A Celebration of Women Writers

Felicia Dorothea Browne Hemans (1793 - 1835)

Biography: Selected Works:

portrait of woman, head and shoulders
Felicia Hemans by William Edward West

Biography:

Felicia's father was George Browne, a Liverpool merchant. Her mother, Felicity Wagner, was the daughter of the Austrian and Tuscan consul to Liverpool. Felicia Browne was born on September 25, 1793, in Liverpool. She was the fifth of seven children. When her father's business failed about 1800, the family moved first to Gwrych, an isolated Welsh seaside house; then, in 1809, to St. Asaph, Wales.

Felicia was a clever child who began to read at an early age and did so voraciously from the well-stocked family library. She read novels and poetry, learned several languages, and studied music, primarily under the direction of her mother. According to her sister, Felicia "could repeat pages of poetry from her favourite authors, after having read them but once over." When she was eleven or twelve she spent two successive winters in London, where she was awed by the paintings and sculptures. Her first book of Poems was published in 1808. It was remarkable work to come from a fourteen-year-old, but it received some harsh reviews. A posthumous commentator stated: "... our little heroine was exposed to the lash of a public critic - a useful animal enough, but one whom the superstitious infallibility of print exalts to a divinity."

Two of Felicia's brothers had entered the army, and one was serving under Sir John Moore in Spain. Her poem England and Spain; or Valour and Patriotism (1808) was written in an impassioned adolescent imitation of Campbell, probably inspired by her brother's service. Also serving in Spain was Captain Alfred Hemans, whom she had briefly encountered when he visited in the neighborhood. Her adolescent infatuation did not fade with his absence. On Captain Hemans' return in 1811, the relationship continued to develop.

The Domestic Affections and other Poems was published in 1812, just before her marriage to Captain Hemans. After a brief time in Daventry, Northamptonshire, where Captain Hemans was adjutant to the local militia, the Hemans returned to St. Asaph. There, all but the first of their five sons were born. Hemans continued to write prolifically. Her style from this era is coloured by her reading of Byron. He was not displeased by her adoption of his style, and wrote to his publisher that The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy (1816) was "a good poem - very" and that he planned to take it with him in his travels.

In 1818 Captain Hemans went to Rome. He left behind his wife and five small sons, all under 6 years of age. There seems to have been a private agreement to separate, because they never saw each other after that. No reasons for the separation were ever stated. Captain Hemans spent the rest of his life abroad, and Felicia Hemans never visited him. Letters were exchanged, particularly to consult about the children, but Felicia was left to support herself as best she could. She and the children continued to live with her mother in Wales. Her love of Wales was reflected most strongly in a collection of Welsh Melodies which included a tribute to "The Rock of Cader Idris", seat of poets.

Hemans was deeply distressed by her mother's death in January 1827. (See "Hymn by the Sick-bed of a Mother"). From then until her own death she was an invalid. Her two eldest sons were sent to Rome to be with their father, and she moved to Liverpool. It was not a successful move: she thought the people of Liverpool were stupid and provincial; they thought she was uncommunicative and eccentric. She visited Scotland in 1828, staying with Scott for a while. (See "The Funeral Day of Sir Walter Scott"). She returned to Liverpool, but the following summer was in the Lake Country with Wordsworth (See "A Farewell to Abbotsford" and "To Wordsworth").

Hemans moved to Dublin in 1831, where she could be near one of her brothers. She died there on the 16th of May, 1835, at the age of 41. Her death was attributed to a weak heart, which may have been the common affliction of rheumatic fever.

During her life, Hemans made several attempts at writing drama, none of which were successful. The only play to be performed, The Vespers of Palermo (1823), failed dismally in its Covent Garden debut, despite having the Kembles' managing and acting. A few months later it was produced in Edinburgh and well-received. Sir Walter Scott wrote a prologue for the Edinburgh performance. Her second effort, De Chatillon, or The Crusaders, was also unsuccessful.

In contrast, her poetry was popular and sold well: on the basis of her work, Hemans was able to support herself and her children. Frederic Rowton gives a contemporary's assessment of her work in The Female Poets of Great Britain (1853). A Prefatory Notice by W. M. Rossetti, from one of many collections of Hemans' work, is interesting for the view it gives of Mrs. Hemans' life, and the attitudes towards women and writing that it indicates.

George Eliot commended "The Forest Sanctuary" as 'exquisite'. Scott, however, criticised her poetry for being 'too poetical' and for having 'too many flowers' and 'too little fruit'. While Hemans confidently used a variety of metrical effects and narrative structures, much of her popular appeal lay in her ability to write emotional verses expressing the sentiments of her time. Her memorials to George III and to Princess Charlotte treat George III's madness, and emotional responses to the royal family, with considerable sensitivity.

In many poems, Hemans responded to the concerns of women of her time by idealizing and romanticizing woman's role and relationships. Her portrayal of cultural ideals offered comfort and support to those who found them meaningful. She wrote "To the New-Born" for the child of her eldest brother. Her poem "The Better Land" was copied by Florence Nightingale for a cousin. It touched on concerns which were particularly significant in a culture with high child and maternal mortality rates, where survivors sought comfort in religious belief.

Hemans' strong support of familial ideals was one reason why contemporaries accepted her in the roles of loving daughter and parent, and treated her separation from her husband sympathetically, as an unfortunate circumstance which reflected poorly on the Captain rather than on her. While a number of Heman's poems indicate the attractions and rewards of creative work, and the desirability of intellectual powers, the same poems are often framed to suggest that love, strong familial relationships, and faith are ultimately more important and lasting than fame (See "Properzia Rossi" and "Joan of Arc in Rheims"). This does not imply, however, that creativity and faith are necessarily opposed. Both her juvenile poem "Lines Written in the Memoirs of Elizabeth Smith" and "Thoughts During Sickness: Intellectual Powers", written late in her life, describe genius and imagination as divine gifts, which will be regained and fulfilled in heavenly life.

Hemans spent her life with her family in Wales, rarely travelling. She read extensively, and sought inspiration and detail for her descriptions of Greece, Spain, and the new world, in the writings of other authors. Her work suffered from her restricted experience, as she relied too much on the impressions of others and often used stereotypic images. Still, she captured much of the ethos of her day in her poetry. Today her best-known poems are probably "The Homes of England" and "Casabianca" (better known as "The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck").

See also:
A Bibliography and
A Chronology for Felicia Hemans and her Circle
by Nanora Sweet

statue of woman, head and shoulders

Selected Works:

The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy (1816)

Hymns on the Works of Nature, for the Use of Children (1827)

Records of Woman: With Other Poems (1828)

From:
Hemans, Mrs., 1793-1835. The Poetical Works of Felicia Dorothea Hemans. London: Oxford University Press, 1914.

THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS

[It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that on the summit of the mountain Cader Idris is an excavation resembling a couch; and that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, would be found in the morning either dead, in a state of frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration.]

I LAY on that rock where the storms have their dwelling,
  The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the cloud;
Around it for ever deep music is swelling,
  The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud.
'Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming,
  Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan;
Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleaming;
  And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone.

I lay there in silence–a spirit came o'er me;
  Man's tongue hath no language to speak what I saw:
Things glorious, unearthly, pass'd floating before me,
  And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe.
I view'd the dread beings around us that hover,
  Though veil'd by the mists of mortality's breath;
And I call'd upon darkness the vision to cover,
  For a strife was within me of madness and death.

I saw them–the powers of the wind and the ocean,
  The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storms;
Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their motion,
  I felt their dim presence,–but knew not their forms!
I saw them–the mighty of ages departed–
  The dead were around me that night on the hill:
From their eyes, as they pass'd, a cold radiance they darted,–
  There was light on my soul, but my heart's blood was chill.

I saw what man looks on, and dies–but my spirit
  Was strong, and triumphantly lived through that hour;
And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit
  A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power!
Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested,
  And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun;–
But O! what new glory all nature invested,
  When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won!

WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE

    Where hath not a woman stood,
Strong in affection's might? a reed, upborne
By an o'er mastering current!

GENTLE and lovely form,
  What didst thou here,
When the fierce battle-storm
  Bore down the spear?

Banner and shiver'd crest
  Beside thee strown,
Tell, that amidst the best,
  Thy work was done!

Yet strangely, sadly fair,
  O'er the wild scene,
Gleams, through its golden hair,
  That brow serene.

Low lies the stately head,–
  Earth-bound the free;
How gave those haughty dead
  A place to thee?

Slumberer! thine early bier
  Friends should have crown'd,
Many a flower and tear
  Shedding around.

Soft voices, clear and young,
  Mingling their swell,
Should o'er thy dust have sung
  Earth's last farewell.

Sisters, above the grave
  Of thy repose,
Should have bid violets wave
  With the white rose.

How must the trumpet's note,
  Savage and shrill,
For requiem o'er thee float,
  Thou fair and still!

And the swift charger sweep
  In full career,
Trampling thy place of sleep–
  Why camest thou here?

Why?–ask the true heart why
  Woman hath been
Ever, where brave men die
  Unshrinking seen.

Unto this harvest ground
  Proud reapers came,–
Some, for that stirring sound,
  A warrior's name;

Some, for the stormy play
  And joy of strife;
And some, to fling away
  A weary life;–

But thou, pale sleeper, thou,
  With the slight frame,
And the rich locks, whose glow
  Death cannot tame;

Only one thought, one power,
  Thee could have led,
So, through the tempest's hour,
  To lift thy head!

Only the true, the strong,
  The love, whose trust
Woman's deep soul too long
  Pours on the dust!

THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO

[Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the younger Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock above the sea, with her Iyre cast at her feet. There is a desolate grace about the whole figure, which seems penetrated with the feeling of utter abandonment.]

  SOUND on, thou dark unslumbering sea!
    My dirge is in thy moan;
  My spirit finds response in thee,
To its own ceaseless cry–'Alone, alone!'

  Yet send me back one other word,
    Ye tones that never cease!
  Oh! let your secret caves be stirr'd,
And say, dark waters! will ye give me peace?

  Away! my weary soul hath sought
    In vain one echoing sigh,
  One answer to consuming thought
In human hearts–and will the wave reply?

  Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea!
    Sound in thy scorn and pride!
  I ask not, alien world, from thee,
What my own kindred earth hath still denied.

  And yet I loved that earth so well,
    With all its lovely things!
  –Was it for this the death-wind fell
On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings?

  –Let them lie silent at my feet!
    Since broken even as they,
  The heart whose music made them sweet,
Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away.

  Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name,
    The laurel-wreath is mine–
  –With a lone heart, a weary frame–
O restless deep! I come to make them thine!

  Give to that crown, that burning crown,
    Place in thy darkest hold!
  Bury my anguish, my renown,
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold.

  Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest,
    Thou hast thy love, thy home;
  They wait thee in the quiet nest,
And I, the unsought, unwatch'd-for–I too come!

  I, with this winged nature fraught,
    These visions wildly free,
  This boundless love, this fiery thought–
–Alone I come–oh! give me peace, dark sea!

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 melting 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,
The 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;
O! then how lovely, there unveil'd, to trace
The 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 O! 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!

STANZAS ON THE LATE NATIONAL CALAMITY, 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 past,
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 light 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 the 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 Iot 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 passe'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
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 past,
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 the 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 the avenging one had been.

XIII

The sun goes down in beauty–his farewell,
Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright;
And his last mellowed 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 for 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– 'the bright day is done', 1
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 death-like 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,
MeIlow 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,
TeIls 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, and brightly free– 2
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 might'st 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 bliss eternity!

Nov. 23, 1817.

1 'The bright day is done,
And we are for the dark.'–SHAKESPEARE.

2 'The course of true love never did run smooth.' –SHAKESPEARE.

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE THE THIRD

'Among many nations was there no King like him.' –Neh. xiii, 26.

'Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel?' – 2 Sam. iii, 38.

ANOTHER warning sound! the funeral bell,
  Startling the cities of the isle once more
With measured tones of melanchoIy swell,
  Strikes on the awakened heart from shore to shore.
He at whose coming monarchs sink to dust,
  The chambers of our palaces hath trod,
And the long-suffering spirit of the just,
  Pure from its ruins, hath return'd to God!
Yet may not England o'er her Father weep:
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too deep.

Vain voice of Reason, hush!–they yet must flow,
   The unrestrained, involuntary tears;
A thousand feelings sanctify the woe,
  Roused by the glorious shades of vanished years.
Tell us no more 'tis not the time for grief,
  Now that the exile of the soul is past,
And Death, blest messenger of Heaven's relief,
  Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last;
For him, eternity hath tenfold day,
We feel, we know, 'tis thus–yet nature will have way.

What though amidst us, like a blasted oak,
  Saddening the scene where once it nobly reign'd,
A dread memorial of the lightning stroke,
  Stamp'd with its fiery record, he remain'd;
Around that shatter'd tree still fondly clung
  The undying tendrils of our love, which drew
Fresh nature from its deep decay, and sprung
  Luxuriant thence, to Glory's ruin true;
While England hung her trophies on the stem,
That desolately stood, unconscious e'en of THEM.

Of them unconscious! Oh mysterious doom!
  Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies?
His was the voice which roused, as from the tomb,
  The realm's high soul to loftiest energies!
His was the spirit, o'er the isles which threw
  The mantle of its fortitude; and wrought
In every bosom, powerful to renew
  Each dying spark of pure and generous thought;
The star of tempests! beaming on the mast, 1
The seaman's torch of Hope, 'midst perils deepening fast.

Then from the unslumbering influence of his worth,
  Strength, as of inspiration, fill'd the land;
A young, but quenchless, flame went brightly forth,
  Kindled by him–who saw it not expand!
Such was the will of heaven–the gifted seer,
  Who with his God had communed, face to face,
And from the house of bondage, and of fear,
  In faith victorious, led the chosen race;
He through the desert and the waste their guide,
Saw dimly from afar, the promised land–and died.

O full of days and virtues! on thy head
  Centred the woes of many a bitter lot;
Fathers have sorrow'd o'er their beauteous dead,
  Eyes, quench'd in night, the sunbeam have forgot;
Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years,
  And sunk beneath their gathering weight at length;
But Pain for thee had fill'd a cup of tears,
  Where every anguish mingled all its strength;
By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand,
And shadows deep around fell from the Eternal's hand.

Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams
  Perchance of yore had faintly prophesied;
But what to thee the splendour of its beams?
  The ice-rock glows not 'midst the summer's pride!
Nations leap'd up to joy–as streams that burst,
  At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain,
And o'er the plains, whose verdure once they nursed,
  Roll in exulting melody again;
And bright o'er earth the long majestic line
Of England's triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts–but thine.

Oh! what a dazzling vision, by the veil
  That o'er thy spirit hung, was shut from thee,
When sceptred chieftains throng'd with palms to hail
  The crowning isle, the anointed of the sea!
Within thy palaces the lords of earth
  Met to rejoice–rich pageants glitter'd by,
And stately revels imaged, in their mirth,
  The old magnificence of chivalry.
They reach'd not thee–amidst them, yet alone,
Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy throne.

Yet there was mercy still–if joy no more
  Within that blasted circle might intrude,
Earth had no grief whose footstep might pass o'er
  The silent limits of its solitude!
If all unheard the bridal song awoke
  Our hearts' full echoes, as it swell'd on high;
Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke
  On the glad strain, with dread solemnity!
If the land's rose unheeded wore its bloom,
Alike unfelt the storm that swept it to the tomb.

And she, who, tried through all the stormy past,
  Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour,
Watch'd o'er thee, firm and faithful to the last,
  Sustain'd inspired, by strong affection's power;
If to thy soul her voice no music bore–
  If thy closed eye and wandering spirit caught
No light from looks, that fondly would explore
  Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought;
Oh! thou wert spared the pang that would have thrill'd
Thine inmost heart, when death that anxious bosom still'd.

Thy loved ones fell around thee. Manhood's prime,
   Youth, with its glory, in its fullness, age,
All, at the gates of their eternal clime
  Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage;
The land wore ashes for its perish'd flowers,
  The grave's imperial harvest. Thou, meanwhile,
Didst walk unconscious through thy royal towers,
  The one that wept not in the tearful isle!
As a tired warrlor, on his battle-plain,
Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and the slain.

And who can tell what visions might be thine?
  The stream of thought, though broken, still was pure!
Still o'er that wave the stars of heaven might shine,
  Where earthly image would no more endure!
Though many a step, of once-familiar sound,
  Came as a stranger's o'er thy closing ear,
And voices breathed forgotten tones around,
  Which that paternal heart once thrill'd to hear;
The mind hath senses of its own, and powers
To people boundless worlds, in its most wandering hours.

Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known
  Be dark or wild, creations of remorse;
Unstain'd by thee, the blameless past had thrown
  Nor fearful shadows o'er the future's course:
For thee no cloud, from memory's dread abyss,
  Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant's eye;
And, closing up each avenue of bliss,
  Murmur their summons, to 'despair and die!'
No! e'en though joy depart, though reason cease,
Still virtue's ruin'd home is redolent of peace.

They might be with thee still–the loved, the tried,
  The fair, the lost–they might be with thee still!
More softly seen, in radiance purified
  From each dim vapour of terrestrial ill;
Long after earth received them, and the note
  Of the last requiem o'er their dust was pour'd,
As passing sunbeams o'er thy soul might float
  Those forms, from us withdrawn–to thee restored!
Spirits of holiness, in light reveal'd,
To commune with a mind whose source of tears was seal'd.

Came they with tidings from the worlds above,
   Those viewless regions where the weary rest?
Sever'd from earth, estranged from mortal love,
  Was thy mysterious converse with the blest?
Or shone their visionary presence bright
  With human beauty?–did their smiles renew
Those days of sacred and serene delight,
  When fairest beings in thy pathway grew?
Oh! Heaven hath balm for every wound it makes,
Healing the broken heart; it smites, but ne'er forsakes.

These may be fantasies–and this alone,
  Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure;
That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own,
  Rest, in thy God immortally secure!
Enough for tranquil faith; released from all
  The woes that graved Heaven's lessons on thy brow,
No cloud to dim, no fetter to enthral,
  Haply thine eye is on thy people now;
Whose love around thee still its offerings shed,
Though vainly sweet, as flowers, grief's tribute to the dead.

But if the ascending, disembodied mind,
  Borne, on the wings of morning, to the skies,
May cast one glance of tenderness behind
  On scenes once hallow'd by its mortal ties,
How much hast thou to gaze on! all that lay
  By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal'd,
The might, the majesty, the proud array
  Of England's march o'er many a noble field,
All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light,
Shine like some glorious land, view'd from an Alpine height.

Away, presumptuous. thought!–departed saint!
  To thy freed vision what can earth display
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint,
  Seen from the birth-place of celestial day?
Oh! pale and weak the sun's reflected rays
  E'en in their fervour of meridian heat,
To him, who in the sanctuary may gaze
  On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat
And thou mayst view, from thy divine abode,
The dust of empires flit before a breath of God.

And yet we mourn thee! Yes! thy place is void
  Within our hearts–there veil'd thine image dwelt,
But cherish'd still; and o'er that tie destroy'd,
  Though faith rejoice, fond nature still must melt.
Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway
  Thousands were born, who now in dust repose,
And many a head, with years and sorrows grey,
  Wore youth's bright tresses, when thy star arose;
And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn,
Hath fill'd our sphere with light, now to its source withdrawn.

Earthquakes have rock'd the nations:–things revered,
  The ancestral fabrics of the world, went down
In ruins, from whose stones Ambition rear'd
  His lonely pyramid of dread renown.
But when the fires that long had slumber'd, pent
  Deep in men's bosoms, with volcanic force,
Bursting their prison-house, each bulwark rent,
  And swept each holy barrier from their course,
Firm and unmoved amidst that lava-flood,
Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks stood.

Be they eternal! –Be thy children found
  Still to their country's altars true like thee!
And, while 'the name of Briton' is a sound
  Of rallying music to the brave and free,
With the high feelings, at the word which swell,
  To make the breast a shrine for Freedom's flame,
Be mingled thoughts of him, who loved so well,
  Who left so pure, its heritage of fame!
Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror's dust,
Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the just.

All else shall pass away–the thrones of kings,
  The very traces of their tombs depart;
But number not with perishable things
  The holy records Virtue leaves the heart,
Heirlooms from race to race!–and oh! in days,
  When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest,
When our sons learn, 'as household words', thy praise,
  Still on thine offspring, may thy spirit rest!
And many a name of that imperial line,
Father and patriot! blend, in England's songs, with thine!

1 The glittering meteor, like a star, which often appears about a ship during tempests; if seen upon the main-mast, is considered by the sailors as an omen of good weather.–See DAMPIER's Voyages.

KINDRED HEARTS

OH! ask not, hope thou not too much
  Of sympathy below;
Few are the hearts whence one same touch
  Bids the sweet fountains flow:
Few–and by still conflicting powers
  Forbidden here to meet–
Such ties would make this life of ours
  Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye
  Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky,
  Where the rich sunset burns:
It may be, that the breath of spring,
  Born amidst violets lone,
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring
  A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times–
  A sorrowful delight!
The melody of distant chimes,
  The sound of waves by night,
The wind that, with so many a tone,
  Some chord within can thrill,–
These may have language all thine own,
  To him a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true
  And steadfast love of years;
The kindly, that from childhood grew,
  The faithful to thy tears!
If there be one that o'er the dead
  Hath in thy grief borne part,
And watch'd through sickness by thy bed,–
  Call his a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,
  Wherein bright spirits blend,
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade,
  With the same breeze that bend,
For that full bliss of thought allied,
  Never to mortals given,–
Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside,
  Or lift them unto Heaven.

CASABIANCA 1

The boy stood on the burning deck
  Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
  Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
  As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
  A proud, though child-like form.

The flames roll'd on–he would not go
  Without his Father's word;
That Father, faint in death below,
  His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud:–'Say, Father, say
  If yet my task is done?'
He knew not that the chieftain lay
  Unconscious of his son

'Speak, Father!' once again he cried,
  'If I may yet be gone!'
And but the booming shots replied,
  And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
  And in his waving hair,
And look'd from that lone post of death
  In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud,
  'My Father! must I stay?'
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
  The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
  They caught the flag on high,
And stream'd above the gallant child,
  Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound–
   The boy–oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
  With fragments strew'd the sea!–

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
  That well had borne their part–
But the noblest thing which perish'd there
  Was that young faithful heart!

1 Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son of the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of the Nile), after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.

EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL


Now in thy youth, beseech of Him
  Who giveth, upbraiding not;
That His light in thy heart become not dim,
And his love be unforgot;
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee. –BERNARD BARTON.

HUSH! 'tis a holy hour–the quiet room
  Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds
A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom
  And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads,
With all their clustering locks, untouch'd by care,
And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer.

Gaze on–'tis lovely!–Childhood's lip and cheek,
  Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought–
Gaze–yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
  And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?–
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity!

O! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest,
  Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds, with slumber's honey-dew opprest,
  'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun–
Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs
  Of hope make melody where'er ye tread,
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
  Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness–how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you–silent tears to weep,
  And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,
And sumless riches, from affection's deep,
  To pour on broken reeds–a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship–therefore pray!

Her lot is on you–to be found untired,
  Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
  And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain;
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And oh! to love through all things–therefore pray!

And take the thought of this calm vesper time,
  With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
  As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!
Earth will forsake–O! happy to have given
The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.

CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL

'Les femmes doivent penser qu'il est dans cette carrière bien peu de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie d'une femme aimée et d'une mère heureuse.' –MADAME DE STAËL.

DAUGHTER of th' Italian heaven!
Thou, to whom its fires are given,
Joyously thy car hath roll'd
Where the conqueror's pass'd of old;
And the festal sun that shone,
O'er three hundred triumphs gone, 1
Makes thy day of glory bright,
With a shower of golden light.

Now thou tread'st the ascending road,
Freedom's foot so proudly trode;
While, from tombs of heroes borne,
From the dust of empire shorn,
Flowers upon thy graceful head,
Chaplets of all hues, are shed,
In a soft and rosy rain,
Touch'd with many a gem-like stain.

Thou hast gain'd the summit now!
Music hails thee from below;
Music, whose rich notes might stir
Ashes of the sepulchre;
Shaking with victorious notes
All the bright air as it floats.
Well may woman's heart beat high
Unto that proud harmony!

Now afar it rolls–it dies–
And thy voice is heard to rise
With a low and lovely tone
In its thrilling power alone;
And thy lyre's deep silvery string,
Touch'd as by a breeze's wing,
Murmurs tremblingly at first,
Ere the tide of rapture burst.

All the spirit of thy sky
Now hath lit thy large dark eye,
And thy cheek a flush hath caught
From the joy of kindled thought;
And the burning words of song
From thy lip flow fast and strong,
With a rushing stream's delight
In the freedom of its might.

Radiant daughter of the sun!
Now thy living wreath is won.
Crown'd of Rome!–Oh! art thou not
Happy in that glorious lot?–
Happier, happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow,
She that makes the humblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth!

1 The trebly hundred triumphs.–BYRON.

THE BETTER LAND

'I HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?'
     – 'Not there, not there, my child!'

'Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things? '
     – 'Not there, not there, my child!'

'Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?–
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?–
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land? '
     – 'Not there, not there, my child!'

'Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair–
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
     – It is there, it is there, my child!'

HYMN BY THE SICK-BED OF A MOTHER

FATHER! that in the olive shade
  When the dark hour came on,
Didst, with a breath of heavenly aid,
            Strengthen thy Son;

Oh! by the anguish of that night,
  Send us down bless'd relief;
Or to the chasten'd, let thy might
            Hallow this grief!

And Thou, that when the starry sky
  Saw the dread strife begun,
Didst teach adoring faith to cry,
            'Thy will be done';

By thy meek spirit, Thou, of all
  That e'er have mourn'd the chief–
Thou Saviour! if the stroke must fall
            Hallow this grief!

TO THE NEW-BORN 1

A BLESSING on thy head, thou child of many hopes and fears!
A rainbow-welcome thine hath been, of mingled smiles and tears.
Thy father greets thee unto life, with a full and chasten'd heart,
For a solemn gift from God thou com'st, all precious as thou art!

I see thee not asleep, fair boy, upon thy mother's breast,
Yet well I know how guarded there shall be thy rosy rest;
And how her soul with love, and prayer, and gladness, will o'erflow,
While bending o'er thy soft-seal'd eyes, thou dear one, well I know!

A blessing on thy gentle head! and bless'd thou art in truth,
For a home where God is felt, awaits thy childhood and thy youth:
Around thee pure and holy thoughts shall dwell as light and air,
And steal unto thine heart, and wake the germs now folded there.

Smile on thy mother! while she feels that unto her is given,
In that young day-spring glance the pledge of a soul to rear for heaven!
Smile! and sweet peace be o'er thy sleep, joy o'er thy wakening shed!
Blessings and blessings evermore, fair boy! upon thy head.

1 Addressed to the child of her eldest brother.

A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD

[These lines were given to Sir Walter Scott, at the gate of Abbotsford, in the summer of 1829. He was then apparently in the vigour of an existence whose energies promised long continuance; and the glance of his quick, smiling eye, and the very sound of his kindly voice, seemed to kindle the gladness of his own sunny and benignant spirit in all who had the happiness of approaching him.]

HOME of the gifted! fare thee well,
  And a blessing on thee rest;
While the heather waves its purple bell
  O'er moor and mountain crest;
While stream to stream around thee calls,
  And braes with broom are drest,
Glad be the harping in thy halls–
  A blessing on thee rest.

While the high voice from thee sent forth
  Bids rock and cairn reply,
Wakening the spirits of the North,
  Like a chieftan's gathering cry;
While its deep master-tones hold sway
  As a king's o'er every breast,
Home of the Legend and the Lay!
  A blessing on thee rest!

Joy to thy hearth, and board, and bower!
  Long honours to thy line!
And hearts of proof, and hands of power,
  And bright names worthy thine!
By the merry step of childhood, still
  May thy free sward be prest!
–While one proud pulse in the land can thrill,
  A blessing on thee rest!

THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT

Many an eye
May wail the dimming of our shining star.–SHAKESPEARE.

     A GLORIOUS voice hath ceased!–
Mournfully, reverently–the funeral chant
Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound,
A hollow murmur of the dying year,
In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad!
A more Aeolian melancholy tone
Than ever wail'd o'er bright things perishing!
For that is passing from the darken'd land,
Which the green summer will not bring us back–
Though all her songs return. The funeral chant
Breathe reverently!–They bear the mighty forth,
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind–
They bear him through the household paths, the groves,
Where every tree had music of its own
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love–
And he is silent!–Past the living stream
They bear him now; the stream, whose kindly voice
On alien shores his true heart burn'd to hear–
And he is silent! O'er the heathery hills,
Which his own soul had mantled with a light
Richer than autumn's purple, now they move–
And he is silent!–he, whose flexile lips
Were but unseal'd, and lo! a thousand forms,
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height,
In glowing life upsprang:–Vassal and chief,
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal,
Fast rushing through the brightly troubled air,
Like the wild huntsman's band. And still they live,
To those fair scenes imperishably bound,
And, from the mountain mist still flashing by,
Startle the wanderer who hath listen'd there
To the seer's voice: phantoms of colour'd thought,
Surviving him who raised.–O eloquence!
O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead!
Who shall wake thee? lord of the buried past!
And art thou there–to those dim nations join'd,
Thy subject-host so long?–The wand is dropp'd
The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand
Touch'd, and the genii came!–Sing reverently
The funeral chant!–The mighty is borne home–
And who shall be his mourners?–Youth and age,
For each hath felt his magic–love and grief,
For he hath communed with the heart of each:
Yes–the free spirit of humanity
May join the august procession, for to him
Its mysteries have been tributary things,
And all its accents known:–from field or wave,
Never was conqueror on his battle bier,
By the vail'd banner and the muffled drum,
And the proud drooping of the crested head,
More nobly follow'd home.–The last abode,
The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach'd:
A still majestic spot: girt solemnly
With all the imploring beauty of decay;
A stately couch 'midst ruins! meet for him
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant
Over the honour'd grave!–the grave!–oh, say
Rather the shrine!–An alter for the love,
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths
Of years unborn–a place where leaf and flower,
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead,
Shall be made holy things–where every weed
Shall have its portion of the inspiring gift
From buried glory breathed. And now, what strain,
Making victorious melody ascend
High above sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb
Where he that sway'd the nations thus is laid–
The crown'd of men?
                    A lowly, lowly, song.

Lowly and solemn be
Thy children's cry to Thee,
    Father divine!
A hymn of suppliant breath,
Owning that life and death
    Alike are Thine!

A spirit on its way,
Sceptred the earth to sway,
    From Thee was sent:
Now call'st Thou back Thine own–
Hence is that radiance flown–
    To earth but lent.

Watching in breathless awe,
The bright head bow'd we saw,
    Beneath Thy hand!
Fill'd by one hope, one fear,
Now o'er a brother's bier,
    Weeping we stand.

How hath he pass'd!–the lord
Of each deep bosom chord,
    To meet Thy sight,
Unmantled and alone,
On Thy bless'd mercy thrown,
    O Infinite!

So, from his harvest home,
Must the tired peasant come;
    So, in one trust,
Leader and king must yield
The naked soul, reveal'd
    To Thee, All Just!

The sword of many of a fight–
What then shall be its might?
    The lofty lay,
That rush'd on eagle wing–
What shall its memory bring?
    What hope, what stay?

O Father! in that hour,
When earth all succouring power
    Shall disavow;
When spear, and shield, and crown,
In faintness are cast down–
    Sustain us, Thou!

By Him who bow'd to take
The death-cup for our sake,
    The thorn, the rod;
From whom the last dismay
Was not to pass away–
    Aid us, O God!

Tremblers beside the grave,
We call on thee to save.
    Father divine!
Hear, hear our suppliant breath,
Keep us, in life and death,
    Thine, only Thine!

THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS

I–INTELLECTUAL POWERS

O THOUGHT! O Memory! gems for ever heaping
High in the illumined chambers of the mind,
And thou, divine Imagination! keeping
Thy lamp's lone star 'mid shadowy hosts enshrined;
How in one moment rent and disentwined,
At Fever's fiery touch, apart they fall,
Your glorious combinations!–broken all,
As the sand-pillars by the desert's wind
Scatter'd to whirling dust!–Oh, soon uncrown'd!
Well may your parting swift, your strange return,
Subdue the soul to lowliness profound,
Guiding its chasten'd vision to discern
How by meek Faith Heaven's portals must be pass'd
Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast.

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 noon-tide 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,
      Transcendent, 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!