The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF THE NILE.
In sunset's light, o'er Afric thrown,
A wanderer proudly stood
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone,
Of Egypt's awful flood;
The cradle of that mighty birth,
So long a hidden thing to earth!
A wanderer proudly stood
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone,
Of Egypt's awful flood;
The cradle of that mighty birth,
So long a hidden thing to earth!
He heard its life's first murmuring sound,
A low mysterious tone;
A music sought, but never found
By kings and warriors gone;
He listen'd—and his heart beat high—
That was the song of victory!
A low mysterious tone;
A music sought, but never found
By kings and warriors gone;
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That was the song of victory!
The rapture of a conqueror's mood
Rush'd burning through his frame,—
The depths of that green solitude
Its torrents could not tame;
Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile—
Round those far fountains of the Nile.
Rush'd burning through his frame,—
The depths of that green solitude
Its torrents could not tame;
Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile—
Round those far fountains of the Nile.
Night came with stars:—across his soul
There swept a sudden change;
E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal
A shadow dark and strange
Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall
O'er triumph's hour—and is this all?
There swept a sudden change;
E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal
A shadow dark and strange
Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall
O'er triumph's hour—and is this all?
No more than this!—what seem'd it now
First by that spring to stand?
A thousand streams of lovelier flow
Bathed his own mountain land!
Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track,
Their wild, sweet voices call'd him back.
First by that spring to stand?
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Bathed his own mountain land!
Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track,
Their wild, sweet voices call'd him back.
They call'd him back to many a glade,
His childhood's haunt of play,
Where brightly through the beechen shade
Their waters glanced away;
They call'd him, with their sounding waves,
Back to his father's hills and graves.
His childhood's haunt of play,
Where brightly through the beechen shade
Their waters glanced away;
They call'd him, with their sounding waves,
Back to his father's hills and graves.
But, darkly mingling with the thought
Of each familiar scene,
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught
With all that lay between;
The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom,
The whirling sands, the red simoom!
Of each familiar scene,
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught
With all that lay between;
The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom,
The whirling sands, the red simoom!
Where was the glow of power and pride?
The spirit born to roam?
His alter'd heart within him died
With yearnings for his home!
All vainly struggling to repress
That gush of painful tenderness.
The spirit born to roam?
His alter'd heart within him died
With yearnings for his home!
All vainly struggling to repress
That gush of painful tenderness.
He wept—the stars of Afric's heaven
Behold his bursting tears,
E'en on that spot where fate had given
The meed of toiling years!—
Oh, happiness! how far we flee
Thine own sweet paths in search of thee!
Behold his bursting tears,
E'en on that spot where fate had given
The meed of toiling years!—
Oh, happiness! how far we flee
Thine own sweet paths in search of thee!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |