who fill a blood-stain’d and untimely grave, Must be avenged! and pity and remorse In that stem cause are banish’d from my course. Zayda! thou tremblest--and thy gentle breast Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest; Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour, Pass brightly o’er my soul with softening power, And, oft recall’d, thy voice beguile my lot, Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne’er forgot.

“But the night wanes--the hours too swiftly fly, The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh; Yet, loved one! weep not thus--in joy or pain, Oh! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again! Yes, we shall meet! and haply smile at last On all the clouds and conflicts of the past. On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell, Nor deem these mingling tears our last farewell!”

Is the voice hush’d, whose loved expressive tone Thrill’d to her heart--and doth she weep alone? Alone she weeps; that hour of parting o’er, When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more? The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair, Showering the dewy rose-leaves o’er her hair; But ne’er for her shall dwell reviving power In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower, To wake once more that calm serene delight, The soul’s young bloom, which passion’s breath could blight-- The smiling stillness of life’s morning hour, Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power. Meanwhile, through groves of deep luxurious shade, In the rich foliage of the South array’d, Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day, Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way. Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave On high o’er many an Aben-Zurrah’s grave. Lonely and fair, its fresh and glittering leaves With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves, To canopy the dead; nor wanting there Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air, Nor wood-bird’s note, nor fall of plaintive stream-- Wild music, soothing to the mourner’s dream. There sleep the chiefs of old--their combats o’er, The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more. Unheard by them th’ awakening clarion blows; The sons of war at length in peace repose. No martial note is in the gale that sighs Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise, Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest bloom-- As, in his native vale, some shepherd’s tomb.

There, where the trees their thickest foliage spread Dark o’er that silent valley of the dead; Where two fair pillars rise, embower’d and lone, Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o’ergrown, Young Hamet kneels--while thus his vows are pour’d, The fearful vows that consecrate his sword: --“Spirit of him who first within my mind Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined, And taught my steps the line of light to trace Left by the glorious fathers of my race, Hear thou my voice!--for thine is with me still, In every dream its tones my bosom thrill, In the deep calm of midnight they are near, Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear, Still murmuring ‘vengeance!’--nor in vain the call, Few, few shall triumph in a hero’s fall! Cold as thine own to glory and to fame, Within my heart there lives one only aim; There, till th’ oppressor for thy fate atone, Concentring every thought, it reigns alone. I will not weep--revenge, not grief, must be, And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee; But the dark hour of stern delight will come, And thou shalt triumph, warrior! in thy tomb.

“Thou, too, my brother! thou art pass’d away, Without thy fame, in life’s fair dawning day. Son of the brave! of thee no trace will shine In the proud annals of thy lofty line; Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays That hold communion with the after-days. Yet, by the wreaths thou might’st have nobly won, Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun; By glory lost, I swear! by hope betray’d, Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid: War with thy foes I deem a holy strife, And to avenge thy death devote my life.

“Hear ye my vows, O spirits of the slain! Hear, and be with me on the battle-plain! At noon, at midnight, still around me bide, Rise on my dreams, and tell me how ye died!”

[65] Zambra, a Moorish dance.

[66] The Hall of Lions was the principal one of the Alhambra, and was so called from twelve sculptured lions which supported an alabaster basin in the centre.

[67] Aben-Zurrahs: the name thus written is taken from the translation of an Arabic MS. given in the third volume of Bourgoanne’s Travels through Spain.

[68] The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scene of frequent actions between the Moors and Christians.

[69] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found on original page 68 footnote 3. An extreme redness in the sky is the presage of the Simoom.--See Bruce’s Travels.

[70] Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, we have the following account in Volney’s Travels:--“These winds are known in Egypt by the general name of the winds of fifty days, because they prevail more frequently in the fifty days preceding and following the equinox. They are mentioned by travellers under the name of the poisonous winds or hot winds of the desert: their heat is so excessive, that it is difficult to form any idea of its violence without having experienced it. When they begin to blow, the sky, at other times so clear in this climate, becomes dark and heavy; the sun loses his splendour, and appears of a violet colour; the air is not cloudy, but gray and thick, and is filled with a subtle dust, which penetrates every where: respiration becomes short and difficult, the skin parched and dry, the lungs are contracted and painful, and the body consumed with internal heat. In vain is coolness sought for; marble, iron, water, though the sun no longer appears, are hot: the streets are deserted, and a dead silence pervades every where. The natives of towns and villages shut themselves up in their houses, and those of the desert in tents, or holes dug in the earth, where they wait the termination of this heat, which generally lasts three days. Woe to the traveller whom it surprises remote from shelter: he must suffer all its dreadful effects, which are sometimes mortal.”

[71] “Enjoy the honey-heavy-dew of slumber.”--Shakspeare.

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