Harvest Hymn
Now autumn strews on every plain,
His mellow fruits and fertile grain;
And laughing plenty, crown'd with sheaves,
With purple grapes, and spreading leaves.
In rich profusion pours around
Her flowing treasures on the ground.
Oh! mark the great, the liberal hand,
That scatters blessings o'er the land;
And to the God of nature raise
The grateful song, the hymn of praise.
The infant corn, in vernal hours,
He nurtured with his gentle showers,
And bade the summer clouds diffuse
Their balmy store of genial dews.
He mark'd the tender stem arise,
Till ripen'd by the glowing skies,
And now, matured, his work behold,
The cheering harvest waves in gold.
To nature's God with joy we raise
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Distant Ship
The sea-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast
Shoots like a glancing star,
While the red radiance of the west
Spreads kindling fast and far;
And yet that splendour wins thee not,–
Thy still and thoughtful eye
Dwells but on one dark distant spot
Of all the main and sky.
Look round thee!–o'er the slumbering deep
A solemn glory broods;
A fire hath touch'd the beacon-steep,
And all the golden woods;
A thousand gorgeous clouds on high
Burn with the amber light!–
What spell, from that rich pageantry,
Chains down thy gazing sight?
A softening thought of human cares,
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Death-Day Of Korner
A song for the death-day of the brave
A song of pride!
The youth went down to a hero's grave,
With the sword, his bride.
He went, with his noble heart unworn,
And pure, and high;
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn,
Only to die!
He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone
Beneath his hand
Had thrill'd to the name of his God alone,
And his Father-land.
And with all his glorious feelings yet
In their first glow,
Like a southern stream that no frost hath met
To chain its flow.
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Ancient Greek Song Of Exile
WHERE is the summer, with her golden sun?
-That festal glory hath not pass'd from earth:
For me alone the laughing day is done!
Where is the summer with her voice of mirth?
-Far in my own bright land!
Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die
On the green hills?-the founts, from sparry caves
Through the wild places bearing melody?
The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves?
-Far in my own bright land!
Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining,
The virgin-dances, and the choral strains?
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining
The Spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes?
-Far in my own bright land!
Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs,
The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades?
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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To The Head-Ach
THOU tyrant of the ling'ring hour!
Ah, why with me delight to rest?
Hence far away, tormenting pow'r
Unwelcome guest!
With thee, sad visitant! I prove
The long, the melancholy day;
Ah! foe to peace! from me remove,
Thy dreaded sway.
Oft when I'd court ideal themes,
'Tis then thy leaden wings o'erspread
That seat of wild, fantastic dreams,
My weary head.
And when in Fancy's fiery car,
With her and with the muse I'd fly;
To realms beyond the morning-star,
The earth and sky;
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Thekla's Song; Or, The Voice Of A Spirit
Ask'st thou my home?-my pathway wouldst thou know,
When from thine eye my floating shadow pass'd?
Was not my work fulfill'd and closed below?
Had I not liv'd and lov'd?-my lot was cast.
Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone,
That melting into song her soul away,
Gave the spring-breeze what witch'd thee in its tone?
-But while she lov'd, she liv'd, in that deep lay!
Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found?
-Yes! we are one, oh! trust me, we have met,
Where nought again may part what love hath bound,
Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret.
There shalt thou find us, there with us be blest,
If as our love thy love is pure and true!
There dwells my father, sinless and at rest,
Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue.
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Christmas Carol
FAIR Gratitude! in strain sublime,
Swell high to heav'n 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,
Chas'd ev'ry 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 wak'd the moon, whose eye benign,
Shall never, never close!
CHORUS.
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Roman Girl's Song
Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
On thy seven hills of yore
Thou satst a queen.
Thou hadst thy triumphs then
Purpling the street,
Leaders and sceptred men
Bow'd at thy feet.
They that thy mantle wore,
As gods were seen–
Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
Rome! thine imperial brow
Never shall rise:
What hast thou left thee now?
Thou hast thy skies!
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Moon-Light
COME, gentle muse! now all is calm,
The dew descends, the air is balm;
Unruffled is the glassy deep,
While moon-beams o'er its bosom sleep;
The gale of summer mildly blows,
The wave in soothing murmur flows;
Unclouded Vesper shines on high,
And ev'ry flow'r has clos'd its tearful eye.
Oh! at this hour, this placid hour,
Soft music, wake thy magic pow'r!
Be mine to hear thy dulcet measure,
Thy warbling strains, that whisper, pleasure;
Thy heavenly airs, of cadence dying,
And harp to every zephyr sighing;
When roving by the shadowy beam,
That gilds the fairy-bow'r and woodland-stream!
But all is still! no mellow sound
Floats on the breeze of night around ;
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Sea-Piece
SUBLIME is thy prospect, thou proud-rolling Ocean,
And Fancy surveys thee with solemn delight;
When thy mountainous billows are wild in commotion,
And the tempest is rous'd by the spirits of night!
When the moon-beams thro' winter-clouds faintly appearing,
At intervals gleam on the dark-swelling wave;
And the mariner, dubious, now hoping, now fearing,
May hear the stern Genius of hurricanes rave!
But now, when thine anger has long been subsiding,
And the tempest has folded the might of its wing;
How clear is thy surface, in loveliness gliding,
For April has open'd the portals of spring!
Now soft on thy bosom the orient is beaming,
And tremulous breezes are waving thy breast;
On thy mirror the clouds and the shadows are streaming,
And morning and glory the picture have drest!
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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