The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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II. |
III. |
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VI. |
VII. | VOL. VII. |
The works of Mrs. Hemans | ||
VII. VOL. VII.
LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC.
SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.
I.—NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE!
Unseen I pass thee with the wind's low sigh;
Life's veil enfolds thee still, our eyes dividing,
Yet viewless love floats round thee silently!
In halls of mirth and song;
But when thy thoughts are deepest,
When holy tears thou weepest,
Know then that love is nigh!
Or the sea-music on the sounding shore,
Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping,
Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore;
We loved to breathe and share,
On thy full heart returning,
Shall wake its voiceless yearning;
Then feel me near once more!
—Oh! love is not an earthly rose to die!
Even when I soar where fiery stars are beaming,
Thine image wanders with me through the sky.
Yet lonely, wanting thee;
But when thy chains are falling,
When heaven its own is calling,
Know then, thy guide is nigh!
This piece has been set to music of most impressive beauty by John Lodge, Esq., for whose compositions several of the author's songs were written.
II.—OH! DROOP THOU NOT.
With life all other passions fly;
All others are but vanity.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell.
Earthly these passions, as of earth—
They perish where they drew their birth.
But love is indestructible!
Its holy flame for ever burneth;
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.”
Southey.
Mine still to be!
I bore through death, to brighter lands above,
My thoughts of thee.
Our mingled prayer,
Our suffering love, through long devoted years,
Went with me there,
It was not vain!
Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side,
I watch again!
I am not gone;
In the deep calm of Midnight's whispering hours,
Thou art not lone:
That stream whose tone
Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest,
We two have known:
Of days long past,
From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking,
Silent and fast:
Thy dreamy glance,
Thou seek'st my home, where solemn stars are burning,
O'er night's expanse.
Where'er thou art;
Though still mortality's thick cloud hath bound thee,
Doubt not thy heart!
Let faith be given
To the still tones which oft our being waken—
They are of heaven!
THE SISTERS.
A BALLAD.
And unto every parting gift some deep remembrance chain:
Take then the braid of Eastern pearls which once I loved to wear,
And with it bind for festal scenes the dark waves of thy hair!
Its pale pure brightness will beseem those raven tresses well,
And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone convent cell.”
Through festive scenes, when thou art gone—my steps no more shall move!
How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless throng?
I should but miss earth's dearest voice in every tone of song;
Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me proudly twine
Its wreath once more around that brow, that queenly brow of thine.”
Or would'st thou call a spirit freed, to weary life again?—
Sweet sister, take the golden cross that I have worn so long,
And bathed with many a burning tear for secret woe and wrong.
It could not still my beating heart! but may it be a sign
Of peace and hope, my gentle one! when meekly press'd to thine!”
It would but of this parting hour, a bitter token be;
With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but sadly shine,
And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer mine!
Where would'st thou pour it forth so well, as on my faithful breast?”
I should but darken thy young life with fruitless pangs and fears;
But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for my sake,
And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone of memory wake!
Sing to those chords by starlight's gleam our own sweet vesper hymn,
And think that I too chant it then, far in my cloister dim.”
A song we heard in childhood's days, even from our father's knee.
Oh, sister, sister! are these notes amid forgotten things?
Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar strings?
Seems not our sainted mother's voice to murmur in the strain,
Kind sister! gentlest Leonor! say shall it plead in vain?”
SONG.
Say not adieu!
Have we not been to thee
Tender and true?
Far from our hearth!
With that sweet light will fade
Summer and mirth.
Can thy heart roam?
Wilt thou not pine to hear
Voices from home?
If thou wert gone!
Turn to us, leave us not!
Thou art our own!”
Too deeply pierce those wild sweet notes—yet, yet I cannot stay;
For weary, weary is my heart! I hear a whisper'd call
In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the blossom fall.
I cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines to dwell
Where the world's voice can reach no more!—oh calm thee! Fare thee well!”
This ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recitative, relieved by music. It was thus performed by two graceful and highly accomplished sisters.
THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.
My dirge is in thy moan;
My spirit finds response in thee,
To its own ceaseless cry—“Alone, alone!”
Ye tones that never cease!
Oh! let your secret caves be stirr'd,
And say, dark waters! will ye give me peace?
In vain one echoing sigh,
One answer to consuming thought
In human hearts—and will the wave reply?
Sound in thy scorn and pride!
I ask not, alien world, from thee,
What my own kindred earth hath still denied.
With all its lovely things!
—Was it for this the death-wind fell
On my rich lyre, and quench'd its living strings?
Since broken even as they,
The heart whose music made them sweet,
Hath pour'd on desert-sands its wealth away,
The laurel-wreath is mine—
—With a lone heart, a weary frame—
O restless deep! I come to make them thine!
Place in thy darkest hold!
Bury my anguish, my renown,
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold.
Thou hast thy love, thy home;
They wait thee in the quiet nest,
And I, th' unsought, unwatch'd-for—I too come!
These visions wildly free,
This boundless love, this fiery thought—
—Alone I come—oh! give me peace, dark sea!
DIRGE.
—Oh! where the wild-flowers wave
In the free air!
Where shower and singing-bird
There—lay her there!
Now may sleep minister
Balm for each ill:
Low on sweet nature's breast,
Let the meek heart find rest,
Deep, deep and still!
Faint gales, with happy sigh,
Come wandering o'er
That green and mossy bed,
Where, on a gentle head,
Storms beat no more!
Falls now the bright spring-rain,
Plays the soft wind?
Yet still, from where she lies,
Should blessed breathings rise,
Gracious and kind.
Thence, in the heart renew
Life's vernal glow!
And o'er that holy earth
Scents of the violet's birth
Still come and go!
Make ye her mossy grave
Where shower and singing-bird
'Midst the young leaves are heard—
There, lay her there!
A SONG OF THE ROSE.
All 'acqua, al gelo, al vento ed allo scherno
D'una stagion volubile e fugace;
E a piu fido Cultor posto in governo,
Unir potrai nella tranquilla pace,
Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno.”
Pietro Metastasio.
Bridal, royal rose?
How, 'midst grief and fear,
Canst thou thus disclose
That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leafglows?
For triumphal hours,
Look'st thou through the shade
Of these mortal bowers,
Not to disturb my soul, thou crown'd one of all flowers!
Through a sunny sky,
As a clarion pouring
Notes of victory,
So dost thou kindle thoughts, for earthly life too high.
Youthful poet's cheek;
Thoughts of glory, rushing
Forth in song to break,
But finding the spring-tide of rapid song too weak.
I have seen thee lying
In thy bright repose
Pillow'd with the dying,
Thy crimson by the lip whence life's quick blood was flying.
O'er that bed of pain,
Met in thee, yet wove
Too, too frail a chain
In its embracing links the lovely to detain.
—Oh! within the spells
Of thy beauty's power,
Something dimly dwells,
At variance with a world of sorrows and farewells.
In that rich perfume,
All the proud life glowing
In that radiant bloom,—
Have they no place but here, beneath th' o'ershadowing tomb?
Of our tearful race?
—Heaven's own purest waters
Well might wear the trace
Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace.
With immortal air?
Shall we not behold thee
Bright and deathless there?
In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendantly more fair?
In that light disclose,
And its dream thus frees thee
From the mist of woes,
Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal, royal rose!
NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours,
When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy,
And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers;
To solemn things and deep,
To spirit-haunted sleep,
To thoughts, all purified
From earth, ye seem allied;
O dedicated flowers!
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined;
Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing,
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind.
—So doth love's dreaming heart
Dwell from the throng apart,
And but to shades disclose
The inmost thought which glows
With its pure life entwined.
To no triumphant song your petals thrill,
But send forth odours with the faint soft voices
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still.
So doth lone prayer arise,
Mingling with secret sighs,
When grief unfolds, like you,
Her breast, for heavenly dew
In silent hours to fill.
THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS.
From the night-winds call them back;
And fold your leaves till the laughing hours
Come forth in the sunbeam's track!
And the honey bee is gone,
And all bright things are away to rest,
Why watch ye here alone?
When your sisters close their eyes,
And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone
Of song in the starry skies?
When it kindles the sparks of dew?
And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth,
Shall they gladden all but you?
On the sunny turf to play,
And the woodland child with a fairy shout
Goes dancing on its way!
When the stars give quiet light,
And let us offer our faint perfume
On the silent shrine of night.
To the breeze, when no step is nigh;
Oh thus for ever the earth should send
Her grateful breath on high!
Of hopes unto sorrow given,
That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours,
Looking alone to heaven!”
ECHO-SONG.
Echo! art thou sleeping?
By the fountain's fall
Dreamy silence keeping?
Yet one soft note borne
From the shepherd's horn,
Wakes thee, Echo! into music leaping!
—Strange, sweet Echo! into music leaping
Then glad sounds are swelling
From each sister-voice
Round thy rocky dwelling;
And their sweetness fills
All the hollow hills,
With a thousand notes, of one life telling!
—Softly mingled notes, of one life telling.
Thus deep thoughts are lying,
Silent and apart,
Buried, yet undying.
Till some gentle tone
Wakening haply one,
Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying!
—Strange, sweet Echo! even like thee replying.
THE MUFFLED DRUM.
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull deep rolling sound,
Which told the hamlets round
Of a soldier's burial rite.
In a home beyond the main,
Was the warrior youth laid low that hour,
By a mountain-stream of Spain.
O'er the slumbers of his race,
But a pine of the Ronceval made moan
Above his last lone place;
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull deep rolling sound
Which call'd strange echoes round
To the soldier's burial rite.
By the stream from battle red,
And tossing on its wave the plumes
Of many a stately head:
And a sister—long to weep,
Even then were breathing prayers for him,
In that home beyond the deep;
In the Pyrenees by night,
With a dull deep rolling sound,
And the dark pines mourn'd round,
O'er the soldier's burial rite.
THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK.
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades.”
Keats.
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.”
Shelley.
Unto the faint wind sigh'd melodiously,
And where the sculpture of a broken shrine
Sent out thro' shadowy grass and thick wild-flowers
Dim alabaster gleams—a lonely swan
Warbled his death-chant; and a poet stood
Listening to that strange music, as it shook
The lilies on the wave; and made the pines
And all the laurels of the haunted shore
Even painfully—as with the sweetness wrung
From parting love; and to the poet's thought
This was their language.
O light and laughing summer, fare thee well!
No song the less through thy rich woods will swell,
For one, one broken heart.
Ye will not mourn! ye will shed odour still,
And wave in glory, colouring every rill,
Known to my youth's fresh hours.
Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep,
My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep—
Sweet waters! I must die.
Of sorrow through the pines?—one murmur low?
Shall not the green leaves from your voices know
That I, your child, am gone?
Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell,
Waves, joyous waves, flow on, and fare ye well!
Ye will not mourn for me.
Pour'd on my parting breath, vain gift of song!
In the dark hour of fate?
Of echo-voices from their sparry cell;
Only to say—O sunshine and blue skies!
O life and love, farewell!”
Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones
Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream,
Rocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy,
Woke to respond: and all the air was fill'd
With that one sighing sound—“Farewell, Farewell!”
—Fill'd with that sound? high in the calm blue heaven
Even then a skylark hung; soft summer clouds
Were floating round him, all transpierced with light,
And 'midst that pearly radiance his dark wings
Quiver'd with song:—such free triumphant song,
As if tears were not,—as if breaking hearts
Had not a place below—and thus that strain
Spoke to the Poet's ear exultingly.
The wild woods thrill to her merry voice;
Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high;
Sing, sing through the echoing sky!
Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep;
—Let the heavens ring with song!
Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight;
But mine is the glory to sunshine given—
Sing, sing through the echoing heaven!
Mine are the fresh gales with dayspring born:
Only young rapture can mount so high—
—Sing, sing through the echoing sky!”
Mingled their accents; and amidst the rush
Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,—
“Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful,
Mysterious Nature! Not in thy free range
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus
The dirge-note and the song of festival;
But in one heart, one changeful human heart—
Ay, and within one hour of that strange world—
Thou call'st their music forth, with all its tones
To startle and to pierce!—the dying swan's,
And the glad skylark's—triumph and despair!”
SONGS OF SPAIN.
I.—ANCIENT BATTLE SONG.
Let the high word “Castile!” go resounding through Spain!
And thou, free Asturias, encamp'd on the height,
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight!
Wake, wake! the old soil where thy children repose
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes!
With Arragon's cry on the shrill mountain blast;
The ancient sierras give strength to our tread,
Their pines murmur song where bright blood hath been shed.
—Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again,
And shout ye “Castile! to the rescue for Spain!”
II.—THE ZEGRI MAID.
Around the Zegri maid,
To her low sad song replying
As it fill'd the olive shade.
“Alas! for her that loveth
Her land's, her kindred's foe!
Where a Christian Spaniard roveth,
Should a Zegri's spirit go?
I sink, with shame oppress'd,
And the dark eye of my brother
Is an arrow to my breast.”
—Where summer leaves were sighing
Thus sang the Zegri maid,
While the crimson day was dying
In the whispery olive shade.
This woe in secret borne,
This flower of young life blasted,
Should I win back aught but scorn?
By aught but daily dying
Would my lone truth be repaid?”
—Where the olive leaves were sighing,
Thus sang the Zegri maid.
III.—THE RIO VERDE SONG.
In melody flow;
Win her that weepeth
To slumber from woe;
Bid thy wave's music
Roll through her dreams,
Grief ever loveth
The kind voice of streams.
Afar on the sound
Back to her childhood,
Her life's fairy ground;
Pass like the whisper
Of love that is gone—
Flow, Rio Verde!
Softly flow on!
So crimson'd of yore!
Love, death, and sorrow
Know thy green shore.
For grief's deepest tone—
Flow, Rio Verde,
Softly flow on!
IV.—SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO.
Where jasmine flowers have blown;
There hath she left no footsteps?
—Weep, weep, the maid is gone!
Smiles o'er the pine-hung steep;
Hear ye not there her vespers?
—Weep for the parted, weep!
O'ershade her father's head?
—Are his grey hairs left lonely?
—Weep! her bright soul is fled.
V.—SPANISH EVENING HYMN.
Meet in love on earth and sea!
Now, sweet Mother! may the weary
Turn from this cold world to thee!
Hear the sailor's hymn arise?
Lo! to thee the shepherd cries!
If o'erburden'd souls there be,
Dark and silent in their anguish,
Aid those captives! set them free!
Where the frozen tears lie deep;
Thou, the Mother of all sorrows,
Aid, oh! aid to pray and weep!
VI.—BIRD, THAT ART SINGING ON EBRO'S SIDE.
Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide,
Doth sorrow dwell 'midst the leaves with thee?
Doth song avail thy full heart to free?
—Bird of the midnight's purple sky!
Teach me the spell of thy melody.
Whence the sad sweetness flows through thy strain?
And is the wound of that arrow still'd,
When thy lone music the leaves hath fill'd?
—Bird of the midnight's purple sky!
Teach me the spell of thy melody.
VII.—MOORISH GATHERING SONG.
ZORZICO.
Come to the hills! fresh breezes are there.
Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers!
Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers.
Come where the streams no bondage have known;
Wildly and proudly foaming they leap,
Singing of freedom from steep to steep.
Now may not shelter beauty or love.
Blood on the waters, death 'midst the flowers!
—Only the spear and the rock are ours.
VIII.—THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS.
Far through our hills it rang;
A sound more strong than tempests,
More keen than armour's clang.
The shepherd grasp'd the spear—
—We heard thy name, O Mina!
The mountain bands are here.
As torrents to the sea,
From every dark sierra
So rush'd our hearts to thee.
Thine eye our beacon-sign,
Thy name our trumpet, Mina!
—The mountain bands are thine.
IX.—MOTHER, OH! SING ME TO REST.
As in my bright days departed:
Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted,
Songs for a spirit oppress'd.
Flowers from the night-dew are closing
Pilgrims and mourners reposing—
—Mother, oh, sing me to rest!
Weary is young life when blighted,
Heavy this love unrequited;—
—Mother, oh! sing me to rest!
X.—THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES.
There are echoes on Biscay's wild shore;
There are murmurs—but not of the torrent,
Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest's roar.
Of armings and hurried farewells;
Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards;
Or start from your old battle-dells.
That have roll'd with your father's free blood;
Oh! leave on the graves of the mighty,
Proud marks where their children have stood!
THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.
The deep slow curfew's chime!
—A heavy sound unto hall and bower
In England's olden time!
Sadly 'twas heard by him who came
From the fields of his toil at night,
And who might not see his own hearth-flame
In his children's eyes make light.
As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow,
Which had cheer'd the board with the mirthful word,
And the red wine's foaming flow!
Until that sullen boding knell
Flung out from every fane,
On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell,
With a weight and with a chain.
In the wild deer's forest far!
No cottage-lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide him, as a star.
And woe for him whose wakeful soul,
With lone aspirings fill'd,
Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were still'd!
For the watcher by the bed,
Where the fondly loved in pain lay low,
In pain and sleepless dread!
For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep
By the dying babe, her place,
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!
Darkness in peasant's cot!
While freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o'er her lot.
For blood hath flow'd like rain,
Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England's homes again.
Till the red light fills the room!
It is home's own hour when the stormy sky
Grows thick with evening-gloom.
Gather ye round the holy hearth,
And by its gladdening blaze,
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
With a thought of the olden days!
THE CALL TO BATTLE.
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs,
Which ne'er might be repeated.”
Byron.
Had sent its dying sound;
And the household, in the hush of eve,
Were met, their porch around.
“We rise on all our hills! come forth! 'tis thy country's gathering hour—
Come forth, young Juan! bid thy home a brief and proud farewell!”
Which a hundred fights had seen—
“Away! and bear it back, my boy!
All that it still hath been!
The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land?
Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the clarion's blast,
With the flying footsteps of the Moor in stormy ages past.”
That o'er his dark locks fell:
“I bless, I bless thee o'er and o'er,
Yet I stay thee not—Farewell!”
It is no time for woman's tears when manhood's heart is stirred.
Bear but the memory of thy love about thee in the fight,
To breathe upon th' avenging sword a spell of keener might.
Though deep, yet brief and low:
“In the vigil, in the conflict, love!
My prayer shall with thee go!”
So rushes on the land's revenge, in night and silence nursed—
The night is past, the silence o'er—on all our hills we rise—
We wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of battle cries.”
When the brave had left their bower;
But the strength of prayer and sacrifice
Was with them in that hour.
Written for a set of airs, entitled Peninsular Melodies, selected by Colonel Hodges, and published by Messrs Goulding and D'Almaine, who have permitted the reappearance of the words in this volume.
SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.
I.—AND I TOO IN ARCADIA.
With the butterfly and bee;
They have climb'd o'er heathery swells,
They have wound through forest dells;
Mountain moss hath felt their tread,
Woodland streams their way have led;
Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks,
Nurslings of the loneliest brooks,
Unto them have yielded up
Fragrant bell and starry cup:
Chaplets are on every brow—
What hath staid the wand'rers now?
Bower'd amidst the rich wood gloom;
Whence these words their stricken spirits melt,
—“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”
That pale sepulchre around;
Through the shade young birds are glancing,
Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing;
Glimpses of blue festal skies
Pouring in when soft winds rise;
Violets o'er the turf below
Shedding out their warmest glow;
Yet a spirit not its own
O'er the greenwood now is thrown!
Something of an under-note
Through its music seems to float,
Something of a stillness grey
Creeps across the laughing day:
Something, dimly from those old words felt,
—“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”
In that grave with dirges laid?
Some fair creature, with the tone
Of whose voice a joy is gone,
Leaving melody and mirth
Poorer on this alter'd earth?
Is it thus? that so they stand,
Dropping flowers from every hand?
Flowers, and lyres, and gather'd store
Of red wild-fruit prized no more?
Not one link hath yet been torn;
'Tis the shadow of the tomb
Falling o'er the summer-bloom,
O'er the flush of love and life
Passing with a sudden strife;
'Tis the low prophetic breath
Murmuring from that house of death,
Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt,
“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”
II.—THE WANDERING WIND.
Of the golden summer eves—
Whence is the thrilling magic
Of its tones amongst the leaves?
Oh! is it from the waters,
Or from the long tall grass?
Or is it from the hollow rocks
Through which its breathings pass?
Of all in one combined,
That it wins the tone of mastery?
The Wind, the wandering Wind!
No, no! the strange, sweet accents
That with it come and go,
They are not from the osiers,
Nor the fir-trees whispering low.
Nor of the cavern'd hill:
'Tis the human love within us
That gives them power to thrill,
They touch the links of memory
Around our spirits twined,
And we start, and weep, and tremble,
To the wind, the Wandering Wind!
III.—YE ARE NOT MISS'D, FAIR FLOWERS.
The summer's glow by fount and breezy grot;
There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding,
The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you not.
O lily! whence thy cup of pearl is gone;
The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter,
There is no sorrow in the wind's low tone.
The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss'd;
Cradled ye were, fair flowers! 'midst all things loving,
A joy to all—yet, yet, ye are not miss'd!
And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list,
Oh! it were breathing words too deep in sadness,
To say—earth's human flowers not more are miss'd.
IV.—WILLOW SONG.
I can hear a deeper tone;
Through thy leaves come whispering low
Faint sweet sounds of long ago.
Willow, sighing willow!
Heart-sick love to thee hath told,
Gathering from thy golden bough
Leaves to cool his burning brow.
Willow, sighing willow!
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree!
Many a lute its last lament
Down thy moonlight stream hath sent:
Willow, sighing willow!
Sigh for sweet affections gone,
And for tuneful voices fled,
And for love, whose heart hath bled,
Ever, willow, willow!
V.—LEAVE ME NOT YET.
But now the song-birds to their nests return;
On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn:
Leave me not yet!
Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise;
Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams,
They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies:
Leave me not yet!
By day shut up in their own still recess,
They wait for dews on earth, for stars above,
Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness:
Leave me not yet!
VI.—THE ORANGE BOUGH.
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow;
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest,
And bind it, mother! on my breast!
Whose odours I must breathe no more;
The grove where every scented tree
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea.
And wild farewell, are lingering there:
Each leaf's light whisper hath a tone,
My faint heart, even in death, would own.
Life's parting sweetness round my head,
And bind it, mother! on my breast
When I am laid in lonely rest.
VII.—THE STREAM SET FREE.
Bright living stream set free!
The troubled haunts of care and strife
Were not for thee!
Thou art all its own again;
The wild birds are thy kindred race,
That fear no chain.
Unto the glistening leaves!
Thou, the beloved of balmy winds,
And golden eves.
Sleeps calm upon thy breast,
Whose brightness bears no token more
Of man's unrest.
Flow with thy wavy line,
While the stock-dove's lingering, loving voice
Comes blent with thine.
Strings of the forest-lyre,
All fill'd with answering spirit-sounds,
In joy respire.
Oh! keep one pitying tone
For gentle hearts, that bear to thee
Their sadness lone.
To bring, like healing dew,
A sense, that nature ne'er forsakes
The meek and true.
Thou stream, thou glad and free!
The shadows of all glorious flowers
Be set in thee!
VIII.—THE SUMMER'S CALL.
Woo thee far to founts and bowers!
O'er the very waters now,
In there play,
Flowers are shedding beauty's glow—
Come away!
Where the lily's tender gleam
Quivers on the glancing stream—
Come away!
Soft, and sultry, and profound;
Murmurs through the shadowy grass
Lightly stray;
Faint winds whisper as they pass—
Come away;
Where the bee's deep music swells
From the trembling foxglove bells—
Come away!
Now hath won its richest hue;
In the woods the breath of song
Night and day
Floats with leafy scents along—
Come away!
Where the boughs with dewy gloom
Darken each thick bed of bloom—
Come away!
Now the crimson love-hue glows;
Now the glow-worm's lamp by night
Sheds a ray,
Dreamy, starry, greenly bright—
Come away!
Where the fairy cup-moss lies,
With the wild-wood strawberries,
Come away!
Sheds its own rich twilight round;
Bright wings play;
There the deer its couch hath made—
Come away!
Where the smooth leaves of the lime
Glisten in their honey-time—
Come away—away!
IX.—OH! SKYLARK, FOR THY WING.
Thou bird of joy and light,
That I might soar and sing
At heaven's empyreal height!
With the heathery hills beneath me,
Whence the streams in glory spring,
And the pearly clouds to wreath me,
Oh, Skylark! on thy wing!
I would range the blessed skies,
Through the blue divinely clear,
Where the low mists cannot rise!
And a thousand joyous measures
From my chainless heart should spring,
Like the bright rain's vernal treasures,
As I wander'd on thy wing.
That around the heart are spun,
And kind eyes that make our sun!
To some low sweet nest returning,
How soon my love would bring,
There, there the dews of morning,
Oh, Skylark! on thy wing!
GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures
The things of nature utter; birds or trees,
Or where the tall grass 'mid the heath-plant waves,
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.”
Coleridge.
A song of many tones—though one full soul
Breathed through them all imploringly; and made
All nature as they pass'd, all quivering leaves
And low responsive reeds and waters thrill,
As with the consciousness of human prayer.
—At times the passion-kindled melody
Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart,
Over the wild sea-wave;—at times the strain
Flow'd with more plaintive sweetness, as if born
Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse;
And sometimes, with its melancholy swell,
A graver sound was mingled, a deep note
Of Tasso's holy lyre;—yet still the tones
Were of a suppliant;—“Leave me not!” was still
The burden of their music; and I knew
The lay which Genius, in its loneliness,
Hath ever breathed to Love.
Borne from a deathless tree;
I hear the pealing music of renown—
O Love! forsake me not!
Mine were a lone dark lot,
Bereft of thee!
They tell me that my soul can throw
A glory o'er the earth;
From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow!
Shed by thy gentle eyes
It gives to flower and skies,
A bright new birth!
Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone!
Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning
With lustre not its own!
Thence every wood-recess
Is filled with loveliness,
Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known.
That streameth from thy smile;
Oh! bear it, bear it not away!
Can that sweet light beguile?
Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems,
To linger long by earthly streams;
I clasp it with th' alloy
Of fear 'midst quivering joy,
Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!
With thy swift step would flee;
The world's cold breath would quench the starry fire
In my deep soul—a temple fill'd with thee!
Seal'd would the fountains lie,
The waves of harmony,
Which thou alone canst free!
Whence the oracle hath fled;
Like a harp which none might waken
But a mighty master dead;
Like the vase of a perfume scatter'd,
Such would my spirit be;
So mute, so void, so shatter'd,
Bereft of thee!
Yield not for thee a home,
If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth
Send thee a silvery voice that whispers—“Come!”
Then, with the glory from the rose,
With the sparkle from the stream,
With the light thy rainbow-presence throws
Over the poet's dream;
With all th' Elysian hues
Thy pathway that suffuse,
With joy, with music, from the fading grove,
Take me, too, heavenward, on thy wing, sweet Love
MUSIC AT A DEATHBED.
Only for the sons of joy?
Only for the smiling guests
At natal, or at nuptial feasts?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour
On those whom secret griefs devour;
And with some softly-whisper'd air
Smooth the brow of dumb despair!”
Warton from Euripides.
With an ethereal breath!
Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear
Up from the couch of death!
Such as the southern breeze
Might waft, at golden fall of day,
O'er blue transparent seas!
Would lure me back to life,
When my wean'd heart hath said farewell,
And pass'd the gates of strife.
Blend with the song its tone!
Let no disturbing echo move
One that must die alone!
Fill'd with the soul of prayer;
And trembling hope be there.
Lies more prevailing sound,
A harmony intensely fraught
With pleading more profound:
A sweet, yet piercing cry:
A breaking heart's appeal to Heaven,
A bright faith's victory!
Be in those notes enshrined?
Can all, which crowds on earth's last hour,
No fuller language find?
And let the chord be still'd!
Far in another land erelong
My dream shall be fulfill'd.
MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE.
And a banner in thy hand;
Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there,
By a proudly mournful band.
Thy long bright years had sped;
And a warrior's bier was thine at last,
When the snows had crown'd thy head,
Brothers and friends, perchance;
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf,
And light was in thy glance.
And thy voice the war-horse knew;
And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh,
Wert thou, the bold and true.
Thou of the well-worn sword!
From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone,
But not to the festal board.
Where fiery blood hath flow'd:
Oh! lover of battle and trumpet-sound!
Thou art couch'd in a still abode!
And the breath of the wintry blast—
Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair,
To win thee but this at last?
THE FALLEN LIME-TREE.
Thou art fall'n in thy golden honey-time.
Thou whose wavy shadows,
Long and long ago,
Screen'd our grey forefathers
From the noontide's glow;
Thou, beneath whose branches,
Touch'd with moonlight gleams,
Lay our early poets,
Wrapt in fairy dreams.
O tree of our fathers! O hallow'd tree!
A glory is gone from our home with thee.
Rest through summer eves?
Or the bee find honey,
As on thy sweet leaves?
Where shall now the ringdove
Build again her nest?
She so long the inmate
Of thy fragrant breast?
But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee
Far more than the ringdove, far more than the bee!
Leafy and profound,
Full of dewy dimness,
Odour and soft sound:
But the gentle memories
Clinging all to thee,
When shall they be gather'd
Round another tree?
O pride of our fathers! O hallow'd tree!
The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee!
Of these songs, the ones entitled, “Ye are not missed, fair Flowers,” the “Willow Song,” “Leave me not yet,” and the “Orange Bough,” are in the possession of Mr Willis, by whom they will be published with music.
SONGS OF CAPTIVITY.
INTRODUCTION.
'Midst Afric's burning sands,
One silent sunset hour was given
To the slaves of many lands.
In the gardens of their lord;
And mingling with the fountain's tune,
Their songs of exile pour'd.
Of Alp and ocean sound,
With Afric's wild red skies above,
And solemn wastes around.
And most when most they tried
To breathe of hope and liberty,
From hearts that inly died.
Parted by mount and main;
So did they sing in brotherhood,
Made kindred by the chain.
I.—THE BROTHER'S DIRGE.
My warrior-fathers lie,
Banners hang drooping o'er their dust
With gorgeous blazonry.
But thou, but thou, my brother!
O'er thee dark billows sweep,
The best and bravest heart of all
Is shrouded by the deep.
My noble fathers bled;
For her lion-kings of lance and spear,
They went down to the dead.
But thou, but thou, my brother!
Thy life-drops flow'd for me—
Would I were with thee in thy rest,
Young sleeper of the sea.
Our sister dwells alone,
With quick heart listening for the sound
Of footsteps that are gone,
Of the wild fate we have found;
I, 'midst the Afric sands a slave,
Thou, by the dark seas bound.
II.—THE ALPINE HORN.
Oh! through my native sky,
Might I but hear its deep notes borne
Once more—but once—and die!
So full of hope and morn,
Would win me from the bed of death—
O joyous Alpine horn!
To many a battle known,
Seems mournfully to wander past,
A wild, shrill, wailing tone!
Thy proud notes were not born;
The dream but deepens my despair—
Be hush'd, thou Alpine horn!
III.—O YE VOICES.
As the winds of May to memory sweet,
Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing,
Would those vernal tones the wanderer greet,
Once again?
Oft since then your fond farewell was said;
O'er the green turf of the gentle-hearted
Summer's hand the rose-leaves may have shed,
Oft again!
Yet, sweet voices! there must change have come
Years have quell'd the free soul of the singer,
Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home,
Ne'er again!
IV.—I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE.
Of a gallant, gallant bark,
That sweeps through storm and sea,
Like an arrow to its mark!
Of a stag that o'er the hills
Goes bounding in his glee;
Of a thousand flashing rills—
Of all things glad and free.
A bright-eyed mountain king!
In my visions I have heard
The rushing of his wing.
I follow some wild river,
On whose breast no sail may be;
Dark woods around it shiver—
—I dream of all things free!
With the fawns and flowers at play;
Of an Indian 'midst the wild,
With the stars to guide his way:
Of a chief his warriors leading,
Of an archer's greenwood tree:—
My heart in chains is bleeding,
And I dream of all things free!
V.—FAR O'ER THE SEA.
Wandering in glee?
Where dance the peasant bands
Joyous and free?
Under a kind blue sky,
Where doth my birthplace lie?
—Far o'er the sea.
O'er vale and lea,
Homewards to flee?
Where doth the orange gleam
Soft on my native stream?
—Far o'er the sea!
Watching for me?
Where o'er the cabin roof
Waves the green tree?
Where speaks the vesper-chime
Still of a holy time?
—Far o'er the sea.
Fearless and free!
Still fresh and greenly wave,
My father's tree!
Still smile, ye kind blue skies!
Though your son pines and dies
Far o'er the sea!
VI.—THE INVOCATION.
My only love!
Or smiling in a brighter home,
Far, far above?
Thy light step gone?
And art thou not, in earth or heaven,
Still, still my own?
In midnight dreams!
But cold, and clear, and spirit-like,
Thy soft eye seems.
Dwelt on thy brow;
But something mournfully divine
There shineth now!
And pale thy cheek;—
Oh! art thou earth's, or art thou heaven's,
Speak to me, speak!
VII.—THE SONG OF HOPE.
We shall burst forth like streams from the winter night's chain;
A flag is unfurl'd, a bright star of the sea,
A ransom approaches—we yet shall be free!
Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps;
Free as the falcon's wing, yet shall we roam.
Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet!
Crossing the desert, o'ersweeping the sea—
Droop not, my Brothers! we yet shall be free!
THE BIRD AT SEA.
Oh! why art thou here?
Leaves dance not o'er thee,
Flowers bloom not near.
All the sweet waters
Far hence are at play—
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!
Thy place will not be,
As 'midst the waving
Of wild rose and tree.
How should'st thou battle
With storm and with spray?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!
Some brighter land,
Vine leaves are fann'd?
'Midst the wild billows
Why then delay?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!
Where storms are dark;
A hand that hath nursed me
Is in the bark;
A heart that hath cherish'd
Through winter's long day,
So I turn from the greenwood,
Away, away!”
THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.
Where wild bees have honey-cells;
Not from where sweet water-sounds
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds;
Not to waste their scented breath
On the silent room of Death!
And the glow-worm's emerald star,
And the many-whispering tree:
Oh! too deep a love, and vain,
They would win to earth again.
Closing fast on summer skies!
Woo thou not the spirit back,
From its lone and viewless track,
With the bright things which have birth
Wide o'er all the colour'd earth!
Thoughts too sad for her who dies;
From the lily's pearl-cup shed,
Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed;
Dreams of youth—of spring-time eves—
Music—beauty—all she leaves!
Calmer is her gentle heart.
Yes! o'er fountain, vale, and grove,
Leaf and flower hath gush'd her love;
But that passion, deep and true,
Knows not of a last adieu.
In their fragile mould she sees;
Shadows of yet richer things,
Born beside immortal springs,
Into fuller glory wrought,
Kindled by surpassing thought!
She can read no word of grief;
O'er the woodbine she can dwell,
Murmuring not—Farewell! farewell!
And her dim, yet speaking eye,
Greets the violet solemnly.
Strew them o'er her bed of pain;
From her chamber take the gloom
With a light and flush of bloom:
So should one depart, who goes
Where no death can touch the rose!
THE IVY-SONG.
In ancient days, the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the Vine?
Ivy! thy home is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er,
Where song and beaker once went round,
But now are known no more,
Where long-fallen gods recline,
There the place is thine.
Where kings before his eagles bent,
With thee, amidst exulting strains,
Shadow'd the victors tent:
Though shining there in deathless green,
Triumphally thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor's grave—
Urn and sculpture half divine
Yield their place to thine.
Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell,
Where hollow sounds the lightest tread—
Ivy! they know thee well!
And far above the festal vine,
Thou wavest where once-proud banners hung,
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine,
—The Rhine, still fresh and young!
Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine,
Ivy! all are thine!
Those eyries of a vanish'd race,
Where harp, and battle, and renown,
Have pass'd, and left no trace.
But thou art there!—serenely bright,
Meeting the mountain storms with bloom,
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or crown the lowliest tomb!
Ivy, Ivy! all are thine,
Palace, hearth, and shrine.
O'er classic plains, through deserts free,
On the mute path of ages fled,
Still meets decay and thee.
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, stern in power,
—Days pass—thou Ivy never sere,
And thou shalt have thy dower.
All are thine, or must be thine—
Temple, pillar, shrine!
This song, as originally written, the reader will have met with in an earlier part of this publication. Being afterwards completely remodelled by Mrs Hemans, perhaps no apology is requisite for its re-insertion here.
THE MUSIC OF ST PATRICK'S.
Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas.”
Milton.
Through the arch'd roof in triumph to the sky!
Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain,
The banners thrill as if with victory!
While arm'd for fields of chivalrous renown:
Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirr'd,
While throbbing still beneath the recent crown!
They lend the wings of morning to its flight;
No earthly passion in th' exulting lay,
Whispers one tone to win me from that height.
Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source?
Even while the waves of that strong harmony
Roll with my spirit on their sounding course!
Thus by the burst of sorrow's token-shower?
—Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel
Our nature's limit in its proudest hour?
KEENE, OR LAMENT OF AN IRISH MOTHER OVER HER SON.
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!
Silent and dark!
Whence thy step went forth at morn,
Like a dancer's in its fleetness,
Oh, my bright first-born!
My heart within me smiled;
—Thou wert brought me back all silent
On thy bier, my child!
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!
Silent and dark!
Laugh on me with thine eyes;
But my sorrow's voice is lonely
Where my life's flower lies.
Thy kindred's graves among;
I shall hear the tall grass whisper—
I shall hear it not long!
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!
Silent and dark!
With my lost one, in the earth;
—Let none light up the ashes
Again on our hearth!
On the home for ever fall,
Where my boy lay cold, and heard not
His lone mother's call!
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!
Silent and dark!
FAR AWAY.
Where the blue sea laves a mountain shore;
In the woods I hear my brothers play,
'Midst the flowers my sister sings once more.
Far away!
When at midnight, stars and shadows reign;
“Gentle child,” my mother seems to say,
“Follow me where home shall smile again!”
Far away!
Where love's voice young gladness may restore;
Lend me wings to reach that better shore,
Far away!
This, and the five following songs, have been set to music of great merit, by J. Zeugheer Herrmann, and H. F. C., and are published in a set by Mr Power, who has given permission for the appearance of the words in this volume.
THE LYRE AND FLOWER.
Forth on the wild wind's track;
The stormy wanderer jarr'd the chord,
But gave no music back.
—Oh, child of song!
Bear hence to heaven thy fire!
What hopest thou from the reckless throng;
Be not like that lost lyre!
Not like that lyre!
On a swift-rolling wave;
Th' unheeding torrent darkly pass'd,
And back no treasure gave.
—Oh! heart of love!
Waste not thy precious dower!
Turn to thine only home above,
Be not like that lost flower!
Not like that flower!
SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST.
O'er thy brow a change hath past,
In the softness of thine eyes,
Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone,
Never to thy childhood known;
Through thy soul a storm hath moved,
—Gentle sister, thou hast loved!
Hues too bright from troubled thought;
Far along the wandering stream,
Thou art follow'd by a dream:
In the woods and valleys lone
Music haunts thee, not thine own:
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain?
—Sister, thou hast loved in vain!
On my bosom pour that shower!
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted;
Tell me not of young hopes blasted;
Wring not forth one burning word,
Let thy heart no more be stirr'd!
Home alone can give thee rest.
—Weep, sweet sister, on my breast!
THE LONELY BIRD.
Oh! lonely, lonely bird!
The soft blue air is ringing
By thy summer music stirr'd;
But all is dark and cold beneath,
Where harps no more are heard:
Whence winn'st thou that exulting breath,
Oh! lonely, lonely bird?
To a triumph of glad sounds,
As from its cavern dwelling
A stream in glory bounds!
Though the castle echoes catch no tone
Of human step or word,
Though the fires be quench'd and the feasting done,
Oh! lonely, lonely bird!
Rush through thy fiery lay,
From the haunted place of sadness,
From the bosom of decay?
While dirge-notes in the breeze's moan,
Through the ivy garlands heard,
Come blent with thy rejoicing tone,
Oh! lonely, lonely bird!
Like thy forsaken tower,
Where love hath left his bower:
And there's many a spirit e'en like thee,
To mirth as lightly stirr'd,
Though it soar from ruins in its glee,
Oh! lonely, lonely bird!
DIRGE AT SEA.
Red with life-blood from the brave,
Thou shalt find a noble grave.
Fare thee well!
Proudly may the funeral gun,
'Midst the hush at set of sun,
Boom thy knell!
Never there may flower be shed,
Marble rear'd, or brother's head
Bow'd to weep.
Borne through battle high and free,
Long the red-cross flag shall be.
Sleep! oh, sleep!
PILGRIM'S SONG TO THE EVENING STAR.
Gleaming far,
Thou'rt guiding all things home,
Gentle star!
Thou bring'st from rock and wave,
The sea-bird to her nest,
The hunter from the hills,
The fisher back to rest.
Light of a thousand streams,
Gleaming far!
O soft star of the west,
Blessed star!
No hearth of love and rest,
Yet guide me to my shrine,
O soft star of the west!
There, there my home shall be,
Heaven's dew shall cool my breast,
When prayer and tear gush free,
O soft star of the west!
Gleaming far!
Thou'rt guiding all things home,
Gentle star!
Shine from thy rosy heaven,
Pour joy on earth and sea!
Shine on, though no sweet eyes
Look forth to watch for me!
Gleaming far!
O soft star of the west!
Blessed star!
THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.
When calms had still'd the tide;
A few bright days of summer glee
There found them side by side.
Rose mingling thence in mirth;
And sweetly floated o'er the wave
The melodies of earth.
Cloudless and lovely slept;
While dancing step, and festive strain
Each deck in triumph swept.
With kindly meaning shone;
Oh! brief and passing sympathies,
Like leaves together blown.
Over the deep's repose,
Till the loud singing winds at last
Like trumpet music rose.
The parting vessels bore;
In calm or storm, by rock or bay,
To meet—oh, never more!
To aid in hours of woe;
And thus bright spirits mingle here,
Such ties are formed below.
COME AWAY.
Round its footsteps on the mountain slope,
Hears a glad voice from the upland singing,
Like the skylark's with its tone of hope:
Come away!
All the wealth of glowing life outspread,
Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o'er him,
By that strain the youth in joy is led:
Come away!
O'er the sweetness of the voice within;
Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling,
Urge the hunter still to chase, to win:
Come away!
Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue;
Yet a breath can still those words awaken,
Though to other shores far hence they woo:
Come away!
In the low sweet sounds of early spring,
Still their music wanders—till the dying
Hears them pass, as on a spirit's wing:
Come away!
FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL.
Keep back my flitting breath;
'Tis early, early to depart,
Beloved!—yet this is death!
Be the last light I see!
But yet I die for thee!
Was never thus to bow—
Give tears when with me love hath fled,
True love, thou know'st it now!
We in our gladness roved;
And the blue skies were very fair—
O friend! because we loved.
When this young heart is low!
Surely my blood thy life hath won—
Clasp me once more—I go!
MUSIC FROM SHORE.
A sweet and lovely sound!
Piercing the tumult of the seas
That wildly dash around.
From hills with murmuring trees,
From paths by still and happy homes—
That sweet sound on the breeze.
Thus bid my quick pulse leap?
No part in earth's glad melody
Is mine upon the deep.
Whence those rich breathings flow!
Kind hearts, although they know me not,
Like mine there beat and glow.
O'er solitary seas,
To those that far in happy homes
Give sweet sounds to the breeze!
LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS EYES.
Truth in their dark transparence lies;
Their sweetness gives me back the tears,
And the free trust of early years—
My gentle child!
Shines in the depths of quiet there;
And home and love once more are mine,
Found in that dewy calm divine,
My gentle child!
Its light by day around thee gleams:
Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies;
Look on me with thy cloudless eyes,
My gentle child!
IF THOU HAST CRUSH'D A FLOWER.
Affection from thee! In this bitter world
Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast;
Watch—guard it—suffer not a breath to dim
The bright gem's purity!”
The root may not be blighted;
If thou hast quench'd a lamp,
Once more it may be lighted:
But on thy harp or on thy lute,
The string which thou hast broken,
Shall never in sweet sound again
Give to thy touch a token!
Whose voice of song could cheer thee,
Still, still he may be won
From the skies to warble near thee:
But if upon the troubled sea
Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded,
Hope not that wind or wave will bring
The treasure back when needed.
The summer's breath is healing,
And its clusters yet may glow
Through the leaves their bloom revealing:
But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown
With a bright draught fill'd—oh! never
Shall earth give back that lavish'd wealth
To cool thy parch'd lip's fever!
If thou waste the love it bore thee;
And like that jewel gone,
Which the deep will not restore thee;
And like that string of harp or lute
Whence the sweet sound is scatter'd:—
Gently, oh! gently touch the chords,
So soon for ever shatter'd.
BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED.
Ere one grief had bow'd thy head,
Brightly did'st thou part!
With thy young thoughts pure from spot,
With thy fond love wasted not,
With thy bounding heart.
Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet,
Ere with dust o'erspread:
White rose which no stain hath known,
Be about thee shed!
And the primrose shall have birth
O'er thy gentle head;
Thou, that like a dewdrop borne
On a sudden breeze of morn,
Brightly thus hast fled!
THE BED OF HEATH.
Hear'st thou not the bugle's blast?
Feel'st thou not the dayspring's breath?
Rouse thee from thy bed of heath!
Arm, thou bold and strong!
Fiery steeds are neighing round thee;
Banners to the fresh wind play,—
Rise, and arm;—tis day, 'tis day!
And thou hast slumber'd long.
Longer yet my sleep must be;
Though the morn of battle rise,
Darkly night rolls o'er my eyes.
Brother, this is death!
Call me not when wine flows round;
Name me but amidst the brave;
Give me but a soldier's grave—
But my bed of heath!”
FAIRY SONG.
Are your steps for ever gone?
Fairy King and Elfin Queen,
Come ye to the sylvan scene,
From your dim and distant shore,
Never more?
With a thrill of joy and fear,
In the hush of moonlight hours,
Voices from the folded flowers,
Faint sweet flute-notes as of yore,
Never more?
Hear again our midnight mirth:
By our brooks and dingles green
Since unhallow'd steps have been,
Ours shall thread the forests hoar
Never more.
Will we hang the dewdrop's gem;
Quiver to our dancing tread,
By sweet fount or murmuring shore,
Never more!”
WHAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND.
In Memnon's harp of yore?
What spirit on its viewless way
Along the Nile's green shore?
Oh! not the night, and not the storm,
And not the lightning's fire,
But sunlight's torch, the kind, the warm,
This, this awoke the lyre.
Thus music forth on life?
Like a sweet voice prevailing o'er
The truant sounds of strife.—
Oh! not the conflict 'midst the throng,
Not e'en the trumpet's hour;
Love is the gifted and the strong,
To wake that music's power!
OH! IF THOU WILT NOT GIVE THINE HEART.
Give back mine own to me,
And leave me lone, but free.
I would not from me cast!
Let me but dream 'twill win me thine
By its deep truth at last.
Through years without reply?
Oh! if thine heart thou wilt not give,
Give me a thought, a sigh!
LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE.
My soul was strong before;
Silent, yet strong its griefs to keep
From vainly gushing o'er!
Turn from me, turn those gentle eyes—
In this fond gaze my spirit dies.
Look on me thus no more!
My heart's glad life is o'er;
It will but break with tenderness,
Which cannot now restore!
The lyre-strings have been jarr'd too long,
Winter hath touch'd the source of song!
Look on me thus no more!
SING TO ME, GONDOLIER!
Sing words from Tasso's lay;
While blue, and still, and clear,
Night seems but softer day:
The gale is gently falling,
As if it paused to hear
Some strain the past recalling—
Sing to me, Gondolier!
The memory of the brave;
Bid no high numbers break
The silence of the wave.
Gone are the noble-hearted,
Closed the bright pageants here;
And the glad song is departed
From the mournful Gondolier!”
O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS.
O'er the white sea foam,
Come, thou long parted one,
Back to thine home!
Sad looks thy place,
Missing thy face.
Since thou art gone,
Sisters are mourning thee,
Come to thine own!
Back to thy rest;
Come to thy father's hall,
Thy mother's breast!
O'er the white sea foam,
Come, thou long parted one,
Back to thine home!
O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING!
Gladdening sea and shore,
Wake the woods to sing,
Wake my heart no more!
Streams have felt the sighing
Of thy scented wing,
Let each fount replying
Hail thee, breeze of spring,
Once more!
Passing not in vain,
Odours in soft showers
Thou hast brought again.
—Let the primrose greet thee,
Let the violet pour
Incense forth to meet thee—
Wake my heart no more!
No more!
Bower'd in leafy gloom,
Even thy soft return
Calls not song or bloom.
Leave my spirit sleeping
Like that silent thing;
Stir the founts of weeping
There, O breeze of spring,
No more!
COME TO ME, DREAMS OF HEAVEN.
My fainting spirit bear
On your bright wings, by morning given,
Up to celestial air.
Away, far, far away,
From bowers by tempests riven,
Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day,
O blessed dreams of heaven!
Sweet dreams! and yet again,
O'er burning thought and memory shower
Your soft effacing rain!
Waft me where gales divine,
With dark clouds ne'er have striven,
Where living founts for ever shine—
O blessed dreams of heaven!
GOOD-NIGHT.
Stars have set their watch at last,
Founts that through the deep woods flow
Make sweet sounds, unheard till now,
Flowers have shut with fading light—
Good-night!
Sleep sit dove-like on thy breast!
If within that secret cell
One dark form of memory dwell,
Be it mantled from thy sight—
Good-night!
Kind looks o'er thy slumbers shine!
Go, and in the spirit-land
Meet thy home's long parted band,
Good-night!
Dreams of heaven on mourners fall!
Exile! o'er thy couch may gleams
Pass from thine own mountain streams;
Bard! away to worlds more bright—
Good-night!
LET HER DEPART.
The clear light in her eyes
Hath nought to do with earthly day,
'Tis kindled from the skies.
Let her depart!
Even as some gentle star
Seems gazing down on grief or mirth,
How softly, yet how far!
Let her depart!
Oh! could they mount and fly!
She never sees a wandering dove,
But for its wings to sigh.
Let her depart!
Low music on its way,
For her who cannot stay.
Let her depart!
She breathes and moves alone,
Pining for those bright bowers and streams
Where her beloved is gone.
Let her depart!
HOW CAN THAT LOVE SO DEEP, SO LONE.
So faithful unto death,
Thus fitfully in laughing tone,
In airy word, find breath?
The lily's cup may gleam,
Though many a mournful secret rest,
Low in the unfathom'd stream.
In its deep cavern's power,
And like the play of words above,
That lily's trembling flower.
WATER-LILIES.
A FAIRY SONG.
Come away, elves! while the dew is sweet,Come to the dingles where fairies meet;
Know that the lilies have spread their bells
O'er all the pools in our forest dells;
Stilly and lightly their vases rest
On the quivering sleep of the water's breast,
Catching the sunshine through leaves that throw
To their scented bosoms an emerald glow;
And a star from the depth of each pearly cup,
A golden star unto heaven looks up,
As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie,
Set in the blue of the summer sky.
—Come away! under arching boughs we'll float,
Making those urns each a fairy boat;
We'll row them with reeds o'er the fountains free,
And a tall flag-leaf shall our streamer be,
And we'll send out wild music so sweet and low,
It shall seem from the bright flower's heart to flow,
As if 'twere a breeze with a flute's low sigh,
Or water drops train'd into melody.
—Come away! for the midsummer sun grows strong,
And the life of the lily may not be long
THE BROKEN FLOWER.
Still, still a little while!
Sweetness is lingering in its leaves,
Though faded be their smile.
Yet, for the sake of what hath been,
Oh, cast it not away!
'Twas born to grace a summer scene,
A long, bright, golden day,
My love!
A long, bright, golden day!
Its fragrance yet shall cling,
Telling, that on thy heart hath lain,
A fair, though faded thing.
But not even that warm heart hath power
To win it back from fate:
—Oh! I am like thy broken flower,
Cherish'd too late, too late,
My love!
Cherish'd alas! too late!
I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAIN.
I had a dream of thee,
Lovely, though sad, on desert plain,
Mournful on midnight sea.
And troubled through the day?
It touched all earth with spirit-light,
It glorified my way!
In holy things and fair?
We met—I saw thy soul once more—
The world's breath had been there!
Mournful on midnight sea,
Yet would I buy with life again
That one deep dream of thee!
FAIRIES' RECALL.
In the starry sky,
While the softest shadows
On the greensward lie,
While the moonlight slumbers
In the lily's urn,
Bright elves of the wild wood!
Oh! return, return!
On the river shore,
Let your silvery laughter
Echo yet once more;
Of your dewy feet
Rings to that old chorus:
“The daisy is so sweet!”
Did your starlight mirth,
With the song of Avon,
Quit this work-day earth?
Yet while green leaves glisten,
And while bright stars burn,
By that magic memory,
Oh, return, return!
THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA.
Now Spring is on her way;
Well, well I know how brightly there
In joy the young leaves play;
How sweet on winds of morn or eve
The violet's breath may be;—
Yet ask me, woo me not to leave
My lone rock by the sea.
The curlew's restless cries,
Unto my watching heart are more
Than all earth's melodies.
There's but one place for me.
Till I can greet thy swift sail home—
My lone rock by the sea!
O YE VOICES GONE.
Sounds of other years!
Hush that haunting tone,
Melt me not to tears!
All who loved you well,
Yet, sweet voices, yet
O'er my soul ye swell.
With the breath of flowers,
Floating back, ye bring
Thoughts of vanish'd hours.
Oh! ye voices gone!
This lone heart ye make
But more deeply lone.
BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM AT REST.
We found the warrior lying,
And around his noble breast
A banner clasp'd in dying:
Dark and still
Was every hill,
And the winds of night were sighing.
To a lonely bed we bore him;
'Twas a green, still, solemn place,
Where the mountain-heath waves o'er him.
Woods alone
Seem to moan,
Wild streams to deplore him.
Our sad thoughts oft are flying,
To those dark hills far away,
Where in death we found him lying;
On his breast
A banner press'd,
And the night-wind o'er him sighing.
IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING.
With sorrow in the air,
Vain love repining there?
If not, then how can that wild wail,
O sad Æolian lyre!
Be drawn forth by the wandering gale,
From thy deep thrilling wire?
That sadness from the wind,
Nor are those tones of sorrow
In thee, O harp! enshrined;
But in our own hearts deeply set
Lies the true quivering lyre,
Whence love, and memory, and regret,
Wake answers from thy wire.
THE NAME OF ENGLAND.
Hath a high and thrilling tone;
And the first deep gun of an ocean fight
Dread music all its own.
Is in that name of thine,
To strike the fire from every heart
Along the banner'd line.
Of yore, the brave and true,
And the yeoman's arrow flew.
Through the battles of the sea,
When the red-cross flag o'er smoke wreaths play'd,
Like the lightning in its glee.
Its echoes have been known,
By a thousand streams the hearts lie low,
That have answer'd to its tone.
Its pealing note hath stirr'd;
—Sound on, and on, for evermore,
O thou victorious word!
OLD NORWAY.
A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG.
Of battle on the blast;
Her voice the forest pines hath stirr'd,
As if a storm went past;
Her thousand hills the call have heard,
And forth their fire-flags cast.
The kingly chase of foes;
'Tis not the bear or wild wolf's race,
Whose trampling shakes the snows;
Arm, arm! 'tis on a nobler trace
The northern spearman goes.
With many an icy bed;
Heap there the rocks for funeral piles,
Above the invader's head!
Or let the seas, that guard our isles,
Give burial to his dead!
These words have been published, as arranged to the spirited national air of Norway, by Charles Graves, Esq.
COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP.
I pine, I pine for thee;
Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep,
And set my spirit free!
Each lonely, burning thought,
In twilight languor steep—
Come to the full heart, long o'erwrought,
O gentle, gentle sleep!
Sleep, gentle sleep! yet bring
No voice, love's yearning to renew,
No vision on thy wing!
Come, as to folding flowers,
To birds in forests deep;
—Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours,
O gentle, gentle sleep!
THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS; OR, THE MEETING ON THE FIELD OF GRUTLI.
I
'Twas night upon the Alps. The Senn's wild horn,Like a wind's voice, had pour'd its last long tone,
Whose pealing echoes, through the larch-woods borne,
To the low cabins of the glens made known
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had gone,
By cliff and pine-bridge, to their place of rest;
The chamois slumber'd, for the chase was done;
His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press'd,
And the rock-eagle couch'd high on his cloudy nest.
II
Did the land sleep?—the woodman's axe had ceasedIts ringing notes upon the beech and plane;
The grapes were gather'd in; the vintage feast
Was closed upon the hills, the reaper's strain,
Hush'd by the streams; the year was in its wane,
The night in its mid-watch; it was a time
E'en mark'd and hallow'd unto slumber's reign.
But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime,
And o'er his white Alps moved the spirit of the clime.
III
For there, where snows, in crowning glory spread,High and unmark'd by mortal footstep lay;
And there, where torrents, 'mid the ice-caves fed,
Burst in their joy of light and sound away;
And there, where freedom, as in scornful play,
Had hung man's dwellings 'midst the realms of air,
O'er cliffs the very birthplace of the day—
Oh! who would dream that tyranny could dare
To lay her withering hand on God's bright works e'en there?
IV
Yet thus it was—amidst the fleet streams gushingTo bring down rainbows o'er their sparry cell,
And the glad heights, through mist and tempest rushing
Up where the sun's red fire-glance earliest fell,
And the fresh pastures where the herd's sweet bell
There peasant men their free thoughts might not tell
Save in the hour of shadows and of dread,
And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt's dull stealthy tread.
V
But in a land of happy shepherd homes,On its green hills in quiet joy reclining,
With their bright hearth-fires 'midst the twilight glooms,
From bowery lattice through the fir-woods shining—
A land of legends, and wild songs entwining
Their memory with all memories loved and blest—
In such a land there dwells a power, combining
The strength of many a calm but fearless breast;
And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of its rest!
VI
A sound went up—the wave's dark sleep was broken—On Uri's lake was heard a midnight oar—
Of man's brief course a troubled moment's token
Th' eternal waters to their barriers bore;
And then their gloom a flashing image wore
Of torch-fires streaming out o'er crag and wood,
And the wild-falcon's wing was heard to soar
In startled haste—and by that moonlight flood,
A band of patriot men on Grutli's verdure stood.
VII
They stood in arms: the wolf-spear and the bowHad waged their war on things of mountain race;
Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad foe?
—Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase,
True hearts in fight, were gather'd on that place
Of secret council.—Not for fame or spoil
So met those men in Heaven's majestic face;—
To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil,
The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil.
VIII
O'er their low pastoral valleys might the tideOf years have flow'd, and still, from sire to son,
Their names and records on the green earth died,
As cottage-lamps, expiring one by one
In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun
To hush all sound.—But silent on its height,
The snow-mass, full of death, while ages run
Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light,
Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding might.
IX
So were they roused—th' invading step had pass'dTheir cabin thresholds, and the lowly door,
Which well had stood against the Fohnwind's blast,
Could bar Oppression from their home no more.
Why, what had she to do where all things wore
Wild grandeur's impress?—In the storm's free way,
Th' enduring and magnificent array
Of sovereign Alps, that wing'd their eagles with the day?
X
This might not long be borne—the tameless hillsHave voices from the cave and cataract swelling,
Fraught with His name, whose awful presence fills
Their deep lone places, and for ever telling
That He hath made man free! and they whose dwelling
Was in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear;
The weight of sufferance from their hearts repelling,
They rose—the forester—the mountaineer—
Oh! what hath earth more strong than the good peasant-spear?
XI
Sacred be Grutli's field—their vigil keepingThrough many a blue and starry summer night,
There, while the sons of happier lands were sleeping,
Had those brave Switzers met, and in the sight
Of the just God, who pours forth burning might
To gird the oppress'd, had given their deep thoughts way,
And braced their spirits for the patriot fight,
With lovely images of homes that lay
Bower'd 'midst the rustling pines, or by the torrent spray.
XII
Now had endurance reach'd its bounds!—They cameWith courage set in each bright earnest eye,
The day, the signal, and the hour to name,
When they should gather on their hills to die,
Or shake the glaciers with their joyous cry
For the land's freedom.—'Twas a scene combining
All glory in itself—the solemn sky,
The stars, the waves their soften'd light enshrining,
And man's high soul supreme o'er mighty Nature shining.
XIII
Calmly they stood, and with collected mien,Breathing their souls in voices firm but low
As if the spirit of the hour and scene,
With the woods' whisper and the waves' sweet flow,
Had temper'd in their thoughtful hearts the glow
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath
Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow,
E'en thus of old, the Spartan from its sheath
Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death.
XIV
And three, that seem'd as chieftains of the band,Were gather'd in the 'midst on that lone shore
By Uri's lake—a father of the land,
One on his brow the silent record wore
Of many days, whose shadows had pass'd o'er
Of youth with sorrow.—Yet from memory's lore
Still his life's evening drew its loveliest gleams,
For he had walk'd with God, beside the mountain-streams.
XV
And his grey hairs, in happier times, might wellTo their last pillow silently have gone,
As melts a wreath of snow.—But who shall tell
How life may task the spirit?—He was one,
Who from its morn a freeman's work had done,
And reap'd his harvest, and his vintage press'd,
Fearless of wrong; and now, at set of sun,
He bow'd not to his years, for on the breast
Of a still chainless land he deem'd it much to rest.
XVI
But for such holy rest strong hands must toil,Strong hearts endure!—By that pale elder's side,
Stood one that seem'd a monarch of the soil,
Serene and stately in his manhood's pride,
Werner, the brave and true!—If men have died,
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep,
He was a mate for such.—The voice that cried
Within his breast, “Arise!” came still and deep
From his far home, that smiled e'en then in moonlight sleep.
XVII
It was a home to die for!—As it roseThrough its vine-foliage, sending forth a sound
Of mirthful childhood, o'er the green repose
And he whose life to that sweet spot was bound
Raised unto Heaven a glad yet thoughtful eye,
And set his free step firmer on the ground,
When o'er his soul its melodies went by
As through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy.
XVIII
But who was he, that on his hunting-spearLean'd with a prouder and more fiery bearing?
His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear,
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing
That which they may not tame—a soul declaring
War against earth's oppressors. 'Midst that throng,
Of other mould he seem'd, and loftier daring,
One whose blood swept high impulses along,
One that should pass, and leave a name for warlike song—
XIX
A memory on the mountains!—one to stand,When the hills echo'd with the deepening swell
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land,
And in some rock defile, or savage dell,
Array her peasant-children to repel
Th' invader, sending arrows for his chains!
Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell,
Her banner with a smile—for through his veins
The joy of danger flow'd, as torrents to the plains.
XX
There was at times a wildness in the lightOf his quick-flashing eye; a something, born
And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to scorn!
It well might be!—Young Erni's step had worn
The mantling snows on their most regal steeps,
And track'd the lynx above the clouds of morn,
And follow'd where the flying chamois leaps
Across the dark-blue rifts, th' unfathom'd glacier deeps.
XXI
He was a creature of the Alpine sky,A being whose bright spirit had been fed
'Midst the crown'd heights of joy and liberty,
And thoughts of power. He knew each path which led
To the rock's treasure-caves, whose crystal shed
Soft light o'er secret fountains. At the tone
Of his loud horn, the Lammer-Geyer had spread
A startled wing; for oft that peal had blown
Where the free cataract's voice was wont to sound alone.
XXII
His step had track'd the waste, his soul had stirr'dThe ancient solitudes—his voice had told
Of wrongs to call down Heaven. That tale was heard
In Hasli's dales, and where the shepherds' fold
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold
On the bleak Oberland; and where the light
Of day's last footstep bathes in burning gold
Great Righi's cliffs; and where Mount Pilate's height
Casts o'er his glassy lake the darkness of his might.
XXIII
Nor was it heard in vain. There all things pressHigh thoughts on man. The fearless hunter pass'd,
And, from the bosom of the wilderness,
There leapt a spirit and a power to cast
The weight of bondage down—and bright and fast,
As the clear waters, joyously and free,
Burst from the desert-rock, it rush'd at last,
Through the far valleys; till the patriot three
Thus with their brethren stood, beside the Forest Sea.
XXIV
They link'd their hands, they pledged their stainless faith,In the dread presence of attesting Heaven,
They bound their hearts to suffering and to death,
With the severe and solemn transport given
To bless such vows. How nobly man had striven,
How man might strive, and vainly strive, they knew,
And call'd upon their God, whose arm had riven
The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew,
The foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt's might o'er-threw.
XXV
They knelt, and rose in strength. The valleys layStill in their dimness, but the peaks which darted
Into the bright mid-air, had caught from day
A flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted,
Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted,
Their setting glory, ere from slumber started
Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born—
So far was heard the blast of freedom's echoing horn!
XXVI
The ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came rendingThe frozen stillness which around them hung;
From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending,
Gave answer, till the sky's blue hollow rung;
And the flame-signals through the midnight sprung
From the Surennen rocks, like banners streaming
To the far Seelisberg; whence light was flung
On Grutli's field, till all the red lake gleaming,
Shone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendour seeming.
XXVII
And the winds toss'd each summit's blazing crest,As a host's plumage; and the giant pines,
Fell'd where they waved o'er crag and eagle's nest,
Heap'd up the flames. The clouds grew fiery signs,
As o'er a city's burning towers and shrines,
Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crown'd and bright,
In Werner's dwelling flow'd; through leafless vines
From Walter's hearth stream'd forth the festive light,
And Erni's blind old sire gave thanks to heaven that night.
XXVIII
Then on the silence of the snows there layA Sabbath's quiet sunshine—and its bell
Fill'd the hush'd air awhile, with lonely sway;
For the stream's voice was chain'd by Winter's spell.
The deep wood-sounds had ceased. But rock and dell
Rung forth, erelong, when strains of jubilee
Peal'd from the mountain-churches, with a swell
Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea—
For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps were free!
In point of chronology, this poem should have followed “The Vespers of Palermo” and “Songs of the Cid.” Having been inadvertently omitted in its proper place, it is here inserted between the “Songs for Music” and the “Scenes and Hymns of Life,” in order more strikingly to exhibit the changes in style and habits of thought apparent between the earlier and later compositions of Mrs Hemans.
SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE; WITH OTHER RELIGIOUS POEMS.
THE ENGLISH MARTYRS; A SCENE OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY.
Is all at once spread over with a calm
More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy!
I am no more disconsolate.”
Wilson.
Scene in a Prison.
Edith alone.Edith.
Morn once again! Morn in the lone dim cell,
The cavern of the prisoner's fever dream,
And morn on all the green rejoicing hills,
And the bright waters round the prisoner's home,
Far, far away! Now wakes the early bird
That in the lime's transparent foliage sings,
Close to my cottage lattice—he awakes,
To stir the young leaves with his gushing soul,
And to call forth rich answers of delight
From voices buried in a thousand trees,
Through the dim starry hours. Now doth the lake
Darken and flash in rapid interchange
Unto the matin breeze; and the blue mist
Rolls, like a furling banner, from the brows
As if new-born. Bright world! and I am here!
And thou, O thou! the awakening thought of whom
Was more than dayspring, dearer than the sun,
Herbert! the very glance of whose clear eye
Made my soul melt away to one pure fount
Of living, bounding gladness!—where art thou?
My friend! my only and my blessed love!
Herbert, my soul's companion!
[Gomez, a Spanish Priest enters.
Gom.
Daughter, hail!
I bring thee tidings.
Ed.
Heaven will aid my soul
Calmly to meet whate'er thy lips announce.
Gom.
Nay, lift a song of thanksgiving to Heaven,
And bow thy knee down for deliverance won!
Hast thou not pray'd for life? and would'st thou not
Once more be free?
Ed.
Have I not pray'd for life?
I, that am so beloved! that love again
With such a heart of tendrils? Heaven! thou know'st
The gushings of my prayer! And would I not
Once more be free? I that have been a child
Of breezy hills, a playmate of the fawn
In ancient woodlands from mine infancy!
A watcher of the clouds and of the stars,
Beneath the adoring silence of the night;
And a glad wanderer with the happy streams,
Whose laughter fills the mountains! Oh! to hear
Their blessed sounds again!
Rejoice, rejoice!
Our Queen hath pity, maiden, on thy youth;
She wills not thou should'st perish.—I am come
To loose thy bonds.
Ed.
And shall I see his face,
And shall I listen to his voice again,
And lay my head upon his faithful breast,
Weeping there in my gladness? Will this be?—
Blessings upon thee, father! my quick heart
Hath deem'd thee stern—say, wilt thou not forgive
The wayward child, too long in sunshine rear'd—
Too long unused to chastening? Wilt thou not?
But Herbert, Herbert! Oh, my soul hath rush'd
On a swift gust of sudden joy away,
Forgetting all beside! Speak, father, speak!
Herbert—is he too free?
Gom.
His freedom lies
In his own choice—a boon like thine.
Ed.
Thy words
Fall changed and cold upon my boding heart.
Leave not this dim suspense o'ershadowing me.
Let all be told.
Gom.
The monarchs of the earth
Shower not their mighty gifts without a claim
Unto some token of true vassalage,
Some mark of homage.
Ed.
Oh! unlike to Him,
Who freely pours the joy of sunshine forth,
And the bright quickening rain, on those who serve
And those who heed him not!
Gom.
(laying a paper before her.)
Is it so much
That thine own hand should set the crowning seal
Sign but these words for liberty and life.
Ed.
(examining and then throwing it from her.)
Sign but these words! and wherefore saidst thou not,
“Be but a traitor to God's light within?”—
Cruel, oh, cruel! thy dark sport hath been
With a young bosom's hope! Farewell, glad life!
Bright opening path to love and home farewell!
And thou—now leave me with my God alone!
Gom.
Dost thou reject Heaven's mercy?
Ed.
Heaven's! doth Heaven
Woo the free spirit for dishonour'd breath
To sell its birthright? doth Heaven set a price
On the clear jewel of unsullied faith,
And the bright calm of conscience? Priest, away!
God hath been with me 'midst the holiness
Of England's mountains. Not in sport alone
I trod their heath-flowers; but high thoughts rose up
From the broad shadow of the enduring rocks,
And wander'd with me into solemn glens,
Where my soul felt the beauty of his word.
I have heard voices of immortal truth,
Blent with the everlasting torrent-sounds
That make the deep hills tremble.—Shall I quail?—
Shall England's daughter sink?—No! He who there
Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm,
Will not forsake his child!
Gom.
(turning from her.)
Then perish! lost
In thine own blindness!
(suddenly throwing herself at his feet.)
Father! hear me yet!
Oh! if the kindly touch of human love
Hath ever warm'd thy breast—
Gom.
Away—away!
I know not love.
Ed.
Yet hear! if thou hast known
The tender sweetness of a mother's voice—
If the true vigil of affection's eye
Hath watch'd thy childhood—if fond tears have e'er
Been shower'd upon thy head—if parting words
E'er pierced thy spirit with their tenderness—
Let me but look upon his face once more,
Let me but say—farewell, my soul's beloved!
And I will bless thee still!
Gom.
(aside.)
Beholding him in fetters; woman's faith
Will bend to woman's love—
Follow, and I will guide thee to his cell.
Ed.
Oh! stormy hour of agony and joy!
But I shall see him—I shall hear his voice!
[They go out.
Scene II.
—Another Part of the Prison.Herbert—Edith.
Ed.
Herbert, my Herbert! is it thus we meet?
Her.
The voice of my own Edith! Can such joy
Light up this place of death? And do I feel
Thy breath of love once more upon my cheek,
My blessed Edith? Oh, so pale! so changed!
My flower, my blighted flower! thou that wert made
For the kind fostering of sweet summer airs,
How hath the storm been with thee!—Lay thy head
On this true breast again, my gentle one!
And tell me all.
Ed.
Yes, take me to thy heart,
For I am weary, weary! Oh! that heart!
The kind, the brave, the tender!—how my soul
Hath sicken'd in vain yearnings for the balm
Of rest on that warm heart!—full, deep repose!
One draught of dewy stillness after storm!
And God hath pitied me, and I am here—
Yet once before I die!
Her.
They cannot slay
One young, and meek, and beautiful as thou,
My broken lily! Surely the long days
Of the dark cell have been enough for thee!
Oh! thou shalt live, and raise thy gracious head
Yet in calm sunshine.
Ed.
Herbert! I have cast
The snare of proffer'd mercy from my soul,
This very hour. God to the weak hath given
Victory o'er life and death!—The tempter's price
Hath been rejected—Herbert, I must die.
Her.
O Edith! Edith! I, that led thee first
From the old path wherein thy fathers trod—
I, that received it as an angel's task,
To pour the fresh light on thine ardent soul,
Which drank it as a sunflower—I have been
Thy guide to death!
To heaven! my guide to heaven,
My noble and my bless'd! Oh! look up,
Be strong, rejoice, my Herbert! But for thee,
How could my spirit have sprung up to God,
Through the dark cloud which o'er its vision hung,
The night of fear and error?—thy dear hand
First raised that veil, and show'd the glorious world
My heritage beyond.—Friend! love, and friend!
It was as if thou gav'st me mine own soul
In those bright days! Yes! a new earth and heaven,
And a new sense for all their splendours born,
These were thy gifts! and shall I not rejoice
To die, upholding their immortal worth,
Even for thy sake? Yes, fill'd with nobler life
By thy pure love, made holy to the truth,
Lay me upon the altar of thy God,
The first fruits of thy ministry below;
Thy work, thine own!
Her.
My love, my sainted love!
Oh! I can almost yield thee unto heaven;
Earth would but sully thee! Thou must depart,
With the rich crown of thy celestial gifts
Untainted by a breath! And yet, alas!
Edith! what dreams of holy happiness,
Even for this world, were ours!—the low, sweet home,
The pastoral dwelling, with its ivied porch,
And lattice gleaming through the leaves—and thou,
My life's companion!—Thou, beside my hearth,
Sitting with thy meek eyes, or greeting me
Back from brief absence with thy bounding step,
In the green meadow-path, or by my side
Kneeling—thy calm uplifted face to mine,
How have we loved—how fervently, how long!
And this to be the close!
Ed.
Oh! bear me up
Against the unutterable tenderness
Of earthly love, my God! in the sick hour
Of dying human hope, forsake me not!
Herbert, my Herbert! even from that sweet home
Where it had been too much of Paradise
To dwell with thee—even thence the oppressor's hand
Might soon have torn us; or the touch of death
Might one day there have left a widow'd heart,
Pining alone. We will go hence, beloved!
To the bright country, where the wicked cease
From troubling, where the spoiler hath no sway;
Where no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs
The Sabbath-peace of love. We will go hence,
Together with our wedded souls, to heaven:
No solitary lingering, no cold void,
No dying of the heart! Our lives have been
Lovely through faithful love, and in our deaths
We will not be divided.
Her.
Oh! the peace
Of God is lying far within thine eyes,
Far underneath the mist of human tears,
Lighting those blue still depths, and sinking thence
On my worn heart. Now am I girt with strength,
Now I can bless thee, my true bride for Heaven!
Ed.
And let me bless thee, Herbert! in this hour
Let my soul bless thee with prevailing might!
Oh! thou hast loved me nobly! thou didst take
An orphan to thy heart, a thing unprized
That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl
Of richest price; and thou didst fill her soul
With the high gifts of an immortal wealth.—
I bless, I bless thee! Never did thine eye
Look on me but in glistening tenderness,
My gentle Herbert! Never did thy voice
But in affection's deepest music speak
To thy poor Edith! Never was thy heart
Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine,
My faithful, generous Herbert! Woman's peace
Ne'er on a breast so tender and so true
Reposed before.—Alas! thy showering tears
Fall fast upon my cheek—forgive, forgive!
I should not melt thy noble strength away
In such an hour.
Her.
Will fail no more; God bears me up through thee,
And, by thy words, and by the heavenly light
Shining around thee, through thy very tears,
Will yet sustain me! Let us call on him!
Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft,
Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him,
Th' all-pitying One, to aid.
Father above! in tender mercy look
On us, thy children! through th' o'ershadowing cloud
Of sorrow and mortality, send aid—
Save or we perish! We would pour our lives
Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth,
But we are weak—we, the bruised reeds of earth,
The blindness of our passionate desires,
The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts,
Which cleave to dust! Forgive the strife; accept
The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears,
From mortal pangs wrung forth! And if our souls,
In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess,
Of their long-clasping love, have wander'd not,
Holiest! from thee; oh! take them to thyself,
After the fiery trial, take them home
To dwell, in that imperishable bond
Before thee link'd, for ever. Hear, through Him
Who meekly drank the cup of agony,
Who pass'd through death to victory, hear and save!
Pity us, Father! we are girt with snares;
Father in Heaven! we have no help but thee.
O Edith! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice,
And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn
We loved in happier days—the strain which tells
Of the dread conflict in the olive shade?
When but his Father's eye
Look'd through the lonely garden's shade
On that dread agony;
The Lord of All above, beneath,
Was bow'd with sorrow unto death.
The stars might well grow dim,
So to o'ershadow Him!
That he who gave man's breath, might know
The very depths of human woe.
The faint perplexing dread,
The mists that hang o'er parting life,
All gather'd round his head;
And the Deliverer knelt to pray—
Yet pass'd it not, that cup, away!
Had sunk beneath his tread;
It pass'd not—though to him the grave
Had yielded up its dead.
But there was sent him from on high
A gift of strength for man to die.
With anguish and dismay?
How may we meet our conflict yet,
In the dark narrow way?
Through Him—through Him, that path who trod—
Save, or we perish, Son of God!
O thou unutterably loved, farewell!
Let our hearts bow to God!
Her.
One last embrace.
For love's communion yet!—Farewell—farewell!—
[She is led out.
'Tis o'er—the bitterness of death is past!
FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.
Up the blue heavens, and through the middle air,
Joyfully ringing with the skylark's song,
I wept! and thought how sad for one so young
To bid farewell to so much happiness.
But Christ hath call'd me from this lower world,
Delightful though it be.”
Wilson.
Apartment in an English Country-House.—Lilian reclining, as sleeping on a couch. Her Mother watching beside her. Her Sister enters with flowers.
Mother.
Hush, lightly tread! still tranquilly she sleeps,
As, when a babe, I rock'd her on my heart.
I've watch'd, suspending e'en my breath, in fear
To break the heavenly spell. Move silently!
And oh! those flowers! dear Jessy, bear them hence—
Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears
That shook her trembling frame, when last we brought
The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know
What sudden longings for the woods and hills,
These leaves and odours with strange influence wake
In her fast-kindled soul?
Jessy.
Oh! she would pine,
Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld,
Mother! far more than now her spirit yearns
For the blue sky, the singing-birds and brooks,
And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome spring
Their blooms recall.
Lilian,
(raising herself.)
Is that my Jessy's voice?
It woke me not, sweet mother! I had lain
Silently, visited by waking dreams,
Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness,
Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought flowers?
Nay, fear not now thy fond child's waywardness,
My thoughtful mother!—in her chasten'd soul
The passion-colour'd images of life,
Which, with their sudden startling flush awoke
So oft those burning tears, have died away;
And night is there—still, solemn, holy night,
With all her stars, and with the gentle tune
Of many fountains, low and musical,
By day unheard.
Mother.
And wherefore night, my child?
Thou art a creature all of life and dawn,
And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise,
And walk forth with the dayspring.
Lilian.
Dream it no more, my mother!—there are things
Known but to God, and to the parting soul,
Which feels his thrilling summons.
Too much o'ershadow those kind loving eyes.
Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step,
Well do I see, hath not alone explored
The garden bowers, but freely visited
Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet
Is from the cool green shadowy river nook,
Where the stream chimes around th' old mossy stones
With sounds like childhood's laughter. Is that spot
Lovely as when our glad eyes hail'd it first?
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep
The clear brown wave with every passing wind?
And through the shallower waters, where they lie
Dimpling in light, do the vein'd pebbles gleam
Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies,
From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still
Among the poplar boughs?
Jessy.
All, all is there
Which glad midsummer's wealthiest hours can bring;
All, save the soul of all, thy lightening smile!
Therefore I stood in sadness 'midst the leaves,
And caught an under-music of lament
In the stream's voice; but Nature waits thee still,
And for thy coming piles a fairy throne
Of richest moss.
Lilian.
Alas! it may not be!
My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly,
To all these blessed haunts of song and thought;
Yet not the less I love to look on these,
Their dear memorials;—strew them o'er my couch
Till it grow like a forest bank in spring,
Ah! the pale brier rose! touch'd so tenderly,
As a pure ocean shell, with faintest red,
Melting away to pearliness!—I know
How its long light festoons o'erarching hung
From the grey rock, that rises altar-like,
With its high waving crown of mountain ash,
'Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough
Of honey'd woodbine, tells me of the oak
Whose deep midsummer gloom sleeps heavily,
Shedding a verdurous twilight o'er the face
Of the glade's pool. Methinks I see it now;
I look up through the stirring of its leaves
Unto the intense blue crystal firmament.
The ringdove's wing is flitting o'er my head,
Casting at times a silvery shadow down
'Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful!
How beautiful is all this fair free world
Under God's open sky!
Mother.
Thou art o'erwrought
Once more, my child! The dewy trembling light
Presaging tears, again is in thine eye.
O, hush, dear Lilian! turn thee to repose.
Lilian.
Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire;
Importunately to my lips they throng,
And with their earthly kindred seek to blend
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone—
(For I must go)—then the remember'd words
Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth,
Will to thy fond heart be as amulets
Mother! dear sister! kindest, gentlest ones!
Be comforted that now I weep no more
For the glad earth and all the golden light
Whence I depart.
No! God hath purified my spirit's eye,
And in the folds of this consummate rose
I read bright prophecies. I see not there,
Dimly and mournfully, the word “farewell”
On the rich petals traced: No—in soft veins
And characters of beauty, I can read—
“Look up, look heavenward!”
I thank thee for these gifts, the precious links
Whereby my spirit unto thee is drawn!
I thank thee that the loveliness of earth
Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these
But germs of things unperishing, that bloom
Beside th' immortal streams? Shall I not find
The lily of the field, the Saviour's flower,
In the serene and never-moaning air,
And the clear starry light of angel eyes,
A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far
Will not the violet's dusky purple glow,
When it hath ne'er been press'd to broken hearts,
A record of lost love?
Mother.
My Lilian! thou
Surely in thy bright life hast little known
Of lost things or of changed!
Lilian.
For thou hast been my shield! But had it been
My lot on this world's billows to be thrown
So perilously fashion'd, that for them
God's touch alone hath gentleness enough
To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!—
We will not speak of this!
Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers,
I dream of music? Something in their hues
All melting into colour'd harmonies,
Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords,
Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die
In tenderest falls away.—O, bring thy harp,
Sister! a gentle heaviness at last
Hath touch'd mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep
Will come again.
Jessy.
What would'st thou hear? The Italian peasant's lay,
Which makes the desolate Campagna ring
With “Roma, Roma?” or the madrigal
Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily?
Or the old ditty left by Troubadours
To girls of Languedoc?
Lilian.
Oh, no! not these.
Jessy.
What then? the Moorish melody still known
Within the Alhambra city? or those notes
Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile's heart
Even unto death?
Lilian.
No, sister, nor yet these—
Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret,
Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes
In the caressing sweetness of their tones,
For one who dies;—They would but woo me back
And vainly, vainly—No! a loftier strain,
A deeper music!—Something that may bear
The spirit upon slow yet mighty wings,
Unsway'd by gusts of earth: something all fill'd
With solemn adoration, tearful prayer.—
Sing me that antique strain which once I deem'd
Almost too sternly simple, too austere
In its grave majesty! I love it now—
Now it seems fraught with holiest power, to hush
All billows of the soul, e'en like his voice
That said of old—“Be still!”—Sing me that strain,
“The Saviour's dying hour.”
[Jessy sings to the Harp.
In thy last mortal hour
Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully!
All that on us is laid,
All the deep gloom,
The desolation and the abandonment,
The dark amaze of death;
All upon thee too fell,
Redeemer! Son of Man!
Wherewith the silver cord
Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung;
The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown
Into the quick strong heart;
This, this, the passion and the agony
Of battling love and death,
Holy one! Son of God!
E'en this cup was thine!
Fond wailing voices call'd thy spirit back:
E'en 'midst the mighty thoughts
Of that last crowning hour;
E'en on thine awful way to victory,
Wildly they call'd thee back!
And weeping eyes of love
Unto thy heart's deep core,
Pierced through the folds of death's mysterious veil—
Sufferer! thou Son of Man!
With thy costly blood-drops,
In the shadow of the atoning cross;
And the friend, the faithful,
He that on thy bosom,
Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain—
He a pale sad watcher—
Met with looks of anguish,
All the anguish in thy last meek glance—
Dying Son of Man!
Thou that hast known all woes
Bound in the girdle of mortality!
Thou that wilt lift the reed
Which storms have bruised,
To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry,
Mysteriously must part,
When tearful eyes
Are passionately bent
To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze,
Then, then forsake us not!
Shed on our spirits then
The faith and deep submissiveness of thine!
Thou that didst love,
Thou that didst weep and die—
Thou that didst rise a victor glorified;
Conqueror! thou Son of God!
CATHEDRAL HYMN.
Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here.”
Wordsworth.
A temple shadowy with remembrances
Of the majestic past!—the very light
Streams with a colouring of heroic days
In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle
A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back
To other years;—and the rich fretted roof,
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves,
Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose—
The tenderest image of mortality—
Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts
Cluster like stems in corn sheaves—all these things
On their heart's worship pour'd a wealth of love!
Honour be with the dead!—The people kneel
Under the helms of antique chivalry,
And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown,
And 'midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved,
Of warriors on their tombs.—The people kneel
Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell'd crowns
On the flush'd brows of conquerors have been set;
Where the high anthems of old victories
Have made the dust give echoes.—Hence, vain thoughts!
Memories of power and pride, which, long ago,
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk
In twilight depths away.—Return, my soul!
The cross recalls thee—Lo! the blessed cross!
High o'er the banners and the crests of earth,
Fix'd in its meek and still supremacy!
And lo! the throng of beating human hearts,
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief,
All their full treasures of immortal hope,
Gather'd before their God!—Hark! how the flood
Of the rich organ harmony bears up
Their voice on its high waves!—a mighty burst!
A forest-sounding music! every tone
Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings
From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent:
And the old minster—forest-like itself—
With its long avenues of pillar'd shade,
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not
Answering the electric notes.—Join, join, my soul!
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness,
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.
In solemn joy aspire,
Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain!
On thy strong rushing wind
Bear up from humankind
Thanks and implorings—be they not in vain!
Weak is the melody
Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear,
Unless the heart be there,
Winging the words of prayer,
With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.
Over the multitude—
Be thou amidst them through that heavenly Guest
So shall their cry have power
To win from thee a shower
Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.
That ask no aid but thine,
Father of mercies! here before thee swell!
As to the open sky,
All their dark waters lie
To thee reveal'd, in each close bosom cell.
Mantling its lonely head
From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free;
And the fond aching love,
Thy minister, to move
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.
Behold the agony
In that most hidden chamber of the heart,
Where darkly sits remorse,
Beside the secret source
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?
Many—yet each alone—
To thee that terrible unveiling make;
And still small whispers clear
Are startling many an ear,
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake.
The glory of thy face
Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight:
Where shall the guilty flee?
Over what far off sea?
What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light?
Let his vain flight be made;
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;
The hope—the stay—the shield?
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to Thee!
Oh! let thy love pervade
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought;
There let the living stone
Be cleft—the seed be sown—
The song of fountains from the silence brought!
Within the soul restore
Thine own first image—Holiest and Most High!
As a clear lake is fill'd
With hues of Heaven, instill'd
Down to the depths of its calm purity.
Link'd by the ascending song,
There are, whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar;
Thanks, Father! that the power
Of joy, man's early dower,
Thus, e'en 'midst tears, can fervently adore!
Eternal praise be thine,
Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer!
Let the hymn pierce the sky,
And let the tombs reply!
For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there.
WOOD WALK AND HYMN.
In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand
Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.”
Wordsworth.
Father—Child.
Child.
There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves
Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime
And chestnut boughs, and those long arching sprays
Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood
Were all one picture!
Father.
Hast thou heard, my boy,
The peasant's legend of that quivering tree?
Child.
No, father; doth he say the fairies dance
Amidst the branches?
Father.
Oh! a cause more deep,
More solemn far, the rustic doth assign
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves!
The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon
The meek Redeemer bow'd his head to death,
Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze
Disturbs the airy thistle down, or shakes
The light lines of the shining gossamer.
Child,
(after a pause.)
Dost thou believe it, father?
Father.
We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now,
The characters, by that mysterious hour,
Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man
In visionary days; and thence thrown back
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign
Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven,
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so!
They do not wisely that, with hurried hand,
Would pluck these salutary fancies forth
From their strong soil within the peasant's breast,
And scatter them—far, far too fast!—away
As worthless weeds:—Oh! little do we know
When they have soothed, when saved!
My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee.
Come—let us search for violets.
Child.
Know you not
More of the legends which the woodmen tell
Amidst the trees and flowers!
Father.
Wilt thou know more?
Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-brown stains,
There—by the mossy roots of yon old beech,
'Midst the rich tuft of cowslips—see'st thou not?
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree
Just bending o'er it with a wild bee's weight.
Child.
The Arum leaf?
Father.
The villager will tell thee (and with voice
Lower'd in his true heart's reverent earnestness)
Are the flower's portion from th' atoning blood
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf,
Catching from that dread shower of agony
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus
Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains,
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind
Never to waft away!
The passion-flower?—It grows not in the woods,
But 'midst the bright things brought from other climes.
Child.
What, the pale star-shaped flower, with purple streaks
And light green tendrils?
Father.
Yes, a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower,
As from a land of spirits!—To mine eye
Those faint wan petals—colourless—and yet
Not white, but shadowy—with the mystic lines
(As letters of some wizard language gone)
Into their vapour-like transparence wrought,
Bear something of a strange solemnity,
Awfully lovely!—and the Christian's thought
Loves, in their cloudy penciling, to find
Dread symbols of his Lord's last mortal pangs,
Set by God's hand—The coronal of thorns—
The cross—the wounds—with other meanings deep,
Which I will teach thee when we meet again
That flower, the chosen for the martyr's wreath,
The Saviour's holy flower.
Now have we reach'd the very inmost heart
Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round,
A luxury of gloom!—Scarce doth one ray,
Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal
O'er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades;
Or if it doth, 'tis with a mellow'd hue
Of glow-worm colour'd light.
Of pagan visions, would have been a place
For worship of the wood-nymphs! Through these oaks
A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown
The quivering image of its Dorian shafts
On the stream's bosom; or a sculptured form,
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom,
Have bow'd its head o'er that dark crystal down,
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops
Under bright rain:—but we, my child, are here
With God, our God, a Spirit; who requires
Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth;
And this high knowledge—deep, rich, vast enough
To fill and hallow all the solitude,
Makes consecrated earth where'er we move,
Without the aid of shrines.
The solemn whispering influence of the scene
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand
Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child!
'Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here,
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope
Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds
In its pure crimson goblets, fresh and bright,
The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile
And let me hear once more the woodland verse
I taught thee late—'twas made for such a scene.
[Child speaks.
WOOD HYMN.
The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud;
And o'er the pools all still and darkly clear,
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow'd;
And something of a tender cloistral gloom
Deepens the violet's bloom.
Through the dim dewy veil of foliage round,
Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams,
As if it knew the place were holy ground;
And would not startle, with too bright a burst,
Flowers, all divinely nursed.
Aswift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by,
And leaves and waters, in its wild career,
Shed forth sweet voices—each a mystery!
Surely some awful influence must pervade
These depths of trembling shade!
There is a power, a presence in the woods;
Informs the reverential solitudes:
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod—
Thou, thou art here, my God!
The minster floor, beneath the storied pane,
And 'midst the mouldering banners of the dead,
Shall the green voiceful wild seem less thy fane,
Where thou alone hast built?—where arch and roof
Are of thy living woof?
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee;
The temple twilight of the gloom profound,
The dew cup of the frail anemone,
The reed by every wandering whisper thrill'd—
All, all with thee are fill'd!
More and yet more, by love and lowly thought,
Thy presence, holiest One! to recognise
In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought!
And 'midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear
Ever thy voice to hear!
To meet the awful sweetness of that tone
With no faint thrill or self-accusing start,
But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own—
Joy, such as dwelt in Eden's glorious bowers
Ere sin had dimm'd the flowers.
O'er nature thrown by guilt!—the boding sky,
The hollow leaf-sounds ominous and strange,
The weight wherewith the dark tree shadows lie!
Father! oh! keep my footsteps pure and free,
To walk the woods with thee!
PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT.
Sustain—Thou only canst—the sick at heart,
Restore their languid spirits, and recall
Their lost affections unto thee and thine.”
Wordsworth.
For mind's free breathings in a purer clime!
Night!—when in happier hour the unveiling sky
Woke all my kindled soul,
To meet its revelations, clear and high,
With the strong joy of immortality!
Now hath strange sadness wrapp'd me—strange and deep—
And my thoughts faint, and shadows o'er them roll,
E'en when I deem'd them seraph-plumed, to sweep
Far beyond earth's control.
Fire after fire in Heaven's rich temple burning—
Fast shine they forth—my spirit friends, my guides,
Bright rulers of my being's inmost tides;
They shine—but faintly, through a quivering haze—
They from whose glance my childhood drank delight!
A joy unquestioning—a love intense—
They, that unfolding to more thoughtful sight,
The harmony of their magnificence,
Drew silently the worship of my youth
To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth;
Shall they shower blessing, with their beams divine,
Down to the watcher on the stormy sea,
And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine
Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine,
And to the wanderer lone
On wastes of Afric thrown,
And not to me?
Am I a thing forsaken,
And is the gladness taken
From the bright-pinion'd nature which hath soar'd
Through realms by royal eagle ne'er explored,
And, bathing there in streams of fiery light,
Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite?
How shall I rend the chain?
How drink rich life again
From those pure urns of radiance, welling free?
Father of Spirits! let me turn to thee!
My soul, not yet to lowly thought subdued,
Hath stood without thee on her hill of power—
A fearful and a dazzling solitude!—
To dim desertion is by thee cast down;
Behold! thy child submissively hath bow'd—
Shine on him through the cloud!
Back to his vision with thy face be given!
Bear him on high once more,
But in thy strength to soar,
And wrapt and still'd by that o'ershadowing might,
Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chasten'd sight.
My thoughts go forth, and find no resting-place,
No sheltering home of sympathy and love,
In the responsive bosoms of my race,
And back return, a darkness and a weight,
Till my unanswer'd heart grows desolate—
Yet, yet sustain me, Holiest!—I am vow'd
To solemn service high;
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow'd,
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary.
Fainting beneath the burden of the day,
Because no human tone,
Unto the altar-stone,
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate,
Where it should make eternal truth its mate,
May cheer the sacred solitary way?
Enough to strengthen! Be the hope to win
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame!
Make me thine only!—Let me add but one
To those refulgent steps all undefiled,
Which glorious minds have piled
Through bright self-offering, earnest, childlike, lone,
For mounting to thy throne!
And let my soul, upborne
On wings of inner morn,
Find, in illumined secresy, the sense
Of that bless'd work, its own high recompense.
That on your glory lay,
O ye majestic watchers of the skies!
Through the dissolving veil,
Which made each aspect pale,
Your gladd'ning fires once more I recognise;
And once again a shower
Of hope, and joy, and power,
Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes.
And, if that splendour to my sober'd sight
Come tremulous, with more of pensive light—
Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught,
With more that pierces through each fold of thought
Than I was wont to trace
On Heaven's unshadow'd face—
Be it e'en so!—be mine, though set apart
Unto a radiant ministry, yet still
A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart;
All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil.
Written after hearing the introductory Lecture on Astronomy delivered in Trinity College, Dublin, by Sir William Hamilton, royal astronomer of Ireland, on the 8th November 1832.
THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG.
Hollow winds are in the pines;
Darkly waves each giant bough
O'er the sky's last crimson glow;
Hush'd is now the convent's bell,
Which erewhile with breezy swell
From the purple mountains bore
Greeting to the sunset-shore.
Now the sailor's vesper-hymn
Dies away.
Father! in the forest dim,
Be my stay!
Of the leaves that late hung still;
In the dull and muffled tone
Of the sea-wave's distant moan;
In the deep tints of the sky
There are signs of tempests nigh.
Ominous, with sullen sound,
Falls the closing dusk around.
O'er the wild,
Oh! be Thou the lone one's aid—
Save thy child!
Homewards, through the boding gloom,
O'er my way hath flitted fast,
Since the farewell sunbeam pass'd
From the chestnut's ruddy bark,
And the pools, now lone and dark,
Where the wakening night-winds sigh
Through the long reeds mournfully.
Homeward, homeward, all things haste—
God of might!
Shield the homeless 'midst the waste,
Be his light!
Now my babe is laid to rest;
Beautiful his slumber seems
With a glow of heavenly dreams,
Beautiful, o'er that bright sleep,
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep,
Where his mother bends to pray
For the loved and far away.—
Father, guard that household bower,
Hear that prayer!
Back, through thine all-guiding power,
Lead me there!
Not a star sends quivering light
By the stern old forest made.
Thou! to whose unslumbering eyes
All my pathway open lies,
By thy Son, who knew distress
In the lonely wilderness,
Where no roof to that bless'd head
Shelter gave—
Father! through the time of dread,
Save—oh, save!
BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT'S CHILD IN THE FORESTS.
Scene.—The banks of a solitary river in an American forest. A tent under pine-trees in the foreground. Agnes sitting before the tent, with a child in her arms apparently sleeping.Agnes.
The desolation and the agony—
The strange red sunrise—and the gloomy woods,
So terrible with their dark giant boughs,
And the broad lonely river! all a dream!
And my boy's voice will wake me, with its clear,
Wild singing tones, as they were wont to come,
Through the wreath'd sweetbrier at my lattice-panes
In happy, happy England! Speak to me!
Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch'd
All the dread night beside thee, till her brain
Is darken'd by swift waves of fantasies,
Oh! I must wake him with one gentle kiss
On his fair brow!
The marble chill! Now, now it rushes back—
Now I know all!—dead—dead!—a fearful word!
My boy hath left me in the wilderness,
To journey on without the blessed light
In his deep loving eyes—he's gone—he's gone!
[Her Husband enters.
Husband.
Agnes, my Agnes! hast thou look'd thy last
On our sweet slumberer's face? The hour is come—
The couch made ready for his last repose.
Agnes.
Not yet! thou canst not take him from me yet!
If he but left me for a few short days,
This were too brief a gazing time, to draw
His angel image into my fond heart,
And fix its beauty there. And now—oh! now,
Never again the laughter of his eye
Shall send its gladd'ning summer through my soul—
Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay!
Thou canst not take him from me.
Husband.
My beloved!
Is it not God hath taken him? the God
That took our first-born, o'er whose early grave
Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and say,
“His will be done!”
Agnes.
Oh! that near household grave,
Under the turf of England, seem'd not half—
Not half so much to part me from my child
And I could watch the sunshine, through all hours,
Loving and clinging to the grassy spot;
And I could dress its greensward with fresh flowers—
Familiar, meadow flowers. O'er thee my babe,
The primrose will not blossom! Oh! that now,
Together, by thy fair young sister's side,
We lay 'midst England's valleys!
Husband.
Dost thou grieve,
Agnes! that thou hast follow'd o'er the deep
An exile's fortunes? If it thus can be,
Then, after many a conflict cheerily met,
My spirit sinks at last.
Agnes.
My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild—
Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount
Of unknown bitterness! Thou art my home!
Mine only and my blessed one! Where'er
Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness,
There is my country! there my head shall rest,
And throb no more. Oh! still, by thy strong love,
Bear up the feeble reed!
Hear my soul's cry from this dread wilderness,
Oh! hear, and pardon me! If I have made
This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark
Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness,
Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume,
Oh, pardon me!
And from thy light turn'd wilfully away,
When the despairing passion of her clasp
Was from its idol stricken at one touch
Of thine Almighty hand—oh, pardon me!
By thy Son's anguish, pardon! In the soul
The tempests and the waves will know thy voice—
Father say, “Peace, be still!”
Go from my bosom now to other rest!
With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow,
And on thy pale calm cheek these contrite tears,
I yield thee to thy Maker!
Husband.
Now, my wife,
Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more
A light upon my path. Now shall I bear,
From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose—
With a calm, trustful heart.
Agnes.
My Edmund! where—
Where wilt thou lay him?
Husband.
See'st thou where the spire
Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun
To burning gold?—there—o'er yon willow-tuft?
Under that native desert monument
Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn,
With the grey mosses of the wilderness
Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth,
E'en from the fulness of his own pure heart,
A wild, sad forest hymn—a song of tears,
Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy
Chanting it o'er his solitary task,
Perchance unconsciously.
Agnes.
The affectionate, the gifted! With what joy—
Edmund, rememberest thou?—with what bright joy
His baby brother ever to his arms
Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair
In that kind youthful breast! Oh! now no more,
But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart,
Even to a well-spring of adoring tears,
For many a blessing left.
Oh, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look!
How can it be sustain'd? Away, away!
I cannot see thee render dust to dust!
Go thou, my husband, to thy solemn task;
I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer
Till thy return.
Husband.
Then strength be with thy prayer!
Peace on thy bosom! Faith and heavenly hope
Unto thy spirit! Fare thee well a while!
We must be pilgrims of the woods again,
After this mournful hour.
[He goes cut with the child.—Agnes kneels in prayer.—After a time, voices without are heard singing.
THE FUNERAL HYMN.
Where the pines make moan,
By the forest river,
Sleeps our babe alone.
England's field flowers may not deck his grave,
Cypress shadows o'er him darkly wave.
'Midst the mighty wild;
Yet with God we leave him,
Blessed, blessed child!
And our tears gush o'er his lovely dust,
Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust.
Oft our weary way,
And his clear laugh lighten'd
Half our hearts' dismay;
Still in hope we give back what was given,
Yielding up the beautiful to Heaven.
Her who long must weep,
Yet shall Heaven restore him
From his pale, sweet sleep!
Those blue eyes of love and peace again
Through her soul will shine, undimm'd by pain.
Where the pines make moan,
Earth to earth alone!
God and Father! may our journeyings on
Lead to where the blessed boy is gone!
From the wanderer's dread
Of the night and morrow,
Early, brightly fled;
Thou hast call'd him to a sweeter home
Than our lost one o'er the ocean's foam.
With his angel look,
Where those arms enfold him,
Which benignly took
Israel's babes to their Good Shepherd's breast,
When his voice their tender meekness blest.
From thy dead, oh, turn!
Linger not, young brother,
Here to dream and mourn:
Only kneel once more around the sod,
Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God!
EASTER-DAY IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD.
A kindling with the spirit of the morn!
Bright gleams are scatter'd from the thousand rills,
And a soft visionary hue is born
On the young foliage, worn
By all the embosom'd woods—a silvery green,
Made up of Spring and dew, harmoniously serene.
The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky!
Lo! where the darkness of his buoyant wings,
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high,
Trembles with melody!
While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice
To the rich laugh of music in that voice.
Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth!
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth,
By this glad morning's birth!
And gifts more precious by its breath are shed
Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet's head.
O'er nature's face the colouring glory flows;
Gifts from the fount of immortality,
Lay hush'd in dark repose,
Till thou, bright dayspring! madest its waves our own,
By thine unsealing of the burial stone.
And let a full victorious tone be given,
By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills
Your urn-like depths with sound! The tomb is riven,
The radiant gate of heaven
Unfolded—and the stern, dark shadow cast
By death's o'ersweeping wing, from the earth's bosom past.
Girt with the slumber of the hamlet's dead,
Time with a soft and reconciling hand
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread
O'er every narrow bed:
But not by time, and not by nature sown
Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown.
Hath, 'midst the flowery sods, been pillow'd here
Without a hope, (howe'er the heart hath bled
In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier,)
A hope, upspringing clear
From those majestic tidings of the morn,
Which lit the living way to all of woman born.
E'en on this greensward; night hath heard thy cry,
Heart-stricken one! thy precious dust above,
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply
Unto thine agony!
But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide,
Christ hath arisen, O love! thy tears shall all be dried.
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb
On thine impassion'd soul, in elder years
When, burden'd with the mystery of its doom,
Mortality's thick gloom
Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death.
Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought
To vail that haunting shadow, still too near,
Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought,
And, where the board was fraught
With wine and myrtles in the summer bower,
Felt, e'en when disavow'd, a presence and a power.
Here, where the gleamy primrose tufts have blown,
And where the mountain-heath a couch has spread,
And, settling oft on some grey letter'd stone,
The redbreast warbles lone;
And the wild-bee's deep drowsy murmurs pass,
Like a low thrill of harp-strings, through the grass:
We o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye,
For hope sits, dovelike, on the gloomy deep,
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie
Seem all one sanctuary
Of holiest thought—nor needs their fresh bright sod,
Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God.
Witness, resounding glen and torrent wave,
The immortal courage in the human breast
Sprung from that victory—tell how oft the brave
To camp 'midst rock and cave,
Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne,
Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn!
Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone,
Have thrill'd their pines, when those that knelt to pray
Rose up to arm! the pure high snows have known
A colouring not their own,
But from true hearts which by that crimson stain
Gave token of a trust that call'd no suffering vain.
The solemn splendour of the martyr's blood,
And may that awful record, as of yore,
Never again be known to field or flood!
E'en though the faithful stood,
Of earth and heaven, which bless'd their battle for the right!
Is yet borne silently in homes obscure;
And many a bitter cup is meekly taken;
And, for the strength whereby the just and pure
Thus steadfastly endure,
Glory to Him whose victory won that dower,
Him, from whose rising stream'd that robe of spirit power.
Light to the nations! He hath roll'd away
The mists, which, gathering into deathlike rest,
Between the soul and heaven's calm ether lay—
His love hath made it day
With those that sat in darkness.—Earth and sea!
Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made free!
THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.
To haunt, to startle, to waylay. [OMITTED]
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death.”
Wordsworth.
The bright exulting boy,
Of his young spirit's joy;
A flash that wheresoe'er it broke,
To life undreamt-of beauty woke.
By a clear fountain's side,
Where jewel-colour'd pebbles lay
Beneath the shallow tide;
And pearly spray at times would meet
The glancing of his fairy feet.
Which drank that streamlet's dew;
He flung them o'er the wave in showers,
Till, gazing, scarce I knew
Which seem'd more pure, or bright, or wild,
The singing fount or laughing child.
Made earth one festal scene,
Where the dull shadow of the tomb
Seem'd as it ne'er had been.
How could one image of decay
Steal o'er the dawn of such clear day?
The boy's meek head was bow'd
In silence o'er the Book of Light,
And, like a golden cloud—
The still cloud of a pictured sky—
His locks droop'd round it lovingly.
When in the fountain glade,
A creature of the sky and air,
Almost on wings he play'd;
Oh! how much holier beauty now
Lit the young human being's brow!
To break forth from the tomb,
Unto far nobler destiny
Than waits the skylark's plume!
I saw him, in that thoughtful hour,
Win the first knowledge of his dower.
My watching eye could trace
The shadows of its new-born awe,
Sweeping o'er that fair face:
As o'er a flower might pass the shade
By some dread angel's pinion made!
Of high hopes infinite,
Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears,
Of sleepless inner sight;
Lovely, but solemn, it arose,
Unfolding what no more might close.
As yet, by evil thought—
Of what within me wrought,
While his young heart first burn'd and stirr'd,
And quiver'd to the eternal word.
The reverence of his gaze;
A sight with dew of blessing fraught
To hallow after-days;
To make the proud heart meekly wise,
By the sweet faith in those calm eyes.
Before me brightly there,
And in the depths of its repose
My soul o'erflow'd with prayer,
Feeling a solemn presence nigh—
The power of infant sanctity!
By thy prevailing breath!
Teach me, oh! teach me to adore
E'en with that pure one's faith;
A faith, all made of love and light,
Child-like, and therefore full of might!
A POET'S DYING HYMN.
Yet I will praise thee with impassion'd voice!
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine
In such a temple as we now behold,
Rear'd for thy presence; therefore am I bound
To worship, here and every where.”
Wordsworth.
And bless thee, O my God! that I have met
And own'd thine image in the majesty
Of their calm temple still!—that never yet
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night:
I bless thee, O my God!
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine,
Touching death's features with a lovely glance
Of light, serenely, solemnly divine,
And lending to each holy star a ray
As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away:
I bless thee, O my God!
In the earth's garden—'midst the mountains old
And the low thrillings of the forest-shade,
And the wild sound of waters uncontroll'd—
And upon many a desert plain and shore—
No solitude—for there I felt thee more:
I bless thee, O my God!
The gift, the vision of the unseal'd eye,
To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread,
To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie
Far in man's heart—if I have kept it free
And pure—a consecration unto thee:
I bless thee, O my God!
With an awakening power—if thou hast made,
Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my thought,
And by the swift winds bid them be convey'd
To lands of other lays, and there become
Native as early melodies of home:
I bless thee, O my God!
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead,
But that perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,
A still small whisper in my song hath led
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne,
Or but one hope, one prayer:—for this alone
I bless thee, O my God!
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs,
Yet, with a colouring halo from above,
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things,
Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be,
Still weaving links for intercourse with thee:
I bless thee, O my God!
And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer,
And by the yearning of its tenderness,
Too full for words upon their stream to bear,
I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine,
Well-spring of love, the unfathom'd, the divine;
I bless thee, O my God!
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread,
Calm, rejoicingly, the things hath taken
Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed:
That passing storms have only fann'd the fire,
Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire,
I bless thee, O my God!
Each sound and token of the dying day:
Thou leavest me not, though early life grows pale,
I am not darkly sinking to decay;
But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud.
I bless thee, O my God!
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies,
And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams,
Be lovely still in my departing eyes—
'Tis not that fondly I would linger here,
But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear:
I bless thee, O my God!
The tracery veining every leaf and flower,
Of glories cast in more consummate mould,
No longer vassals to the changeful hour;
That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring
Rich visions of imperishable spring:
I bless thee, O my God!
Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear,
Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies,
The spirit-music, imperturb'd and clear;
The full of soul, yet passionate no more—
Let me, too, joining those pure strains, adore!
I bless thee, O my God!
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are!
And for the hope of that immortal home,
And for thy Son, the bright and morning star,
The sufferer and the victor-king of death,
I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath!
I bless thee, O my God!
THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
May wail the dimming of our shining star.”
Shakspeare.
Mournfully, reverently—the funeral chant
Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound,
In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad!
A more Æolian melancholy tone
Than ever wail'd o'er bright things perishing!
For that is passing from the darken'd land,
Which the green summer will not bring us back—
Though all her songs return. The funeral chant
Breathe reverently!—They bear the mighty forth,
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind—
They bear him through the household paths, the groves,
Where every tree had music of its own
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love—
And he is silent!—Past the living stream
They bear him now; the stream, whose kindly voice
On alien shores his true heart burn'd to hear—
And he is silent! O'er the heathery hills,
Which his own soul had mantled with a light
Richer than autumn's purple, now they move—
And he is silent!—he, whose flexile lips
Were but unseal'd, and lo! a thousand forms,
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height,
In glowing life upsprang:—Vassal and chief,
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal,
Fast rushing through the brightly troubled air,
Like the wild huntsman's band. And still they live,
To those fair scenes imperishably bound,
And, from the mountain mist still flashing by,
Startle the wanderer who hath listen'd there
To the seer's voice: phantoms of colour'd thought,
Surviving him who raised.—O eloquence!
O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead!
And art thou there—to those dim nations join'd,
Thy subject-host so long?—The wand is dropp'd,
The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand
Touch'd, and the genii came!—Sing reverently
The funeral chant!—The mighty is borne home—
And who shall be his mourners?—Youth and age,
For each hath felt his magic—love and grief,
For he hath communed with the heart of each:
Yes—the free spirit of humanity
May join the august procession, for to him
Its mysteries have been tributary things,
And all its accents known:—from field or wave,
Never was conqueror on his battle bier,
By the vail'd banner and the muffled drum,
And the proud drooping of the crested head,
More nobly follow'd home.—The last abode,
The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach'd:
A still majestic spot: girt solemnly
With all th' imploring beauty of decay;
A stately couch 'midst ruins! meet for him
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant
Over the honour'd grave!—the grave!—oh, say
Rather the shrine!—An altar for the love,
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths
Of years unborn—a place where leaf and flower,
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead,
Shall be made holy things—where every weed
Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift
From buried glory breathed. And now, what strain,
High above sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb
Where he that sway'd the nations thus is laid—
The crown'd of men?
Thy children's cry to thee,
Father divine!
A hymn of suppliant breath,
Owning that life and death
Alike are thine!
Sceptred the earth to sway,
From thee was sent:
Now call'st thou back thine own—
Hence is that radiance flown—
To earth but lent.
The bright head bow'd we saw,
Beneath thy hand!
Fill'd by one hope, one fear,
Now o'er a brother's bier,
Weeping we stand.
Of each deep bosom chord,
To meet thy sight,
Unmantled and alone,
On thy bless'd mercy thrown,
O Infinite!
Must the tired peasant come;
So, in one trust,
Leader and king must yield
The naked soul, reveal'd
To thee, All Just!
What then shall be its might?
The lofty lay,
That rush'd on eagle wing—
What shall its memory bring?
What hope, what stay?
When earth all succouring power
Shall disavow;
When spear, and shield, and crown,
In faintness are cast down—
Sustain us, Thou!
The death-cup for our sake,
The thorn, the rod;
From whom the last dismay
Was not to pass away—
Aid us, O God!
We call on thee to save.
Father divine!
Hear, hear our suppliant breath,
Thine, only thine!
THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGIO'S.
The daughter of Jerusalem; alone,
With all the still small whispers of the night,
And with the searching glances of the stars,
And with her God, alone:—she lifted up
Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o'er her head,
The dark leaves thrill'd with prayer—the tearful prayer
Of woman's quenchless, yet repentant love.
Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal'd,
Look on the fountain of the burning tear,
Before thy sight in solitude unseal'd!
If I have loved too well, if I have shed,
In my vain fondness, o'er a mortal head,
Gifts, on thy shrine my God! more fitly laid.
But in one light, and made a human eye
The lonely star of mine idolatry,
Thou that art Love! oh, pity and forgive!
No more, no more my struggling spirit burns,
But fix'd on thee, from that wild worship turns—
What have I said?—the deep dream is not past!
Oh! still too fondly—if, for ever seen,
An earthly image comes, my heart between,
And thy calm glory, Father, throned above.
(E'en while I strive these wanderings to control,)
An earthly voice, disquieting my soul
With its deep music, too intensely dear.
My lost affections back!—the dreaming eyes
Clear from their mist—sustain the heart that dies,
Give the worn soul once more its pinions free!
This bosom must love on!—but let thy breath
Touch and make pure the flame that knows not death,
Bearing it up to heaven—love's own abode!
With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night,
With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds,
That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers.
How many such hath woman's bursting heart
Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed,
Like the dim night-flower's odour, up to God!
PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.
A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
The stars of human glory are cast down;
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms
Of all the mighty, wither'd and consumed!
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence
Long to protect her own.”
Wordsworth.
Scene—Prison of the Luxembourg, in Paris, during the Reign of Terror.
D'Aubigne, an aged Royalist—Blanche, his daughter, a young girl.
Blanche.
What was our doom, my father? In thine arms
I lay unconsciously through that dread hour.
Tell me the sentence! Could our judges look,
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair?
Was there not mercy, father? Will they not
Restore us to our home?
D'Aubigné.
Yes, my poor child!
They send us home.
Blanche.
Oh! shall we gaze again
On the bright Loire? Will the old hamlet spire,
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,
The loving laughter in their children's eyes,
Welcome us back at last?—But how is this?—
Father, thy glance is clouded—on thy brow
There sits no joy!
D'Aubigné.
Upon my brow, dear girl,
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace
As may befit the Christian, who receives
And recognises, in submissive awe,
The summons of his God.
Blanche.
Thou dost not mean—
No, no! it cannot be!—Didst thou not say
They sent us home?
D'Aubigné.
Where is the spirit's home?—
Oh! most of all, in these dark evil days,
Where should it be—but in that world serene,
Beyond the sword's reach, and the tempest's power—
Where, but in Heaven?
Blanche.
My father!
D'Aubigné.
We must die.
We must look up to God, and calmly die.—
Come to my heart, and weep there!—for awhile
Give Nature's passion way, then brightly rise
In the still courage of a woman's heart!
Do I not know thee?—Do I ask too much
From mine own noble Blanche?
Blanche,
(falling on his bosom.)
Oh! clasp me fast!
Thy trembling child!—Hide, hide me in thine arms—
Father!
D'Aubigné.
Alas! my flower, thou'rt young to go—
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave,
The loyal-hearted and the chivalrous,
And they that loved their God, have all been swept,
Like the sere leaves, away.—For them no hearth
Through the wide land was left inviolate,
No altar holy; therefore did they fall,
Rejoicing to depart.—The soil is steep'd
In noble blood; the temples are gone down;
The voice of prayer is hush'd, or fearfully
Mutter'd, like sounds of guilt.—Why, who would live?
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee,
To quit for ever the dishonour'd soil,
The burden'd air?—Our God upon the cross—
Our king upon the scaffold —let us think
Of these—and fold endurance to our hearts,
And bravely die!
Blanche.
A dark and fearful way!
An evil doom for thy dear honour'd head!
Oh! thou, the kind, the gracious!—whom all eyes
Bless'd as they look'd upon!—Speak yet again—
Say, will they part us?
D'Aubigné.
No, my Blanche; in death
We shall not be divided.
Blanche.
Thanks to God!
He, by thy glance, will aid me—I shall see
O pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child!—
When shall the hour befall?
D'Aubigné.
Oh! swiftly now,
And suddenly, with brief dread interval,
Comes down the mortal stroke.—But of that hour
As yet I know not.—Each low throbbing pulse
Of the quick pendulum may usher in
Eternity!
Blanche,
(kneeling before him.)
My father! lay thy hand
On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness,
Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul,
Ere we are call'd.
D'Aubigné.
If I may speak through tears!—
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart!—thou who dost look on me
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love!
Thou that hast been a brightness in my path,
A guest of Heaven unto my lonely soul,
A stainless lily in my widow'd house,
There springing up—with soft light round thee shed—
For immortality!—Meek child of God!
I bless thee—He will bless thee!—In his love
He calls thee now from this rude stormy world
To thy Redeemer's breast!—And thou wilt die,
As thou hast lived—my duteous, holy Blanche!
In trusting and serene submissiveness,
Humble, yet full of Heaven.
Blanche,
(rising.)
Now is there strength
And say, “Thy will be done!”
D'Aubigné,
(pointing upwards.)
See'st thou, my child,
Yon faint light in the west? The signal star
Of our due vesper service, gleaming in
Through the close dungeon grating!—Mournfully
It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,
This night alone, without the lifted voice
Of adoration in our narrow cell,
As if unworthy fear or wavering faith
Silenced the strain?—No! let it waft to heaven
The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality,
In its dark hour once more!—And we will sleep—
Yes—calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.
[They sing together.
PRISONERS' EVENING HYMN.
How soft, O God! the sunset dies;
How every colour'd hill and wood
Seems melting in the golden flood:
Yet, by the precious memories won
From bright hours now for ever gone,
Father! o'er all thy works, we know,
Thou still art shedding beauty's glow;
Still touching every cloud and tree
With glory, eloquent of Thee;
Still feeding all thy flowers with light,
Though man hath barr'd it from our sight.
We know Thou reign'st, the Unchanging One, th' All Just!
And bless thee still with free and boundless trust!
On earth, in these wild evil days.
The red sword in the oppressor's hand
Is ruler of the weeping land;
Fallen are the faithful and the pure,
No shrine is spared, no hearth secure.
Yet, by the deep voice from the past,
Which tells us these things cannot last—
And by the hope which finds no ark,
Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark—
We trust thee!—As the sailor knows
That in its place of bright repose
His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud
May veil it with a midnight shroud.
We know thou reign'st—All holy one, all just!
And bless thee still with love's own boundless trust.
When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer—and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.
Yet, by the anguish of thy Son
When his last hour came darkly on—
By his dread cry, the air which rent
In terror of abandonment—
And by his parting word, which rose
Through faith victorious o'er all woes—
We know that Thou may'st wound, may'st break
The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake!
Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn,
In our deep need to Thee we turn!
To whom but Thee!—All merciful, all just!
In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust!
The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her Letters from France, gave rise to this little scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, which they every night sung together in a low and restrained voice.
A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and hearing some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamentations, turned towards the sufferer, and thus addressed him:—“My friend, whoever you may be, remember that your God expired upon the cross—your king upon the scaffold—and he who now speaks to you has had his limbs shot from under him. Meet your fate as becomes a man.”
HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION.
Howitt's Book of the Seasons.
Our God, our fathers' God!
Thou hast made thy children mighty,
By the touch of the mountain sod.
Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge
Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Whose light must never die;
We are guardians of an altar
'Midst the silence of the sky:
The rocks yield founts of courage,
Struck forth as by thy rod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Where thy still, small voice is heard;
For the strong pines of the forests,
That by thy breath are stirr'd;
For the storms, on whose free pinions
Thy spirit walks abroad;
Our God, our fathers' God!
On his quarry from the heights,
And the stag that knows no master,
Seeks there his wild delights;
But we, for thy communion,
Have sought the mountain sod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Far, far below us waves;
The war-horse of the spearman
Cannot reach our lofty caves:
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold
Of freedom's last abode;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Round our camp of rock outspread;
For the stern defiles of battle,
Bearing record of our dead;
For the snows and for the torrents,
For the free heart's burial-sod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.
SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY.
To-morrow Areouski's breath
That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light me to the foe!”
Indian Song in “Gertrude of Wyoming.”
Scene.—The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and sycamore trees. Herrmann, the missionary, seated alone before the cabin. The hour is evening twilight.
Herrmann.
Shooting across the waters?—No, a flash
From the night's first quick fire-fly, lost again
In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark
Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze
Comes through the forest. In this new, strange world,
Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems
The mighty melancholy of the woods!
The desert's own great spirit, infinite!
Little they know, in mine own fatherland,
Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst
The wild Harz mountains, or the silvan glades
Deep in the Odenwald, they little know
There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths
Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices,
To guide the peasant, singing cheerily,
On the home path; while round his lowly porch,
With eager eyes awaiting his return,
The cluster'd faces of his children shine
To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts!
Melting my spirit's grasp from heavenly hope
By your vain earthward yearnings. O my God!
Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee,
Till all the hollow of these deep desires
May with thyself be fill'd!—Be it enough
At once to gladden and to solemnize
My lonely life, if for thine altar here
In this dread temple of the wilderness,
By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win
The offering of one heart, one human heart,
Bleeding, repenting, loving!
An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound—
Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass
Gliding so serpent-like.
Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine eye
Discerns thy face.
Enonio.
My father speaks my name.
Herrmann.
Are not the hunters from the chase returned?
The night-fires lit? Why is my son abroad?
The warrior's arrow knows of nobler prey
Than elk or deer. Now let my father leave
The lone path free.
Herrmann.
The forest way is long
From the red chieftain's home. Rest thee awhile
Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak
Of these things further.
Enonio.
Tell me not of rest!
My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift.—
I must begone.
Herrmann,
(solemnly.)
No, warrior, thou must stay!
The Mighty One hath given me power to search
Thy soul with piercing words—and thou must stay,
And hear me, and give answer! If thy heart
Be grown thus restless, is it not because
Within its dark folds thou hast mantled up
Some burning thought of ill?—
Enonio,
(with sudden impetuosity.)
How should I rest?—
Last night the spirit of my brother came,
An angry shadow in the moonlight streak,
And said, “Avenge me!”—In the clouds this morn
I saw the frowning colour of his blood—
And that, too, had a voice.—I lay at noon
Alone beside the sounding waterfall,
And through its thunder-music spake a tone—
A low tone piercing all the roll of waves—
And said “Avenge me!”—Therefore have I raised
The tomahawk, and strung the bow again,
That I may send the shadow from my couch,
And sleep once more.
Herrmann.
A better path, my son,
Unto the still and dewy land of sleep,
My hand in peace can guide thee—e'en the way
Thy dying brother trod,—Say, didst thou love
That lost one well?
Enonio.
Know'st thou not we grew up
Even as twin roes amidst the wilderness?
Unto the chase we journey'd in one path;
We stemm'd the lake in one canoe; we lay
Beneath one oak to rest. When fever hung
Upon my burning lips, my brother's hand
Was still beneath my head; my brother's robe
Cover'd my bosom from the chill night air.
Our lives were girdled by one belt of love
Until he turn'd him from his father's gods,
And then my soul fell from him—then the grass
Grew in the way between our parted homes,
And wheresoe'er I wander'd, then it seem'd
That all the woods were silent.—I went forth—
I journey'd, with my lonely heart, afar,
And so return'd—and where was he?—the earth
Own'd him no more.
Herrmann.
But thou thyself, since then,
Hast turn'd thee from the idols of thy tribe,
And, like thy brother, bow'd the suppliant knee
To the one God.
Enonio.
Yes, I have learn'd to pray
With my white father's words, yet all the more
My heart, that shut against my brother's love,
Hath been within me as an arrowy fire,
'Midst the strange whispers and dim shadowy things
Of the great forests, I have call'd aloud,
“Brother! forgive, forgive!”—He answer'd not—
His deep voice, rising from the land of souls,
Cries but “Avenge me!”—and I go forth now
To slay his murderer, that when next his eyes
Gleam on me mournfully from that pale shore,
I may look up, and meet their glance, and say,
“I have avenged thee.”
Herrmann.
Oh! that human love
Should be the root of this dread bitterness,
Till heaven through all the fever'd being pours
Transmuting balsam!—Stay, Enonio, stay!
Thy brother calls thee not!—The spirit world
Where the departed go, sends back to earth
No visitants for evil.—'Tis the might
Of the strong passion, the remorseful grief
At work in thine own breast, which lends the voice
Unto the forest and the cataract,
The angry colour to the clouds of morn,
The shadow to the moonlight.—Stay, my son!
Thy brother is at peace.—Beside his couch,
When of the murderer's poison'd shaft he died,
I knelt and pray'd; he named his Saviour's name,
Meekly, beseechingly; he spoke of thee
In pity and in love.
Enonio,
(hurriedly.)
Did he not say
My arrow should avenge him?
Herrmann.
His last words
Were all forgiveness.
Enonio.
What! and shall the man
Walk fearless forth in joy?
Herrmann.
Was he not once
Thy brother's friend?—Oh! trust me, not in joy
He walks the frowning forest. Did keen love,
Too late repentant of its heart estranged,
Wake in thy haunted bosom, with its train
Of sounds and shadows—and shall he escape?
Enonio, dream it not!—Our God, the All Just,
Unto himself reserves this royalty—
The secret chastening of the guilty heart,
The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies,
Leave it with him!—Yet make it not thy hope—
For that strong heart of thine—Oh! listen yet—
Must, in its depths, o'ercome the very wish
For death or torture to the guilty one,
Ere it can sleep again.
Enonio.
My father speaks
Of change, for man too mighty.
Herrmann.
I but speak
Of that which hath been, and again must be,
If thou would'st join thy brother, in the life
Of the bright country, where, I well believe,
His soul rejoices.—He had known such change.
He died in peace. He, whom his tribe once named
The Avenging Eagle, took to his meek heart,
In its last pangs, the spirit of those words
Which, from the Saviour's cross, went up to heaven—
“Forgive them, for they know not what they do,
Father, forgive!”—And o'er the eternal bounds
Of that celestial kingdom, undefiled,
Where evil may not enter, he, I deem,
For love, we trust, springs heavenward from the grave,
Immortal in its holiness.—He calls
His brother to the land of golden light
And ever-living fountains—could'st thou hear
His voice o'er those bright waters, it would say,
“My brother! oh! be pure, be merciful!
That we may meet again.”
Enonio,
(hesitating.)
Can I return
Unto my tribe, and unavenged?
Herrmann.
To Him,
To Him return, from whom thine erring steps
Have wander'd far and long!—Return, my son,
To thy Redeemer!—Died he not in love—
The sinless, the divine, the Son of God—
Breathing forgiveness 'midst all agonies,
And we, dare we be ruthless? By his aid
Shalt thou be guided to thy brother's place
'Midst the pure spirits. Oh! retrace the way
Back to thy Saviour! he rejects no heart
E'en with the dark stains on it, if true tears
Be o'er them shower'd.—Ay, weep, thou Indian chief!
For, by the kindling moonlight, I behold
Thy proud lip's working—weep, relieve thy soul!
Tears will not shame thy manhood, in the hour
Of its great conflict.
Enonio,
(giving up his weapons to Herrmann.)
Father, take the bow,
Keep the sharp arrows till the hunters call
Forth to the chase once more.—And let me dwell
That I may hear the blessed words again—
Like water brooks amidst the summer hills—
From thy true lips flow forth; for in my heart
The music and the memory of their sound
Too long have died away.
Herrmann.
O, welcome back,
Friend, rescued one!—Yes, thou shalt be my guest,
And we will pray beneath my sycamore
Together, morn and eve; and I will spread
Thy couch beside my fire, and sleep at last—
After the visiting of holy thoughts—
With dewy wing shall sink upon thine eyes!—
Enter my home, and welcome, welcome back
To peace, to God, thou lost and found again!
[They go into the cabin together.—Herrmann, lingering for a moment on the threshold, looks up to the starry skies.
Father! that from amidst yon glorious worlds
Now look'st on us, thy children! make this hour
Blessed for ever! May it see the birth
Of thine own image in the unfathom'd deep
Of an immortal soul;—a thing to name
With reverential thought, a solemn world!
To Thee more precious than those thousand stars
Burning on high in thy majestic Heaven!
Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is founded, are recorded in Carne's Narrative of the Moravian Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch.
PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY.
So England to herself do prove but true.”
Shakspeare.
A voice of prayer arose,
When the sea-fight was done:
The sons of England knelt,
With hearts that now could melt,
For on the wave her battle had been won.
Heaved with a dark red stain,
Caught not from sunset's cloud;
While with the tide swept past
Pennon and shiver'd mast,
Which to the Ocean Queen that day had bow'd.
A native of the sky,
Her streamer met the breeze;
It flow'd o'er fearless men,
Though hush'd and child-like then,
Before their God they gather'd on the seas.
O'er each bold spirit come
As, from the land, sweet gales?
In every word of prayer
Had not some hearth a share,
Some bower, inviolate 'midst England's vales?
In beauty far away,
Hearing no billows roar;
Safer from touch of spoil,
For that day's fiery toil,
Rose on high hearts, that now with love gush'd o'er.
The victors and the dead,
The breathless burning sky!
And, passing with the race
Of waves that keep no trace,
The wild, brief signs of human victory!
Billows, where strife hath been,
Sinking to awful sleep;
And words, that breathe the sense
Of God's omnipotence,
Making a minster of that silent deep.
Thy flag hath been a star,
Where eagle's wing ne'er flew:—
England! the unprofaned,
Thou of the hearths unstain'd,
Oh! to the banner and the shrine be true!
EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY.
I bless thee for the night,
The soft, still night!
The holy pause of care and mirth,
Of sound and light!
Flower-cup, and bud, and bell,
Have shut around the sleeping woodlark's nest—
The bee's long murmuring toils are done,
And I, the o'erwearied one,
O'erwearied and o'erwrought,
Bless thee, O God! O Father of the oppress'd,
With my last waking thought,
In the still night!
By the fire's dying light,
Thou Lord of earth and heaven!
I bless thee, who hast given
Unto life's fainting travellers, the night,
The soft, still, holy night!
THE DAY OF FLOWERS.
A MOTHER'S WALK WITH HER CHILD.
Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows,
Rules universal nature.—Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues,
And bathes their eyes with nectar.
Happy who walks with him!”
Cowper.
Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth,
My happy child! The spirit of bright hours
Woos us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents
From thickets where the lonely stock-dove broods,
Enter our lattice; fitful songs of joy
Float in with each soft current of the air;
And we will hear their summons; we will give
One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad thoughts,
And thou shalt revel 'midst free nature's wealth,
And for thy mother twine wild wreaths; while she
From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart
The vernal extasy of childhood back:
Come to the woods, my boy!
Along the copsewood brook? Come, then! in truth
Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child,
Is a glad singing stream, heard or unheard,
Singing its melody of happiness
Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace
It fills the shadowy dingle!—now the wing
Of some low skimming swallow shakes bright spray
Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave;
Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep,
The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam
And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings
Of mazy insects o'er the shallow tide
Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light
From burnish'd films! And mark yon silvery line
Of gossamer, so tremulously hung
Across the narrow current, from the tuft
Of hazels to the hoary poplar's bough!
See, in the air's transparence, how it waves,
Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale,
Yet breaking not—a bridge for fairy shapes,
How delicate, how wondrous!
Well may we make the stream's bright winding vein
Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream
Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness,
For ever deepening. Oh, forget him not,
Dear child! that airy gladness which thou feel'st
Wafting thee after bird and butterfly,
As 'twere a breeze within thee, is not less
His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours,
Than this rich outward sunshine, mantling all
The leaves, and grass, and mossy tinted stones
With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step
My merry wanderer! let us rest a while
By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung
From alder boughs and osiers o'er its breast,
So vividly is pictured. Seems it not
E'en melting to a more transparent glow
In that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams!
And, through all ages, human hearts have loved
Their music, still accordant with each mood
Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown
Into vain worship, which hath left its trace
On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still
Beneath dim olive boughs, by many a fount
Of Italy and Greece. But we will take
Our lesson e'en from erring hearts, which bless'd
The river deities or fountain nymphs,
For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade,
And the sweet water's tune. The One supreme,
The all-sustaining, ever-present God,
Who dower'd the soul with immortality,
Gave also these delights, to cheer on earth
Its fleeting passage; therefore let us greet
Each wandering flower scent as a boon from Him,
Each bird-note, quivering 'midst light summer leaves,
And every rich celestial tint unnamed,
Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of morn and eve,
Kindle and melt away!
In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend
Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers
Around the ruin'd mansion. Thou, my boy,
Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn
But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee
Will wear no shadow of subduing thought—
No colouring from the past. This way our path
The dragon-fly along the sunbeam's line,
Crossing the leafy gloom. How full of life,
The life of song, and breezes, and free wings,
Is all the murmuring shade! and thine, O thine!
Of all the brightest and the happiest here,
My blessed child! my gift of God! that makest
My heart o'erflow with summer!
Thy wreath so soon! yet will we loiter not,
Though here the blue-bell wave, and gorgeously
Round the brown twisted roots of yon scathed oak
The heath-flower spread its purple. We must leave
The copse, and through yon broken avenue,
Shadow'd by drooping walnut foliage, reach
The ruin's glade.
Yet desolate, amidst the golden day,
It stands, that house of silence! wedded now
To verdant nature by the o'ermantling growth
Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman's hands
Once loved to train. How the rich wallflower scent
From every niche and mossy cornice floats,
Embalming its decay! The bee alone
Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more
Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine,
Watching some homeward footstep. See! unbound
From the old fretted stone-work, what thick wreaths
Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down,
Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and load
Of life gone hence; and the faint southern breath
Of myrtle leaves from yon forsaken porch,
Startles the soul with sweetness! Yet rich knots
Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sown
Through all the sunny hollow, spread around
A flush of youth and joy, free nature's joy,
Undimm'd by human change. How kindly here,
With the low thyme and daisies, they have blent!
And, under arches of wild eglantine,
Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely seems
The frail gum-cistus o'er the turf to snow
Its pearly flower-leaves down!—Go, happy boy!
Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets,
Whilst I, beside this fallen dial-stone,
Under the tall moss rose-tree, long unpruned,
Rest where thick clustering pansies weave around
Their many-tinged mosaic, 'midst dark grass,
Bedded like jewels.
Wild with delight!—the crimson on his cheek
Purer and richer e'en than that which lies
In this deep-hearted rose-cup!—Bright moss rose!
Though now so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree!
Once thou wert cherish'd! and, by human love,
Through many a summer duly visited
For thy bloom-offerings, which o'er festal board,
And youthful brow, and e'en the shaded couch
Of long secluded sickness, may have shed
A joy, now lost.
Where God hath pour'd forth beauty, and the voice
Over his glorious gifts!—O Father, Lord!
The all-beneficent! I bless thy name,
That thou hast mantled the green earth with flowers,
Linking our hearts to nature! By the love
Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first
Into her deep recesses are beguiled,
Her minster cells; dark glen and forest bower,
Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee,
Amidst the low religious whisperings
And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude,
The spirit wakes to worship, and is made
Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers,
Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares,
Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain streams,
That sing of Thee! back to free childhood's heart,
Fresh with the dews of tenderness!—Thou bidd'st
The lilies of the field with placid smile
Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse
Through his worn soul a more unworldly life,
With their soft holy breath. Thou hast not left
His purer nature, with its fine desires,
Uncared for in this universe of thine!
The glowing rose attests it, the beloved
Of poet hearts, touch'd by their fervent dreams
With spiritual light, and made a source
Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint age
Thou lend'st the vernal bliss:—the old man's eye
Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul
Remembers youth and love, and hopefully
Turns unto thee, who call'st earth's buried germs
From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed
To put on glory to be girt with power,
And fill'd with immortality. Receive
Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons,
And, most of all, their heavenward influences,
O Thou that gavest us flowers!
With all thy chaplets and bright bands return!
See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch'd
And glorified the ruin! glow-worm light
Will twinkle on the dewdrops, e'er we reach
Our home again. Come, with thy last sweet prayer
At thy bless'd mother's knee, to-night shall thanks
Unto our Father in his heaven arise,
For all the gladness, all the beauty shed
O'er one rich day of flowers.
HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER'S HOUSEHOLD ON HIS RETURN,
IN THE OLDEN TIME.
Sunshine comes to hearth and board.
From the far-off countries old
Of the diamond and red gold:
From the dusky archer bands,
Roamers of the fiery sands!
From the desert winds, whose breath
Smites with sudden silent death;
Where we sing
In thy praise a fervent strain,
God our King!
When the noon-day fiercest burn'd;
When the fountain springs were far,
And the sounds of Arab war
Swell'd upon the sultry blast,
And the sandy columns past,
Unto Thee he cried! and Thou,
Merciful! didst hear his vow!
Therefore unto Thee again
Joy shall sing,
Many a sweet and thankful strain,
God our King!
And the snowy mountain chain,
And the rivers, dark and wide,
Which through Indian forests glide,
Thou didst guard him from the wrath
Of the lion in his path,
And the arrows on the breeze,
And the dropping poison-trees:
Therefore from our household train
Oft shall spring
Unto thee a blessing strain,
God our King!
Hast brought back the light of life!
Home to greet him from the wild.
Though the suns of eastern skies
On his cheek have set their dyes,
Though long toils and sleepless cares
On his brow have blanch'd the hairs,
Yet the night of fear is flown,
He is living, and our own!—
Brethren! spread his festal board,
Hang his mantle and his sword,
With the armour, on the wall—
While this long, long silent hall
Joyfully doth hear again
Voice and string
Swell to Thee the exulting strain,
God our King!
A PRAYER OF AFFECTION.
Father of Mercies! round his precious head!
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour,
And the pure visions of his midnight bed,
Blessings be shed!
For earthly treasure to that most beloved,
Fame, fortune, power:—oh! be his spirit proved
By these, or by their absence, at Thy will!
But let Thy peace be wedded to his lot,
With its dove-pinion still!
Let such a sense of Thee,
Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love,
His bosom guest inalienably be,
That wheresoe'er he move,
A heavenly light serene
Upon his heart and mien
May sit undimm'd! a gladness rest his own,
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown!
Such as from childhood's morning land of dreams,
Remember'd faintly, gleams,
Faintly remember'd, and too swiftly flown!
Made by Thy spirit free;
And when Thou call'st him from his mortal place,
To his last hour be still that sweetness given,
That joyful trust! and brightly let him part,
With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart,
Mature to meet in heaven
His Saviour's face!
THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK.
Of life, while I can feel thy dear caress;
And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh! think,
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship just—
And by the hope of an immortal trust,
God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust!”
Campbell.
The Scene is an English Cottage. The lattice opens upon a Landscape at sunset.
Eugene—Teresa.
Teresa.
The fever's hue hath left thy cheek, beloved!
Thine eyes, that make the dayspring in my heart,
Are clear and still once more!—Wilt thou look forth?
Now, while the sunset with low streaming light—
The light thou lovest—hath made the elm-wood stems
All burning bronze, the river molten gold!
Wilt thou be raised upon thy couch, to meet
The rich air fill'd with wandering scents and sounds?
Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more
On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest
With our own evening hymn?
Eugene.
Not now, dear love,
My soul is wakeful—lingering to look forth,
Not on the sun, but thee!—Doth the light sleep
On the stream tenderly? and are the stems
Of our own elm-trees, by its alchemy,
So richly changed? and is the sweetbrier scent
Floating around?—But I have said farewell,
Farewell to earth, Teresa!—not to thee;
Nor yet to our deep love, nor yet awhile
Unto the spirit of mine art, which flows
And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts,
Clinging affections, and undying hopes,
All, all in that memorial!
Teresa.
O, what dream
Is this, mine own Eugene?—Waste thou not thus
Thy scarce returning strength; keep thy rich thoughts
For happier days! they will not melt away
Like passing music from the lute—dear friend!
Dearest of friends! thou canst win back at will
The glorious visions.
Eugene.
Yes! the unseen land
Of glorious visions hath sent forth a voice
To call me hence.—Oh! be thou not deceived!
Bind to thy heart no earthly hope, Teresa!
I must, must leave thee!—Yet be strong, my love,
As thou hast still been gentle.
Teresa.
O Eugene!
What will this dim world be to me, Eugene,
When wanting thy bright soul, the life of all?
My only sunshine!—How can I bear on?
How can we part? We that have loved so well,
With clasping spirits link'd so long by grief,
By tears, by prayer?
Eugene.
With an immortal trust, that such high love
Is not of things to perish.
One record still of its ethereal flame
Brightening thro' death's cold shadow. Once again,
Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast,
As in thy watchings, e'er I sink to sleep;
And I will give the bending flower-like grace
Of that soft form, and the still sweetness throned
On that pale brow, and in that quivering smile
Of voiceless love, a life that shall outlast
Their delicate earthly being. There! thy head
Bow'd down with beauty, and with tenderness,
And lowly thought—even thus—my own Teresa!
Oh! the quick-glancing radiance and bright bloom
That once around thee hung, have melted now
Into more solemn light—but holier far,
And dearer, and yet lovelier in mine eyes,
Than all that summer flush! For by my couch,
In patient and serene devotedness,
Thou hast made those rich hues and sunny smiles
Thine offering unto me. Oh! I may give
Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow,
And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye,
Unto the canvass;—I may catch the flow
Of all those drooping locks, and glorify
With a soft halo what is imaged thus—
But how much rests unbreathed! my faithful one!
What thou hast been to me! This bitter world,
This cold unanswering world, that hath no voice
To greet the gentle spirit, that drives back
All birds of Eden, which would sojourn here
A little while—how have I turn'd away
From its keen soulless air, and in thy heart
Found ever the sweet fountain of response,
To quench my thirst for home!
Beneath my hand,—the last!
Teresa,
(falling on his neck in tears.)
Eugene, Eugene
Break not my heart with thine excess of love!—
Oh! must I loose thee—thou that hast been still
The tenderest—best—
Eugene.
Let my true heart o'er thine retain its power
Of soothing to the last!—Mine own Teresa!
Take strength from strong affection!—Let our souls,
Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain
Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God's rich boon—
Our perfect love!—Oh! blessed have we been
In that high gift; Thousands o'er earth may pass
With hearts unfreshen'd by the heavenly dew,
Which hath kept ours from withering.—Kneel, true wife!
And lay thy hands in mine.
Thy children's thanks, Creator! for the love
Which thou hast granted, through all earthly woes,
To spread heaven's peace around them; which hath bound
Their spirits to each other and to thee,
With links whereon unkindness ne'er hath breathed,
Nor wandering thought. We thank thee, gracious God!
For all its treasured memories! tender cares,
Through tears and joy. O Father! most of all
We thank, we bless Thee, for the priceless trust,
Through Thy redeeming Son vouchsafed, to those
That love in Thee, of union, in Thy sight,
And in Thy heavens, immortal! Hear our prayer!
Take home our fond affections, purified
To spirit radiance from all earthly stain;
Exalted, solemnized, made fit to dwell,
Father! where all things that are lovely meet.
And all things that are pure—for evermore,
With Thee and Thine!
Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter Blake, which is beautifully related by Allan Cunningham.
MOTHER'S LITANY BY THE SICKBED OF A CHILD.
Mother-sorrow didst not scorn,
Thou, with whose last anguish strove
One dear thought of earthly love—
Hear and aid!
With his spirit wandering wild
From its gladsome tasks and play,
And its bright thoughts far away—
Saviour, aid!
E'en though slumber seal it now;
In his hand unquiet life—
Aid! oh, aid!
From his fever'd heart and brain,
Give, oh! give his young soul back,
Into its own cloudless track!
Hear and aid!
E'en when death had quench'd the eyes,
In this hour of grief's deep sighing,
When o'erwearied hope is dying!
Hear and aid!
Saviour! whether death's or mine!
Yet, oh! pour on human love,
Strength, trust, patience, from above!
Hear and aid!
NIGHT HYMN AT SEA.
THE WORDS WRITTEN FOR A MELODY BY FELTON.
Hollow gusts are sighing,
Sea-birds to their cave
Through the gloom are flying.
Oh! should storms come sweeping,
O'er thy children vigil keeping,
Hear, hear, and save!
Few, and sad, and shrouded;
Faith our light must be,
When all else is clouded.
Thou, whose voice came thrilling,
Wind and billow stilling,
Speak once more! our prayer fulfilling—
Power dwells with Thee!
FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE.
A SERIES OF SONNETS.
Of all their choral dances, have not left
One trace beside the fountains: your full cup
Of gladness and of trembling, each alike
Is broken; yet, amidst undying things,
The mind still keeps your loveliness, and still
All the fresh glories of the early world
Hang round you in the spirit's pictured halls,
Never to change!”
I.—INVOCATION.
As the tired voyager on stormy seasInvokes the coming of bright birds from shore,
To waft him tidings, with the gentler breeze,
Of dim sweet woods that hear no billows roar;
Her solemn beauty and primeval dew,
I call you, gracious Forms! Oh! come, restore
Awhile that holy freshness, and renew
Life's morning dreams. Come with the voice, the lyre,
Daughters of Judah! with the timbrel rise!
Ye of the dark prophetic eastern eyes,
Imperial in their visionary fire;
Oh! steep my soul in that old glorious time,
When God's own whisper shook the cedars of your clime!
II.—INVOCATION CONTINUED.
And come, ye faithful! round Messiah seen,With a soft harmony of tears and light
Streaming through all your spiritual mien,
As in calm clouds of pearly stillness bright,
Showers weave with sunshine, and transpierce their slight
Ethereal cradle.—From your heart subdued
All haughty dreams of power had wing'd their flight,
And left high place for martyr fortitude,
True faith, long-suffering love.—Come to me, come!
And, as the seas beneath your master's tread
Fell into crystal smoothness, round him spread
Like the clear pavement of his heavenly home;
So in your presence, let the soul's great deep
Sink to the gentleness of infant sleep.
III.—THE SONG OF MIRIAM.
Lay by the billows of the old Red Sea,
When Miriam's voice o'er that sepulchral realm
Sent on the blast a hymn of jubilee;
With her lit eye, and long hair floating free,
Queen-like she stood, and glorious was the strain,
E'en as instinct with the tempestuous glee
Of the dark waters, tossing o'er the slain.
Bright poesy! were holy in their birth:—
How hath it died, thy seraph note of praise,
In the bewildering melodies of earth!
Return from troubling bitter founts—return,
Back to the life-springs of thy native urn!
IV.—RUTH.
The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn,By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann'd,
Still brings me back thine image—Oh! forlorn,
Yet not forsaken, Ruth!—I see thee stand
Lone, 'midst the gladness of the harvest band—
Lone, as a wood-bird on the ocean's foam,
Fall'n in its weariness. Thy fatherland
Smiles far away! yet to the sense of home,
That finest, purest, which can recognise
Home in affection's glance, for ever true
Gleam tremulous through tears, 'tis not to rue
Those words, immortal in their deep love's tone,
“Thy people and thy God shall be mine own!”
V.—THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH.
Alone before the awfulness of night?—
A seer awaiting the deep spirit's might?
A warrior guarding some dark pass of dread
No, a lorn woman!—On her drooping head,
Once proudly graceful, heavy beats the rain;
She recks not—living for the unburied slain,
Only to scare the vulture from their bed.
With the pale stars, and with the dews hath wept;—
Oh! surely some bright Presence from above
On those wild rocks the lonely one must aid!—
E'en so; a strengthener through all storm and shade,
Th' unconquerable angel, mightiest love!
VI.—THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMITE WOMAN.
“I dwell among mine own,”—Oh! happy thou!
Not for the sunny clusters of the vine,
Not for the olives on the mountain's brow;
Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line
Of streams, that make the green land where they shine
Laugh to the light of waters—not for these,
Nor the soft shadow of ancestral trees,
Whose kindly whisper floats o'er thee and thine—
Oh! not for these I call thee richly blest,
But for the meekness of thy woman's breast,
Where that sweet depth of still contentment lies;
And for thy holy household love, which clings
Unto all ancient and familiar things,
Weaving from each some link for home's dear charities.
VII.—THE ANNUNCIATION.
Lowliest of women, and most glorified!In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone,
A brightness round thee grew—and by thy side
Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone,
Solemn, yet breathing gladness. From her throne
A queen had risen with more imperial eye,
From her proud lyre had struck a tempest's tone,
For such high tidings as to thee were brought,
Chosen of Heaven! that hour:—but thou, O thou!
E'en as a flower with gracious rains o'erfraught,
Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow,
And take to thy meek breast th' all holy word,
And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord.
VIII.—THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN.
Yet as a sunburst flushing mountain snow,Fell the celestial touch of fire erelong
On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow,
And thy calm spirit lighten'd into song.
Unconsciously, perchance, yet free and strong
Flow'd the majestic joy of tuneful words,
Which living harps the quires of Heaven among
Might well have link'd with their divinest chords.
Full many a strain, borne far on glory's blast,
Shall leave, where once its haughty music pass'd,
No more to memory than a reed's faint sigh;
While thine, O childlike virgin! through all time
Shall send its fervent breath o'er every clime,
Being of God, and therefore not to die.
IX.—THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST'S FEET.
There was a mournfulness in angel eyes,That saw thee, woman! bright in this world's train,
Moving to pleasure's airy melodies,
Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain.
But from thy beauty's garland, brief and vain,
When one by one the rose-leaves had been torn,
When thy heart's core had quiver'd to the pain
Through every life-nerve sent by arrowy scorn;
When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odours forth
On the Redeemer's feet, with many a sigh,
And showering tear-drop, of yet richer worth
Than all those costly balms of Araby;
Then was there joy, a song of joy in heaven,
For thee, the child won back, the penitent forgiven!
X.—MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST.
Oh! bless'd beyond all daughters of the earth!What were the Orient's thrones to that low seat
Where thy hush'd spirit drew celestial birth?
Mary! meek listener at the Saviour's feet!
No feverish cares to that divine retreat
Thy woman's heart of silent worship brought,
But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to meet,
With love, and wonder, and submissive thought.
Oh! for the holy quiet of thy breast,
'Midst the world's eager tones and footsteps flying
Thou, whose calm soul was like a well-spring, lying
That e'en when noontide burns upon the hills,
Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirror fills.
XI.—THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER THE
DEATH OF LAZARUS.One grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead!
Was in your bosoms—thou, whose steps, made fleet
By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled,
Bore thee, as wings, the Lord of Life to greet;
And thou, that duteous in thy still retreat
Didst wait his summons—then with reverent love
Fall weeping at the bless'd Deliverer's feet,
Whom e'en to heavenly tears thy woe could move.
And which to Him, the All Seeing and All Just,
Was loveliest, that quick zeal, or lowly trust?
Oh! question not, and let no law be given
To those unveilings of its deepest shrine,
By the wrung spirit made in outward sign:
Free service from the heart is all in all to Heaven.
XII.—THE MEMORIAL OF MARY.
Thou hast thy record in the monarch's hall;
And on the waters of the far mid sea;
The alpine hamlet keeps a thought of thee:
Where'er, beneath some oriental tree,
The Christian traveller rests—where'er the child
Looks upward from the English mother's knee,
With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild,
There art thou known—where'er the Book of light
Bears hope and healing, there, beyond all blight,
Is borne thy memory, and all praise above:
Oh! say what deed so lifted thy sweet name,
Mary! to that pure silent place of fame?
One lowly offering of exceeding love.
XIII.—THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE CROSS.
Like those pale stars of tempest hours, whose gleamWaves calm and constant on the rocking mast,
Such by the cross doth your bright lingering seem,
Daughters of Zion! faithful to the last!
Ye, through the darkness o'er the wide earth cast
By the death-cloud within the Saviour's eye,
E'en till away the heavenly spirit pass'd,
Stood in the shadow of his agony.
O blessed faith! a guiding lamp, that hour
Was lit for woman's heart; to her, whose dower
Is all of love and suffering from her birth;
Still hath your act a voice—through fear, through strife,
Bidding her bind each tendril of her life,
To that which her deep soul hath proved of holiest worth.
XIV.—MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE.
Weeper! to thee how bright a morn was givenAfter thy long, long vigil of despair,
When that high voice which burial rocks had riven,
Thrill'd with immortal tones the silent air!
Never did clarion's royal blast declare
Such tale of victory to a breathless crowd,
As the deep sweetness of one word could bear
Into thy heart of hearts, O woman! bow'd
By strong affection's anguish! one low word—
“Mary!”—and all the triumph wrung from death
Was thus reveal'd! and thou, that so hadst err'd,
So wept, and been forgiven, in trembling faith
Didst cast thee down before the all-conquering Son,
Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had won!
XV.—MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS OF THE RESURRECTION.
Then was a task of glory all thine own,Nobler than e'er the still small voice assign'd
To lips, in awful music making known
The stormy splendours of some prophet's mind.
“Christ is arisen!”—by thee, to wake mankind,
First from the sepulchre those words were brought!
Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind
“Christ is arisen!”—Thou, thou, the sin enthrall'd,
Earth's outcast, Heaven's own ransom'd one, wert call'd
In human hearts to give that rapture birth:
Oh! raised from shame to brightness!—there doth lie
The tenderest meaning of His ministry,
Whose undespairing love still own'd the spirit's worth.
THE TWO MONUMENTS.
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn'd!”
Wordsworth.
In a dim cathedral's nave,
Making a gorgeous canopy
O'er a noble, noble grave!
With helm and crest array'd,
As on his battle-bed of death,
Lay in their crimson shade.
Ere by the dark night seal'd,
On standard and on shield.
With the glory of his wing,
An eagle sat;—yet seem'd the while
Panting through heaven to spring.
There by the sculptor bound;
But in the light of his lifted glance
Was that which scorn'd the ground.
From a storied window pour'd,
There fell, there centred, to suffuse
The conqueror and his sword.
O'er all supremely spread,
With a purple robe of royalty
Mantling the mighty dead.
Was a trumpet note in war,
His pathway still the march of fame,
His eye the battle star.
From the colour'd light, one ray,
Where a low and pale memorial stone
By the couch of glory lay.
Mourning for parted worth;
But the very heart of love and prayer
Had given their sweetness forth.
As a hidden streamlet's course,
Bearing on health and joy unseen,
From its clear mountain-source:
'Midst rock, and wood, and hill,
Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,
A soft light meek and still:
Unto Music's land away,
Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd,
By words of silvery sway.
In no high song of fame,
The pastor of the mountain-fold
Left but to heaven his name.
A blessed household sound—
And finding lowly love on earth,
Enough, enough, he found!
That sainted image still;
Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd
The regal fane to fill.
From those proud trophies nigh!
How my full heart within me burn'd
Like Him to live and die!
THE COTTAGE GIRL.
Her fair face laughing at the sunny day;
A gush of waters tremulously bright,
Kindling the air to gladness with their light;
And a soft gloom beyond, of summer trees,
Darkening the turf, and shadow'd o'er by these,
A low, dim, woodland cottage—this was all!
What had the scene for memory to recall
With a fond look of love! What secret spell
With the heart's pictures made its image dwell?
That freshly forth o'er stream and verdure smiled,
Casting upon the common things of earth
A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth!
THE BATTLE-FIELD.
When thousands stood forth in their glancing array;
And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed
Through the dun-rolling clouds that o'ershadow'd the fray.
As the ears of the harvest unnumber'd they stood,
I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near,
Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of the wood.
Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair;
On high to the gust stream'd the banner's red fold,
O'er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of despair.
When the sabre was sheath'd and the tempest had past;
The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain,
And the fern softly sigh'd in the low wailing blast.
And bright shone the stars through the sky's deepen'd blue;
And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose,
Where the fox-glove lay gemm'd with its pearldrops of dew.
As the ocean in might—as the storm-cloud in speed!
Where now were the thunders of victory's boast—
The slayer's dread wrath, and the strength of the steed?
To mark the lone scene of their shame or their pride;
One grass-cover'd mound told the traveller alone,
Where thousands lay down in their anguish, and died!
For this, toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot;
A name like the mist, when the night-beams are spent—
A grave with its tenants unwept and forgot!
A PENITENT'S RETURN.
Ah! no, the spirit of domestic peace,
Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove,
And ever murmuring forth a quiet song,
Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim,
The hallow'd porch. She hath a heavenly smile,
That sinks into the sullen soul of vice,
And wins him o'er to virtue.”
Wilson.
In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around,
Something, amidst the dewy calm profound,
Broods, never mark'd before!
Is it the shivery creeping on the air,
That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair,
O'erwhelming to my sight?
And still'd, and darken'd in each time-worn hue,
Since the rich clustering roses met my view,
As now, by starry gleams.
I stood and linger'd—where my sisters made
Our mother's bower—I deem'd not that it cast
So far and dark a shade!
Sighs through yon tree! My father's place was there
At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair!
Now those grey locks are gone!
Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod.
I tremble where I move—the voice of God
Is in the foliage here!
That makes my home so awful? Faithless hearted!
'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed
The inborn gladd'ning light!
Only the joy of purity is fled,
Thou hear'st their tones with dread.
By thy dark spirit, is o'erhung with shade;
And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God
Makes thy sick heart afraid!
Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air;
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more
To pass, and rest thee there.
Hark, hark!—it is my mother's voice I hear—
Sadder than once it seem'd—yet soft and clear—
Doth she not seem to pray?
Oh! blessed tone of love—the deep, the mild—
Mother, my mother! Now receive thy child,
Take back the lost and found!
A THOUGHT OF PARADISE.
And in our life alone does nature live;
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud;
And, would we aught behold of higher worth
Than that inanimate cold world allow'd
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud,
Enveloping the earth;
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element.”
Coleridge.
If thou couldst yet be found,
Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers;
If not one sullying breath
Of time, or change, or death,
Had touch'd the vernal glory of thy bowers;
Worn by the desert's heat,
On the bright freshness of thy turf repose?
Might our eyes wander there
Through heaven's transparent air,
And rest on colours of the immortal rose?
And fountain-melodies
Our heritage of lost delight restore?
Could thy soft honey-dews
Through all our veins diffuse
The early, child-like, trustful sleep once more?
By thy tall cedars made,
With angel voices high communion hold?
Would their sweet solemn tone
Give back the music gone,
Our Being's harmony, so jarr'd of old?
Might come with blossom showers,
All thy young leaves to spirit lyres might thrill;
But we—should we not bring
Into thy realms of spring
The shadows of our souls to haunt us still?
Do for our earth-born cares?
Would the world's chain melt off and leave us free?
No!—past each living stream,
Still would some fever dream
Track the lorn wand'rers, meet no more for thee!
If angel steps were near,
Feeling our burden'd souls within us die?
How might our passions brook
The still and searching look,
The starlike glance of seraph purity?
Was not for pining love;
Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies!
Of what man's exiled heart
Hath lost—the dower of inborn Paradise!
LET US DEPART.
And a brooding hush profound
Lay where the Roman eagle shone,
High o'er the tents around,
In the moonlight glimmering pale;
Like white waves of a frozen sea,
Filling an Alpine vale.
Fell broad, and dark, and still,
In peace, as if the Holy One
Yet watch'd his chosen hill.
In that old fane's deepest heart,
And a dread voice raised the cry,
“Let us depart!”
E'en then fierce discord raved,
Though o'er night's heaven the comet sword
Its vengeful token waved.
Through the dark streets ringing high,
Though every sign was full which told
Of the bloody vintage nigh.
Of many a meteor host,
Went flashing o'er the holy stars,
In the sky now seen, now lost.
In the Temple's deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a voice cried mournfully,
“Let us depart!”
There was revelry that night;
The wine-cup and the timbrel note,
And the blaze of banquet light.
Went bounding through the hall,
Summon'd to festival.
Made lightning in the air,
And the dying at the palace gates
Lay down in their despair.
At the Temple's thrilling heart,
As if mighty wings rush'd by,
And a dread voice raised the cry,
“Let us depart!”
ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING THE CROSS,
PAINTED BY VELASQUEZ.
Holiest of sufferers! round thy path of woe,
And by the weight of mortal agony
Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek brow,
My heart was awed: the burden of thy pain
Sank on me with a mystery and a chain.
Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray
The halo, melting spirit-like away,
Seem'd of the very soul's bright rising born,
To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn.
Gazed in mute reverence, woman's earnest eye,
Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming,
With quenchless faith, and deep love's fervency;
Gathering, like incense, round some dim-veil'd shrine,
About the form, so mournfully divine!
Live in my soul for ever, calm and clear,
Making itself a temple of repose,
Beyond the breath of human hope or fear!
A holy place, where through all storms may lie
One living beam of dayspring from on high.
COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT.
We might be happy; but this clay will sink
Its spark immortal.”
Byron.
Ye wild and wing'd! what do ye o'er the deep?
And wherefore thus the abyss of time o'ersweep,
As birds the ocean foam?
Swifter than lances of the northern light,
Upspringing through the purple heaven of night,
Hath been your course afar!
Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams,
And reeds are whispering of heroic themes,
By temples of old time:
Where banners thrill'd of yore—where harp-strings rung;
But grass waves now o'er those that fought and sung—
Hearth-light hath left their walls!
Where o'er the leaves dread magic seems to brood;
And sometimes on the haunted solitude
Rises the pilgrim's hymn:
With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleaming!
There have ye been, ye wanderers! idly dreaming
Of man's lost paradise!
Cares wait your presence in life's daily track,
And voices, not of music, call you back—
Harsh voices, cold and stern!
Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be!
Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and free,
O'er many a haunted spot.
'Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast;
Or, through the ruin'd cities of the past,
Follow the wise and brave!
Where woman hath endured!—through wrong, through scorn,
Uncheer'd by fame, yet silently upborne
By promptings more divine!
Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind,
Where the heart's boundless love its rest may find,
Where the storm sends no breath!
Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would lay
On your victorious wings—mount, mount!—Your way
Is through eternity!
SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL.
I.—THE SACRED HARP.
How shall the harp of poesy regainThat old victorious tone of prophet-years,
A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears,
And all the hovering shadows of the brain?
Dark evil wings took flight before the strain,
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall,
Sank on the soul. Oh! who may now recall
The mighty music's consecrated reign?
Spirit of God! whose glory once o'erhung
A throne, the ark's dread cherubim between,
So let thy presence brood, though now unseen,
O'er those two powers by whom the harp is strung,
Feeling and Thought! till the rekindled chords
Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words.
II.—TO A FAMILY BIBLE.
What household thoughts around thee, as their shrine,Cling reverently?—of anxious looks beguiled
Each day were bent—her accents, gravely mild,
Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child,
Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away,
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild,
Some fresh discover'd nook for woodland play,
Some secret nest: yet would the solemn Word,
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard,
Fall on my wakened spirit, there to be
A seed not lost;—for which, in darker years,
O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears,
Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee!
III.—REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY.
FROM AN OLD ITALIAN PICTURE.
Under a palm-tree, by the green old Nile,Lull'd on his mother's breast, the fair child lies,
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile,
Brooding above the slumber of his eyes.
While, through the stillness of the burning skies,
Lo! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings,
Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise,
Regal and still as everlasting things!—
Vain pomps! from him, with that pure flowery cheek,
Soft shadow'd by his mother's drooping head,
A new-born spirit, mighty, and yet meek,
O'er the whole world like vernal air shall spread!
And bid all earthly grandeurs cast the crown,
Before the suffering and the lowly, down.
IV.—PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS.
All the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing;Round the young child luxuriantly are spread;
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing
In adoration, o'er his cradle shed.
Roses, deep-filled with rich midsummer's red,
Circle his hands; but, in his grave sweet eye,
Thought seems e'en now to wake, and prophecy
Of ruder coronals for that meek head.
And thus it was! a diadem of thorn
Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers,
To Him who pour'd forth blessings in soft showers
O'er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn!
And we repine, for whom that cup He took,
O'er blooms that mock'd our hope, o'er idols that forsook!
V.—ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST.
AN ECCE HOMO, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI.
I met that image on a mirthful dayOf youth; and, sinking with a still'd surprise,
The pride of life, before those holy eyes,
In my quick heart died thoughtfully away,
Abash'd to mute confession of a sway,
Awful, though meek; and now, that from the strings
Have struck forth tones which then awaken'd lay;
Now, that around the deep life of my mind,
Affections, deathless as itself, have twined,
Oft does the pale bright vision still float by;
But more divinely sweet, and speaking now
Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow,
Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, humanity!
VI.—THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLESSED.
Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sightYe grew, fair children! hallow'd from that hour
By your Lord's blessing! surely thence a shower
Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light
Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright,
Through all the after years, which saw ye move
Lowly, yet still majestic, in the might,
The conscious glory of the Saviour's love!
And honour'd be all childhood, for the sake
Of that high love! Let reverential care
Watch to behold the immortal spirit wake,
And shield its first bloom from unholy air;
Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the sign
Of claims upon a heritage divine.
VII.—MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES.
A child 'midst ancient mountains I have stood,
Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest
Fell solemnly upon my infant breast,
Though then I pray'd not; but deep thoughts have press'd
Into my being since it breathed that air,
Nor could I now one moment live the guest
Of such dread scenes, without the springs of prayer
O'erflowing all my soul. No minsters rise
Like them in pure communion with the skies,
Vast, silent, open unto night and day;
So might the o'erburden'd Son of Man have felt,
When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt,
He sought high mountains, there apart to pray.
VIII.—THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.
Flowers! when the Saviour's calm benignant eye
Fell on your gentle beauty—when from you
That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew,
Eternal, universal, as the sky—
Then, in the bosom of your purity,
A voice He set, as in a temple-shrine,
That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by,
Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine.
And though too oft its low, celestial sound,
By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drown'd,
And the loud steps of vain unlistening Haste,
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hush'd hour,
Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced!
IX.—THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.
Ye too, the free and fearless Birds of air,
Were charged that hour, on missionary wing,
The same bright lesson o'er the seas to bear,
Heaven-guided wanderers, with the winds of spring
Sing on, before the storm and after, sing!
And call us to your echoing woods away
From worldly cares; and bid our spirits bring
Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay.
So may those blessed vernal strains renew
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true
E'en than the first, within th' awaken'd mind;
While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life,
That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife,
But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resign'd.
X.—THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON.
He that was dead rose up and spoke—He spoke!
Was it of that majestic world unknown?
Those words, which first the bier's dread silence broke,
Came they with revelation in each tone?
Were the far cities of the nations gone,
The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep,
For man uncurtain'd by that spirit lone,
Back from their portal summon'd o'er the deep?
Still drawn: thy Lord call'd back the voice departed,
To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted,
Not to reveal the mysteries of its way.
Oh! take that lesson home in silent faith,
Put on submissive strength to meet, not question, death!
XI.—THE OLIVE-TREE.
The Palm—the Vine—the Cedar—each hath powerTo bid fair Oriental shapes glance by,
And each quick glistening of the Laurel bower
Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye.
But thou, pale Olive!—in thy branches lie
Far deeper spells than prophet grove of old
Might e'er enshrine:—I could not hear the sigh
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold
One shiver of thy leaves' dim silvery green,
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene
When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray'd—
When pale stars look'd upon his fainting head,
And angels, minist'ring in silent dread,
Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade.
XII.—THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION.
On Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung,Felt shudderingly at noon:—the land had driven
A Guest divine back to the gates of heaven,
A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung,
From the sharp cross th' enlightening spirit fled,
O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread
By the great shadow of that death was flung.
O Saviour! O Atoner! thou that fain
Wouldst make thy temple in each human breast,
Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign,
Ne'er may thy presence from its depths depart,
Chased thence by guilt! Oh! turn not thou away,
The bright and morning star, my guide to perfect day!
XIII.—PLACES OF WORSHIP.
Spirit! whose life-sustaining presence fills
Air, ocean, central depths by man untried,
Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified
All place, all time! The silence of the hills
Breathes veneration:—founts and choral rills
Of thee are murmuring:—to its inmost glade
The living forest with thy whisper thrills,
And there is holiness on every shade.
Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest
With dearer consecration those pure fanes,
Which, sever'd from all sound of earth's unrest,
Hear nought but suppliant or adoring strains
Rise heavenward.—Ne'er may rock or cave possess
Their claim on human hearts to solemn tenderness.
XIV.—OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK.
Crowning a flowery slope it stood aloneIn gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound,
Caressingly, about the holy ground;
And warbled, with a never-dying tone,
Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone
Seem'd, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam
Of tower and cross, pale quivering on the stream,
O'er all th' ancestral woodlands to be thrown,
And something yet more deep. The air was fraught
With noble memories, whispering many a thought
Of England's fathers; loftily serene,
They that had toil'd, watch'd, struggled, to secure,
Within such fabrics, worship free and pure,
Reign'd there, the o'ershadowing spirits of the scene.
XV.—A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES.
Blessings be round it still! that gleaming fane,Low in its mountain-glen! old mossy trees
Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane,
And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze,
The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas,
Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone,
There meets the voice of psalms!—yet not alone,
For memories lulling to the heart as these,
I bless thee, 'midst thy rocks, grey house of prayer!
From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore.
Oh! may the fisher and the mountaineer,
Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear,
Within thy lowly walls for evermore!
XVI.—LOUISE SCHEPLER.
A fearless journeyer o'er the mountain snowWert thou, Louise! the sun's decaying light,
Oft, with its latest melancholy glow,
Redden'd thy steep wild way: the starry night
Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle's height.
Piercing some dark ravine: and many a dell
Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well,
Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright
Oft in mid-storms; oh! not with beauty's eye,
Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning;
No! pilgrim of unwearying charity!
Thy spell was love—the mountain deserts turning
To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving voice!
XVII.—TO THE SAME.
For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind,Through the pine forests, by the upland rills,
Didst roam to seek the children of the hills,
A wild neglected flock! to seek, and find,
And meekly win! there feeding each young mind
With blams of heavenly eloquence: not thine,
Daughter of Christ! but his, whose love divine
Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined,
A burning light! Oh! beautiful, in truth,
Upon the mountains are the feet of those
Who bear his tidings! From thy morn of youth,
For this were all thy journeyings, and the close
Of that long path, Heaven's own bright sabbathrest,
Must wait thee, wanderer! on thy Saviour's breast.
THE WATER-LILY.
Thou sculpture-like and stately river-queen!
Crowning the depths, as with the light serene
Of a pure heart.
Rising in fearless grace with every swell,
Dwelt in thy cell:
Of placid beauty, feminine yet free,
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread
The waters be.
The gentle and the firm? thus bearing up
To the blue sky that alabaster cup,
As to the shower?
The love of woman! quivering to the blast
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast
'Midst life's dark sea.
Like thee, too, lily, springing into light,
Still buoyantly, above the billows' might,
Through the storm's breath?
Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie!
Till something there of its own purity
And peace be wrought:
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed.
As from a shrine.
RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.
I.—A VERNAL THOUGHT.
O festal Spring! 'midst thy victorious glow,Far-spreading o'er the kindled woods and plains,
And streams, that bound to meet thee from their chains,
Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe
For human hearts, and in the exulting flow
Of thy rich songs a melancholy tone,
Were we of mould all earthly; we alone,
Sever'd from thy great spell, and doom'd to go
Farther, still farther, from our sunny time,
Never to feel the breathings of our prime,
Never to flower again!—But we, O Spring!
Cheer'd by deep spirit-whispers not of earth,
Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth,
As here thy flowers and birds press on to bloom and sing.
II.—TO THE SKY.
Far from the rustlings of the poplar bough,Which o'er my opening life wild music made,
Far from the green hills with their heathery glow
And flashing streams whereby my childhood play'd;
In the dim city, 'midst the sounding flow
Of restless life, to thee in love I turn
O thou rich sky! and from thy splendours learn
How song-birds come and part, flowers wane and blow.
With thee all shapes of glory find their home,
And thou hast taught me well, majestic dome!
By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rove
Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest,
That Nature's God hath left no spot unbless'd
With founts of beauty for the eye of love.
III.—ON RECORDS OF IMMATURE GENIUS.
Oh! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those,Who, richly dower'd for life, are called to die,
Ere the soul's flame, through storms, hath won repose
In truth's divinest ether, still and high!
Let their mind's riches claim a trustful sigh!
Deem them but sad sweet fragments of a strain,
First notes of some yet struggling harmony,
Of many inspirations met, and held
From its true sphere:—Oh! soon it might have swell'd
Majestically forth!—Nor doubt, that He,
Whose touch mysterious may on earth dissolve
Those links of music, elsewhere will evolve
Their grand consummate hymn, from passion-gusts made free!
IV.—ON WATCHING THE FLIGHT OF A SKY-LARK.
Upward and upward still!—in pearly lightThe clouds are steep'd; the vernal spirit sighs
With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies
Woo thee, O bird! to thy celestial height;
Bird piercing Heaven with music! thy free flight
Hath meaning for all bosoms; most of all
For those wherein the rapture and the might
Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn,
For their high place: O heirs of genius! learn
From the sky's bird your way!—No joy may fill
Your hearts, no gift of holy strength be won
To bless your songs, ye children of the sun!
Save by the unswerving flight—upward and upward still!
V.—A THOUGHT OF THE SEA.
My earliest memories to thy shores are bound,Thy solemn shores, thou ever-chanting main!
The first rich sunsets, kindling thought profound
In my lone being, made thy restless plain
As the vast shining floor of some dread fane,
All paved with glass and fire. Yet, O blue deep!
Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep,
Never to thee did love with silvery chain
Draw my soul's dream, which through all nature sought
What waves deny;—some bower of steadfast bliss,
A home to twine with fancy, feeling, thought,
As with sweet flowers:—But chasten'd hope for this
Now turns from earth's green valleys, as from thee,
To that sole changeless world, where “there is no more sea.”
VI.—DISTANT SOUND OF THE SEA AT EVENING.
Yet, rolling far up some green mountain dale,Oft let me hear, as ofttimes I have heard,
Thy swell, thou deep! when evening calls the bird
And bee to rest; when summer tints grow pale,
Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil,
And peasant steps are hastening to repose,
And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower-cups close
Then, 'midst the dying of all other sound,
When the soul hears thy distant voice profound,
Lone-worshipping, and knows that through the night
'Twill worship still, then most its anthem tone
Speaks to our being of the Eternal One,
Who girds tired nature with unslumbering might.
VII.—THE RIVER CLWYD IN NORTH WALES.
O Cambrian river, with slow music glidingBy pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin'd towers;
Now 'midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding,
Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of flowers;
Long flow'd the current of my life's clear hours
Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my dream,
Though time and change, and other mightier powers,
Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, smooth stream!
Art winding still thy sunny meads along,
Murm'ring to cottage and grey hall thy song,
Low, sweet, unchanged. My being's tide hath pass'd
Through rocks and storms; yet will I not complain,
If thus wrought free and pure from earthly stain,
Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep at last.
VIII.—ORCHARD BLOSSOMS.
Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sightOf orchard blooms upon the mossy bough?
Doth their sweet household smile waft back the glow
Of childhood's morn?—the wondering fresh delight
In earth's new colouring, then all strangely bright,
A joy of fairyland?—Doth some old nook,
Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book,
Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak'd blossoms white,
Shower'd o'er the turf, and the lone primrose knot,
And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot,
And the bee's dreamy chime?—O gentle friend!
The world's cold breath, not Time's, this life bereaves
Of vernal gifts—Time hallows what he leaves,
And will for us endear spring-memories to the end.
IX.—TO A DISTANT SCENE.
Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing,O far-off grassy dell?—and dost thou see,
When southern winds first wake the vernal singing,
The star-gleam of the wood anemone?
Doth the shy ring-dove haunt thee yet—the bee
Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell
To their wild blooms? and round my beechen tree
Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell?
—Oh! strange illusion by the fond heart wrought,
—My being's tide of many-coloured thought
Hath pass'd from thee, and now, rich, leafy place!
I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene,
Silent, forsaken, dim, shadow'd by what hath been.
X.—A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE.
O vale and lake, within your mountain-urnSmiling so tranquilly, and set so deep!
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return,
Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep
With light Elysian; for the hues that steep
Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float
On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote,
Isles of the blest; and in our memory keep
Their place with holiest harmonies: fair scene,
Most loved by evening and her dewy star!
Oh! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar
The perfect music of thy charm serene!
Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear
Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayer.
XI.—THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES.
Trees, gracious trees! how rich a gift ye are,Crown of the earth! to human hearts and eyes!
How doth the thought of home, in lands afar,
Link'd with your forms and kindly whisperings rise!
Oft 'midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep!
Till gazing through them up the summer skies
As hush'd we stand, a breeze perchance may creep
And old sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world
Where memory coils—and lo! at once unfurl'd
The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight,
Spreads clear! while gushing from their long-seal'd urn
Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers return,
And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy light.
XII.—THE SAME.
And ye are strong to shelter!—all meek things,All that need home and covert, love your shade!
Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs,
And nun-like violets, by the wind betray'd.
Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath play'd
With his first primrose-wealth: there love hath sought
A veiling gloom for his unutter'd thought;
And silent grief, of day's keen glare afraid,
A refuge for her tears; and ofttimes there
Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer,
A native temple, solemn, hush'd, and dim;
For wheresoe'er your murm'ring tremors thrill
The woody twilight, there man's heart hath still
Confess'd a spirit's breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn.
XIII.—ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN CHILDHOOD.
O gentle story of the Indian isle!I loved thee in my lonely childhood well
On the sea-shore, when day's last purple smile
Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell
And dying cadence lent a deeper spell
Unto thine ocean-pictures. 'Midst thy palms
And strange bright birds, my fancy joy'd to dwell,
And watch the southern cross through midnight calms,
And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless'd
Thy vision of sweet love; kind, trustful, true,
Lighting the citron groves—a heavenly guest,
With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew.
Even then my young heart wept o'er the world's power,
To reach and blight that holiest Eden flower.
XIV.—A THOUGHT AT SUNSET.
Still that last look is solemn! though thy rays,O sun! to-morrow will give back, we know,
The joy to nature's heart. Yet through the glow
Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze
Tracks thee with love half fearful; and in days
When earth too much adored thee, what a swell
Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays,
Told how the dying bade thy light farewell,
Lost, lost!—for them thy golden hours were done,
And darkness lay before them! Happier far
Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchain'd,
Not thus for thy last parting unsustain'd,
Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star.
XV.—IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE.
Calm scenes of patriarch life!—how long a powerYour unworn pastoral images retain
O'er the true heart, which in its childhood's hour
Drank their pure freshness deep! The camels' train
Winding in patience o'er the desert plain—
The tent, the palm-tree, the reposing flock,
The gleaming fount, the shadow of the rock,
Oh! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain,
And in the influence of its touch how bless'd,
Are these things link'd, in many a thoughtful breast,
To household memories, for all change endear'd!
The matin bird, the ripple of a stream
Beside our native porch—the hearth-light's gleam
The voices, earliest by the soul revered!
XVI.—ATTRACTION OF THE EAST.
What secret current of man's nature turnsUnto the golden east with ceaseless flow?
Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns,
The pilgrim spirit would adore and glow;
Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know
Where pass'd the shepherd fathers of mankind.
Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far
Still points to where our alienated home
Lay in bright peace? O thou true eastern star
Saviour! atoning Lord! where'er we roam,
Draw still our hearts to thee; else, else how vain
Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain!
XVII.—TO AN AGED FRIEND.
Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard,Servant of God!—thy day is almost done;
The charm now lingering in thy look and word
Is that which hangs about thy setting sun,
That which the spirit of decay hath won
Still from revering love. Yet doth the sense
Of life immortal—progress but begun—
Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence,
That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline;
And the loved flowers which round thee smile farewell,
Of more than vernal glory seem to tell,
By thy pure spirit touch'd with light divine;
While we, to whom its parting gleams are given,
Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven.
XVIII.—FOLIAGE.
Come forth, and let us through our hearts receiveThe joy of verdure!—see, the honied lime
Showers cool green light o'er banks where wildflowers weave
Thick tapestry; and woodbine tendrils climb
Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme.
The rich deep masses of the sycamore
Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime,
And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar,
Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each gale
That sweeps the boughs:—the chestnut flowers are past,
The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail,
But arches of sweet eglantine are cast
From every hedge:—Oh! never may we lose,
Dear friend! our fresh delight in simplest nature's hues!
XIX.—A PRAYER.
Father in Heaven! from whom the simplest flowerOn the high Alps or fiery desert thrown,
Draws not sweet odour or young life alone,
But the deep virtue of an inborn power
To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour,
With thoughts of Thee; to strengthen, to infuse
Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues
Grace thou my song!—the precious gift bestow
From thy pure Spirit's treasury divine,
To wake one tear of purifying flow,
To soften one wrung heart for Thee and thine;
So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain,
Be as the meek wild-flower's—if transient, yet not vain.
XX.—PRAYER CONTINUED.
Illumine; what is low raise and support.”
Milton.
Far are the wings of intellect astray,
That strive not, Father! to thy heavenly seat;
They rove, but mount not; and the tempests beat
Still on their plumes:—O source of mental day!
Chase from before my spirit's track the array
Of mists and shadows, raised by earthly care
In troubled hosts that cross the purer air,
And veil the opening of the starry way,
Which brightens on to thee!—Oh! guide thou right
My thought's weak pinion, clear mine inward sight,
The eternal springs of beauty to discern,
Welling beside thy throne; unseal mine ear,
Nature's true oracles in joy to hear:
Keep my soul wakeful still to listen and to learn.
XXI.—MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION.
Yes! all things tell us of a birthright lost,A brightness from our nature pass'd away!
Wanderers we seem, that from an alien coast,
Would turn to where their Father's mansion lay,
And but by some lone flower, that 'midst decay
Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone,
Revealing dimly, with grey moss o'ergrown,
The faint-worn impress of its glory's day,
Can trace their once-free heritage; though dreams
Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams
Flash o'er their souls.—But One, oh! One alone,
For us the ruin'd fabric may rebuild,
And bid the wilderness again be fill'd,
With Eden-flowers—One, mighty to atone!
RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.
I.—THE RETURN TO POETRY.
Once more the eternal melodies from far,Woo me like songs of home: once more discerning
Through fitful clouds the pure majestic star,
Above the poet's world serenely burning,
Thither my soul, fresh-wing'd by love, is turning,
As o'er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest,
For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning,
Whence glorious minds o'erlook this earth's unrest.
—Now be the spirit of Heaven's truth my guide
Through the bright land!—that no brief gladness, found
In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound,
May lure my footsteps from their aim aside:
Their true, high quest—to seek, if ne'er to gain,
The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain.
II.—TO SILVIO PELLICO, ON READING HIS “PRIGIONE.”
There are who climb the mountain's heathery side,Or, in life's vernal strength triumphant, urge
The bark's fleet rushing through the crested surge,
Or spur the courser's fiery race of pride
Over the green savannas, gleaming wide
By some vast lake; yet thus, on foaming sea,
Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free,
Than thou, in that lone dungeon, glorified
By thy brave suffering.—Thou from its dark cell
Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude,
Filling the dedicated solitude
With God; and where His Spirit deigns to dwell,
Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie,
There throned in peace divine is liberty!
III.—TO THE SAME, RELEASED.
How flows thy being now?—like some glad hymn,One strain of solemn rapture?—doth thine eye
Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim,
O'er the crown'd Alps, that, 'midst the upper sky,
Sleep in the sunlight of thine Italy?
Or is thy gaze of reverent love profound,
Unto these dear parental faces bound,
Which, with their silvery hair, so oft glanced by,
Haunting thy prison-dreams?—Where'er thou art,
Blessings be shed upon thine inmost heart,
For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent
Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent,
Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God!
IV.—ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE.
'Twas a bright moment of my life when first,O thou pure stream through rocky portals flowing!
That temple-chamber of thy glory burst
On my glad sight!—thy pebbly couch lay glowing
With deep mosaic hues; and, richly throwing
O'er thy cliff-walls a tinge of autumn's vest,
High bloom'd the heath-flowers, and the wild wood's crest
Was touch'd with gold.—Flow ever thus, bestowing
Gifts of delight, sweet stream! on all who move
Gently along thy shores; and oh! if love,
—True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow fraught—
Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to thee,
Then full of kindness let thy music be,
Singing repose to every troubled thought!
V.—ON READING COLERIDGE'S EPITAPH.
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
And read with gentle breast;—Beneath this sod
A Poet lies, or that which once seem'd he;
Oh! lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.!
That He, who once in vain, with toil of breath,
Found death in life, may here find life in death!
Mercy, for praise; to be forgiven, for Fame,
He ask'd and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same!”
Spirit! so oft in radiant freedom soaring,
High through seraphic mysteries unconfined,
And oft, a diver through the deep of mind,
Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring;
And oft such strains of breezy music pouring,
As, with the floating sweetness of their sighs,
Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring
Awhile that freshness left in Paradise;
Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal?
What the rich fruitage to man's kindred soul
From wealth of thine bequeathed? O strong and high,
And sceptred intellect! thy goal confess'd
Was the Redeemer's Cross—thy last bequest
One lesson breathing thence profound humility:
VI.—ON THE DATURA ARBOREA.
Majestic plant! such fairy dreams as lieNursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip's bell,
Are not thy train:—those flowers of vase-like swell
Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill'd from high,
And in their monumental purity
Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw
Visions link'd strangely with that silent awe
Which broods o'er Sculpture's works.—A meet ally
For those heroic forms, the simply grand
Art thou: and worthy, carved by plastic hand,
Above some kingly poet's tomb to shine
In spotless marble; honouring one, whose strain
Soar'd upon wings of thought that knew no stain
Free through the starry heavens of truth divine.
VII.—DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE.
They float before my soul, the fair designsWhich I would body forth to Life and Power,
Like clouds, that with their wavering hues and lines
Pourtray majestic buildings:—Dome and tower,
Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the shower
Points to th' 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 o'erwrought,
I sink:—O friend! O link'd with each high thought
All I may grasp; until thou see'st fulfill'd,
While time and strength allow, my hope to build
For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane!
VIII.—HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH NATURE.
If e'er again my spirit be allow'dConverse with nature in her chambers deep,
Where lone, and mantled with the rolling cloud,
She broods o'er new-born waters, as they leap
In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep
From caves of mystery;—if I roam once more
Where dark pines quiver to the torrent's roar,
And voiceful oaks respond!—shall I not reap
A more ennobling joy, a loftier power,
Than e'er was shed on life's more vernal hour,
From such communion?—yes! I then shall know,
That not in vain have sorrow, love, and thought,
Their long still work of preparation wrought,
For that more perfect sense of God reveal'd below.
IX.—DREAMS OF THE DEAD.
Oft in still night-dreams a departed faceBends o'er me with sweet earnestness of eye,
Wearing no more of earthly pains a trace,
But all the tender pity that may lie
Calm, yet profound. Soft rays illume that mien,
Th' unshadow'd moonlight of some far-off sky
Around it floats transparently serene
As a pure veil of waters. O rich sleep!
Thou hast strong spirits in thy regions deep,
Which glorify with reconciling breath,
Effacing, brightening, giving forth to shine
Beauty's high truth, and how much more divine
Thy power when link'd in this, with thy stern brother—Death!
X.—THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS.
Nobly thy song, O minstrel! rush'd to meetTh' Eternal on the pathway of the blast,
With darkness round him, as a mantle, cast,
And cherubim to waft his flying seat;
Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet,
With trumpet-voice thy spirit call'd aloud,
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat,
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud.
But far more gloriously to earth made known
By that high strain than by the thunder's tone,
The flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll,
Jehovah spake, through the imbreathing fire,
Nature's vast realms for ever to inspire
With the deep worship of a living soul.
DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION.
Omai la navicella del mio Intelletto.”
Dante.
Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain;
Its phantoms hung around the star of morn,
A cloud-like weeping train;
Through the long day they dimm'd the autumn gold
On all the glistening leaves; and wildly roll'd,
When the last farewell flush of light was glowing,
Across the sunset sky;
O'er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing
One melancholy dye.
Came rushing with her might
Of stormy oracles from caves unknown,
Then with each fitful blast
Prophetic murmurs pass'd,
Wakening or answering some deep Sybil tone,
Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise
With every gusty wail that o'er the wind-harp flies.
Faint spirit, strive no more!—for thee too strong
Are outward ill and wrong,
And inward wasting fires!—Thou canst not soar
Free on a starry way
Beyond their blighting sway,
At Heaven's high gate serenely to adore!
How shouldst thou hope Earth's fetters to unbind?
O passionate, yet weak! O trembler to the wind!
From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe;
Such homeless notes as through the forest sigh,
From the reeds hollow shaken,
When sudden breezes waken
Their vague wild symphony:
No power is theirs, and no abiding-place
In human hearts; their sweetness leaves no trace—
Born only so to die!
On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour,
From thy bruised life again
A moment's essence breathe;
Thy life, whose trampled flower
Into the blessed wreath
Of household charities no longer bound,
Lies pale and withering on the barren ground.
A coiling sadness, round thy heart and brain,
All sensitive to pain!
And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall
O'er thy mind's world, a daily darkening pall.
Fold, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued,
In cold and unrepining quietude!”
Crept o'er it heavy with a dew of death,
Its powers, like leaves before the night rain, closing;
And, as by conflict of wild sea-waves toss'd
On the chill bosom of some desert coast,
Mutely aud hopelessly I lay reposing.
As if a soft mist gleam'd
Before my passive sight, and, slowly curling,
To many a shape and hue
Of vision'd beauty grew,
Like a wrought banner, fold by fold unfurling.
Oh! the rich scenes that o'er mine inward eye
Unrolling then swept by,
With dreamy motion! Silvery seas were there
Lit by large dazzling stars, and arch'd by skies
Of southern midnight's most transparent dyes,
And gemm'd with many an island, wildly fair,
Which floated past me into orient day,
Still gathering lustre on th' illumin'd way,
Till its high groves of wondrous flowering trees
Colour'd the silvery seas.
Height above spiry height!
A soaring solitude of woods and snows,
All steep'd in golden light!
While as it pass'd, those regal peaks unveiling,
I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings
And mighty sounds, as if the vision hailing,
From lyres that quiver'd through ten thousand strings:
Or as if waters forth to music leaping,
From many a cave, the Alpine Echo's hall,
On their bold way victoriously were sweeping,
Link'd in majestic anthems! while through all
That billowy swell and fall,
Voices, like ringing crystal, fill'd the air
With inarticulate melody, that stirr'd
My being's core; then, moulding into word
Their piercing sweetness, bade me rise and bear
In that great choral strain my trembling part
Of tones, by love and faith struck from a human heart.
A happier oracle within my soul
Hath swell'd to power;—a clear unwavering light
Mounts through the battling clouds that round me roll,
And to a new control
Nature's full harp gives forth rejoicing tones,
Wherein my glad sense owns
The accordant rush of elemental sound
To one consummate harmony profound;
Whose notes the seraphim
Lift to the glorious height of music wing'd and crown'd.
Faithful though faint?—Shall not my spirit's fire,
If slowly, yet unswervingly, ascend
Now to its fount and end?
Shall not my earthly love, all purified,
Shine forth a heavenward guide?
An angel of bright power?—and strongly bear
My being upward into holier air,
Where fiery passion-clouds have no abode,
And the sky's temple-arch o'erflows with God?
Expands like rising morn
In my life's life: and as a ripening rose,
The crimson shadow of its glory throws
More vivid, hour by hour, on some pure stream;
So from that hope are spreading
Rich hues, o'er nature shedding,
Each day, a clearer, spiritual gleam.
Father of spirits! let them not depart!
Leaving the chill'd earth, without form and void,
Darken'd by mine own heart!
Lift, aid, sustain me! Thou, by whom alone
All lovely gifts and pure
In the soul's grasp endure;
All knowledge flows—a sea for evermore
Breaking its crested waves on that sole shore—
O consecrate my life! that I may sing
Of Thee with joy that hath a living spring,
In a full heart of music!—Let my lays
Through the resounding mountains waft thy praise,
And with that theme the wood's green cloisters fill,
And make their quivering leafy dimness thrill
To the rich breeze of song! Oh! let me wake
The deep religion, which hath dwelt from yore,
Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake,
And wildest river shore!
And let me summon all the voices dwelling
Where eagles build, and cavern'd rills are welling,
And where the cataract's organ-peal is swelling,
In that one spirit gather'd to adore!
Too daringly in aspiration rise!
Let not thy child all vainly have been taught
By weakness, and by wanderings, and by sighs
Of sad confession!—lowly be my heart,
And on its penitential altar spread
The offerings worthless, till Thy grace impart
The fire from Heaven, whose touch alone can shed
Life, radiance, virtue!—let that vital spark
Pierce my whole being, wilder'd else and dark!
So shall I, too, be pure—a living shrine
Strong and divinely free,
Bearing thy gifts of wisdom on its flight,
And brooding o'er them with a dove-like wing,
Till thought, word, song, to Thee in worship spring,
Immortally endow'd for liberty and light.
THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS.
I.—INTELLECTUAL POWERS.
O Thought! O Memory! gems for ever heapingHigh in the illumined chambers of the mind,
And thou, divine Imagination! keeping
Thy lamp's lone star 'mid shadowy hosts enshrined;
How in one moment rent and disentwined.
At Fever's fiery touch, apart they fall,
Your glorious combinations!—broken all,
As the sand-pillars by the desert's wind
Scatter'd to whirling dust!—Oh, soon uncrown'd!
Well may your parting swift, your strange return,
Subdue the soul to lowliness profound,
Guiding its chasten'd vision to discern
How by meek Faith Heaven's portals must be pass'd
Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast.
II.—SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT.
Thou art like Night, O Sickness! deeply stillingWithin my heart the world's disturbing sound,
And the dim quiet of my chamber filling
With low sweet voices by Life's tumult drown'd,
The things that are unseen—though close they lie,—
And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound,
Givest their dread presence to our mental eye.
—Thou art like starry, spiritual Night!
High and immortal thoughts attend thy way,
And revelations, which the common light
Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray
All outward life:—Be welcome then thy rod,
Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God.
III.—ON RETZSCH'S DESIGN OF THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
Well might thine awful image thus ariseWith that high calm upon thy regal brow,
And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes,
Unto the glorious Artist!—Who but thou
For Him with permanency? — who make those gleams
Of brighter life, that colour his lone dreams,
Immortal things?—Let others trembling bow,
Angel of Death! before thee.—Not to those,
Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose,
Art thou a fearful shape!—and oh! for me,
How full of welcome would thine aspect shine,
Did not the cords of strong affection twine
So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to thee!
This sonnet was suggested by the following passage out of Mrs Jameson's Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad, in a description she gives of a visit paid to the artist Retzsch, near Dresden:—“Afterwards he placed upon his easel a wonderous face, which made me shrink back—not with terror, for it was perfectly beautiful,—but with awe, for it was unspeakably fearful: the hair streamed back from the pale brow—the orbs of sight appeared at first two dark, hollow, unfathomable spaces, like those in a skull; but when I drew nearer and looked attentively, two lovely living eyes looked at me again out of the depth of the shadow, as if from the bottom of an abyss. The mouth was divinely sweet, but sad, and the softest repose rested on every feature. This, he told me, was the Angel of Death.”
IV.—REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE.
O, Nature! thou didst rear me for thine own,With thy free singing-birds and mountain brooks;
Feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted nooks,
With fairy fantasies and wood-dreams lone;
And thou didst teach me every wandering tone
Drawn from thy many-whispering trees and waves,
And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves,
And where bright mosses wove thee a rich throne
'Midst the green hills:—and now, that far estranged
From all sweet sounds and odours of thy breath,
Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged,
So glows the love of thee, that not for Death
Seems that pure passion's fervour—but ordain'd
To meet on brighter shores thy Majesty unstain'd.
V.—FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT.
Whither, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way?What solemn region first upon thy sight
Shall break, unveil'd for terror or delight?
What hosts, magnificent in dread array?
My spirit! when thy prison-house of clay,
After long strife is rent?—fond, fruitless guest!
The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest
Sees but a few green branches o'er him play,
And through their parting leaves, by fits reveal'd,
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 untrack'd, immeasurable skies,
Knowing but this—that thou shalt find thy Guide!
VI.—FLOWERS.
Welcome, O pure and lovely forms, againUnto the shadowy stillness of my room!
For not alone ye bring a joyous train
Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom—
Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom,
Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells,
Of stars that look down on your folded bells
Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume
Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove
Like sudden music; more than this ye bring—
Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing
Broods o'er the sufferer drawing fever'd breath,
Whether the couch be that of life or death.
VII.—RECOVERY.
Back then, once more to breast the waves of life,To battle on against the unceasing spray,
To sink o'erwearied in the stormy strife,
And rise to strife again; yet on my way,
Oh! linger still, thou light of better day,
Born in the hours of loneliness, and you,
Ye childlike thoughts, the holy and the true,
Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay,
The faith, the insight of life's vernal morn
Back on my soul, a clear bright sense, new-born,
Now leave me not! but as, profoundly pure,
A blue stream rushes through a darker lake
Unchang'd, e'en thus with me your journey take,
Wafting sweet airs of heaven through this low world obscure.
SABBATH SONNET.
COMPOSED BY MRS HEMANS A FEW DAYS BEFORE HER DEATH, AND DEDICATED TO HER BROTHER.
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 hallow'd day!
The halls from old heroic ages grey
Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,
With whose 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, oh, my God! I bless
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd
My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.
JUVENILE POEMS
From a Volume of Poems, by Felicia Dorothea Browne, published in 1808, containing Pieces written between the ages of eight and thirteen.
ON MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF EIGHT.
This day the verdant fields are seen;
The tuneful birds begin their lay,
To celebrate thy natal day.
And the whole scene combines to charm;
The flowers revive, this charming May,
Because it is thy natal day.
And only pleasure now is seen;
The rose, the pink, the tulip gay,
Combine to bless thy natal day.
A PRAYER.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF NINE.
Oh! God, my Father and my Friend,Ever thy blessings to me send;
Let me have Virtue for my guide,
And Wisdom always at my side;
Thus cheerfully through life I'll go,
Nor ever feel the sting of woe;
Contented with the humblest lot,
Happy, though in the meanest cot.
ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.
The infant muse, Jehovah! would aspireTo swell the adoration of the lyre:
Source of all good, oh! teach my voice to sing
Thee, from whom Nature's genuine beauties spring;
Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise,
Who saidst to Chaos, “let the earth arise.”
Oh! author of the rich luxuriant year,
Love, Truth, and Mercy, in thy works appear:
Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep,
And e'en hast limited the mighty deep.
And wake the voice of animated praise!
Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub's note;
To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float.
'Tis not for me, in lowly strains to sing
Thee, God of mercy,—heaven's immortal King.
Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspire;
Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire:
With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend,
The grateful offering shall to Thee ascend.
Yes! Thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre,
And “fill my beating heart with sacred fire!”
And when to Thee my youth, my life, I've given,
Raise me, to join Eliza, blest in Heaven.
SONNET TO MY MOTHER.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TWELVE.
To thee, maternal guardian of my youth,I pour the genuine numbers free from art;
The lays inspired by gratitude and truth,
For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart.
Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care,
To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief;
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear,
With fond endearments to impart relief.
Be mine thy warm affection to repay
With duteous love in thy declining hours;
My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers,
Perennial roses to adorn thy way;
Still may thy grateful children round thee smile,
Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile.
SONNET.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.
'Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blestMay hover round the virtuous man's repose;
And oft in visions animate his breast,
And scenes of bright beatitude disclose.
The ministers of Heaven with pure control,
May bid his sorrow and emotion cease,
Inspire the pious fervour of his soul,
And whisper to his bosom hallow'd peace.
Ah! tender thought, that oft with sweet relief
May charm the bosom of a weeping friend,
Beguile with magic power the tear of grief,
And pensive pleasure with devotion blend;
While oft he fancies music, sweetly faint,
The airy lay of some departed saint.
RURAL WALKS.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.
In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowers;
For every spot in sylvan beauty drest,
And every landscape charms my youthful breast.
And much I love to hail the vernal morn,
When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn;
And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray,
To cull the tender rosebuds in my way;
And seek in every wild secluded dell,
The weeping cowslip and the azure bell;
With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew,
To form the gay festoon of varied hue.
The fertile meadow, and the village scene;
Where rosy children sport around the cot,
Or gather woodbine from the garden spot.
And there I wander by the cheerful rill,
That murmurs near the osiers and the mill;
To view the smiling peasants turn the hay,
And listen to their pleasing festive lay.
I love to loiter in the spreading grove,
Or in the mountain scenery to rove;
Where summits rise in awful grace around,
With hoary moss and tufted verdure crown'd;
Where cliffs in solemn majesty are piled,
“And frown upon the vale” with grandeur wild:
And there I view the mouldering tower sublime,
Array'd in all the blending shades of Time.
The valley, and romantic mountain scene;
The lowly hermitage, or fair domain,
The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane;
“And every spot in sylvan beauty drest,
And every landscape, charms my youthful breast.”
SONNET.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.
I love to hail the mild and balmy hour,When evening spreads around her twilight veil;
When dews descend on every languid flower,
And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale.
Then let me wander by the peaceful tide,
While o'er the wave the breezes lightly play;
To mark the fading smile of closing day.
There let me linger, blest in visions dear,
Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas;
While melting sounds decay on fancy's ear,
Of airy music floating on the breeze.
For still when evening sheds the genial dews,
That pensive hour is sacred to the muse.
TO MY MOTHER.
I feel the sympathetic glow;
If e'er my heart has learn'd to know
The gen'rous wish or prayer;
Who sow'd the germ with tender hand?
Who mark'd its infant leaves expand?
My mother's fostering care.
May grace the garden of my mind;
'Twas she who nursed it there:
She loved to cherish and adorn
Each blossom of the soil;
To banish every weed and thorn,
That oft opposed her toil!
The palm, the living palm of Fame,
The glowing wreath of praise;
If e'er I wish'd the glittering stores,
That Fortune on her fav'rite pours;
Round Thee, with streaming rays might shine,
And gild thy sun-bright days!
Might then irradiate every hour;
For these, my mother! well I know,
On thee no raptures could bestow;
But could thy bounty, warm and kind,
Be, like thy wishes, unconfined;
And fall, as manna from the skies,
And bid a train of blessings rise,
Diffusing joy and peace;
The tear-drop, grateful, pure, and bright,
For thee would beam with softer light,
Than all the diamond's crystal rays,
Than all the emerald's lucid blaze;
And joys of heaven would thrill thy heart,
To bid one bosom-grief depart,
One tear, one sorrow cease!
Bestow the power to cheer distress;
Make Thee its minister below,
To light the cloudy path of woe;
To visit the deserted cell,
Where indigence is doom'd to dwell;
To raise, when drooping to the earth,
The blossoms of neglected worth;
And round, with liberal hand, dispense
The sunshine of beneficence!
Delights like these, too rich and high;
If grief and pain thy steps assail,
In life's remote and wintry vale;
Complains with soft entrancing number,
When the lone storm awakes the wire,
And bids enchantment cease to slumber;
So filial love, with soothing voice,
E'en then, shall teach thee to rejoice;
E'en then, shall sweeter, milder sound,
When sorrow's tempest raves around;
While dark misfortune's gales destroy,
The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy!
TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER.
On his return from Spain, after the fatal retreat under Sir John Moore, and the battle of Corunna.
Though life is a desert, and cheerless the way;
Yet still shall affection adorn it with flowers,
Whose fragrance shall never decay!
With artless delight, that no words can bespeak;
With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes,
With a smile and a glow on her cheek!
From scenes of destruction, from perils unblest;
Oh! welcome again, to the grove and the field,
To the vale of retirement and rest.
Oh! gay be the measure and sportive the strain;
For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice,
To meet thee, my Brother! again.
Were bleeding, were falling, with victory crown'd
How often would fancy present to my view
The horrors that waited thee round!
That Heaven would protect thee from danger and harm;
That angels of mercy would shield thee with care,
In the heat of the combat's alarm!
(Ah! long shall remembrance the image retain)
How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with fear
I might never behold thee again!
And the tear-drop is fled, like the dew on the rose;
Thy dangers, our tears, have endear'd thee the more,
And my bosom with tenderness glows!
Bright and transient, have fled, like the rainbow, away;
My affection for thee, still unfading in truth,
Shall never, oh! never decay!
Whate'er be the lot I am destined to share;
It will smile in the sunshine of hope and of joy,
And beam through the cloud of despair!
TO MY ELDEST BROTHER
Bright with gay sunshine, or eclipsed with shade,
How many an hour, on silent wing is past,
O my loved Brother! since we saw thee last!
Since then has childhood ripen'd into youth,
And fancy's dreams have fled from sober truth;
Her splendid fabrics melting into air,
As sage experience waved the wand of care!
Yet still thine absence wakes the tender sigh,
And the tear trembles in affection's eye!
When shall we meet again?—with glowing ray,
Heart-soothing hope illumes some future day;
Checks the sad thought, beguiles the starting tear,
And sings benignly still—that day is near!
She, with bright eye, and soul-bewitching voice,
Wins us to smile, inspires us to rejoice;
Tells, that the hour approaches, to restore
Our cherish'd wanderer to his home once more;
Where sacred ties his manly worth endear,
To faith still true, affection still sincere!
Then the past woes, the future's dubious lot,
In that blest meeting shall be all forgot!
And joy's full radiance gild that sun-bright hour,
Though all around th' impending storm should lower.
Albion's firm sons, on Lusitania's coast,
(That gallant band, in countless dangers tried,
Where glory's pole-star beams their constant guide,)
Say, do thy thoughts, my Brother, fondly stray
To Cambria's vales and mountains far away?
Does fancy oft in busy day-dreams roam,
And paint the greeting that awaits at home?
Dear social scenes, departed joys renew;
In softer tints delighting to retrace,
Each tender image and each well-known face?
Yes! wanderer, yes! thy spirit flies to those,
Whose love, unalter'd, warm and faithful glows.
Illume thy scenes and strew thy path with flowers!
Perennial joy should harmonize thy breast,
No struggle rend thee, and no cares molest!
But though our tenderness can but bestow
The wish, the hope, the prayer, averting woe;
Still shall it live, with pure, unclouded flame,
In storms, in sunshine, far and near—the same!
Still dwell enthroned within th' unvarying heart,
And firm and vital—but with life depart!
LINES
WRITTEN IN THE MEMORIES OF ELIZABETH SMITH.
Lives in this record, fair and bright;
Oh, thou! whose blameless life combined,
Soft female charms and grace refined,
With science and with light!
Celestial maid! whose spirit soar'd
Beyond this vale of tears;
Whose clear, enlighten'd eye explored
The lore of years!
The wing of towering thought was thine:
If, on this dim and mundane sphere,
Fair truth illumed thy bright career,
With morning-star divine;
How must thy bless'd ethereal soul,
Now kindle in her noon-tide ray;
And hail, unfetter'd by control,
The Fount of Day!
Undimm'd by doubt, nor veil'd by fear,
Behold a chain of wonders rise;
Gaze on the noon beam of the skies,
Transcendent, pure and clear!
E'en now, the fair, the good, the true,
From mortal sight conceal'd,
Bless in one blaze thy raptured view,
In light reveal'd!
And learning's flowers were all thine own;
How must thy mind ascend sublime,
Matured in heaven's empyreal clime,
To light's unclouded throne!
Perhaps, e'en now, thy kindling glance,
Each orb of living fire explores;
Darts o'er creation's wide expanse,
Admires—adores!
This dark and sublunary plain;
How must the wreath of human praise,
Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze,
So dim, so pale, so vain!
Must quiver learning's brightest ray;
While on thine eyes, with lucid stream,
The sun of glory pours his beam,
Perfection's day!
THE SILVER LOCKS.
ADDRESSED TO AN AGED FRIEND.
In sunny waves of auburn glow;
As graceful on thy hoary head,
Has time the robe of honour spread,
And there, oh! softly, softly shed,
His wreath of snow!
When weeping Flora leaves the shade,
E'en more than Flora, charms the sight;
E'en so thy locks of purest white,
Survive, in age's frost-work bright,
Youth's vernal rose decay'd!
Light on the sportive breeze of May,
Let other bards the garland twine,
Where sweets of every hue combine;
Those locks revered, that silvery shine,
Invite my lay!
Less white the winter's fringing rime;
Nor do Belinda's lovelier seem,
(A Poet's blest immortal theme,)
Than thine, which wear the moonlight beam
Of rev'rend Time!
Like moss on some declining pile;
Oh! much revered! may filial care,
Around thee, duteous, long repair,
Thy joys with tender bliss to share,
Thy pains beguile!
Long, long, your much-loved beauty save!
May bliss your latest evening crown,
Disarm life's winter of its frown,
And soft ye hoary hairs go down
In gladness to the grave!
On mountain-snows reflected play,
And tints of roseate lustre shed;
Thus, on the snow that crowns thy head,
May joy, with evening planet, shed
His mildest ray!
THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS.
On this lone tower, this ivied wall;
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall;
Though doom'd, remote from careless eye,
To smile, to flourish, and to die,
In solitude sublime,
Oh! ever may the spring renew,
Your balmy scent and glowing hue,
To deck the robe of time!
Though wasted on its wing unknown!
Blow, flow'rets! blow, though vainly fair,
Neglected and alone!
These flowers that long withstood the blast,
These mossy towers are mouldering fast,
While Flora's children stay—
To mantle o'er the lonely pile,
To gild Destruction with a smile,
And beautify Decay!
Neglected in luxuriance glowing;
From the dark ruins frowning near,
Your charms in brighter tints appear,
And richer blush assume;
You smile with softer beauty crown'd,
Whilst all is desolate around,
Like sunshine on a tomb!
Memento of departed fame!
While roving o'er the moss clad hill,
I ponder on thine ancient name!
That here, so oft, have shone supreme;
While Glory, Honour, Fancy, weep,
That vanish'd is the golden dream!
To kiss the summer-gale of even—
All purple as the morning-cloud,
All streaming to the winds of Heaven?
To melting song, or martial story?
To loveliness, or glory?
To thee no festal measure calls;
No music through the desert halls,
Awakes thee to rejoice!
As if, within this lonely round,
A step—a note—a whisper'd sound,
Had ne'er aroused thy voice!
Thou hear'st the foliage waving, sighing;
But ne'er again shall harp or song,
These dark deserted courts along,
Disturb thy calm repose;
The harp is broke, the song is fled,
The voice is hush'd, the bard is dead;
And never shall thy tones repeat,
Or lofty strain, or carol sweet,
With plaintive close!
When once thy towers in glory shone;
When music through thy turrets rung,
When banners o'er thy ramparts hung,
Though 'midst thine arches, frowning lone,
Stern Desolation rear his throne;
And Silence, deep and awful, reign,
Where echo'd once the choral strain;
Yet oft, dark ruin! lingering here,
The Muse will hail thee with a tear;
Here when the moonlight, quiv'ring, beams,
And through the fringing ivy streams,
And mellows every tint of Time—
Oh! here shall Contemplation love,
Unseen and undisturb'd, to rove;
And bending o'er some mossy tomb,
Where Valour sleeps, or Beauties bloom,
Shall weep for Glory's transient day,
And Grandeur's evanescent ray
And list'ning to the swelling blast,
Shall wake the Spirit of the Past,
Call up the forms of ages fled,
Of warriors and of minstrels dead;
Who sought the field, who struck the lyre,
With all Ambition's kindling fire!
Soft odours on this desert air;
Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath,
And fringe these towers with garlands fair!
Unheeded on this ivied wall!
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall!
Would Pity wreaths of honour spread;
Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile,
She seeks Despair, with heart-reviving smile!
CHRISTMAS CAROL.
Swell high to Heaven thy tuneful zeal;
And, hailing this auspicious time,
Kneel, Adoration! kneel!
For lo! the day, th' immortal day,
When Mercy's full, benignant ray,
Chased every gathering cloud away,
And pour'd the noon of light!
Rapture! be kindling, mounting, glowing,
While from thine eye the tear is flowing,
Pure, warm, and bright!
The Orient Star's effulgence rose;
Then waked the Morn, whose eye benign,
Shall never, never close!
Messiah! be thy name adored,
Eternal, high, redeeming Lord!
By grateful worlds be anthems pour'd
Emanuel! Prince of Peace!
This day, from Heaven's empyreal dwelling,
Harp, lyre, and voice, in concert swelling,
Bade discord cease!
Children of heaven and sons of earth!
Seraphs and men! exult, rejoice,
To bless the Saviour's birth!
Devotion! light thy purest fire!
Transport! on cherub-wing aspire!
Praise! wake to Him thy golden lyre,
Strike every thrilling chord!
While at the Ark of Mercy kneeling
We own thy grace, reviving, healing,
Redeemer! Lord!
THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.
To light the wilderness with beams of heaven?
To sooth our cares, and through the cloud diffuse,
Their temper'd sunshine, and celestial hues?
Those pure delights, ordain'd on life to throw
Gleams of the bliss ethereal natures know?
Say, do they grace Ambition's regal throne,
When kneeling myriads call the world his own?
Or dwell with Lux'ry, in th' enchanted bowers,
Where taste and wealth exert creative powers?
When round thy brow the wreaths of glory shine;
While rapture gazes on thy radiant way,
'Midst the bright realms of clear and mental day?
No! sacred joys! 'tis yours to dwell enshrined,
Most fondly cherish'd, in the purest mind;
To twine with flowers, those loved, endearing ties,
On earth so sweet—so perfect in the skies!
The violet smiles, embosom'd in the glade;
There sheds her spirit on the lonely gale,
Gem of seclusion! treasure of the vale!
Thus, far retired from life's tumultuous road,
Domestic Bliss has fix'd her calm abode,
Where hallow'd Innocence and sweet Repose
May strew her shadowy path with many a rose.
As, when dread thunder shakes the troubled sky,
The cherub, Infancy, can close its eye,
And sweetly smile, unconscious of a tear,
While viewless angels wave their pinions near;
Thus, while around the storms of Discord roll,
Borne on resistless wing, from pole to pole;
And thrones and empires in destruction fall;
Then calm as evening on the silvery wave,
When the wind slumbers in the ocean cave,
She dwells unruffled, in her bower of rest,
Her empire Home!—her throne, Affection's breast!
And softer sunshine every scene illumes,
When Spring awakes the spirit of the breeze,
Whose light wing undulates the sleeping seas;
When Summer, waving her creative wand,
Bids verdure smile, and glowing life expand;
Or Autumn's pencil sheds, with magic trace,
O'er fading loveliness, a moonlight grace;
Oh! still for her, through Nature's boundless reign,
No charm is lost no beauty blooms in vain;
While mental peace, o'er every prospect bright
Throws mellowing tints, and harmonizing light!
Lo! borne on clouds, in rushing might sublime,
Stern Winter bursting from the polar clime,
Triumphant waves his signal-torch on high,
The blood-red meteor of the northern sky!
And high through darkness rears his giant-form,
His throne the billow, and his flag the storm!
Yet then, when bloom and sunshine are no more,
And the wild surges foam along the shore;
Domestic Bliss, thy heaven is still serene,
Thy star unclouded, and thy myrtle green!
Thy fane of rest no raging storms invade,
Sweet peace is thine, the seraph of the shade!
Clear through the day, her light around thee glows,
And gilds the midnight of thy deep repose!
—Hail, sacred Home! where soft Affection's hand,
With flowers of Eden twines her magic band!
Where pure and bright, the social ardours rise,
Concentring all their holiest energies!
And every power deserts the sinking frame;
Exhausted nature still from sleep implores
The charm that lulls, the manna that restores!
Thus, when oppress'd with rude, tumultuous cares,
To thee, sweet Home! the fainting mind repairs;
Still to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies,
Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies!
Through toil we struggle, or through distance rove;
To thee we turn, still faithful, from afar,
Thee, our bright vista! thee, our magnet-star!
And from the martial field, the troubled sea,
Unfetter'd thought still roves to bliss and thee!
No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh;
Wide o'er the world, when Peace and Midnight reign,
And the moon trembles on the sleeping main;
At that still hour, the sailor wakes to keep,
'Midst the dead calm, the vigil of the deep!
No gleaming shores his dim horizon bound,
All heaven—and sea—and solitude—around!
Then, from the lonely deck, the silent helm,
From the wide grandeur of the shadowy realm;
Still homeward borne, his fancy unconfined,
Leaving the worlds of ocean far behind,
Wings like a meteor-flash her swift career,
To the loved scene, so distant, and so dear!
And Danger frowns—the monarch of the wave!
Lo! rocks and storms the striving bark repel,
And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming swell!
Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge?
No storm shall wake, no perils rouse thee more!
Yet, in that solemn hour, that awful strife,
The struggling agony for death or life;
E'en then thy mind, embitt'ring every pain,
Retraced the image so beloved—in vain!
Still to sweet Home, thy last regrets were true,
Life's parting sigh—the murmur of adieu!
Each tender thought, each fond remembrance chase?
Can fields of carnage, days of toil, destroy
The loved impression of domestic joy?
In hostile climes with spells benign and blest;
Soothe his brave heart, and shed your glowing ray,
O'er the long march, through Desolation's way;
Oh! still ye bear him from th' ensanguin'd plain,
Armour's bright flash, and Victory's choral strain;
To that loved Home, where pure affection glows,
That shrine of bliss! asylum of repose!
When all is hush'd—the rage of combat past,
And no dread war-note swells the moaning blast;
When the warm throb of many a heart is o'er,
And many an eye is closed to wake no more;
Lull'd by the night-wind, pillow'd on the ground,
(The dewy deathbed of his comrades round!)
While o'er the slain the tears of midnight weep,
Faint with fatigue, he sinks in slumbers deep!
E'en then, soft visions, hov'ring round, portray,
The cherish'd forms that o'er his bosom sway;
He sees fond transport light each beaming face,
Meets the warm tear-drop, and the long embrace!
While the sweet welcome vibrates through his heart,
“Hail, weary soldier!—never more to part!”
He comes!—the wanderer views his native soil!
Then the bright raptures words can never speak,
Flash in his eye, and mantle o'er his cheek!
Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing prayer,
Implored for him, each guardian-spirit's care;
Who, for his fate, through sorrow's ling'ring year,
Had proved each thrilling pulse of hope and fear;
In that blest moment, all the past forget—
Hours of suspense, and vigils of regret!
Rear'd by stern danger in the school of arms;
How sweet to change the war-song's pealing note,
For woodland-sounds, in summer-air that float!
Through vales of peace, o'er mountain wilds to roam,
And breathe his native gales, that whisper—“Home!”
Charms of existence! angel sympathies!
Though Pleasure smile, a soft Circassian queen!
And guide her votaries through a fairy scene,
Where sylphid forms beguile their vernal hours,
With mirth and music, in Arcadian bowers;
Though gazing nations hail the fiery car
That bears the Son of Conquest from afar;
While Fame's loud pæan bids his heart rejoice,
And every life pulse vibrates to her voice;—
Yet from your source, alone, in mazes bright,
Flows the full current of serene delight!
Through realms of space, th' aspiring eagle soars!
Darts o'er the clouds, exulting to admire,
Meridian glory—on her throne of fire!
Bird of the Sun! his keen unwearied gaze,
Hails the full moon, and triumphs in the blaze;
Day's burning fount, and light's empyreal clime;
Once more he speeds to joys more calmly blest,
'Midst the dear inmates of his lonely nest!
Through the wide regions of the mental sphere;
And proudly waving, in his gifted hand,
O'er Fancy's worlds, Invention's plastic wand;
Fearless and firm, with lightning-eye surveys
The clearest heaven of intellectual rays!
Yet, on his course though loftiest hopes attend,
And kindling raptures aid him to ascend;
(While in his mind, with high-born grandeur fraught,
Dilate the noblest energies of thought;)
Still, from the bliss, ethereal and refined,
Which crowns the soarings of triumphant mind,
At length he flies, to that serene retreat,
Where calm and pure, the mild affections meet;
Embosom'd there, to feel and to impart
The softer pleasures of the social heart!
From every tie, by fate relentless torn;
See, on the barren coast, the lonely isle,
Mark'd with no step, uncheer'd by human smile,
Heart-sick and faint the shipwreck'd wanderer stand,
Raise the dim eye, and lift the suppliant hand!
Explore with fruitless gaze the billowy main,
And weep—and pray—and linger—but in vain!
Where voice ne'er echo'd, footstep never stray'd;
He fondly seeks, o'er cliffs and deserts rude,
Haunts of mankind, 'midst realms of solitude!
And pauses oft, and sadly hears alone,
The wood's deep sigh, the surge's distant moan!
As if some viewless power, presiding round,
With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath,
Had spread for ages the repose of death!
Ah! still the wanderer, by the boundless deep,
Lives but to watch—and watches but to weep!
He sees no sail in faint perspective rise,
His the dread loneliness of sea and skies!
Far from his cherish'd friends, his native shore,
Banish'd from being—to return no more;
There must he die!—within that circling wave,
That lonely isle—his prison and his grave!
With fainting step, Siberia's exile goes!
Homeless and sad, o'er many a polar wild,
Where beam, or flower, or verdure never smiled;
Where frost and silence hold their despot-reign,
And bind existence in eternal chain!
Child of the desert! pilgrim of the gloom!
Dark is the path which leads thee to the tomb!
While on thy faded cheek, the arctic air,
Congeals the bitter tear-drop of despair!
Yet not that fate condemns thy closing day,
In that stern clime, to shed its parting ray;
Not that fair nature's loveliness and light
No more shall beam enchantment on thy sight;
Ah! not for this, far, far beyond relief,
Deep in thy bosom dwells the hopeless grief;
But that no friend of kindred heart is there,
Thy woes to mitigate, thy toils to share;
That no mild soother fondly shall assuage
The stormy trials of thy ling'ring age;
No smile of tenderness, with angel power,
Lull the dread pangs of dissolution's hour;
For this alone, despair, a withering guest
Sits on thy brow, and cankers in thy breast!
Where desert grandeur frowns, in pomp sublime;
Where winter triumphs, through the polar night,
In all his wild magnificence of might;
E'en there, affection's hallow'd spell might pour
The light of heaven around th' inclement shore!
And, like the vales with gloom and sunshine graced,
That smile, by circling Pyrenees embraced,
Teach the pure heart, with vital fires to glow,
E'en 'midst the world of solitude and snow!
The halcyon's charm, thus dreaming fictions feign,
With mystic power, could tranquillize the main;
Bid the loud wind, the mountain billow sleep,
And peace and silence brood upon the deep!
The stormy tide of passions and of woes;
Bid every throb of wild emotion cease,
And lull misfortune in the arms of peace!
Wan, yet resign'd, and hopeless, yet serene!
Long ere victorious time had sought to chase,
The bloom, the smile, that once illumed his face;
That faded eye was dimm'd with many a care,
Those waving locks were silver'd by despair!
Yet filial love can pour the sovereign balm,
Assuage his pangs, his wounded spirit calm!
He, a sad emigrant! condemn'd to roam,
In life's pale autumn from his ruin'd home;
Has borne the shock of Peril's darkest wave,
Where joy—and hope—and fortune—found a grave!
'Twas his, to see Destruction's fiercest band,
Rush, like a Typhon, on his native land,
And roll, triumphant, on their blasted way,
In fire and blood—the deluge of dismay!
And patriot-valour waved the sword in vain!
Ah! gallant exile! nobly, long, he bled,
Long braved the tempest gath'ring o'er his head!
Till all was lost! and horror's darken'd eye,
Roused the stern spirit of despair to die!
Far o'er his country, rushing uncontroll'd;
The flowers that graced his path with loveliest bloom,
Torn by the blast—were scatter'd on the tomb!
When carnage burst, exulting in the strife,
The bosom ties that bound his soul to life;
Yet one was spared! and she, whose filial smile,
Can sooth his wanderings, and his tears beguile;
E'en then, could temper, with divine relief,
The wild delirium of unbounded grief;
And whisp'ring peace, conceal, with duteous art,
Her own deep sorrows in her inmost heart!
And now, though time, subduing every trace,
Has mellow'd all, he never can erase;
Oft will the wanderer's tears in silence flow,
Still sadly faithful to remember'd woe!
Then she, who feels a father's pang alone,
(Still fondly struggling to suppress her own,)
With anxious tenderness is ever nigh,
To chase the image that awakes the sigh!
Her angel-voice his fainting soul can raise,
To brighter visions of celestial days!
And speak of realms, where Virtue's wing shall soar
On eagle-plume—to wonder and adore;
And Friends, divided here, shall meet at last,
Unite their kindred souls—and smile on all the past!
Renew'd, refined—shall triumph in the skies!
Heart-soothing thought! whose loved, consoling powers
With seraph-dreams can gild reflection's hours,
Beam and ascend! the day-star of the tomb!
And smile for those, in sternest ordeals proved,
Those lonely hearts, bereft of all they loved.
In every vein, the ebbing life-blood freeze;
Where youth is taught, by stealing, slow decay,
Life's closing lesson—in its dawning day;
Where beauty's rose is with'ring ere its prime,
Unchanged by sorrow—and unsoil'd by time;
There, bending still, with fix'd and sleepless eye,
There, from her child, the mother learns to die;
Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace,
Of ling'ring sickness in the faded face;
Through the sad night, when every hope is fled,
Keeps her lone vigil by the sufferer's bed;
And starts each morn, as deeper marks declare
The spoiler's hand—the blight of death, is there!
He comes! now feebly in the exhausted frame,
Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame;
From the glazed eye-ball sheds its parting ray,
Dim, transient spark, that fluttering, fades away!
Faint beats the hov'ring pulse, the trembling heart;
Yet fond existence lingers ere she part!
And life shall throb with agony no more;
While o'er the wasted form, the features pale,
Death's awful shadows throw their silvery veil:
Departed spirit! on this earthly sphere,
Though poignant suff'ring mark'd thy short career;
Still could maternal love beguile thy woes,
And hush thy sighs—an angel of repose!
Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast?
Assuage the grief, too heart-sick for a tear?
Visions of hope, in loveliest hues array'd,
Fair scenes of bliss! by fancy's hand portray'd;
And were ye doom'd with false, illusive smile,
With flatt'ring promise, to enchant awhile?
And are ye vanish'd, never to return,
Set in the darkness of the mould'ring urn?
Will no bright hour departed joys restore?
Shall the sad parent meet her child no more?
Behold no more the soul-illumined face,
The expressive smile, the animated grace?
Must the fair blossom, wither'd in the tomb,
Revive no more in loveliness and bloom?
Descend, blest faith! dispel the hopeless care,
And chase the gath'ring phantoms of despair;
Tell, that the flower, transplanted in its morn,
Enjoys bright Eden, freed from every thorn;
Expands to milder suns, and softer dews,
The full perfection of immortal hues;
Tell, that when mounting to her native skies,
By death released, the parent spirit flies;
There shall the child, in anguish mourn'd so long,
With rapture hail her, 'midst the cherub throng;
And guide her pinion, on exulting flight,
Through glory's boundless realms, and worlds of living light.
If e'er on earth your buoyant wing descends;
If, with benignant care, ye linger near,
To guard the objects in existence dear;
If hov'ring o'er, ethereal band! ye view
The tender sorrows, to your memory true;
Oh! in the musing hour, at midnight deep,
While for your loss affection wakes to weep;
While every sound in hallow'd stillness lies,
But the low murmur of her plaintive sighs;
Breathe your light whisper softly in her ear;
With secret spells, her wounded mind compose,
And chase the faithful tear—for you that flows;
Be near; when moonlight spreads the charm you loved,
O'er scenes where once your earthly footstep roved;
Then, while she wanders o'er the sparkling dew,
Through glens and wood-paths, once endear'd by you,
And fondly lingers in your fav'rite bowers,
And pauses oft, recalling former hours;
Then wave your pinion o'er each well-known vale,
Float in the moonbeam, sigh upon the gale;
Bid your wild symphonies remotely swell,
Borne by the summer-wind from grot and dell;
And touch your viewless harps, and sooth her soul,
With soft enchantments and divine control!
Be near, sweet guardians; watch her sacred rest,
When Slumber folds her in his magic vest;
Around her, smiling, let your forms arise,
Return'd in dreams, to bless her mental eyes;
Efface the mem'ry of your last farewell,
Of glowing joys, of radiant prospects tell;
The sweet communion of the past renew,
Reviving former scenes, array'd in softer hue.
Calls up each pang, and summons all his power;
Oh! then, transcending Fancy's loveliest dream,
Then let your forms unveil'd, around her beam;
Then waft the vision of unclouded light,
A burst of glory, on her closing sight;
Wake from the harp of heaven th' immortal strain,
To hush the final agonies of pain;
With rapture's flame, the parting soul illume,
And smile triumphant through the shadowy gloom!
Th' exulting spirit leaves her bonds of clay;
Be yours to guide her flutt'ring wings on high,
O'er many a world, ascending to the sky;
There let your presence, once her earthly joy,
Though dimm'd with tears, and clouded with alloy,
Now form her bliss on that celestial shore,
Where death shall sever kindred hearts no more.
Beyond the sphere of anguish, death or time;
Where mind's bright eye, with renovated fire,
Shall beam on glories—never to expire;
Oh! there th' illumined soul may fondly trust,
More pure, more perfect, rising from the dust,
Those mild affections, whose consoling light
Sheds the soft moonbeam on terrestrial night,
Sublimed, ennobled, shall for ever glow,
Exalting rapture—not assuaging woe!
The works of Mrs. Hemans | ||