# Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 13 1825/The Parting Song

The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 13, Pages 395-396
THE PARTING SONG.*
A youth went forth to exile, from a home
Such as to early thought gives images,
The longest treasured, and most oft recall'd,
And brightest kept, of Love. A mountain-home,
Which, with the murmur of the rocking pines,
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart
Wakes the deep sense of Nature unto joy,
And half unconscious prayer. A Grecian home,
With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung,
And, through the dimness of its olive shades,
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam
Of shining pillars from the Fanes of old.
—And this was what he left!— Yet many leave
Far more:—the glistening eye that first from theirs
Call'd out the soul's bright smile; the gentle hand,
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps
To where the violets lay; the tender voice,
That earliest taught them what deep melody
Lives in Affection's tones.—He left not these.
— Happy are they that weep fresh tears to part
With all a mother's love!—a bitterer grief
Was his—to part unloved!—of her unloved
That should have breathed upon his heart, like Spring
Fostering its young faint flowers.
——Yet had he friends,
And they went forth to cheer him on his way
Unto the parting spot;—and she too went,
That mother, tearless for her youngest-born!
 The parting spot was reach'd:—a lone deep glen,
Holy, perchance, of yore, for Cave and Fount
Were there, and plaintive Echoes; and above,
The silence of the blue, clear, upper heaven,
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore
Their crowning snows.—Upon a rock he sprung,
The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze,
Through the wild laurels, back. But then a light
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye,
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips
A burst of passionate song——
"Farewell, farewell!
Thou 'rt bearing thence a mournful sound, a murmur of Farewell!
And fare thee well—flow on, my stream!—flow on, thou bright and free! I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me.
But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's loving years,
And therefore turns my soul to thee—for thou hast known my tears!
The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known;
The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone!
"I see thee once again, my home!—thou 'rt there amidst thy vines,
And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer shines.
It is a joyous hour when Eve breathes whispering through thy groves,
The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves!
The hour the mother loves!—for me beloved it hath not been,
Yet ever in its purple smile thou smil'st, a blessed scene!
A scene whose beauty o'er my soul through distant years will come;
Yet what but as the Dead to thee shall I be then, my home?
"Not as the Dead!—no, not the Dead!—we speak of them, we keep
Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep!
We hallow ev'n the lyre they touch'd, we love the lay they sung,
We pass with softer step the place they fill'd, our band among!
But I depart like sounds, like dews, like aught that leaves on earth
No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth!
I go!—the echo of the rocks a thousand songs may swell,
When mine is a forgotten voice—woods, mountains, home, farewell!
"And farewell, mother!—I have borne in lonely silence long,
But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong!
And I will speak, though but the winds that wander through the sky,
And but the dark, deep-rustling pines, and rolling streams reply!
Yes, I will speak!—within my breast whate'er hath seem'd to be,
There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gush'd for thee!
Brightly it would have gush'd; but thou, my mother! thou hast thrown
Back on the forests and the wilds, what should have been thine own!
"Then fare thee well! I leave thee not in loneliness to pine,
Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow than mine!
Forgive me that thou couldst not love!—it may be, that a tone
Yet, From my burning heart may pierce through thine, when I am gone!
And thou perchance may'st weep for him, on whom thou ne'er hast smiled,
And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected child! —Might but my spirit then return, and midst its kindred dwell,
And quench its thirst with Love's free tears!—'tis all a dream—farewell!"
"Farewell!"—the Echo died with that deep word,
Yet died not so the late repentant pang,
By the strain quicken'd in the mother's breast!
—There had pass'd many changes o'er her brow,
And cheek, and eye, but into one bright flood
Of tears, at last all melted; and she fell
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried
"Return, return, my son!"—the Echo caught
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again,
Answering—"Return, my son!"F. H.