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# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1829/The Voice of Music

The Voice of Music.
By MRS. HEMANS.
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound." Childe Harold.
Whence is the might of thy master-spell?
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell!
How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath,
Passionate visions of love and death!
How callest thou back, with a note, a sigh,
Words and low tones from the days gone by—
A sunny glance, or a fond farewell?—
Speak to me, Voice of sweet sound, and tell!
What is thy power, from the soul's deep spring
In sudden gushes the tears to bring;
Even 'midst the swells of thy festal glee,
Fountains of sorrow are stirred by thee!
Vain are those tears!—vain and fruitless all—
Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall;
For a purer bliss while the full heart burns,
For a brighter home while the Spirit yearns!
Something of mystery there surely dwells,
Waiting thy touch, in our bosom cells;
Something that finds not its answer here—
A chain to be clasped in another sphere,
Therefore a current of sadness deep
Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep,
Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky— Like a name of the dead when the wine foams high!
Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught
With vain remembrance and troubled thought;—
Speak! for thou tellest my soul that its birth
Links it with regions more bright than earth!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1831

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1831
Compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* Sebastian of Portugal; a Dramatic Fragment
* A Song of Delos
* Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after Victory
* For a Picture of Saint Cecilia attended by Angels
* A Farewell to Abbotsford
# Poems of Passion/My Friend

When first I looked upon the face of Pain I shrank repelled, as one shrinks from a foe Who stands with dagger poised, as for a blow. I was in search of Pleasure and of Gain; I turned aside to let him pass: in vain; He looked straight in my eyes and would not go. "Shake hands," he said; "our paths are one, and so We must be comrades on the way, 'tis plain."
I felt the firm clasp of his hand on mine; Through all my veins it sent a strengthening glow. I straightway linked my arm in his, and lo! He led me forth to joys almost divine; With God's great truths enriched me in the end: And now I hold him as my dearest friend.
# Poems of Passion/Old and New

Long have the poets vaunted, in their lays, Old times, old loves, old friendship, and old wine. Why should the old monopolize all praise? Then let the new claim mine.
Give me strong new friends when the old prove weak Or fail me in my darkest hour of need; Why perish with the ship that springs a leak Or lean upon a reed?
Give me new love, warm, palpitating, sweet, When all the grace and beauty leave the old; When like a rose it withers at my feet, Or like a hearth grows cold.
Give me new times, bright with a prosperous cheer, In place of old, tear-blotted, burdened days; I hold a sunlit present far more dear, And worthy of my praise.
When the old deeds are threadbare and worn through, And all too narrow for the broadening soul, Give me the fine, firm texture of the new, Fair, beautiful, and whole!
# Poems of Passion/Penalty

Because of the fullness of what I had  All that I have seems void and vain. If I had not been happy I were not sad;  Though my salt is savorless, why complain?
From the ripe perfection of what was mine,  All that is mine seems worse than naught; Yet I know as I sit in the dark and pine,  No cup could be drained which had not been fraught.
From the throb and thrill of a day that was,  The day that now is seems dull with gloom; Yet I bear its dullness and darkness because  'Tis but the reaction of glow and bloom.
From the royal feast which of old was spread  I am starved on the diet which now is mine; Yet I could not turn hungry from water and bread,  If I had not been sated on fruit and wine.
# Poems of Passion/Not Quite the Same

Not quite the same the spring-time seems to me,  Since that sad season when in separate ways  Our paths diverged. There are no more such days As dawned for us in that lost time when we  Dwelt in the realm of dreams, illusive dreams;  Spring may be just as fair now, but it seems  Not quite the same.
Not quite the same is life, since we two parted,  Knowing it best to go our ways alone.  Fair measures of success we both have known, And pleasant hours, and yet something departed  Which gold, nor fame, nor anything we win  Can all replace. And either life has been  Not quite the same.
Love is not quite the same, although each heart  Has formed new ties that are both sweet and true,  But that wild rapture, which of old we knew, Seems to have been a something set apart  With that lost dream. There is no passion, now,  Mixed with this later love, which seems, somehow,  Not quite the same.
Not quite the same am I. My inner being  Reasons and knows that all is for the best.  Yet vague regrets stir always in my breast, As my soul's eyes turn sadly backward, seeing  The vanished self that evermore must be,  This side of what we call eternity,  Not quite the same.
# Poems of Passion/Only a Simple Rhyme

Only a simple rhyme of love and sorrow,  Where "blisses" rhymed with "kisses," "heart," with "dart:" Yet, reading it, new strength I seemed to borrow,  To live on bravely and to do my part.
A little rhyme about a heart that's bleeding—  Of lonely hours and sorrow's unrelief: I smiled at first; but there came with the reading  A sense of sweet companionship in grief.
The selfishness of my own woe forsaking,  I thought about the singer of that song. Some other breast felt this same weary aching;  Another found the summer days too long.
The few sad lines, my sorrow so expressing,  I read, and on the singer, all unknown, I breathed a fervent though a silent blessing,  And seemed to clasp his hand within my own.
And though fame pass him and he never know it,  And though he never sings another strain, He has performed the mission of the poet,  In helping some sad heart to bear its pain.
# Poems of Passion/Love Song

Once in the world's first prime,  When nothing lived or stirred— Nothing but new-born Time,  Nor was there even a bird— The Silence spoke to a Star;  But I do not dare repeat What it said to its love afar,  It was too sweet, too sweet.
But there, in the fair world's youth,  Ere sorrow had drawn breath, When nothing was known but Truth,  Nor was there even death, The Star to Silence was wed,  And the Sun was priest that day, And they made their bridal-bed  High in the Milky Way.
For the great white star had heard  Her silent lover's speech; It needed no passionate word  To pledge them each to each. Oh, lady fair and far,  Hear, oh, hear and apply! Thou, the beautiful Star—  The voiceless Silence, I.
# Poems of Passion/Misalliance

I am troubled to-night with a curious pain; It is not of the flesh, it is not of the brain, Nor yet of a heart that is breaking: But down still deeper, and out of sight— In the place where the soul and the body unite— There lies the scat of the aching.
They have been lovers in days gone by; But the soul is fickle, and longs to fly From the fettering mesalliance: And she tears at the bonds which are binding her so, And pleads with the body to let her go, But he will not yield compliance.
For the body loves, as he loved in the past, When he wedded the soul; and he holds her fast, And swears that he will not loose her; That he will keep her and hide her away For ever and ever and for a day From the arms of Death, the seducer.
Ah! this is the strife that is wearying me— The strife 'twixt a soul that would be free And a body that will not let her. And I say to my soul, "Be calm, and wait; For I tell ye truly that soon or late Ye surely shall drop each fetter."
And I say to the body, "Be kind, I pray; For the soul is not of thy mortal clay, But is formed in spirit fashion." And still through the hours of the solemn night I can hear my sad soul's plea for flight, And my body's reply of passion.
# Poems of Passion/Mockery

Why do we grudge our sweets so to the living Who, God knows, find at best too much of gall, And then with generous, open hands kneel, giving Unto the dead our all?
Why do we pierce the warm hearts, sin or sorrow, With idle jests, or scorn, or cruel sneers, And when it cannot know, on some to-morrow, Speak of its woe through tears?
What do the dead care, for the tender token— The love, the praise, the floral offerings? But palpitating, living hearts are broken For want of just these things.
# Poems of Passion/New and Old

I and new love, in all its living bloom,  Sat vis-a-vis, while tender twilight hours  Went softly by us, treading as on flowers. Then suddenly I saw within the room The old love, long since lying in its tomb.  It dropped the cerecloth from its fleshless face  And smiled on me, with a remembered grace That, like the noontide, lit the gloaming's gloom.
Upon its shroud there hung the grave's green mould,  About it hung the odor of the dead;  Yet from its cavernous eyes such light was shed That all my life seemed gilded, as with gold;  Unto the trembling new love '"Go," I said "I do not need thee, for I have the old."
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839/Beethoven

BEETHOVEN.
A stately and a solemn song,
Such as the evening winds prolong
 In some cathedral aisle,
When holy hope and lofty thought,
From the soul’s deep recesses brought,
 Attend the hymn the while.
There mingle with thy glorious strain
No common fancies light and vain;
 Thy spirit was enshrined— Thy chords were thoughts—thy notes were given
To all that links this earth with heaven,
 Musician of the mind!
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839/Farewell

FAREWELL.
My little fairy chronicle,
The prettiest of my tasks, farewell!
Ere other eyes shall meet this line,
Far other records will be mine;
How many miles of trackless sea.
Will roll between my land and me!
I said thine elﬁn almanac
Should call all pleasant hours back;
Amid those pleasant hours, will none
Think kindly on what I have done?
Then, fairy page, I leave with thee
Some memory of my songs and me.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839/Goethe

From The Herald, New York, 24th November 1837
Goethe.
A proud and mighty monument
 So great a name should bear;
We carve the marble, yet we fling
 The sweet wild-flowers, too, there.
The universal heart of love
 His universal shrine,
As treasured in our little book,
 As upon history's line.
The young, the old, the grave, the gay,
 Alike to him, belong;
There is no human pulse but finds
 An echo in his song.
From Blätter für literarische Unterhalting Band 1, page 364
A proud and mighty monument
So great a name should bear,
We carve the marble, yet we fling
The sweet wild-flowers, too, there.
 The universal heart of love
His universal shrine,
As treasured in our little book,
As upon history's line.
 The young, the old, the grave, the gay,
Alike to him, belong:
There is no human pulse but finds
An echo in his song.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839/Coleridge

From The Herald, New York, 24th November 1837
Coleridge.
He told the lay of Christabelle, He sung the song of Genevieve; The sweetest note that ever waked A silent summer eve.
He roused our English lute from sleep, And hung it, with a votive vow, For worship and the following, On the green myrtle bough.
Still o’er the poet’s haunted grave Its melancholy murmurs sweep; Oh! Lovely is the face of Death By music lulled to sleep.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839/Cooper

From The Herald, New York, 24th November 1837
Cooper.
He was the first who ever told
The history of those warriors bold,
The dark, stern race, whose fated age
Has little left besides his page.
And he has told how death and toil
Were round the settlers on the soil,
Who left their native vales, to be
Free as they even now are free.
Now, in the great and glorious hour That yet awaits Columbia's power,
When, save his line, the past is dim,
Now will she read her youth in him.
From The Bookworm, page 280
"He was the first who ever told
The history of those warriors bold— The dark, stern race, whose fated age
Has little left besides his page.
And he has told how death and toil
Were round the settlers on the soil,
Who left their native vales to be
Free, as they even now are free.
Now, in the great and glorious hour,
That yet awaits Columbia's power,
When, save his line, the past is dim—
Now she will read her youth in him."
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839/Byron

"Byron.
"Thy lute upon the Grecian ground
 Lies broken: let it lie;
'Twas worthy such funeral mound,
 'Twas worthy of such sky.
Beside thy old Castilian groves
 It breathed its noblest words:
The pine-woods and the ancient hills
 Attend its dying chords.
All nature owned its bitter spell,
 And answered to the tone;
For in the sorrow of the strain
 Each heart recalled its own.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839/Hemans

"Hemans.
"Where the purple violet groweth
Beneath the willow-tree,
Where the early snowdrop bloweth,
Seek we a wreath for thee.
For the violet's breath perfumeth
The open air around,
And the gentle snowdrop bloometh
When none beside are found.
We will gather these, these only,
To strew thy grave along;
They are lovely, they are lonely,
And they haunt us like thy song.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839

Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839
compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents :
| 1836 | Schiller |
| | Hemans |
| | Byron |
| | Retzsch |
| | Raffaelle |
| | Martin |
| 1837 | Address |
| | Von Raumer |
| | Mrs. Somerville |
| | Madame Malibran |
| | Cooper |
| | Goethe |
| | Coleridge |
| 1838 | Queen Victoria |
| | King William IV. (missing) |
| | To L. E. L. |
| | Giulietta Grisi |
| | Walter Scott |
| | Mozart |
| 1839 | The Duchess of Kent |
| | Lady Blessington |
| | Pasta |
| | Wellington |
| | Sir Thomas Lawrence |
| | Beethoven |
| | Farewell |
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The English Bijou Almanacks, 1836-1839/Address

The English Bijou Almanack, 1837
From The Literary Gazette, 24th December, 1836. Opening address to Queen Adelaide.
"Address.
We dream no more that fairies dwell
In the white lily’s fragrant cell;
And yet our little book seems planned
By elﬁn touch, in elﬁn land,
And sent by Oberon, I ween,
An offering to our English queen.
Such small, fair page, should only mark
The olive leaves of life’s dull ark;
A fairy chronicle, but meant
For days of hope and of content.
The tiny almanack found here,
May it record a glad new year!"
# Poor Folk (Hogarth)/June 11
## June 11th.

How I thank you for our walk to the Islands yesterday, Makar Alexievitch! How fresh and pleasant, how full of verdure, was everything! And I had not seen anything green for such a long time! During my illness I used to think that I should never get better, that I was certainly going to die. Judge, then, how I felt yesterday! True, I may have seemed to you a little sad, and you must not be angry with me for that. Happy and light-hearted though I was, there were moments, even at the height of my felicity, when, for some unknown reason, depression came sweeping over my soul. I kept weeping about trifles, yet could not say why I was grieved. The truth is that I am unwell--so much so, that I look at everything from the gloomy point of view. The pale, clear sky, the setting sun, the evening stillness--ah, somehow I felt disposed to grieve and feel hurt at these things; my heart seemed to be over-charged, and to be calling for tears to relieve it. But why should I write this to you? It is difficult for my heart to express itself; still more difficult for it to forego self- expression. Yet possibly you may understand me. Tears and laughter! . . . How good you are, Makar Alexievitch! Yesterday you looked into my eyes as though you could read in them all that I was feeling--as though you were rejoicing at my happiness. Whether it were a group of shrubs or an alleyway or a vista of water that we were passing, you would halt before me, and stand gazing at my face as though you were showing me possessions of your own. It told me how kind is your nature, and I love you for it. Today I am again unwell, for yesterday I wetted my feet, and took a chill. Thedora also is unwell; both of us are ailing. Do not forget me. Come and see me as often as you can.--Your own,
BARBARA ALEXIEVNA.
# Poor Folk (Hogarth)/June 25
## June 25th.

MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH--I return you your book. In my opinion it is a worthless one, and I would rather not have it in my possession. Why do you save up your money to buy such trash? Except in jest, do such books really please you? However, you have now promised to send me something else to read. I will share the cost of it. Now, farewell until we meet again. I have nothing more to say.
B. D.
# Poor Folk (Hogarth)/June 22
## June 22nd.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA,--I have to tell you that a sad event has happened in this house--an event to excite one's utmost pity. This morning, about five o'clock, one of Gorshkov's children died of scarlatina, or something of the kind. I have been to pay the parents a visit of condolence, and found them living in the direst poverty and disorder. Nor is that surprising, seeing that the family lives in a single room, with only a screen to divide it for decency's sake. Already the coffin was standing in their midst--a plain but decent shell which had been bought ready-made. The child, they told me, had been a boy of nine, and full of promise. What a pitiful spectacle! Though not weeping, the mother, poor woman, looked broken with grief. After all, to have one burden the less on their shoulders may prove a relief, though there are still two children left--a babe at the breast and a little girl of six! How painful to see these suffering children, and to be unable to help them! The father, clad in an old, dirty frockcoat, was seated on a dilapidated chair. Down his cheeks there were coursing tears--though less through grief than owing to a long-standing affliction of the eyes. He was so thin, too! Always he reddens in the face when he is addressed, and becomes too confused to answer. A little girl, his daughter, was leaning against the coffin--her face looking so worn and thoughtful, poor mite! Do you know, I cannot bear to see a child look thoughtful. On the floor there lay a rag doll, but she was not playing with it as, motionless, she stood there with her finger to her lips. Even a bon-bon which the landlady had given her she was not eating. Is it not all sad, sad, Barbara?
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
# Poor Folk (Hogarth)/June 1
## June 1st.

MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--So eager am I to do something that will please and divert you in return for your care, for your ceaseless efforts on my behalf--in short, for your love for me-- that I have decided to beguile a leisure hour for you by delving into my locker, and extracting thence the manuscript which I send you herewith. I began it during the happier period of my life, and have continued it at intervals since. So often have you asked me about my former existence--about my mother, about Pokrovski, about my sojourn with Anna Thedorovna, about my more recent misfortunes; so often have you expressed an earnest desire to read the manuscript in which (God knows why) I have recorded certain incidents of my life, that I feel no doubt but that the sending of it will give you sincere pleasure. Yet somehow I feel depressed when I read it, for I seem now to have grown twice as old as I was when I penned its concluding lines. Ah, Makar Alexievitch, how weary I am--how this insomnia tortures me! Convalescence is indeed a hard thing to bear!
B. D.
# Poor Folk (Hogarth)/June 20
## June 20th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH--I am writing to you post-haste--I am hurrying my utmost to get my work finished in time. What do you suppose is the reason for this? It is because an opportunity has occurred for you to make a splendid purchase. Thedora tells me that a retired civil servant of her acquaintance has a uniform to sell--one cut to regulation pattern and in good repair, as well as likely to go very cheap. Now, DO not tell me that you have not got the money, for I know from your own lips that you HAVE. Use that money, I pray you, and do not hoard it. See what terrible garments you walk about in! They are shameful--they are patched all over! In fact, you have nothing new whatever. That this is so, I know for certain, and I care not WHAT you tell me about it. So listen to me for once, and buy this uniform. Do it for MY sake. Do it to show that you really love me.
You have sent me some linen as a gift. But listen to me, Makar Alexievitch. You are simply ruining yourself. Is it a jest that you should spend so much money, such a terrible amount of money, upon me? How you love to play the spendthrift! I tell you that I do not need it, that such expenditure is unnecessary. I know, I am CERTAIN, that you love me-- therefore, it is useless to remind me of the fact with gifts. Nor do I like receiving them, since I know how much they must have cost you. No-- put your money to a better use. I beg, I beseech of you, to do so. Also, you ask me to send you a continuation of my memoirs--to conclude them. But I know not how I contrived even to write as much of them as I did; and now I have not the strength to write further of my past, nor the desire to give it a single thought. Such recollections are terrible to me. Most difficult of all is it for me to speak of my poor mother, who left her destitute daughter a prey to villains. My heart runs blood whenever I think of it; it is so fresh in my memory that I cannot dismiss it from my thoughts, nor rest for its insistence, although a year has now elapsed since the events took place. But all this you know.
Also, I have told you what Anna Thedorovna is now intending. She accuses me of ingratitude, and denies the accusations made against herself with regard to Monsieur Bwikov. Also, she keeps sending for me, and telling me that I have taken to evil courses, but that if I will return to her, she will smooth over matters with Bwikov, and force him to confess his fault. Also, she says that he desires to give me a dowry. Away with them all! I am quite happy here with you and good Thedora, whose devotion to me reminds me of my old nurse, long since dead. Distant kinsman though you may be, I pray you always to defend my honour. Other people I do not wish to know, and would gladly forget if I could. . . . What are they wanting with me now? Thedora declares it all to be a trick, and says that in time they will leave me alone. God grant it be so!
B. D.