Felicia Dorothea Hemans: Всі вірші поета

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The Thunderstorm

DEEP, fiery clouds o'ercast the sky,

Dead stillness reigns in air,

There is not e'en a breeze, on high

The gossamer to bear.

The woods are hushed, the waves at rest,

The lake is dark and still,

Reflecting, on its shadowy breast,

Each form of rock and hill.

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans

England And Spain

Too long have Tyranny and Power combined,

To sway, with iron sceptre, o'er mankind;

Long has Oppression worn th' imperial robe,

And Rapine's sword has wasted half the globe!

O'er Europe's cultured realms, and climes afar,

Triumphant Gaul has pour'd the tide of war;

To her fair Austria veil'd the standard bright;

Ausonia's lovely plains have own'd her might;

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans

Properzia Rossi

Tell me no more, no more

Of my soul's lofty gifts! Are they not vain

To quench its haunting thirst for happiness?

Have I not lov'd, and striven, and fail'd to bind

One true heart unto me, whereon my own

Might find a resting-place, a home for all

Its burden of affections? I depart,

Unknown, tho' Fame goes with me; I must leave

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans

The Sun

The sun comes forth; each mountain height

Glows with a tinge of rosy light,

And flowers, that slumbered through the night,

Their dewy leaves unfold;

A flood of splendor bursts on high,

And ocean's breast reflects a sky

Of crimson and of gold.

Oh! thou art glorious, orb of day!

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans

A Domestic Scene

'Twas early day — and sunlight stream'd

Soft through a quiet room,

That hush'd, but not forsaken, seem'd —

Still, but with nought but gloom;

For there, secure in happy age,

Whose hope is from above,

A father communed with the page

Of Heaven's recorded love.

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans

Design And Performance

They float before my soul, the fair designs

Which I would body forth to life and power,

Like clouds that with their wavering hues and lines

Portray majestic building—dome and tower,

Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the shower

Points to the unchanging stars; and high arcade,

Far-sweeping to some glorious altar made

For holiest rites.

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans

Sabbath Sonnet

How many blessed groups this hour are bending,

Through England's primrose meadow-paths, their way

Towards spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending,

Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day!

The halls from old heroic ages gray

Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,

With those thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play,

Send out their inmates in a happy flow,

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans

The Nightingale

WHEN twilight's grey and pensive hour

Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower,

And bids the solitary star

Shine in pale beauty from afar;

When gathering shades the landscape veil,

And peasants seek their village-dale,

And mists from river-wave arise,

And dew in every blossom lies;

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans

Alaric In Italy

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast?

The march of hosts as Alaric passed?

His steps have tracked that glorious clime,

The birth-place of heroic time;

But he, in northern deserts bred,

Spared not the living for the dad,

Nor heard the voice, whose pleading cries

From temple and from tomb arise.

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans

On My Mother's Birthday

Clad in all their brightest green,

This day verdant fields are seen;

The tuneful birds begin their lay,

To celebrate thy natal day.

The breeze is still, the sea is calm

And the whole scene combines to charm;

The flowers revive this charming May,

Because it is thy natal day.

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans

The Rainbow

I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.

Genesis ix. 13.

SOFT falls the mild, reviving shower

From April's changeful skies,

And rain-drops bend each trembling flower

They tinge with richer dyes.

Soon shall their genial influence call

A thousand buds to day,

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans

Greek Funeral Chant Or Myriologue

A WAIL was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young,

Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung.

—"Ianthis! dost thou sleep?—Thou sleep'st!—but this is not the rest,

The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillow'd on my breast!

I lull'd thee not to this repose, Ianthis! my sweet son!

As in thy glowing childhood's time by twilight I have done!

—How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee now?

And that I die not, seeing death on thy pale glorious brow?

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans