Page images
PDF
EPUB
[blocks in formation]

FELICIA HEMANS.

FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE was born in Liverpool, September 25, 1794. Her father, a merchant, was a native of Ireland; her mother was of Venetian descent. When she was five years old her father became bankrupt, and the family removed to Gwryrch, in Denbighshire, Wales, where they occupied a romantic old house. Here her childhood was passed.

She began very early to write verses, and a volume of them, entitled "Early Blossoms," was published in 1808. Some of the pieces were said to have been written when she was

but ten years of age. This volume was rather scornfully treated by the critics; but a second one, "The Domestic Affections," published in 1812, was received more cordially.

In 1812 she married Captain Hemans, and in the next six years she bore five sons. It was not a very happy marriage. Captain Hemans went to Italy for his health in 1818, and they never met again, though there was no formal

[ocr errors]

separation. Mrs. Hemans returned to Wales, and devoted herself to the education of her boys and the cultivation of literature. She studied several of the Continental languages, translated Camoëns, and was a frequent contributor to the magazines.

[ocr errors]

Among her numerous publications were "Tales and Historic Scenes," "Modern Greece," Dartmoor," a prize poem, "The Skeptic," and "Vespers of Palermo." The last named is a play, which she wrote at Bishop Heber's suggestion, but it failed on the stage. She travelled considerably, and visited Scott and Wordsworth at their homes. She lived a short time near Liverpool, and in 1831 removed to Dublin, where she died, May 12, 1835. Numerous editions of her complete works have been published. In 1836 Henry F. Chorley edited the "Memorials of Mrs. Hemans." Her most successful poems were the numerous short ones which have become household words.

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

That hand was cold-a frozen thing-it dropped from his like lead,

He looked up to the face above-the face was of the dead!

plume waved o'er the noble brow-the brow

was fixed and white;

THE celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo A del Carpio, having made many ineffectual efforts to procure the release of his father, the Count He met at last his father's eyes-but in them was Saldana, who had been imprisoned by King Alfonso of Asturias, almost from the time of Bernardo's birth, at last took up arms in despair.

no sight!

Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze?

They

hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror

and amaze;

They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood,

from his lip the blood.

The war which he maintained proved so destructive that the men of the land gathered round the King, and united in demanding Saldana's liberty. Alfonso, accordingly, offered Bernardo immediate possession of his father's person, in exchange for his castle of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesi- For the power was stricken from his arm, and tation, gave up his strong-hold, with all his captives; and being assured that his father was then on his way from prison, rode forth with the King to meet him. "And when he saw his father approaching, he exclaimed," says the ancient chronicle, Oh, God! is the Count of Saldana indeed coming?'' Look where he is,' replied the cruel King, and now go and greet him whom you have so long desired to see."" The remainder of the story will be found related in the ballad. The chronicles and romances leave us nearly in the dark as to Bernardo's history after this

event.

666

"Father!" at length he murmured low and
wept like childhood then,—
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of

warlike men!

He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his

young renown,

He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sate down.

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,

"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now,

THE warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father—

his heart of fire,

And sued the haughty king to free his long-im

prisoned sire;

[blocks in formation]

“I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my "I thought to stand where banners waved, my

captive train,

I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!-oh, break my father's chain!

sire! beside thee yet,

I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met,

"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ran- Thou wouldst have known my spirit then.-for thee my fields were won,

somed man this day;

Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though

him on his way."

thou hadst no son!"

Then, starting from the ground once more, he They hear not now the booming waters roar,
seized the monarch's rein,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest.
Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the -Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave'

[blocks in formation]

"Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrownBut all is not thine own.

hand to kiss?

Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this!

The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-gave answer, where are they?

If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!

[blocks in formation]

Yet more, the depths have more !-what wealth
untold,

Far down, and shining through their stillness lies!
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies!
-Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful
main!

Earth claims not these again.

[blocks in formation]

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath!
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day-
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!
Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours
And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers,
wild flowers!

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth!
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,
Her place is now by another's side-
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to ahed,

Yet more, the depths have more! thy waves have A crown for the brow of the early dead!

rolled

Above the cities of a world gone by!
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old,
Sea weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.
-Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play.

Man yields them to decay.

Yet more! the billows and the depths have

more!

High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast!

For this through its leaves hath the white-rose
burst,

For this in the woods was the violet nursed.
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift-bring ye flowers, pa'e
flowers!

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]
« PreviousContinue »