Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1830/The Stranger on Earth
The Stranger on Earth.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Das Land, das Land, so hoffnungsgrun,
Das Land wo meine Rosen bluhn,
Wo meine Todten aufersteh'n,
Wo meine Freunde wandelnd geh'n;
Das Land, das meine Sprache spricht,
Das theure Land—hier ist es nicht!
Where art thou? Tell me, where?
Land of my native air,
That I might feel thy breathing on my cheek!
And ye, whose being's tone
Would give me back my own,
Where dwell ye, children of my country? Speak!
Show me your home, your place,
O ye, my kindred race!
—My spirit on the dust its wealth hath flung,
Striving for words of power,
A boundless love to shower
O'er hearts that knew not e'en that feeling's tongue.
Along the sounding sea,
And 'midst the mountains free,
My voice finds echoes here; my soul hath none!
Shrinking, I feel around,
The solitude profound,
Ev'n as a child on desert-plains alone.
I know that in me lie,—
As buried harmony
In the Lyre's chord await the master's hand,—
Powers, never to unclose
From dark and cold repose,
Save in thine air, my Home, my viewless land!
For in thy glorious bowers,
Dreading no changeful hours,
Dwells the pure Love, so faintly shadow'd here;
Finding its language known,
Ev'n to the deepest tone,
A native melody in that bright sphere!
And thou, O sunny shore!
Hast music, that no more
Shall trouble the worn heart with vague desires;
Like summer o'er the deep,
I know thy songs will sweep
Over those restless thoughts and wandering fires.
Where art thou? Tell me, where?
Home of the Good and Fair!
I seek thy trace in all things, yet in vain;
Thy meanings, bright, and high,
And earnest, in each eye,
An echo of thy sounds in every strain.
Do mighty mountains old
Thy loveliness enfold?
Or deserts guard thee with their burning gloom?
As the dread flaming brand
That hung o'er Eden's land,
Shut up the pathway to that world of bloom?
Or art thou some lone isle,
Girt ever by the smile
Of waves, wherein Heaven's azure slumbering lies?
Oh! send by breeze or bird,
A sign, a leaf, a word,
A guiding flower-breath from thine own pure skies!
Yes! mournfully profound,
Within my soul, a sound
Speaks, like a shell's low murmur for the sea;
Whispering, thou radiant clime!
That but o'er Death and Time,
The Exile-Spirit can be borne to thee!