 | Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) |  |
15
BROWNWOOD FEMALE SEMINARY.
Sweet spot of earth, with umbrage never sere
Of mightiest woods embowered, and dewy lawns
Wooing the glimpses of the sun between,
And flowers that love the shade, and opening buds
That court the noontide ray—meet home is here
For those rare spirits, flowers of the mortal world,
Most beautiful and best, where all was good
When the Creator saw it in the prime,
Ere knowledge tainted innocence, and sin
Crept with that knowledge in, which is not life.
I see your white walls shining through the gloom
Of the long dim-wood cloisters, steeped in calm
Of holiest quietude, beneath the eye
Of the fair azure through the gauzy fleece
Of summer clouds its glory smiling down
On that fair home of the fairest.
Of mightiest woods embowered, and dewy lawns
Wooing the glimpses of the sun between,
And flowers that love the shade, and opening buds
That court the noontide ray—meet home is here
For those rare spirits, flowers of the mortal world,
Most beautiful and best, where all was good
When the Creator saw it in the prime,
Ere knowledge tainted innocence, and sin
Crept with that knowledge in, which is not life.
I see your white walls shining through the gloom
Of the long dim-wood cloisters, steeped in calm
Of holiest quietude, beneath the eye
Of the fair azure through the gauzy fleece
Of summer clouds its glory smiling down
On that fair home of the fairest.
But no sound
Comes to my ear from dewy lawn, or glade
Wood-girdled, voice of man, nor song of birds,
Nor streamlet's rippling melody—all mute—
All, but the solemn whispers of the breeze
Holding strange converse with the spirits that dwell
In the green leaves and gnarled branches old
Of the nymph-haunted foresters.
Comes to my ear from dewy lawn, or glade
Wood-girdled, voice of man, nor song of birds,
Nor streamlet's rippling melody—all mute—
All, but the solemn whispers of the breeze
Holding strange converse with the spirits that dwell
In the green leaves and gnarled branches old
Of the nymph-haunted foresters.
16
Yet pause!
There comes a gentle murmur on the air,
Sweeter than rippling streams, clearer than song
Of rarest warblers, gentle, faint, and low,
Yet blithe as summer: 'tis the distant strain
Of girlish voices musically shrill,
Half heard, half lost, yet floating on the air
In purest symphonies.
There comes a gentle murmur on the air,
Sweeter than rippling streams, clearer than song
Of rarest warblers, gentle, faint, and low,
Yet blithe as summer: 'tis the distant strain
Of girlish voices musically shrill,
Half heard, half lost, yet floating on the air
In purest symphonies.
Lo! it has ceased,
And all again is silence. Can it be
These pleasant woods, these lawns so dewy bright,
These fair white walls, are but the pomp of woe,
The pride of the prison-house! Can't be that here
Imprisoned maids, immured from light of day,
Waste their sweet harmonies of soul and heart,
Their founts of love and bliss, thus barren made,
Self-mortified and fruitless?
And all again is silence. Can it be
These pleasant woods, these lawns so dewy bright,
These fair white walls, are but the pomp of woe,
The pride of the prison-house! Can't be that here
Imprisoned maids, immured from light of day,
Waste their sweet harmonies of soul and heart,
Their founts of love and bliss, thus barren made,
Self-mortified and fruitless?
Stranger, no!
There come no groans upon the summer wind;
No bitter tears of the heart belie the strain
That wells so joyously from the young lips we heard
Hymning the Lord of Life! No: knowledge here,
Clogged with no curse, allures the fair and bright
Toward Heaven, not bars the gates of Paradise,
Nor makes of Earth a Hell. And Georgia's daughters
Are better taught the immortal aim and end
Of being, than to lock their inborn charms
Against their sweetest uses, and cry shame,
By scorning Nature's law or Nature's God;
But in their innocent girlhood, trained to arts
The old world knew not, think to be—like maids
Of olden time, renowned in classic lore—
Proud wives and happy mothers of brave men.
There come no groans upon the summer wind;
No bitter tears of the heart belie the strain
That wells so joyously from the young lips we heard
Hymning the Lord of Life! No: knowledge here,
Clogged with no curse, allures the fair and bright
Toward Heaven, not bars the gates of Paradise,
Nor makes of Earth a Hell. And Georgia's daughters
Are better taught the immortal aim and end
Of being, than to lock their inborn charms
Against their sweetest uses, and cry shame,
By scorning Nature's law or Nature's God;
But in their innocent girlhood, trained to arts
The old world knew not, think to be—like maids
Of olden time, renowned in classic lore—
Proud wives and happy mothers of brave men.
| Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) | |