Part 2 — MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. (continued 2)
Reading edition
CHRISTMAS CAROL.
O lovely voices of the sky, That hymn’d the Saviour’s birth! Are ye not singing still on high, Ye that sang “Peace on earth?” To us yet speak the strains Wherewith, in days gone by, Ye bless’d the Syrian swains, O voices of the sky! O clear and shining light! whose beams That hour heaven’s glory shed Around the palms, and o’er the streams, And on the shepherd’s head; Be near, through life and death, As in that holiest night Of Hope, and Joy, and Faith, O clear and shining light! O star! which led to Him whose love Brought down man’s ransom free; Where art thou?—Midst the hosts above May we still gaze on thee? In heaven thou art not set, Thy rays earth might not dim— Send them to guide us yet, O star which led to Him!
A FATHER READING THE BIBLE.
’Twas early day, and sunlight stream’d Soft through a quiet room, That hush’d, but not forsaken seem’d, Still, but with naught of gloom. For there, serene in happy age Whose hope is from above, A father communed with the page Of heaven’s recorded love. Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, On his gray holy hair, And touch’d the page with tenderest light, As if its shrine were there! But oh! that patriarch’s aspect shone With something lovelier far— A radiance all the spirit’s own, Caught not from sun or star. Some word of life e’en then had met His calm, benignant eye; Some ancient promise, breathing yet Of immortality! Some martyr’s prayer, wherein the glow Of quenchless faith survives: While every feature said—“I know That my Redeemer lives!” And silent stood his children by, Hushing their very breath, Before the solemn sanctity Of thoughts o’ersweeping death. Silent—yet did not each young breast With love and reverence melt? Oh! blest be those fair girls, and blest That home where God is felt!
[This little poem, which, as its Author herself expressed in a letter to Mrs Joanna Baillie, was to her “a thing set apart,” as being the last of her productions ever read to her beloved mother, was written at the request of a young lady, who thus made known her wish “that Mrs Hemans would embody in poetry a picture that so warmed a daughter’s heart:”—
“Upon going into our dear father’s sitting-room this morning, my sister and I found him deeply engaged reading his Bible, and, being unwilling to interrupt such a holy occupation, we retired to the further end of the apartment, to gaze unobserved upon the serene picture. The bright morning sun was beaming on his venerable silver hair, while his defective sight increased the earnestness with which he perused the blessed book. Our fancy led us to believe that some immortal thought was engaging his mind, for he raised his fine open brow to the light, and we felt we had never loved him more deeply. After an involuntary prayer had passed from our hearts, we whispered to each other, ‘Oh! if Mrs Hemans could only see our father at this moment, her glowing pen would detain the scene; for even as we gaze upon it, the bright gleam is vanishing.’
“December 9, 1826.”
THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS.[367]
——“His early days Were with him in his heart.” Wordsworth.
The voices of two forest boys, In years when hearts entwine, Had fill’d with childhood’s merry noise A valley of the Rhine: To rock and stream that sound was known, Gladsome as hunter’s bugle-tone. The sunny laughter of their eyes, There had each vineyard seen; Up every cliff whence eagles rise, Their bounding step had been: Ay! their bright youth a glory threw O’er the wild place wherein they grew. But this, as day-spring’s flush, was brief As early bloom or dew; Alas! ’tis but the wither’d leaf That wears th’ enduring hue! Those rocks along the Rhine’s fair shore Might girdle in their world no more. For now on manhood’s verge they stood, And heard life’s thrilling call, As if a silver clarion woo’d To some high festival; And parted as young brothers part, With love in each unsullied heart. They parted. Soon the paths divide Wherein our steps were one, Like river branches, far and wide, Dissevering as they run; And making strangers in their course, Of waves that had the same bright source. Met they no more? Once more they met, Those kindred hearts and true! ’Twas on a field of death, where yet The battle-thunders flew, Though the fierce day was wellnigh past, And the red sunset smiled its last. But as the combat closed, they found For tender thoughts a space, And e’en upon that bloody ground Room for one bright embrace, And pour’d forth on each other’s neck Such tears as warriors need not check. The mists o’er boyhood’s memory spread All melted with those tears, The faces of the holy dead Rose as in vanish’d years; The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever-blest, Lifted its voice in each full breast! Oh! was it then a time to die? It was!—that not in vain The soul of childhood’s purity And peace might turn again. A ball swept forth—’twas guided well— Heart unto heart those brothers fell! Happy, yes, happy thus to go! Bearing from earth away Affections, gifted ne’er to know A shadow—a decay— A passing touch of change or chill, A breath of aught whose breath can kill. And they, between whose sever’d souls, Once in close union tied, A gulf is set, a current rolls For ever to divide; Well may they envy such a lot, Whose hearts yearn on—but mingle not.
THE LAST WISH.
Go to the forest-shade, Seek thou the well-known glade, Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie, Gleaming through moss-tufts deep, Like dark eyes fill’d with sleep, And bathed in hues of summer’s midnight sky. Bring me their buds, to shed Around my dying bed A breath of May and of the wood’s repose; For I, in sooth, depart With a reluctant heart, That fain would linger where the bright sun glows. Fain would I stay with thee!— Alas! this may not be; Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours! Go where the fountain’s breast Catches, in glassy rest, The dim green light that pours through laurel bowers. I know how softly bright, Steep’d in that tender light, The water-lilies tremble there e’en now; Go to the pure stream’s edge, And from its whispering sedge Bring me those flowers to cool my fever’d brow! Then, as in Hope’s young days, Track thou the antique maze Of the rich garden to its grassy mound; There is a lone white rose, Shedding, in sudden snows, Its faint leaves o’er the emerald turf around. Well know’st thou that fair tree— A murmur of the bee Dwells ever in the honey’d lime above: Bring me one pearly flower Of all its clustering shower— For on that spot we first reveal’d our love. Gather one woodbine bough, Then, from the lattice low Of the bower’d cottage which I bade thee mark, When by the hamlet last Through dim wood-lanes we pass’d, While dews were glancing to the glowworm’s spark. Haste! to my pillow bear Those fragrant things and fair; My hand no more may bind them up at eve— Yet shall their odour soft One bright dream round me waft Of life, youth, summer—all that I must leave! And oh! if thou wouldst ask Wherefore thy steps I task, The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace— ’Tis that some thought of me, When I am gone, may be The spirit bound to each familiar place. I bid mine image dwell (Oh! break not thou the spell!) In the deep wood and by the fountain-side; Thou must not, my beloved! Rove where we two have roved, Forgetting her that in her spring-time died!
FAIRY FAVOURS.
[This little poem was written in the winter of 1827. In writing to a friend shortly afterwards, Mrs Hemans herself thus alludes to it: “I am so glad you liked ‘Fairy Favours.’ It is, indeed, filled with my own true and ever-yearning feeling—that longing for more affection, more confidence, more entire interchange of thought, than I am ever likely to meet with. However, I will not repine whilst I have friends who love me as you do.”]
——Give me but Something whereunto I may bind my heart; Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp Affection’s tendrils round.
Wouldst thou wear the gift of immortal bloom? Wouldst thou smile in scorn at the shadowy tomb? Drink of this cup! it is richly fraught With balm from the gardens of Genii brought; Drink! and the spoiler shall pass thee by, When the young all scatter’d like rose-leaves lie. And would not the youth of my soul be gone, If the loved had left me, one by one? Take back the cup that may never bless, The gift that would make me brotherless. How should I live, with no kindred eye To reflect mine immortality! Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell, Over the mighty in air that dwell? Wouldst thou call the spirits of shore and steep To fetch thee jewels from ocean’s deep? Wave but this rod, and a viewless band, Slaves to thy will, shall around thee stand. And would not fear, at my coming, then Hush every voice in the homes of men? Would not bright eyes in my presence quail? Young cheeks with a nameless thrill turn pale? No gift be mine that aside would turn The human love for whose founts I yearn! Wouldst thou then read through the hearts of those Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose? Wear this rich gem! it is charm’d to show When a change comes over affection’s glow: Look on its flushing or fading hue, And learn if the trusted be false or true! Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust, Though my heart’s wealth be but pour’d on dust! Let not a doubt in my soul have place, To dim the light of a loved one’s face; Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile— That glory would pass could I look on guile! Say, then, what boon of my power shall be, Favour’d of spirits! pour’d forth on thee? Thou scornest the treasures of wave and mine, Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine, Thou art fain with a mortal’s lot to rest— Answer me! how may I grace it best? Oh! give me no sway o’er the powers unseen, But a human heart where my own may lean! A friend, one tender and faithful friend, Whose thoughts’ free current with mine may blend; And, leaving not either on earth alone, Bid the bright, calm close of our lives be one!
ANNOTATION ON “RECORDS OF WOMAN,” &C.
[We feel certain that every admirer of the genius of Mrs Hemans will be obliged to us for here reprinting, almost at length, the admirable critique on her writings which appeared in the XCIXth Number of the Edinburgh Review. The acumen, the taste, and elegance of Lord Jeffrey, are evident throughout.
“Women, we fear, cannot do every thing, nor even every thing they attempt. But what they can do, they do, for the most part, excellently—and much more frequently with an absolute and perfect success, than the aspirants of our rougher and more ambitious sex. They cannot, we think, represent naturally the fierce and sullen passions of men—nor their coarser vices—nor even scenes of actual business or contention—and the mixed motives, and strong and faulty characters, by which affairs of moment are usually conducted on the great theatre of the world. For much of this they are disqualified by the delicacy of their training and habits, and the still more disabling delicacy which pervades their conceptions and feelings; and from much they are excluded by their actual inexperience of the realities they might wish to describe—by their substantial and incurable ignorance of business—of the way in which serious affairs are actually managed—and the true nature of the agents and impulses that give movement and direction to the stronger currents of ordinary life. Perhaps they are also incapable of long moral or political investigations, where many complex and indeterminate elements are to be taken into account, and a variety of opposite probabilities to be weighed before coming to a conclusion. They are generally too impatient to get at the ultimate results, to go well through with such discussions; and either stop short at some imperfect view of the truth, or turn aside to repose in the shadow of some plausible error. This, however, we are persuaded, arises entirely from their being seldom set on such tedious tasks. Their proper and natural business is the practical regulations of private life, in all its bearings, affections, and concerns; and the questions with which they have to deal in that most important department, though often of the utmost difficulty and nicety, involve, for the most part, but few elements; and may generally be better described as delicate than intricate—requiring for their solution rather a quick tact and fine perception, than a patient or laborious examination. For the same reason, they rarely succeed in long works, even on subjects the best suited to their genius; their natural training rendering them equally averse to long doubt and long labour.
“For all other intellectual efforts, however, either of the understanding or the fancy, and requiring a thorough knowledge either of man’s strength or his weakness, we apprehend them to be, in all respects, as well qualified as their brethren of the stronger sex; while, in their perceptions of grace, propriety, ridicule—their power of detecting artifice, hypocrisy, and affectation—the force and prompitude of their sympathy, and their capacity of noble and devoted attachment, and of the efforts and sacrifices it may require—they are, beyond all doubt, our superiors.
“Their business being, as we have said, with actual or social life, and the colours it receives from the conduct and dispositions of individuals, they unconsciously acquire, at a very early age, the finest perception of character and manners, and are almost as soon instinctively schooled in the deep and dangerous learning of feeling and emotion; while the very minuteness with which they make and meditate on these interesting observations, and the finer shades and variations of sentiment which are thus treasured and recorded, trains their whole faculties to a nicety and precision of operation, which often discloses itself to advantage in their application to studies of a very different character. When women, accordingly, have turned their minds—as they have done but too seldom—to the exposition or arrangement of any branch of knowledge, they have commonly exhibited, we think, a more beautiful accuracy, and a more uniform and complete justness of thinking, than their less discriminating brethren. There is a finish and completeness about every thing they put out of their hands, which indicates not only an inherent taste for elegance and neatness, but a habit of nice observation, and singular exactness of judgment.
“It has been so little the fashion, at any time, to encourage women to write for publication, that it is more difficult than it should be to prove these truths by examples. Yet there are enough, within the reach of a very careless and superficial glance over the open field of literature, to enable us to explain, at least, and illustrate, if not entirely to verify, our assertions. No man, we will venture to say, could have written the letters of Madame de Sevigné, or the novels of Miss Austin, or the hymns and early lessons of Mrs Barbauld, or the conversations of Mrs Marcet. These performances, too, are not only essentially and intensely feminine, but they are, in our judgment, decidedly more perfect than any masculine productions with which they can be brought into comparison. They accomplish more completely all the ends at which they aim, and are worked out with a gracefulness and felicity of execution which excludes all idea of failure, and entirely satisfies the expectations they may have raised. We might easily have added to these instances. There are many parts of Miss Edgeworth’s earlier stories, and of Miss Mitford’s sketches and descriptions, and not a little of Mrs Opie’s, that exhibit the same fine and penetrating spirit of observation, the same softness and delicacy of hand, and unerring truth of delineation, to which we have alluded as characterising the pure specimens of female art. The same distinguishing traits of a woman’s spirit are visible through the grief and the piety of Lady Russell, and the gaiety, the spite, and the venturesomeness of Lady Mary Wortley. We have not as yet much female poetry; but there is a truly feminine tenderness, purity, and elegance, in the Psyche of Mrs Tighe, and in some of the smaller pieces of Lady Craven. On some of the works of Madame de Staël—her Corinne especially—there is a still deeper stamp of the genius of her sex. Her pictures of its boundless devotedness—its depth and capacity of suffering—its high aspirations—its painful irritability, and inextinguishable thirst for emotion, are powerful specimens of that morbid anatomy of the heart, which no hand but that of a woman’s was fine enough to have laid open, or skilful enough to have recommended to our sympathy and love. There is the same exquisite and inimitable delicacy, if not the same power, in many of the happier passages of Madame de Souza and Madame Cottin—to say nothing of the more lively and yet melancholy records of Madame de Staël, during her long penance in the Court of the Duchesse de Maine.
“But we are preluding too largely; and must come at once to the point, to which the very heading of this article has already admonished the most careless of our readers that we are tending. We think the poetry of Mrs Hemans a fine exemplification of female poetry; and we think it has much of the perfection which we have ventured to ascribe to the happier productions of female genius.
“It may not be the best imaginable poetry, and may not indicate the very highest or most commanding genius, but it embraces a great deal of that which gives the very best poetry its chief power of pleasing; and would strike us, perhaps, as more impassioned and exalted, if it were not regulated and harmonised by the most beautiful taste. It is infinitely sweet, elegant, and tender—touching, perhaps, and contemplative, rather than vehement and overpowering; and not only finished throughout with an exquisite delicacy, and even serenity of execution, but informed with a purity and loftiness of feeling, and a certain sober and humble tone of indulgence and piety, which must satisfy all judgments, and allay the apprehensions of those who are most afraid of the passionate exaggerations of poetry. The diction is always beautiful, harmonious, and free; and the themes, though of infinite variety, uniformly treated with a grace, originality, and judgment, which mark the same master-hand. These themes she has borrowed, with the peculiar interest and imagery that belong to them, from the legends of different nations, and the most opposite states of society; and has contrived to retain much of what is interesting and peculiar in each of them, without adopting, along with it, any of the revolting or extravagant excesses which may characterise the taste or manners of the people or the age from which it has been derived. She has thus transfused into her German or Scandinavian legends, the imaginative and daring tone of the originals, without the mystical exaggerations of the one, or the painful fierceness and coarseness of the other—she has preserved the clearness and elegance of the French, without their coldness or affectation—and the tenderness and simplicity of the early Italians, without their diffuseness or languor. Though occasionally expatiating, somewhat fondly and at large, amongst the sweets of her own planting, there is, on the whole, a great condensation and brevity in most of her pieces, and, almost without exception, a most judicious and vigorous conclusion. The great merit, however, of her poetry, is undoubtedly in its tenderness and its beautiful imagery. The first requires no explanation; but we must be allowed to add a word as to the peculiar charm and character of the latter.
“It has always been our opinion, that the very essence of poetry, apart from the pathos, the wit, or the brilliant description which may be embodied in it, but may exist equally in prose, consists in the fine perception and vivid expression of that subtle and mysterious analogy which exists between the physical and the moral world—which makes outward things and qualities the natural types and emblems of inward gifts and emotions, and leads us to ascribe life and sentiment to every thing that interests us in the aspects of external nature. The feeling of this analogy, obscure and inexplicable as the theory of it may be, is so deep and universal in our nature, that it has stamped itself on the ordinary language of men of every kindred and speech: and that to such an extent, that one-half of the epithets by which we familiarly designate moral and physical qualities, are in reality so many metaphors, borrowed reciprocally, upon this analogy, from those opposite forms of existence. The very familiarity, however, of the expression, in these instances, takes away its poetical effect—and indeed, in substance, its metaphorical character. The original sense of the word is entirely forgotten in the derivative one to which it has succeeded; and it requires some etymological recollection to convince us that it was originally nothing else than a typical or analogical illustration. Thus we talk of a penetrating understanding, and a furious blast—a weighty argument, and a gentle stream—without being at all aware that we are speaking in the language of poetry, and transferring qualities from one extremity of the sphere of being to another. In these cases, accordingly, the metaphor, by ceasing to be felt, in reality ceases to exist; and the analogy, being no longer intimated, of course can produce no effect. But whenever it is intimated, it does produce an effect; and that effect, we think, is poetry.
“It has substantially two functions, and operates in two directions. In the first place, it strikes vividly out, and flashes at once on our minds, the conception of an inward feeling or emotion, which it might otherwise have been difficult to convey, by the presentment of some bodily form or quality, which is instantly felt to be its true representative; and enables us to fix and comprehend it with a force and clearness not otherwise attainable: and, in the second place, it vivifies dead and inanimate matter with the attributes of living and sentient mind; and fills the whole visible universe around us with objects of interest and sympathy, by tinging them with the hues of life, and associating them with our own passions and affections. This magical operation the poet, too, performs, for the most part, in one of two ways—either by the direct agency of similes and metaphors, more or less condensed or developed, or by the mere graceful presentment of such visible objects on the scene of his passionate dialogues or adventures, as partake of the character of the emotion he wishes to excite, and thus form an appropriate accompaniment or preparation for its direct indulgence or display. The former of those methods has perhaps been most frequently employed, and certainly has most attracted attention. But the latter, though less obtrusive, and perhaps less frequently resorted to of set purpose, is, we are inclined to think, the most natural and efficacious of the two, and is often adopted, we believe unconsciously, by poets of the highest order—the predominant emotion of their minds overflowing spontaneously on all the objects which present themselves to their fancy, and calling out from them, and colouring with its own hues, those that are naturally emblematic of its character, and in accordance with its general expression. It would be easy to show how habitually this is done by Shakspeare and Milton especially, and how much many of their finest passages are indebted, both for force and richness of effect, to this general and diffusive harmony of the external character of their scenes with the passions of their living agents—this harmonising and appropriate glow with which they kindle the whole surrounding atmosphere, and bring all that strikes the sense into unison with all that touches the heart.
“But it is more to our present purpose to say, that we think the fair writer before us is eminently a mistress of this poetical secret; and, in truth, it was solely for the purpose of illustrating this great charm and excellence in her imagery, that we have ventured upon this little dissertation. Almost all her poems are rich with fine descriptions, and studded over with images of visible beauty. But these are never idle ornaments: all her pomps have a meaning; and her flowers and her gems are arranged, as they are said to be among Eastern lovers, so as to speak the language of truth and of passion. This is peculiarly remarkable in some little pieces, which seem at first sight to be purely descriptive, but are soon found to tell upon the heart, with a deep moral and pathetic impression. But it is a truth nearly as conspicuous in the greater part of her productions, where we scarcely meet with any striking sentiment that is not ushered in by some such symphony of external nature, and scarcely a lovely picture that does not serve as a foreground to some deep or lofty emotion. We may illustrate this proposition, we think, by opening either of these little volumes at random, and taking what they first present to us. The following exquisite lines, for example, on a Palm-tree in an English garden:—
‘It waved not through an Eastern sky, Beside a fount of Araby,’ etc.
“The following, which the author has named, ‘Graves of a Household,’ has rather less of external scenery, but serves, like the others, to show how well the graphic and pathetic may be made to set off each other:—
‘They grew in beauty, side by side, They fill’d one home with glee,’ etc.
“We have taken these pieces chiefly on account of their shortness; but it would not be fair to Mrs Hemans not to present our readers with one longer specimen, and to give a portion of her graceful narrative along with her pathetic descriptions. This story, of ‘The Lady of the Castle,’ is told, we think, with great force and sweetness:—.
‘Thou see’st her pictured with her shining hair, (Famed were these tresses in Provençal song,)’ etc.
“The following sketch of ‘Joan of Arc in Rheims,’ is in a loftier and more ambitious vein, but sustained with equal grace, and as touching in its solemn tenderness. We can afford to extract but a part of it:—
——‘Within, the light, Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing,’ etc.
“There are several strains of a more passionate character, especially in the two poetical epistles from Lady Arabella Stuart and Properzia Rossi. We shall venture to give a few lines from the former. The Lady Arabella was of royal descent; and having excited the fears of our pusillanimous James by a secret union with the Lord Seymour, was detained in a cruel captivity, by that heartless monarch, till the close of her life—during which she is supposed to have indited this letter to her lover from her prison-house:—
‘My friend, my friend! where art thou? Day by day, Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away,’ etc.
“The following, though it has no very distinct object or moral, breathes, we think, the very spirit of poetry, in its bright and vague picturings, and is well entitled to the name it bears—‘An Hour of Romance:’
‘There were thick leaves above me and around, And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood’s sleep,’ etc.
“There is great sweetness in the following portion of a little poem on a ‘Girl’s School:’—
‘Oh! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,’ etc.
“There is a fine and stately solemnity in these lines on ‘The Lost Pleiad:’
‘Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night? She wears her crown of old magnificence,’ etc.
“The following on ‘The Dying Improvisatore,’ have a rich lyrical cadence, and glow of deep feeling:—
‘Never, oh! never more, On thy Rome’s purple heaven mine eye shall dwell,’ etc.
“But we must stop here. There would be no end of our extracts, if we were to yield to the temptation of noting down every beautiful passage which arrests us in turning over the leaves of the volumes before us. We ought to recollect, too, that there are few to whom our pages are likely to come, who are not already familiar with their beauties; and, in fact, we have made these extracts, less with the presumptuous belief that we are introducing Mrs Hemans for the first time to the knowledge or admiration of our readers, than from a desire of illustrating, by means of them, the singular felicity in the choice and employment of her imagery, of which we have already spoken so much at large;—that fine accord she has established between the world of sense and of soul—that delicate blending of our deep inward emotions with their splendid symbols and emblems without.”]