THE POETICAL WORKS OF MRS. FELICIA HEMANS. The Forest Sanctuary. Ihr Platze aller meiner stillen Freuden, So ist des Geistes Ruf an mich ergangen, Die Jungfrau von Orleans. Long time against oppression have I fought, The following Poem is intended to describe the mental conflicts, as well as outward sufferings, of a Spaniard, who, flying from the religious persecutions of his own country in the 16th century, takes refuge with his child in a North American forest. The story is supposed to be related by himself amidst the wilderness which has afforded him an asylum. I. THE Voices of my home!-I hear them still! They have been with me through the dreamy night The blessed household voices, wont to fill Are music parted, and the tones of mirth— Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright! Have died in others,-yet to me they come, Singing of boyhood back-the voices of my home! II. They call me through this hush of woods, reposing In the gray stillness of the summer morn, E'en as a fount's remember'd gushings burst worn Remorse, a Tragedy. By quenchless longings, to my soul I sayOh! for the dove's swift wings, that I might flee away, III. And find mine ark !-yet whither ?—I must bear And sighing through the feathery canes(1)— hath power To call up shadows, in the silent hour, From the dim past, as from a wizard's cave! So must it be!-These skies above me spread, Are they my own soft skies?—Ye rest not here, my dead! IV. Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping, But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell, And for their birth-place moan, as moans the ocean-shell.(2) V. Peace! I will dash these fond regrets to earth, Ev'n as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain They moved before me but as pictures, wrought | Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice, Each to reveal some secret of man's thought, XXIII. On thee! with whom in boyhood I had played, The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams Severing our paths, brave friend!—and thus we met at last! XXIV. I see it still-the lofty mien thou borest— We rent our way, a tempest of despair! XXV. I call the fond wish back-for thou hast perished With theirs, the thousands, that around her Have poured their lives out smiling, in that doom -Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown, XXVI. Thou Searcher of the Soul! in whose dread sight As a thing written with the sunbeam lies; That this man's crime was but to worship thee, The called of yore; wont by the Saviour's side, On the dim Olive-Mount to pray at eventide. XXVII. For the strong spirit will at times awake, Our hope, if man were left to man's decree alone? |