Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1794-1835)

Flight of the Spirit

Whither, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way?

What solemn region first upon thy sight

Shall break, unveiled for terror or delight?

What hosts, magificent in dread array,

My spirit! when thy prison-house of clay

After long strife is rent? Fond, fruitless quest!

The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest,

Sees but a few green branches oer him play,

And through their parting leaves, by fits revealed,

A glimpse of summer sky; nor knows the field

Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried.

Thou art that bird!--of what beyond thee lies

Far in the untracked immeasurable skies

Knowing but this--that thou shalt find thy guide!

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,

Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread

With them those pathways, to the feverish bed

Of sickness bound; yet, O my God! I bless

Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled

My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled

To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.

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.

Meanwhile the waning hour

Melts from me, and by fervent dreams overwrought

I sink. O friend! O linked with each high thought!

Aid me, of those rich visions to detain

All I may grasp; until thou seest fulfilled,

While time and strength allow, my hope to build

For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane!

(See Robert Frost's sonnet "Design"--not yet online.)