-So bid the willow lift its head, And brave the tempest's wrong! Thou reed! o'er which the storm hath pass'd- HYMN BY THE SICKBED OF A MOTHER. FATHER! that in the olive-shade, When the dark hour came on, Didst, with a breath of heavenly aid, Strengthen thy Son; Oh! by the anguish of that night, And Thou, that when the starry sky By thy meek spirit, Thou, of all That e'er have mourn'd, the chiefThou Saviour! if the stroke must fall, Hallow this grief! WHERE IS THE SEA? SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. [A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beauty, only replied-“ The seawhere is it ?"] WHERE is the sea?-I languish here- Where is my own blue sea? With all its barks in fleet career, And flags, and breezes free? I miss that voice of waves which first The measured chime-the thundering burst- Oh! rich your myrtle's breath may rise, I hear the shepherd's mountain flute, [All this time, her imagination was at work more busily than ever; new thoughts and fresh fancies seemed to spring up "as willows by the water-courses:" and the facility with which her lyrics were poured forth, approached, in many instances, to actual improvisation. When confined to her bed, and unable to use a pen, she would often employ the services of those about her, to write down what she had composed. "Felicia has just sent for me," wrote her amanuensis on one of these occasions, "with pencil and paper, to put down a little song, (Where is the Sea ?") which, she said, had come to her like a strain of music, whilst lying in the twilight under the infliction of a blister; and as I really think a scrap' (as our late eccentric visitor would call it) composed under such circumstances, is, to use the words of Coleridge, a psychological curiosity,' I cannot resist copying it for you. It was suggested by a story she somewhere read lately, of a Greek islander, carried off to the Vale of Tempe, and pining amidst all its beauties for the sight and sound of his native sea."Memoir, p. 134.] TO MY OWN PORTRAIT. How is it that before mine eyes, While gazing on thy mien, All my past years of life arise, As in a mirror seen? What spell within thee hath been shrined To image back my own deep mind? Even as a song of other times Can trouble memory's springs; Even as a sound of vesper-chimes Can wake departed things; Even as a scent of vernal flowers Hath records fraught with vanish'd hours,— Such power is thine! They come, the dead, And voices that are music flown Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress― O'erflows in child-like tears; But thou, the while-oh! alınost strange, Mine imaged self! it seems That on thy brow of peace no change Reflects my own swift dreams; Almost I marvel not to trace Those lights and shadows in thy face. To see thee calm, while powers thus deepAffection, Memory, Grief Pass o'er my soul as winds that sweep O'er a frail aspen leaf! Oh, that the quiet of thine eye Might sink there when the storm goes by! Yet look thou still serenely on, And if sweet friends there be [In the autumn of 1827, at the urgent request of Mr Alaric Watts, who was then forming a gallery of portraits of the living authors of Great Britain, Mrs Hemans was prevailed upon to sit for her picture. The artist selected on this occasion was Mr W. E. West, an American by birth, who had passed some time in Italy, and painted the last likeness ever taken of Lord Byron, and also one of Madame Guiccioli, which was engraved in one of the annuals. During his stay at Rhyllon, where he remained for some weeks, he finished three several portraits of Mrs Hemans-one for Mr Alaric Watts, one which is now in the possession of Professor Norton, and a third, which he most courteously presented to Mrs Hemans' sister, to whom it was even then a treasure, and is now become one of inestimable value. This likeness, considered by her family as the best ever taken of her, is the one which suggested Mrs Hemans's affecting lines, "To my own Portrait." It is, however, only fair to repeat the remark already made, and in which all those who were accustomed to study the play of her features must concur-that there never was a countenance more difficult to transfer to canvass; so varying were its expressions, and so impossible is it to be satisfied with the one which can alone be perpetuated by the artist. The great charm of Mr West's picture is its perfect freedom from any thing set or constrained in the air; and the sweet, serious expression, so accordant with her maternal character, which recalls her own lines "Mother! with thine earnest eye Ever following silently;" and which made one of her children remark, in glancing from it to the bust, executed some years after by Mr Angus Fletcher" The bust is the poetess, but the picture is all mother."-Memoir, p. 129-130.] NO MORE. No more! A harp-string's deep and breaking tone, A last, low, summer breeze, a far-off swell, 1 An engraving from Mr Fletcher's admirable bust forms the frontispiece to the present volume. A dying echo of rich music gone, Breathe through those words-those murmurs of farewell No more! To dwell in peace, with home-affections bound, To feel the spirit of her love around, A dirge-like sound! To greet the early friend In the glad song with kindred lips to blend, Through woods that shadow'd our first years to rove To watch the sunset with the eyes we love, Words of despair!-yet earth's, all earth's the woe To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane, Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to ycarn On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean, To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead; To send our troubled spirits through the unseen, Intensely questioning for treasures fledNo more! Words of triumphant music! Bear we on No more! 2 "Jamais, jamais, je ne serai aimé comme j'aime!" was a mournful expression of Madame de Stael's. |