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 roused 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 opened 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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The Nightingale
WHEN twilight's grey and pensive hour
Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower,
And bids the solitary star
Shine in pale beauty from afar;
When gathering shades the landscape veil,
And peasants seek their village-dale,
And mists from river-wave arise,
And dew in every blossom lies;
When evening's primrose opes, to shed
Soft fragrance round her grassy bed;
When glow-worms in the wood-walk light
Their lamp, to cheer the traveller's sight;
At that calm hour, so still, so pale,
Awakes the lonely Nightingale;
And from a hermitage of shade
Fills with her voice the forest-glade.
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Rivers
GO! trace th' unnumbered streams, o'er earth
That wind their devious course,
That draw from Alpine heights their birth,
Deep vale, or cavern source.
Some by majestic cities glide,
Proud scenes of man's renown,
Some lead their solitary tide,
Where pathless forests frown.
Some calmly roll in golden sands,
Where Afric's deserts lie;
Or spread, to clothe rejoicing lands
With rich fertility.
These bear the bark, whose stately sail
Exulting seems to swell;
While these, scarce rippled by a gale,
Sleep in the lonely dell.
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Invocation
I called on dreams and visions, to disclose
That which is veil'd from waking thought; conjured
Eternity, as men constrain a ghost
To appear and answer. ~ WORDSWORTH.
Answer me, burning stars of night!
Where is the spirit gone,
That past the reach of human sight,
As a swift breeze hath flown?–
And the stars answer'd me–'We roll
In light and power on high;
But, of the never-dying soul,
Ask that which cannot die.'
Oh! many-toned and chainless wind!
Thou art a wanderer free;
Tell me if thou its place canst find,
Far over mount and sea?–
And the wind murmur'd in reply,
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Messenger-Bird
Thou art come from the spirits' land, thou bird!
Thou art come from the spirits' land!
Through the dark pine-grove let thy voice be heard,
And tell of the shadowy band!
We know that the bowers are green and fair
In the light of that summer shore,
And we know that the friends we have lost are there,
They are there-and they weep no more!
And we know they have quench'd their fever's thirst
From the Fountain of Youth ere now,
For there must the stream in its freshness burst,
Which none may find below!
And we know that they will not be lur'd to earth
From the land of deathless flowers,
By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth,
Though their hearts were once with ours;
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Image In Lava
Thou thing of years departed!
What ages have gone by,
Since here the mournful seal was set
By love and agony!
Temple and tower have moulder'd,
Empires from earth have pass'd,
And woman's heart hath left a trace
Those glories to outlast!
And childhood's fragile image
Thus fearfully enshrin'd,
Survives the proud memorials rear'd
By conquerors of mankind.
Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering
Upon thy mother's breast,
When suddenly the fiery tomb
Shut round each gentle guest?
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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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,
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Ocean
They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters, these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.
~ Psalm cvii. 23, 24.
HE that in venturous barks hath been
A wanderer on the deep,
Can tell of many an awful scene,
Where storms for ever sweep.
For many a fair, majestic sight
Hath met his wandering eye,
Beneath the streaming northern light,
Or blaze of Indian sky.
Go! ask him of the whirlpool's roar,
Whose echoing thunder peals
Loud, as if rushed along the shore
An army's chariot wheels;
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Indian Lover. Morning Song.
O'ER flowery fields of waving maize,
The breeze of morning lightly plays;
Arise, my Zumia! let us rove,
The cool and fragrant citron grove!
Fair nature spreads her lavish bloom,
And bids her zephyrs waft perfume;
She breathes ambrosial odours rare;
With cassia-fragrance fills the air,
And calls thee forth her sweets to share,
My lovely maid!
We'll mark each aromatic flower,
Expanding to the radiant hour;
We'll seek the scented orange-bower,
Or tam'rind shade;
Now, ere the fervid hours of day,
Arise, my Zumia! haste away!
Hark! from yonder palmy grove,
Swells the choral song of love!
There, on every weeping spray,
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Pilgrim Fathers
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed;
And the heavy night hung dark,
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear;
They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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