The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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| VII. |
 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
A PENITENT'S RETURN.
“Can guilt or misery ever enter here?
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.
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.
My father's house once more,
In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around,
Something, amidst the dewy calm profound,
Broods, never mark'd before!
In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around,
Something, amidst the dewy calm profound,
Broods, never mark'd before!
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Is it the brooding night,
Is it the shivery creeping on the air,
That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair,
O'erwhelming to my sight?
Is it the shivery creeping on the air,
That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair,
O'erwhelming to my sight?
All solemnized it seems,
And still'd, and darken'd in each time-worn hue,
Since the rich clustering roses met my view,
As now, by starry gleams.
And still'd, and darken'd in each time-worn hue,
Since the rich clustering roses met my view,
As now, by starry gleams.
And this high elm, where last
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!
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!
How spirit-like a tone
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!
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!
My soul grows faint with fear!
Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod.
I tremble where I move—the voice of God
Is in the foliage here!
Even as if angel steps had mark'd the sod.
I tremble where I move—the voice of God
Is in the foliage here!
Is it indeed the night
That makes my home so awful? Faithless hearted!
'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed
The inborn gladd'ning light!
That makes my home so awful? Faithless hearted!
'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed
The inborn gladd'ning light!
No outward thing is changed;
Only the joy of purity is fled,
And, long from nature's melodies estranged,
Thou hear'st their tones with dread.
Only the joy of purity is fled,
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Thou hear'st their tones with dread.
Therefore the calm abode,
By thy dark spirit, is o'erhung with shade;
And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God
Makes thy sick heart afraid!
By thy dark spirit, is o'erhung with shade;
And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God
Makes thy sick heart afraid!
The night-flowers round that door
Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air;
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more
To pass, and rest thee there.
Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air;
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more
To pass, and rest thee there.
And must I turn away?—
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?
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?
My name!—I caught the sound!
Oh! blessed tone of love—the deep, the mild—
Mother, my mother! Now receive thy child,
Take back the lost and found!
Oh! blessed tone of love—the deep, the mild—
Mother, my mother! Now receive thy child,
Take back the lost and found!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |