TO HONOR FIFTH POET- FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS
(1A.)
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51935/to-wordsworth
Felicia Dorothea Hemans
1793–1835
Born in Liverpool, England, Romantic poet Felicia Dorothea Hemans was the daughter of a merchant and a granddaughter of the consul, and the fifth of seven children. The family relocated to Wales following a period of financial difficulty in 1800. A voracious and early reader, Hemans made use of an extensive home library and was instructed by her mother in several languages. She spent two winters in London as a child, and was captivated by the classical art she saw there.
Hemans published her first collection, Poems (1808), at the age of 14. She married Captain Alfred Hemans in 1812, and together they had five children. However, her husband did not return from a trip to Italy in 1818, and from then on Hemans had to support her family with the income from her poetry.
Influenced by William Wordsworth and Lord Byron, Hemans’s poetry was published in 19 volumes, including The Domestic Affections and other Poems (1812), Records of Woman: With Other Poems (1828), and Siege of Valencia (1823). Her metrically assured poems often explore domestic and romantic themes.
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-hour-of-prayer/
1. Sonnet To Italy
- Poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
FOR thee, Ansonia! Nature's bounteous hand,
Luxuriant spreads around her blooming stores;
Profusion laughs o'er all the glowing land,
And softest breezes from thy myrtle-shores.
Yet though for thee, unclouded suns diffuse
Their genial radiance o'er thy blushing plains;
Though in thy fragrant groves the sportive muse
Delights to pour her wild, enchanted strains;
Though airs that breathe of paradise are thine,
Sweet as the Indian, or Arabian gales;
Though fruitful olive and empurpling vine,
Enrich, fair Italy! thy Alpine vales;
Yet far from thee inspiring freedom flies,
To Albion's coast and ever-varying skies!
Felicia Dorothea Hemans
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-hour-of-prayer/
2. The Hour Of Prayer - Poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Child, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve,
Call'd thy harvest-work to leave -
Pray: ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart, and bend the knee!
Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the dark'ning sea-
Lift the heart, and bend the knee!
Warrior, that from battle won,
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain,
Weeping on his burial plain:
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see-
Lift the heart, and bend the knee!
Felicia Dorothea Hemans
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-hour-of-prayer/
3.
To Wordsworth
BY FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS
There is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices — by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scences, a fountain from the heart.
Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken
To the still breast in sunny garden bowers,
Where vernal winds each tree’s low tones awaken,
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours.
There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day
Sinks with a golden and serene decay.
Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,
When night hath hushed the woods, with all their birds,
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet
As antique music, linked with household words;
While in pleased murmurs woman’s lip might move,
And the raised eye of childhood shine in love.
Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews
Brood silently o’er some lone burial-ground,
Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around;
From its own glow of hope and courage high,
And steadfast faith’s victorious constancy.
True bard and holy! — thou art e’en as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,
Sees where the springs of living waters lie;
Unseen awhile they sleep — till, touched by thee,
Bright healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wanderer free.
BY FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sword-of-the-tomb-a-northern-legend/
Read perhaps her greatest poem- Not shown here.
The Sword Of The Tomb : A Northern Legend - Poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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For Lesser Known Poets Series,
These poems composed to honor this truly great poet....
(1.)
Soothing Dream, Bathe Me In Her Light
Of lonely night and vivid dread
sad supper and large empty bed
denying wind, sets soul to stir
romantic memories of her
she, tender angel through and through
only true love I ever knew!
Soothing dream, bathe me in her light,
sail sweet passionate seas tonight!
Of our past days, beach sand and sun
cheers, smiles, and laughter, O' what fun
she a wonder, beauty that gave
her soul to love and love to save
gifting hope to a lonely man
set to dream all he ever can!
Soothing dream, bathe me in her light,
sail sweet passionate seas tonight!
Of dancing under soft moonlight
kissing so sweet holding so tight
her morning touch, treasure thus found
love's joyous, chains forever bound
begging time to wait, to stand still
I love her true and always will!
Soothing dream, bathe me in her light,
sail sweet passionate seas tonight!
Robert J. Lindley, 3-29-2020
Rhyme,
( Romantic Dreaming, A Star That Once Was,
Soothing Dream, Bathing Within Tender Light)
(2.)
For This Aching Love, I Feel In My Bones
For this Love, I feel in my bones
desires, wine pressed from fire-stones
pleasures set to music, and glee
rapture of freedoms, given me
for this my mind dwells, on dear life
for this I endure, world's dark knife!
For this Love, I shed sweat and blood
from far above, pours lively flood
within June's soft castle a smell
within heart's valiant truth, a spell
for this my soul, yearns true and cries
for this my eyes, search deep blue skies!
For this Love, I give my great all
from looming depths spirit recalls
tall mountains beyond sweetest dreams
there, wherein lies Hope's promised streams
for this- my journey, often bold
for this- my pledge, truth to be told!
For this Love, I feel in my bones
desires, wine pressed from fire-stones
pleasures set to music, and glee
rapture of freedoms, given me
for this my mind dwells, on dear life
for this I endure, world's dark knife!
Robert J. Lindley, 3-12-2020
Rhyme, ( For The Love Of Poetry I Dare To Splash Ink )
(3.)
Times At Heart, Romancing Opera, Else A Dying Clown
Old age is too often an aching feast of dreaded dreads
symphony of memories, prayers for those already dead
or gasping look back at youthful vigor blindly wasted
days of innocent searching for desserts not yet tasted
dashing into red-canyons, rock walls scaled far too steep
begging dreams paradise provided with much needed sleep!
Time, at heart a slow dancing opera, a dying clown,
Youth's bravado, that says, "To hell with it- bring it on down"!
Old age a contemptible thought to we carefree and young
oft groaning ballad, with violin playing, wrongly strung
or morns that demand we rise to shock, fight another day
defiance- wallowing onward as for more time we pray
a nightmare, as we realize life is sad, far too short
rocket ride, on an unknown mission, one can not abort!
Time, at heart a slow dancing opera, a dying clown,
Youth's bravado, that says, "To hell with it- bring it on down"!
Old age may be a gift golden, full of joy's sweetest sprees
a lark, sailing vacations on those blue colored seas
or swirling blackened pool, its eternally spinning drain
years of crying lonely, and cascading aches and deep pains
yet life, its years are so very precious to have lived through
for the alternative is that end, which is always due!
Time, at heart a slow dancing opera, a dying clown,
Youth's bravado, that says, "To hell with it- bring it on down"!
Robert J. Lindley, 3- 30 2020...
Rhyme,
Quote:
("Knowledge by suffering entereth, And life is perfected by death.")
by- Elizabeth Barrett Browning, A Vision of Poets (1844), last lines)...