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# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1829/O'Connor's Child

O’CONNOR’S CHILD
Painted by J. BurnsEngraved by Edward Smith
O'Connor's Child.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
———"I fled the home of grief,
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall;
 I found the helmet of my chief,
His bow still hanging on our wall,
And took it down, and vow'd to rove
 This desert place, a huntress bold:
Nor would I change my buried love
 For any heart of living mould."
Campbell.
The sleep of storms is dark upon the skies;
The weight of omens heavy in the cloud:—
Bid the lorn huntress of the desert rise,
And gird the form whose beauty grief hath bowed,
And leave the tomb, as tombs are left—alone,
To the stars' vigil and the wind's wild moan.
Tell her of revelries in bower and hall,
Where gems are glittering, and bright wine is pour'd—
Where to glad measures chiming footsteps fall,
And soul seems gushing from the harp's full chord;
And richer flowers amid fair tresses wave,
Than the sad "Love lies bleeding" of the grave.
Oh! little know'st thou of the o'ermastering spell,
Wherewith love binds the spirit, strong in pain,
To the spot hallow'd by a wild farewell,
A parting agony—intense, yet vain,
A look—and darkness when its gleam hath flown,
A voice—and silence when its words are gone.
She hears thee not:—her full, deep, fervent heart
Is set in her dark eyes;—and they are bound
Unto that cross, that shrine, that world apart,
Where faithful blood hath sanctified the ground;
And love with death striven long by tear and prayer,
And anguish frozen into still despair.
Yet on her spirit hath arisen at last
A light, a joy, of its own wanderings born;
Around her path a vision's glow is cast,
Back, back, her lost one comes, in hues of morn!* For her the gulf is filled—the curtain shred,
Whose mystery parts the living and the dead.
And she can pour forth in such converse high,
All her soul's tide of love, the deep, the strong!
Oh! lonelier far, perchance, thy destiny,
And more forlorn, amidst the world's gay throng,
Than hers, the queen of that majestic gloom,
The tempest, and the desert, and the tomb.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1829/The Meeting of the Ships

The Meeting of the Ships.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
"We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short moments;—and then days, months, years intervene—and we see and know nothing of each other.—Washington Irving.
Two barks met on the deep mid-sea,
When calms had still'd the tide;
A few bright days of Summer glee
There found them side by side.
And voices of the fair and brave
Rose mingling thence in mirth;
And sweetly floated o'er the wave
The melodies of earth.
Moonlight on that lone Indian main
Cloudless and lovely slept;—
While dancing step, and festive strain
Each deck in triumph swept.
And hands were link'd, and answering eyes
With kindly meaning shone;
—Oh! brief and passing sympathies,
Like leaves together blown!
A little while such joy was cast
Over the deep's repose,
Till the loud singing winds at last
Like trumpet music rose.
And proudly, freely, on their way
The parting vessels bore;
—In calm or storm, by rock or bay,
To meet—Oh! never more!
Never to blend in Victory's cheer,
To aid in hours of woe;—
And thus bright spirits mingle here,
Such ties are formed below!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1828/The Stranger's Heart

From The Ladies' Garland, 9th February, 1828
THE STRANGER'S HEART.
BY MRS, HEMANS.
The stranger's heart! oh, wound it not
A yearning anguish is its lot;
In the green shadow of thy tree,
The stranger finds no rest with thee,
Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves;
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow’s tone—
The stranger’s heart is with his own.
Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;
Then are the stranger’s thoughts opprest—
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast.
Thou thinkst it sweet when friend to friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim—
Far, far are those who prayed with him.
Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land—
The voices of thy kindred band,
Oh, midst them all when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Funeral Genius, an Antique Statue

THE FUNERAL GENIUS,
AN ANTIQUE STATUE.
Thou shouldst be looked on when the starlight falls  Through the blue stillness of the summer air; Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls,  It hath too fitful and too wild a glare;— And thou—thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems To ask light steps which will not break its dreams.
Flowers are upon thy brow, for so the dead  Were crowned of old, with pale spring-flowers like these; Sleep on, thine eye hath sunk, yet softly shed,  As from the wing of some faint southern breeze; And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom Which of the grove seems breathing—not the tomb.
They feared not death, whose calm and gracious thought  Of the last hour had settled thus in thee; They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,  And laid thy head upon the forest-tree, As that of one, by music's dreamy close On the wood-violets lulled to deep repose.
They feared not death! Yet who shall say his touch  Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair? Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much  Of tender beauty as thy features wear, Thou Sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes So still a night, a night of summer lies?
Had they seen ought like thee? Did some fair boy  Thus with his graceful hair before them rest? His graceful hair no more to wave in joy,  But drooping as with heavy dews opprest, And his eyes veiled so softly by its fringe, And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?
Oh, happy if to them the one dread hour,  Made known its lessons from a brow like thine! If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power,  Came by a look so tranquilly divine! Let him who thus hath seen the lovely part, Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart!
But thou, fair slumberer!—was there less of woe,  Or love, or terror, in the days of old, That men poured out their gladdening spirits flow,  Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold? And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king, Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting?
In the dark bosom of the earth they laid  Far more than we, for loftier faith is ours; Their gems were lost in ashes—yet they made  The grave a place of beauty and of flowers; With fragrant wreaths and summer-boughs arrayed And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade.
Is it for us a darker gloom to shed  On its dim precincts? Do we not entrust But for a time its chambers with our dead,  And strew immortal seed upon the dust? Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath, When living light hath touched the brow of Death.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Monarchy of Britain

THE MONARCHY OF BRITAIN.
The Bard of the Palace, under the ancient Welsh Princes, always accompanied the army when it marched into an enemy’s country, and while it was preparing for battle, or dividing the spoils, he performed an ancient song, called Unbennaeth Prydain, the monarchy of Britain. It has been conjectured that this poem referred to the tradition of the Welsh, that the whole Island had once been possessed by their ancestors, who were driven into a corner of it by their Saxon invaders. When the prince had received his share of the spoils, the bard, for the performance of this song, was rewarded with the most valuable beast that remained.—See Jones's Historical Account of the Welsh Bards.
Sons of the Fair Isle!* forget not the time, Ere spoilers had breath'd the free winds of your clime!
All that its eagles behold in their flight, Was yours from the deep to each storm-mantled height! Tho' from your race that proud birth-right be torn, Unquench'd is the spirit for monarchy born. Darkly though clouds may hang o'er us awhile, The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle!
Ages may roll ere your children regain, The land for which heroes have perish'd in vain. Yet in the sound of your name shall be power, Around her still gathering, till glory's full hour. Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep, Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep! Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile, Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Procession

THE PROCESSION.
"The peace which passeth all understanding," disclosed itself in her looks and movements. It lay on her countenance like a steady unshadowed moonlight. Coleridge.
There were trampling sounds of many feet, And music rush'd through the crowded street; Proud music, such as tells the sky, Of a chief returned from victory.
There were banners to the winds unroll'd, With haughty words on each blazon'd fold; High battle-names, which had rung of yore, When lances clash'd on the Syrian shore.
Borne from their dwellings, green and lone, There were flowers of the woods on the pathway strown; And wheels that crush'd as they swept along— Oh! what doth the violet amidst the throng?
I saw where a bright Procession pass'd The gates of a Minster, old and vast; And a king to his crowning place was led, Through a sculptur'd line of the warrior dead.
I saw, far gleaming, the long array Of trophies, on those high tombs that lay, And the coloured light, that wrapp'd them all, Rich, deep, and sad, as a royal pall.
But a lowlier grave soon won mine eye Away from th' ancestral pageantry: A grave by the lordly Minster's gate, Unhonour'd, and yet not desolate.
It was but a dewy greensward bed, Meet for the rest of a peasant head; But Love—Oh! lovelier than all beside!— That lone place guarded and glorified.
For a gentle form stood watching there, Young—but how sorrowfully fair! Keeping the flowers of the holy spot, That reckless feet might profane them not.
Clear, pale and clear, was the tender cheek, And her eye, though tearful, serenely meek; And I deem'd, by its lifted gaze of love, That her sad heart's treasure was all above.
For alone she seem'd 'midst the throng to be, Like a bird of the waves far away at sea; Alone, in a mourner's vest array'd, And with folded hands, e'en as if she pray’d.
It faded before me, that masque of pride, The haughty swell of the music died; Banner, and armour, and tossing plume, All melted away in the twilight's gloom.
But that orphan form, with its willowy grace, And the speaking prayer in that pale, calm face, Still, still o'er my thoughts in the night-hour glide— —Oh! Love is lovelier than all beside.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Hall of Cynddylan

THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN.
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night,* I weep, for the grave has extinguish'd its light; The beam of its lamp from the summit is o'er, The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more!
The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still, The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill! Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene, Nor let e'en an echo recall what hath been!
The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare, No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there! Oh! where are the warriors who circled its board? —The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup was pour'd!
The hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night, Since He is departed whose smile made it bright! I mourn, but the sigh of my soul shall be brief, The pathway is short to the grave of my chief!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Mountain-Fires

THE MOUNTAIN-FIRES.
The custom retained in Wales of lighting fires (Coelcerthi) on November eve, is said to be a traditional memorial of the massacre of the British chiefs by Hengist, on Salisbury Plain. The practice is, however, of older date, and had reference originally to the Alban Elved, or new year.—See the Cambro-Briton.
When these fires are kindled on the mountains, and seen through the darkness of a stormy night, casting a red and fitful glare over heath and rock, their effect is strikingly picturesque.
Light the hills! till Heaven is glowing  As with some red meteor's rays! Winds of night, though rudely blowing,  Shall but fan the beacon-blaze.
Light the hills! till flames are streaming,  From *Yr Wyddfa's sovereign steep, To the waves round Mona gleaming,  Where the Roman track'd the deep!
Be the mountain watch-fires heighten'd,  Pile them to the stormy sky! Till each torrent-wave is brighten'd,  Kindling as it rushes by. Now each rock, the mist's high dwelling, Towers in reddening light sublime; Heap the flames! around them telling  Tales of Cambria's elder time.
Thus our sires, the fearless-hearted,  Many a solemn vigil kept, When, in ages long departed,  O'er the noble dead they wept.
In the winds we hear their voices, —"Sons! though yours a brighter lot, When the mountain-land rejoices,  Be her mighty unforgot!"
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Poetry of the Psalms

VIII.
THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS.
Nobly thy song, O minstrel! rush'd to meet Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast, With darkness round him, as a mantle, cast, And cherubim to waft his flying seat; Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet With trumpet-voice thy spirit call'd aloud, And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat, And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud. But far more gloriously to earth made known By that high strain than by the thunder's tone, The flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll, Jehovah spake, through the imbreathing fire, Nature's vast realms for ever to inspire With the deep worship of a living soul.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Huguenot's Farewell

THE HUGUENOT'S FAREWELL.
I stand upon the threshold stone  Of mine ancestral hall; I hear my native river moan;  I see the night o'er my old forests fall.
I look round on the darkening vale,  That saw my childhood's plays: The low wind in its rising wail  Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days.
But I must rule my swelling breast:  A sign is in the sky; Bright o'er yon grey rock's eagle nest  Shines forth a warning star—it bids me fly.
My father's sword is in my hand,  His deep voice haunts mine ear; He tells me of the noble band,  Whose lives have left a brooding glory here.
He bids their offspring guard from stain  Their pure and lofty faith; And yield up all things, to maintain  The cause, for which they girt themselves to death.
And I obey.—I leave their towers  Unto the stranger's tread; Unto the creeping grass and flowers;  Unto the fading pictures of the dead.
I leave their shields to slow decay,  Their banners to the dust; I go, and only bear away  Their old, majestic name,—a solemn trust!
I go up to the ancient hills,  Where chains may never be, Where leap in joy the torrent rills,  Where man may worship God, alone and free.
There shall an altar and a camp  Impregnantly arise; There shall be lit a quenchless lamp,  To shine, unwavering, through the open skies.
And song shall midst the rocks be heard,  And fearless prayer ascend; While, thrilling to God's holy word,  The mountain pines in adoration bend.
And there the burning heart no more  Its deep thought shall suppress, But the long buried truth shall pour  Free currents thence, amidst the wilderness.
Then fare thee well, my mother's bower,  Farewell, my father's hearth; Perish my home! where lawless power  Hath rent the tie of love to native earth.
Perish! let deathlike silence fall  Upon the lone abode: Spread fast, dark ivy, spread thy pall:—  I go up to the mountains, with my God.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Lament of Llywarch Hen

THE LAMENT OF LLYWARCH HEN.
Llywarch Hen, or Llywarch the Aged, a celebrated bard and chief, of the times of Arthur, was prince of Argoed, supposed to be a part of the present Cumberland. Having sustained the loss of his patrimony, and witnessed the fall of most of his sons, in the unequal contest maintained by the North Britons against the growing power of the Saxons, Llywarch was compelled to fly from his country, and seek refuge in Wales. He there found an asylum for some time in the residence of Cynddylan, Prince of Powys, whose fall he pathetically laments in one of his poems. These are still extant, and his elegy on old age and the loss of his sons, is remarkable for its simplicity and beauty.—See Cambrian Biography, and Owen's Heroic Elegies and other poems of Llywarch Hen.
The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom; But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing, The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb!
Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding, Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave? Why smile the waste flowers, my sad footsteps surrounding? —My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!
Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger, My spirit all wrapt in the past, as a dream! Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer,* Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight's glad beam, Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping! —Oh Grave! why refuse to the aged thy bed, When valour's high heart on thy bosom is sleeping, When youth's glorious flower is gone down to the dead!
Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing, As on to the fields of your glory ye trod!
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing. Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod!* I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, Which rouses ye not! Oh, my lovely! my brave! When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding, I turn from Heaven's light, for it smiles on your grave!†
* ↑   * "What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me now. *******
* ↑   * "Four and twenty sons to me have been, Wearing the golden chain, and leading princes." Elegies of Llywarch Hen. The golden chain, as a badge of honour, worn by heroes, is frequently alluded to in the works of the ancient British bards.
* ↑   †"Hardly has the snow covered the vale, When the warriors are hastening to the battle; I do not go, I am hindered by infirmity." Owen's Elegies of Llywarch Hen.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Prayer for Life

THE PRAYER FOR LIFE.
O sunshine and fair earth!  Sweet is your kindly mirth, Angel of Death! yet, yet awhile delay!  Too sad it is to part,  Thus in my spring of heart, With all the light and laughter of the day.
 For me the falling leaf  Touches no chord of grief, No dark void in the rose's bosom lies:  Not one triumphal tone,  One hue of hope, is gone From song or bloom beneath the summer skies.
Death, Death! ere yet decay,  Call me not hence away, Over the golden hours no shade is thrown;  The poesy that dwells  Deep in green woods and dells, Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone.
 Yet not for this, O Death!  Not for the vernal breath Of winds that shake forth music from the trees;  Not for the splendour given  To night's dark regal heaven, Spoiler! I ask thee not reprieve for these.
 But for the happy love  Whose light, where'er I rove, Kindles all nature to a sudden smile,  Shedding on branch and flower  A rainbow-tinted shower Of richer life—spare, spare me yet awhile.
Too soon, too fast thou'rt come!  Too beautiful is home, A home of gentle voices and kind eyes!  And I the loved of all,  On whom fond blessings fall From every lip—oh! wilt thou rend such ties?
 Sweet sisters! weave a chain  My spirit to detain; Hold me to earth with strong affection back:  Bind me with mighty love  Unto the stream, the grove, Our daily paths—our life's familiar track.
 Stay with me! gird me round!  Your voices bear a sound Of hope—a light comes with you and departs;  Hush, my soul's boding swell,  That murmurs of farewell; How can I leave this ring of kindest hearts?
Death! grave! and are there those  That woo your dark repose 'Midst the rich beauty of the glowing earth.  Surely about them lies  No world of loving eyes— Leave me, oh! leave me unto home and hearth!
# Poet Lore/Volume 27/Number 6/Evening Songs

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EVENING SONGS
By Vítězslav Hálek
Translated from the Bohemian by Otto Kotouc
I
“Unmeet it is for man to lack In song,” once God in judgment spake, Created man a poet then, And bade him this allotment take:
“So long as thou liv’st know no peace, But only learn of pain instead; And disappointed too in hope, In tears eat thou thy daily bread.
“Torn be thy heart and bled from wounds, But thyself only see thy bleeding; Though hounded over every bound, Love thou but all the more and sing.”
It is us singers’ common lot, The world may only know our songs, To know what prompted us to sing, To none within this world belongs.
II
O Lord, of every claim to gift I have, my soul here now I free; But leave to me the gift of song, That only do I beg of thee.
If thou shouldst take my gift to sing, Naught longer then is life to me; And gav’st me Fortune for my song, I care not fortunate to be.
III
Whoever plays with golden strings, Him honor more than thyself even; For know that God did love thee so, He needs must send him thee from heaven.
’Tis terrible when plague and want To God’s chastisement must belong; Of punishments the greatest though, Is when a nation lacks in song.
That race indeed has yet to die, That had its prophets still to sing; And every song that’s born in heaven In even death new life doth bring.
IV
Cast ye not stones at your prophets, For like the birds bards are alone: They never will return to him Who casts at them a stone. A nation seeks God’s punishment When unrevered its bards it wrongs; And direst is the curse of God, Whenever he withdraws his songs.
A poet’s heart is truly pure, And likewise from all wrath apart And from his heart whate’er he sings, That carry thou within thy heart.
V
A hundred years passed ’ere I came Upon the grave that once was mine; The sexton sang my song and piled My bones with others in that shrine.
“O sexton, find for me that heart From which you snatched the song you sing!” The sexton wondered long and sought, Save bones he could not find a thing.
Then from his grave he rose and spake: “That, sir, with us no difference makes, Ten hearts can’st thou perchance possess, The grave wastes all of them it takes.”
He finishes digging, and I sighed: “O heart of mine, there thou didst end.” The sexton as consoling adds, “When hearts stop song, so all doth tend.”
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Poet Lore/Volume 27/Number 6/Three Songs from "Buch der Lieder"

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THREE SONGS FROM “BUCH DER LIEDER”
By Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated from the German by Sarah T. Barrows
THE ANGELS.
Their languid lips are wanly smiling, Their shining souls are without seam: A longing as for sin’s beguiling Is ever flitting through their dream.
Each one is very like his brother; In God’s fair fields they’re silent all, Like intervals, one and another That in His might and music fall.
Save when, their gauzy wings unfolding, They gently wake the sleeping wind: As if God’s broad and deftly moulding Hand turned the leaves that He is holding In the dark book of origin.
A GRAVE HOUR
Who now weeps anywhere in the world, Without cause weeps in the world, Weeps over me.
Who now laughs anywhere in the night, Without cause laughs in the night, Laughs at me.
Who now goes anywhere in the world, Without cause goes in the world, Goes to me.
Who now dies anywhere in the world, Without cause dies in the world, Looks at me.
PRESENTIMENT
I’m like a silken streamer in solitude flying. I presage the winds that are coming, and share their sighing, While on the earth below there’s nothing stirring; The doors close gently as yet and no fitful gusts in the chimneys; No windows tremble as yet, and from dust the air’s free.
But I feel the coming wind, and am disturbed as the sea. And spread myself out and roll myself to a cone, And flutter and flap and am all alone In the mighty storm.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1926, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 97 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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