POEMS OF FELICIA HEMANS (1793-1835) From RECORDS OF WOMAN (1828), which is dedicated to Joanna Baillie THE MEMORIAL PILLAR. [On the road-side, between Penrith and Appleby, stands a small pillar, with this inscription:--"This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess-Dowager of Pembroke, for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret Countess-Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d April 1616."--See notes to the *Pleasures of Memory*.] Epigram: "Hast thou through Eden's wild-wood vales, pursued Each mountain scene magnificently rude, Nor with attention's lifted eye revered That modest stone, by pious Pembroke reared, Which still records, beyond the pencil's power, The silent sorrows of a parting hour!"--ROGERS MOTHER and child! whose blending tears Have sanctified the place, Where, to the love of many years, Was given one last embrace-- Oh! ye have shrined a spell of power 5 Deep in your record of that hour! A spell to waken solemn thought-- A still, small under tone, That calls back days of childhood, fraught 10 With many a treasure gone; And smites, perchance, the hidden source, Though long untroubled--of remorse. For who that gazes on the stone Which marks your parting spot, 15 Who but a mother's love hath known-- The *one* love changing not? Alas! and haply learned its worth First with the sound of "Earth to earth!" But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou, 20 O'er whose bright honoured head Blessings and tears of holiest flow E'en here were fondly shed-- Thou from the passion of thy grief, In its full burst, couldst draw relief. 25 For, oh! though painful be the excess, The might wherewith it swells, In nature's fount no bitterness Of nature's mingling dwells; And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride, 30 Poisoned the free and healthful tide. But didst thou meet the face no more Which thy young heart first knew? And all--was all in this world o'er With ties thus close and true? 35 It was! On earth no other eye Could give thee back thine infancy. No other voice could pierce the maze Where, deep within thy breast, The sounds and dreams of other days 40 With memory lay at rest; No other smile to thee could bring A gladdening, like the breath of spring. Yet, while thy place of weeping still Its lone memorial keeps, 45 While on thy name, 'midst wood and hill, The quiet sunshine sleeps, And touches, in each graven line, Of reverential thought a sign; Can I, while yet these tokens wear 50 The impress of the dead, Think of the love embodied there As of a vision fled? A perished thing, the joy and flower And glory of one earthly hour? 55 Not so!--I will not bow me so To thoughts that breathe despair! A loftier faith we need below, Life's farewell words to bear. Mother and child!--your tears are past-- 60 Surely your hearts have met at last. ----------------------------------------------- THE GRAVE OF A POETESS. ["Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last residence of the author of *Psyche* [Mary Tighe]. Her grave is one of many in the churchyard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey, that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it."--*Tales by the O'Hara Family.*] Epigram: "Ne me plaignez pas--si vous saviez Combien de peines ce tombeau m'a epargnees!" I STOOD beside thy lowly grave; Spring odours breathed around, And music, in the river wave, Passed with a lulling sound. All happy things that love the sun, 5 In the bright air glanced by, And a glad murmur seemed to run Through the soft azure sky. Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough That fringed the ruins near; 10 Young voices were abroad, but thou Their sweetness couldst not hear. And mournful grew my heart for thee, Thou in whose woman's mind The ray that brightens earth and sea, 15 The light of song was shrined. Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low, With a dread curtain drawn Between thee and the golden glow Of this world's vernal dawn. 20 Parted from all the song and bloom Thou wouldst have loved so well, To thee the sunshine round thy tomb Was but a broken spell. The bird, the insect on the wing, 25 In their bright, reckless play, Might feel the flush and life of spring-- And thou wert passed away. But then, e'en then, a nobler thought O'er my vain sadness came; 30 Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought Within my thrilling frame. Surely on lovelier things, I said, Thou must have looked ere now, Than all that round our pathway shed 35 Odours and hues below. The shadows of the tomb are here, Yet beautiful is earth! What see'st thou then, where no dim fear, No haunting dream hath birth? 40 Here a vain love to passing flowers Thou gav'st--but where thou art, The sway is not with changeful hours, *There* love and death must part. Thou hast left sorrow in thy song 45 A voice not loud but deep! The glorious bowers of earth among-- How often didst thou weep? Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground Thy tender thoughts and high? 50 Now peace the woman's heart hath found, And joy the poet's eye. ------------------------------------------------ CONSTANZA Epigram: ------Art thou then desolate? Of friends, of hopes forsaken?--Come to me! I am thine own.--Have trusted hearts prov'd false? Flatterers deceived thee? Wanderer, come to me! Why didst thou ever leave me? Know'st thou all I would have borne, and call'd it joy to bear, For thy sake? Know'st thou that thy voice had power To shake me with a thrill of happiness by one kind tone?--to fill mine eyes with tears Of yearning love? And thou--oh! thou didst throw That crush'd affection back upon my heart;-- Yet come to me!--it died not. The Poem: She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell Thro' the stain'd window of her lonely cell, And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna brow, While o'er her long hair's flowing yet it threw Bright waves of gold--the autumn forest's hue-- Seem'd all a vision's mist of glory, spread By painting's touch around some holy head, Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye, Which glanced as dark, clear water to the sky, 10 What solemn fervour lived! And yet what we, Lay like some buried thing, still seen below The glassy tide! Oh! he that could reveal What life had taught that chasten'd heart to feel, Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years, And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears! But she had told her griefs to heaven alone, And of the gentle saint no more was known, Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and made A temple of the pine and chestnut shade, 20 Filling its depths and soul, whene'er her hymn Rose thro each murmur of the green, and dim, And ancient solitude; where hidden streams Went moaning thro' the grass, like sounds in dreams, Music for weary hearts! Midst leaves and flowers She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers, All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread To the sick peasant on his lowly bed, Came and brought hope; while scarce of mortal birth He deem'd the pale fair form, and held on earth 30 Communion but with grief. Ere long a cell, A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone Gleam'd thro' the dark trees o'er a sparkling well, And a sweet voice, or rich, yet mournful tone, Told the Calabrian wilds, that duly there Constanza lifted her sad heart in prayer.-- And now 'twas prayer's own hour. That voice again Thro' the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, That made the cypress quiver where it stood In day's last crimson soaring from the wood 40 Like spiry flame. but as the bright sun set, Other and wilder sounds in tumult met The floating song. Strange sounds!--the trumpet's peal, Made hollow by the rocks; the clash of steel, The rallying war cry.--In the mountain pass, There had been combat; blood was on the grass, Banners had strewn the waters; cheifs lay dying, And the pine-branches crash'd before the flying. And all was chang'd within the still retreat, Constanza's home:--there enter'd hurrying feet, 50 Dark looks of shame and sorrow; mail-clad men, Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen, Scaring the ringdoves from the porch-room, bore A wounded warrior in: the rocky floor Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword, As there they laid their leader, and implor'd The sweet saint's prayers to heal him; then for flight, Thro' the wide forest and the mantling night, Sped breathlessly again.--They pass'd--but he, The stateliest of a host--alas! to see 60 What mother's eyes have watch'd in rosy sleep Till joy, for very fulness, turn'd to weep, Thus chang'd!--a fearful thing! His golden crest Was shiver'd, and the bright scarf on his breast Some costly love-gift--rent:--but what of these? There were the clustering raven-locks--the breeze As it came in thro' lime and myrtle flowers, Might scarcely lift them--steep'd in bloody showers So heavily upon the pallid clay Of the damp cheek they hung! the eyes' dark ray-- 70 Where was it?--and the lips!--they gasp'd apart, With their light curve, as from the chisel's art, Still proudly beautiful! but that white hue-- Was it not death's--that stillness--that cold dew On the scarr'd forehead? No! his spirit broke From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke To wander in wild dreams; and there he lay, By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken, The haughty chief of thousands--the forsaken Of all save one!--She fled not. Day by day-- 80 Such hours are woman's birthright--she, unknown, Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone; Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving His brow with tears that mourn'd the strong man's raving. He felt them not, nor mark'd the light, veil'd form Still hovering nigh; yet sometimes, when that storm Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low As a young mother's by the cradle singing, Would sooth him with sweet aves, gently bringing Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow 90 Ebb'd from his hollow cheek. At last faint gleams Of memory dawn'd upon the cloud of dreams, And feebly lifting, as a child, his head, And gazing round him from his leafy bed, He murmur'd forth, 'Where am I? What soft strain Pass'd, like a breeze, across my burning brain? Back from my youth it floated, with a tone Of life's first music, and a though of one-- Where is she now? and where the gauds of pride Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side? 100 All lost!--and this is death!--I cannot die Without forgiveness from that mournful eye! Away! the earth hath lost her. Was she born To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn? My first, my holiest love!--her broken heart Lies low, and I--unpardon'd I depart.' But then Constanza rais'd the shadowy veil From her dark locks and features brightly pale, And stood before him with a smile--oh! ne'er Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear-- 110 And said 'Cesario! look on me; I live To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive. I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust As should be Heaven's alone--and Heaven is just! I bless thee--be at peace.' But o'er his frame Too fast the strong tide rush'd--the sudden shame, The joy, th' amaze!--he bow'd his head--it fell On the wrong'd bosom which had lov'd so well; And love still perfect, gave him refuge there,-- His last faint breath just wav'd her floating hair. 120