The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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| SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
36
SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.
I.—AND I TOO IN ARCADIA.
They have wander'd in their glee
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?
Lo! a grey and rustic tomb,
Bower'd amidst the rich wood gloom;
Whence these words their stricken spirits melt,
—“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”
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?
37
Bower'd amidst the rich wood gloom;
Whence these words their stricken spirits melt,
—“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”
There is many a summer sound
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.”
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.”
Was some gentle kindred maid
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?
—No! from that bright band of morn,
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.”
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?
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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.
The Wind, 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 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?
Or is it from the voices
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.
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.
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They are not of the waters,
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!
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.
Ye are not miss'd, fair flowers, that late were spreading
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.
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.
Still plays the sparkle o'er the rippling water,
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.
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.
And thou, meeek hyacinth! afar is roving
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!
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!
Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness,
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.
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.
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IV.—WILLOW SONG.
Willow! in thy breezy moan,
I can hear a deeper tone;
Through thy leaves come whispering low
Faint sweet sounds of long ago.
Willow, sighing willow!
I can hear a deeper tone;
Through thy leaves come whispering low
Faint sweet sounds of long ago.
Willow, sighing willow!
Many a mournful tale of old
Heart-sick love to thee hath told,
Gathering from thy golden bough
Leaves to cool his burning brow.
Willow, sighing willow!
Heart-sick love to thee hath told,
Gathering from thy golden bough
Leaves to cool his burning brow.
Willow, sighing willow!
Many a swan-like song to thee
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree!
Many a lute its last lament
Down thy moonlight stream hath sent:
Willow, sighing willow!
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree!
Many a lute its last lament
Down thy moonlight stream hath sent:
Willow, sighing willow!
Therefore, wave and murmur on!
Sigh for sweet affections gone,
And for tuneful voices fled,
And for love, whose heart hath bled,
Ever, willow, 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.
Leave me not yet—through rosy skies from far,
But now the song-birds to their nests return;
The quivering image of the first pale star
On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn:
Leave me not yet!
But now the song-birds to their nests return;
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On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn:
Leave me not yet!
Not yet!—oh, hark! low tones from hidden streams,
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!
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!
My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love!
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!
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.
Oh! bring me one sweet orange-bough,
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow;
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest,
And bind it, mother! on my breast!
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow;
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest,
And bind it, mother! on my breast!
Go, seek the grove along the shore,
Whose odours I must breathe no more;
The grove where every scented tree
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea.
Whose odours I must breathe no more;
The grove where every scented tree
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea.
Oh! Love's fond sighs, and fervent prayer,
And wild farewell, are lingering there:
Each leaf's light whisper hath a tone,
My faint heart, even in death, would own.
And wild farewell, are lingering there:
Each leaf's light whisper hath a tone,
My faint heart, even in death, would own.
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Then bear me thence one bough, to shed
Life's parting sweetness round my head,
And bind it, mother! on my breast
When I am laid in lonely rest.
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.
Flow on, rejoice, make music,
Bright living stream set free!
The troubled haunts of care and strife
Were not for thee!
Bright living stream set free!
The troubled haunts of care and strife
Were not for thee!
The woodland is thy country,
Thou art all its own again;
The wild birds are thy kindred race,
That fear no chain.
Thou art all its own again;
The wild birds are thy kindred race,
That fear no chain.
Flow on, rejoice, make music
Unto the glistening leaves!
Thou, the beloved of balmy winds,
And golden eves.
Unto the glistening leaves!
Thou, the beloved of balmy winds,
And golden eves.
Once more the holy starlight
Sleeps calm upon thy breast,
Whose brightness bears no token more
Of man's unrest.
Sleeps calm upon thy breast,
Whose brightness bears no token more
Of man's unrest.
Flow, and let freeborn music
Flow with thy wavy line,
While the stock-dove's lingering, loving voice
Comes blent with thine.
Flow with thy wavy line,
While the stock-dove's lingering, loving voice
Comes blent with thine.
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And the green reeds quivering o'er thee,
Strings of the forest-lyre,
All fill'd with answering spirit-sounds,
In joy respire.
Strings of the forest-lyre,
All fill'd with answering spirit-sounds,
In joy respire.
Yet, 'midst thy song's glad changes,
Oh! keep one pitying tone
For gentle hearts, that bear to thee
Their sadness lone.
Oh! keep one pitying tone
For gentle hearts, that bear to thee
Their sadness lone.
One sound, of all the deepest,
To bring, like healing dew,
A sense, that nature ne'er forsakes
The meek and true.
To bring, like healing dew,
A sense, that nature ne'er forsakes
The meek and true.
Then, then, rejoice, make music,
Thou stream, thou glad and free!
The shadows of all glorious flowers
Be set in thee!
Thou stream, thou glad and free!
The shadows of all glorious flowers
Be set in thee!
VIII.—THE SUMMER'S CALL.
Come away! the sunny hours
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!
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!
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All the air is filled with sound,
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!
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!
In the skies the sapphire blue
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 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!
In the deep heart of the rose
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!
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!
Now each tree by summer crown'd,
Sheds its own rich twilight round;
Glancing there from sun to shade,
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!
Sheds its own rich twilight round;
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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.
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!
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!
Free, free from earth-born fear,
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.
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.
But oh! the silver chords,
That around the heart are spun,
From gentle tones and words,
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!
That around the heart are spun,
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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.
“That voice re-measures
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.
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.
I heard a song upon the wandering wind,
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,
Its own still world amidst th' o'erpeopled world,
Hath ever breathed to Love.
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,
47
Hath ever breathed to Love.
They crown me with the glistening crown,
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!
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!
Thence gleams the path of morning,
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.
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.
I see all beauty by the ray
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,
Yet must I perish if the gift depart—
Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!
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,
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Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!
The music from my lyre
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!
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!
Like a shrine 'midst rocks forsaken,
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!
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!
Leave me not, Love! or if this earth
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
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
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MUSIC AT A DEATHBED.
“Music! why thy power employ
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.
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.
Bring music! stir the brooding air
With an ethereal breath!
Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear
Up from the couch of death!
With an ethereal breath!
Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear
Up from the couch of death!
A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay,
Such as the southern breeze
Might waft, at golden fall of day,
O'er blue transparent seas!
Such as the southern breeze
Might waft, at golden fall of day,
O'er blue transparent seas!
Oh no! not such! that lingering spell
Would lure me back to life,
When my wean'd heart hath said farewell,
And pass'd the gates of strife.
Would lure me back to life,
When my wean'd heart hath said farewell,
And pass'd the gates of strife.
Let not a sigh of human love
Blend with the song its tone!
Let no disturbing echo move
One that must die alone!
Blend with the song its tone!
Let no disturbing echo move
One that must die alone!
But pour a solemn-breathing strain
Fill'd with the soul of prayer;
Let a life's conflict, fear, and pain,
And trembling hope be there.
Fill'd with the soul of prayer;
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And trembling hope be there.
Deeper, yet deeper! in my thought
Lies more prevailing sound,
A harmony intensely fraught
With pleading more profound:
Lies more prevailing sound,
A harmony intensely fraught
With pleading more profound:
A passion unto music given,
A sweet, yet piercing cry:
A breaking heart's appeal to Heaven,
A bright faith's victory!
A sweet, yet piercing cry:
A breaking heart's appeal to Heaven,
A bright faith's victory!
Deeper! Oh! may no richer power
Be in those notes enshrined?
Can all, which crowds on earth's last hour,
No fuller language find?
Be in those notes enshrined?
Can all, which crowds on earth's last hour,
No fuller language find?
Away! and hush the feeble song,
And let the chord be still'd!
Far in another land erelong
My dream shall be fulfill'd.
And let the chord be still'd!
Far in another land erelong
My dream shall be fulfill'd.
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MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE.
Thou didst fall in the field with thy silver hair,
And a banner in thy hand;
Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there,
By a proudly mournful band.
And a banner in thy hand;
Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there,
By a proudly mournful band.
In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast,
Thy long bright years had sped;
And a warrior's bier was thine at last,
When the snows had crown'd thy head,
Thy long bright years had sped;
And a warrior's bier was thine at last,
When the snows had crown'd thy head,
Many had fallen by thy side, old chief!
Brothers and friends, perchance;
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf,
And light was in thy glance.
Brothers and friends, perchance;
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf,
And light was in thy glance.
The soldier's heart at thy step leap'd high,
And thy voice the war-horse knew;
And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh,
Wert thou, the bold and true.
And thy voice the war-horse knew;
And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh,
Wert thou, the bold and true.
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Now may'st thou slumber—thy work is done—
Thou of the well-worn sword!
From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone,
But not to the festal board.
Thou of the well-worn sword!
From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone,
But not to the festal board.
The corn sheaves whisper thy grave around,
Where fiery blood hath flow'd:
Oh! lover of battle and trumpet-sound!
Thou art couch'd in a still abode!
Where fiery blood hath flow'd:
Oh! lover of battle and trumpet-sound!
Thou art couch'd in a still abode!
A quiet home from the noonday's glare,
And the breath of the wintry blast—
Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair,
To win thee but this at last?
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.
Oh, joy of the peasant! O stately lime!
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.
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.
53
Where shall now the weary
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!
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!
These may yet find coverts
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!
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!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |