# Felicia Hemans in The Edinburgh Magazine And Literary Miscellany Volume 11 1822/Dartmoor

Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 11, Pages 56-59
EXTRACTS FROM "DARTMOOR," A PRIZE POEM, BY MRS HEMANS.
[We are permitted to state, that we have been favoured with these "Extracts" by the accomplished lady to whom the Royal Society of Literature have awarded their prize for her poem on "Dartmoor." Fifty copies only were printed, and distributed to the members of the Society; and the following "Extracts" are the sole authorised portions of this beautiful descriptive poem which have yet been given to the public. As we have reason to believe that this successful "Prize Poem" will soon be given to the world, along with other pieces from the same delightful pen, we shall reserve, till their appearance, what we would otherwise have been inclined to say of the incomparable author of "The Sceptic," "Wallace," and "The Wife of Hasdrubal."]
Sepulchral Cairns and Druidical Remains on the Moor.
Yet, what avails it, though each moss-grown heap
Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep,
Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath,
(Nor needs such care) from each cold season's breath? Where is the voice to tell their tale who rest,
Thus rudely pillow'd, on the desart’s breast? Doth the sword sleep beside them?—Hath there been
A sound of battle midst the silent scene.
Where now the flocks repose?—Did the scyth'd car
Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war?
And rise these piles in memory of the slain,
And the red combat of the mountain-plain?
It may be thus:—the vestiges of strife,
Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life,
And the rude arrow's barb remains to tell
How by its stroke perchance the mighty fell,
To be forgotten. Vain the warrior's pride,
The chieftain's power—they had no bard, and died*
 But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere,
Th' eternal stars of night have witness'd here.
There stands an altar of unsculptur'd stone,
Far on the Moor, a thing of ages gone,
Propp'd on its granite pillars, whence the rains,
And pure bright dews, have lav'd the crimson stains
Left by dark rites of blood: for here of yore,
When the bleak Waste a robe of Forests wore,
And many a crested oak, which now lies low,
Wav’d its wild wreath of sacred misletoe;
Here, at dead midnight, through the haunted shade,
On Druid harps the quivering moonbeam play'd,
And spells were breath'd, that fill'd the deepening gloom
With the pale shadowy people of the Tomb.
Or, haply, torches waving through the night,
Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height †. Like battle-signals, whose unearthly gleams
Threw o'er the Desart's hundred hills and streams
A savage grandeur; while the starry skies
Rung with the peal of mystic harmonies,
As the loud harp its deep-ton'd hymns sent forth
To the storm-ruling Powers, the War-Gods of the North.
Prisoners of War confined on Dartmoor.
But ages roll'd away; and England stood
With her proud banner streaming o'er the flood,
And with a lofty calmness in her eye,
And regal in collected Majesty,
To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze
Bore sounds of triumph o'er her own blue seas:
And other lands, redeem'd and joyous, drank
The life-blood of her heroes, as they sank
On the red fields they won; whose wild flowers wave
Now, in luxuriant beauty, o'er their grave.
'Twas then the captives of Britannia's war,
Here, for their lovely southern climes afar,
In bondage pin'd: the spell-deluded throng,
Dragg'd at ambition's chariot-wheels so long,
To die,—because a despot could not clasp
A sceptre, fitted to his boundless grasp.
Yes! they whose march had rock'd the ancient thrones
And temples of the world; the deepening tones
Of whose advancing trumpet, from repose
Had startled nations, wakening to their woes,
Were prisoners here. And there were some, whose dreams
Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain-streams,
And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain
And festal melody of Loire or Seine;
And of those mothers who had watch'd and wept,
When on the field th' unshelter'd conscript slept,
Bath'd with the midnight dews. And some were there,
Of sterner spirits, harden'd by despair,
Who, in their dark imaginings, again
Fir'd the rich palace and the stately fane,
Drank in the victim's shriek as music's breath,
And liv'd o'er scenes, the festivals of Death!
And there was mirth too!—strange and savage mirth,
More fearful far than all the woes of earth!
The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that spring
From minds to which there is no sacred thing,
And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee,
The lightning's flash upon its blasted tree!
But still, howe'er the soul's disguise were worn,
If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn,
Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show,
Slight was the mask, and all beneath it—woe.
Yet was this all?—amidst the dungeon-gloom,
The void, the stillness, of the captive's doom,
Were there no deeper thoughts?—and that dark Power,
To whom Guilt owes one late, but dreadful hour,
The mighty debt through years of crime delay'd,
But, as the grave's, inevitably paid;
Came he not thither, in his burning force,
The lord, the tamer of dark souls—Remorse?
Yes! as the night calls forth from sea and sky,
From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony;
Lost, when the swift, triumphant wheels of day,
In light and sound, are hurrying on their way:
Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart,
The voice that sleeps, but never dies, might start,
Call'd up by solitude, each nerve to thrill,
With accents heard not, save when all is still!
The voice, inaudible, when Havoc's train
Crush'd the red vintage of devoted Spain;
Mute, when Sierras to the war-whoop rung,
And the broad light of conflagration sprung,
From the South's marble cities;-hush'd, midst cries
That told the heavens of mortal agonies;
But gathering silent strength, to wake at last,
In the concentred thunders of the Past.
And there, perchance, some long-bewilder'd mind
Torn from its lowly sphere, its path conſin'd,
Of village duties, in the Alpine glen,
Where Nature cast its lot, 'midst peasant men;
Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce Ruler blent
The earthquake-power of each wild element,
To lend the tide which bore his Throne on high,
One impulse more of desp'rate energy;
Might, when the billow’s awful rush was o'er,
Which toss'd its wreck upon the storm-beat shore,
Won from its wand'rings past, by suffering tried,
Search'd by remorse, by anguish purified;
Have fix’d at length its troubled hopes and fears
On the far world, seen brightest through our tears!
And, in that hour of triumph, or despair,
Whose secrets all must learn, but none declare,
When, of the things to come a deeper sense
Fills the rais'd eye of trembling Penitence,
Have turn'd to Him, whose bow is in the cloud,
Around life's limits gathering as a shroud;
The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows,
And, by the tempest, calls it to repose
Who visited that death-bed?—who can tell,
Its brief sad tale, on which the soul might dwell,
And learn immortal lessons?—who beheld
The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt repell'd— The agony of prayer—the bursting tears,
The dark remembrances of guilty years,
Crowding upon the spirit in their might—
He, through the storm who look'd—and there was light?
Prospects of Cultivation and Improvement.
Yes! let the Waste lift up the exulting voice!
Let the far-echoing solitudes rejoice!
And thou, lone Moor! where no blithe reaper's song
E'er lightly sped the summer hours along,
Bid the wild rivers, from each mountain source,
Rushing in joy, make music on their course!
Thou, whose sole records of existence mark
The scene of barb'rous rites, in ages dark,
And of some nameless combat; Hope's bright eye
Beams o'er thee, in the light of Prophecy!
Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest,
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast;
Yet shall thy cottage smoke, at dewy morn,
Rise in blue wreaths, above the flowering thorn,
And 'midst thy hamlet shades, the embosom'd spire
Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire.
Thee, too, that hour shall bless, the balmy close
Of Labour's day, the herald of repose,
Which gathers hearts in peace; while social Mirth
Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth;
While peasant songs are on the joyous gales,
And merry England's voice floats up from all her vales.
Yet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shalt hear
Such as to Heaven's immortal host are dear,
Oh! if there still be melody on earth,
Worthy the sacred bowers where man had birth,
When angel steps their paths rejoicing trod And the air trembled with the breath of God;
It lives in those sweet accents, to the sky,
Borne from the lips of stainless infancy,
When holy strains, from life's pure fount which sprung,
Breath'd with deep rev'rence, falter on its tongue.
And such shall be thy music! when the cells,
Where Guilt, the child of hopless Misery dwells, (And, to wild strength by desperation wrought,
In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought.)
Resound to Pity's voice; and childhood thence,
Ere the cold blight hath reach'd its innocence— Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled,
Which Vice but breathes on, and its hues are dead;
Shall, at the call, press forward, to be made A glorious offering, meet for Him who said,
"Mercy, not sacrifice!" And when, of old,
Clouds of rich incense from his altars roll'd,
Dispers'd the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare
The heart's deep folds, to rend its homage there!
* ↑  *Vixère fortes ante Agamemnona Multi: sed omnes illachrymabiles Urgentur, ignotique longà Nocte, carent quia vate sacro.Hor. They had no poet, and they died. Pope's Imitat..
* ↑ † In some of the Druidical festivals, fires were lighted on all the cairns and eminences around, by priests carrying sacred torches. All the household fires were previously extinguished, and those who were thought worthy of such a privilege were allowed to re-light them with a brand kindled at the consecrated cairn-fire.