Felicia Dorothea Hemans

(25 September 1793 – 16 May 1835 / Liverpool, England)

Felicia Dorothea Hemans Poems

161. The Thunderstorm 4/8/2010
162. The Treasures Of The Deep 4/8/2010
163. The Troubadour And Richard Coeur De Lion 4/8/2010
164. The Vassal's Lament For The Fallen Tree 4/8/2010
165. The Voice Of Spring 4/8/2010
166. The Widow Of Crescentius : Part I. 4/8/2010
167. The Widow Of Crescentius : Part Ii. 4/8/2010
168. The Wife Of Asdrubal 4/8/2010
169. The Wild Huntsman 4/8/2010
170. The Wounded Eagle 4/8/2010
171. The Wrath Of Loyalty 4/8/2010
172. Thekla's Song; Or, The Voice Of A Spirit 4/8/2010
173. There Is An Hour, A Pensive Hour 4/8/2010
174. Thoughts During Sickness 3/26/2012
175. To A Butterfly Resting Upon A Skull 4/8/2010
176. To A Departed Spirit 4/8/2010
177. To A Younger Child 4/8/2010
178. To My Eldest Brother, With The British Army In Portugal 4/8/2010
179. To My Mother 4/8/2010
180. To My Younger Brother, On His Return From Spain, After The Fatal Retreat Under Sir John Moore, And The Battle Of Corunna. 4/8/2010
181. To One Of The Author's Children 4/8/2010
182. To Resignation 4/8/2010
183. To The Eye 4/8/2010
184. To The Head-Ach 4/8/2010
185. To The Memory Of Heber 4/8/2010
186. To The New-Born 4/8/2010
187. To Wordsworth 4/8/2010
188. Ulla, Or The Adjuration 4/8/2010
189. Valkyriur Song 4/8/2010
190. War And Peace—a Poem 4/8/2010
191. War-Song Of The Spanish Patriots 4/8/2010
192. Woman On The Field Of Battle 4/8/2010
Best Poem of Felicia Dorothea Hemans


The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.

The flames roll'd on...he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud..."Say, father,say
If yet my task is done!"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, father!" once ...

Read the full of Casabianca

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!

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