SPARE HALF HOURS. By Henry Lapham.

Otago Witness, Issue 1813, 20 August 1886, Page 31

SPARE HALF HOURS. By Henry Lapham.

A EORGOTTEN POETE^fc. j I think that most readers will recall amongst their earliest poetical recollections some verses or fragments of verses by Felicia Hemans, and probably they will remember that in those far-off, happy days, when they were young, no writer of. verse was more popular, no name was more frequently quoted, no literary work more anxiously looked for than that of this poetess. Now-a-days her works "are almost forgotten, so fickle the breath of fame, so great the changes that a few years may bring. There are, of course, a few poems by Mrs Hemans that never will be forgotten. They have been placed amongst the poems that are reprinted into every collection of British poetry. Some of these are to be found in every series of school reading-books, and ; generation after generation of children learn eagerly the simple melodious lines, while thousands of grey-haired men and women feel their hearts strangely stirred when, unconsciously, they find themselves quoting some fragments of the old school rhymes. There is not, I venture to assert, any hour of the twenty-four in which some happy, careless child is not somewhere conning those simple melodies that will be for them an everlasting source of joy. Amongst these j are the deeply pathetic poems of V He Never Smiled Again," and " The Graves of a Household" (how many thousand eyes, I wonder, have grown dim over that sad lament I), the holy strains of " He Walked with God," and the patriotic breathing of "The Homes of | England." I confess that even yet I love to ; repeat to myself and enjoy the pictures con- 1 jured up by lines such as these : The stately homes of England, How beautfful they stand ! j Amidst their tall ancestral trees, " ] O'er all the pleasant land. The deer across their green sward bound, Through shade and sunny gleam ; The swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream. To Colonials, whose land, rich and fertile, yet destitute of any historical reminiscences, where all is new and unfinished, the picture of green meadows watered by full flowing rivers, and tall trees many a century old embosoming stately mansions where every room' has its legend of bygone days, is inexpressibly sweet and soothing to contemplate. Yet in spite of the fact that some of her poems are sure of a world-long popularity, in spit eof the fact that her poetical works have taken their place amongst the English classics, I do not think I have gone too far in calling Mrs Hemans "A Forgotten Poetess." How many readers know anything of her more ambitious efforts? How many professed admirers of poetry can quote twenty lines from" 1 ! he Forest Sanctuary," or from " Dartmoor," a poem to which the Royal Society of Literature awarded a prize ? or from " The Vespers of Palermo," a drama that was performed with indifferent success at Drury Lane Theatre, and with the greatest applause when the famous Mrs Siddons took the part of the heroine at Edinburgh 1 The fact was that Mrs Hemans wrote too much and too rapidly. Week after week and month after month she poured forth her

flood of song, leaving very little time for re* vision or for that study of classical poetry — * two essentials to success in this most difficult of arts. Another thing that helps to detract from the success of her collected works is her almost invariable choice of melancholy subjects. Her muse, even in youth, was a sad one, and as family troubles and sickness came upon her it was the more difficult to shake off her constitutional melancholy. Her dramatic faculty was small, and nothing she has composed deserves to stand beside the plays of Misa Mitford or Joanna Bailey; but there are scenes and passages that make the heart beat quickly in " The Vespew," and " De Chattilon ; or, The Crusaders." The latter play contains ' a beautiful " troubadour's song," a great favourite of Sir Walter Scott, than whom a better judge never existed ; and indeed it is by her skill «as a lyrical poet that Mrs Hemans will chiefly be remembered. In many cases the interest of the poems is heightened by the fact that the lines are Set to exquisite and* appropriate music' by the sister of the authoress. No lovers of song will. ever forget the grand strains of that triumphant melody, " The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers," or the sweet, low, sad music of " Oh 1 lightly, lightly tread I " But even were Mrs Hemans' poems not. thus fortunate in being wedded to appropriate music, they bear within themselves a melodious rhythm that could not fail to charm. I will quote one short poem, because it is a good example of our author's graceful style, and because it has been set to music so sweet and so dainty that I know no other song of the same description worthy to stand beside it, unless it be^that beautiful glee, " Mark the Merry Elves of Fairyland." In the lists of music this song — or, to speak more correctly, this duet — is entered as " The Fairies' Recall," but the author had given it the much more appropriate title of " Water Lilies": Come away, elves J while the dew is s-raet. Come to the dingles where fairies meet 1 . Know that the lilies have spread their bells O'er all the pools in our forest dellj ; Stilly and lightly their vases rest On the quivering sleep of the water's breast, Catching the sunbeams through leaves that throw To their scented bosoms an emerald glow ; And a star from the depth of each pearly cup, A golden star unto heaven looks up, y As if seeking their kindred where bright they lie, A Set in the blue of the summer sky. / Come away 1 Under arching boughs we'll float, Making those urns each a fairj- boat ; We'll row them with reeds o'er the fountain free, And a tall flag-leaf shall our streamer be ; ■*" And we'll send out wild music so soft and lo*, It shall seem from the flowers' bright heart to flow. As if 'twere a breeze with a flute's low sigh, Or water drops trained into melody. Come away J for the midsummer sun grows Btrong, And the life of the lily may not be long. Is not this a lovely picture of a fairy frolic ? The elves floating in the lily cups across the forest pools, and singing so low and wild : Like the sound of a breeze or a flute's low sigh, ' Or water drops trained into melody. The author of " A Midsummer Night's Dream" need not have disdained such a scene for Titania and her court to revel in. But Mrs Hemans is always sweet and graceful in her poetry. • It is, however, the grace of a correct ear, natural good taste, and an extensive acquaintance with the best lyric authors of all countries and all ages — this, rather than the finish that comes from careful revision and anxious polishing. < I must find room to quote a beautiful " Slumber Song," and those who have known what it is to toss and turn upon a hot pillow through the long, dead hours of the night, will appreciate this soft, slumberous invocation to the god of sleep, and especially the desire expressed in the last two lines ; Come to me, gentle Sleep, I pine, I pine for thee ; Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep, And set my spirit free ! Each lonely, burning thought '. In twilight languor steep ; Come to the full hearb, long o'erwrought, O gentle, gentle Sleep I Come with thine urn of dew, Sleep, gentle Sleep I yet bring No voice love's yearning to renew, No vision on thy wing ! Come, as to folding flowers, To bird 3in forests deepLong, dark, and dreamless be thine hours, O gentle, gentle Sleep !

One striking feature of her poetry is its glowing patriotism. She takes her son up to the summit of some hill, and bids him : Look from thine ancient mountains down, My noble English boy ! Thy country's fields around thee gleam „ In sunlight and in joy. # Ages have rolled since foeman's march Passed o'er that old, firm sod ; For well the land hath fealty held To freedom and to God 1

And here is a war song that makes the blood of brave men thrill in their veins as would the notes of a battle march : ' The trumpet's voice has roused the land — Light up the beacon_pyre I A hundred hills have seen the brand, And waved the sign of fire. A hundred banners to the breeze Their gorgeous folds have cast — And, hark ! was that the sound of seas ? A king to war went past;. Solemn but triumphant is her answer when asked where lie her country's dead : Go, stranger I track the deepFree, free the white sail spread ! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweop, Where rest not England's dead. Returning from wandering in lands of old renown, thus she greets her native shore : The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain, The purple heavens of Eome — Yes, all are glorious— -yet again I bless thee, land of home I For thine the Sabbath peace, my land ! And thine the guarded hearth ; And thine the dead— the noble band That make thee holy earth. Their voices meet me in thy breeze, Their steps are on thy plains ; Their names by old majestic trees Are whispered round thy fanos. Their blood hath mingled with the tide Of thine exulting sea : Oh ! be it still a joy, a pride To live and die for thee I Mrs Hemans has related in vivid words some of the most stirring scenes of history. Many of these beautiful poems have found their way into all standard books of recitation, and a few, as " Bernardo del Carpio," have been repeated and repeated ad nauseam. Scarcely a village concert but somQ

WOUld-be actor murders this long-suffering Spanish champion, and yet there are numbers of poems by the same author displaying more pathos and far more dramatic power that have remained strangely neglected. For a female reciter I do not know two more beautiful selections than " The Lady of Provence " and " Marguerite of France." The latter heroine was queen to St. Louis. While left with her new-born babe in a beleaguered city she hears that knights entrusted to guard the walls are going to desert. She calls them before her and upbraids their cowardice : , Then bring me here a breastplate And a helm, before ye fly, * And I will gird my woman's form, And on the ramparts die ! And the boy whom I have borne for war, But never for disgrace, Shall go within mine arms to death Meet for his royal race. Look on him as he slumbers In the shadow of the lance ! Then go, and with the Cross forsake The princely babe of France ! But tell your homes ye left one heart To perish undented : A woman, aad a queen, to guard Her honour and her child ! Whoever takes up this "author's works, while charmed with the grace and beauty of her language, will never meet with one thought or one allusion that need bring a blush to the most sensitive cheek.