The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | VI. |
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THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. |
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| VII. |
 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.
Forget them not:—though now their name
Be but a mournful sound,
Though by the hearth its utterance claim
A stillness round.
Be but a mournful sound,
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A stillness round.
Though for their sake this earth no more
As it hath been may be,
And shadows, never mark'd before,
Brood o'er each tree;
As it hath been may be,
And shadows, never mark'd before,
Brood o'er each tree;
And though their image dim the sky,
Yet, yet forget them not!
Nor, where their love and life went by,
Forsake the spot!
Yet, yet forget them not!
Nor, where their love and life went by,
Forsake the spot!
They have a breathing influence there,
A charm, not elsewhere found;
Sad—yet it sanctifies the air,
The stream—the ground.
A charm, not elsewhere found;
Sad—yet it sanctifies the air,
The stream—the ground.
Then, though the wind an alter'd tone
Through the young foliage bear,
Though every flower, of something gone
A tinge may wear;
Through the young foliage bear,
Though every flower, of something gone
A tinge may wear;
Oh! fly it not!—no fruitless grief
Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf
There, where they dwelt.
Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf
There, where they dwelt.
Still trace the path which knew their tread,
Still tend their garden-bower.
Still commune with the holy dead
In each lone hour!
Still tend their garden-bower.
Still commune with the holy dead
In each lone hour!
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The holy dead!—oh! bless'd we are,
That we may call them so,
And to their image look afar,
Through all our woe!
That we may call them so,
And to their image look afar,
Through all our woe!
Bless'd, that the things they loved on earth,
As relics we may hold,
That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth,
By springs untold!
As relics we may hold,
That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth,
By springs untold!
Bless'd, that a deep and chastening power
Thus o'er our souls is given,
If but to bird, or song, or flower,
Yet all for Heaven!
Thus o'er our souls is given,
If but to bird, or song, or flower,
Yet all for Heaven!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |