The works of Mrs. Hemans :: :: University of Virginia Library

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 aspire
To 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.

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Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways,
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.

A sister whom the author had lost.

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.

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SONNET.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.

'Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest
May 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.

Oh! may I ever pass my happy hours
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.

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And oft I seek the cultivated green,
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 airy upland and the woodland green,
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;

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To hear the waters murmur as they glide,
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.

[_]

From “The Domestic Affections and Other Poems,” by Felicia Dorothea Browne. Published in 1812.

If e'er for human bliss or woe
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.

And if one flower of charms refined
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!

And oh! if e'er I sigh'd to claim,
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;

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'Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine,
Round Thee, with streaming rays might shine,
And gild thy sun-bright days!

Yet not that splendour, pomp, and power,
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!

Then, oh! may Heaven, that loves to bless,
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!

But ah! if Fate should still deny
Delights like these, too rich and high;
If grief and pain thy steps assail,
In life's remote and wintry vale;

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Then, as the wild Æolian lyre,
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 dark are the prospects and heavy the hours,
Though life is a desert, and cheerless the way;
Yet still shall affection adorn it with flowers,
Whose fragrance shall never decay!

And lo! to embrace thee, my Brother! she flies,
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 the trophies of war, from the spear and the shield,
From scenes of destruction, from perils unblest;
Oh! welcome again, to the grove and the field,
To the vale of retirement and rest.

Then warble, sweet muse! with the lyre and the voice,
Oh! gay be the measure and sportive the strain;
For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice,
To meet thee, my Brother! again.

338

When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true,
Were bleeding, were falling, with victory crown'd
How often would fancy present to my view
The horrors that waited thee round!

How constant, how fervent, how pure was my prayer,
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!

How sad and how often descended the tear,
(Ah! long shall remembrance the image retain)
How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with fear
I might never behold thee again!

But the prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o'er,
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!

And oh! when the dreams, the enchantments of youth,
Bright and transient, have fled, like the rainbow, away;
My affection for thee, still unfading in truth,
Shall never, oh! never decay!

No time can impair it, no change can destroy,
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!

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TO MY ELDEST BROTHER

[_]

(With the British Army in Portugal.)

How many a day, in various hues array'd,
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.

Now distant far, amidst the intrepid host,
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?

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Does memory's pencil oft, in mellowing hue,
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.

Oh! could that love, through life's eventful hours
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!

Bronwylfa, Feb. 8th, 1811.

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE MEMORIES OF ELIZABETH SMITH.

Oh, thou! whose pure, exalted mind,
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!

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Daughter of Heaven! if here, e'en here,
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!

E'en now, perhaps, thy seraph eyes,
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!

If here, the lore of distant time,
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!

Oh! if that lightning-eye surveys
This dark and sublunary plain;
How must the wreath of human praise,
Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze,
So dim, so pale, so vain!

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How, like a faint and shadowy dream,
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.

Though youth may boast the curls that flow
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!

As frost-work on the trees display'd,
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!

To grace the nymph whose tresses play
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 summer-cloud sublime,
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!

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Long may the graceful honours smile,
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, ye snowy ringlets, wave,
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!

And as the parting beams of day
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!

August 18th, 1809.

THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS.

Sweets of the wild! that breathe and bloom
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!

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Breathe, fragrance! breathe, enrich the air,
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!

Sweets of the wild! uncultured blowing,
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!

Thou hoary pile, majestic still,
Memento of departed fame!
While roving o'er the moss clad hill,
I ponder on thine ancient name!

Here Grandeur, Beauty, Valour sleep,
That here, so oft, have shone supreme;
While Glory, Honour, Fancy, weep,
That vanish'd is the golden dream!

Where are the banners, waving proud,
To kiss the summer-gale of even—
All purple as the morning-cloud,
All streaming to the winds of Heaven?

Where is the harp, by rapture strung,
To melting song, or martial story?

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Where are the lays the minstrel sung,
To loveliness, or glory?

Lorn echo of these mouldering walls,
To thee no festal measure calls;
No music through the desert halls,
Awakes thee to rejoice!

How still thy sleep! as death profound,
As if, within this lonely round,
A step—a note—a whisper'd sound,
Had ne'er aroused thy voice!

Thou hear'st the zephyr murmuring, dying,
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!

Proud Castle! though the days are flown,
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,

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And softens every shade sublime,
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!

Nor wilt thou, Spring! refuse to breathe
Soft odours on this desert air;
Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath,
And fringe these towers with garlands fair!

Sweets of the wild, oh! ever bloom,
Unheeded on this ivied wall!
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall!

Thus, round Misfortune's holy head,
Would Pity wreaths of honour spread;
Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile,
She seeks Despair, with heart-reviving smile!

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Fair Gratitude! in strain sublime,
Swell high to Heaven thy tuneful zeal;
And, hailing this auspicious time,
Kneel, Adoration! kneel!

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CHORUS.
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!

'Twas on this day, oh, Love Divine!
The Orient Star's effulgence rose;
Then waked the Morn, whose eye benign,
Shall never, never close!

CHORUS.
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!

Wake the loud pæan, tune the voice,
Children of heaven and sons of earth!
Seraphs and men! exult, rejoice,
To bless the Saviour's birth!

CHORUS.
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!

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THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

Whence are those tranquil joys in mercy given,
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?

Favour'd of Heaven! O Genius! are they thine,
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!

Nursed on the lap of solitude and shade,
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;

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While War's red lightnings desolate the ball,
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!

For her, sweet Nature wears her loveliest blooms,
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!

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When wasting toil has dimm'd the vital flame,
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!

Bower of repose! when torn from all we love,
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!

When ocean-sounds in awful slumber die,
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!

Lo! the rude whirlwind rushes from its cave,
And Danger frowns—the monarch of the wave!
Lo! rocks and storms the striving bark repel,
And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming swell!

Child of the ocean! is thy bier the surge,
Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge?

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Yes! thy long toils, thy weary conflict's o'er,
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!

Can war's dread scenes the hallowed ties efface,
Each tender thought, each fond remembrance chase?
Can fields of carnage, days of toil, destroy
The loved impression of domestic joy?

Ye daylight dreams! that cheer the soldier's breast,
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!”

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And lo! at last, released from every toil,
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!

And, oh! for him, the child of rude alarms,
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!”

Hail sweet endearments of domestic ties,
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!

On Freedom's wing, that every wild explores,
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;

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But soon, descending from his height sublime,
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!

Thus Genius, mounting on his bright career,
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!

Ah! weep for those, deserted and forlorn,
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!

Thence, roving wild through many a depth of shade,
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!

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All else is hush'd! so silent, so profound,
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!

Lo! through the waste, the wilderness of snows,
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!

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Yes! there, e'en there, in that tremendous clime,
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!

And thus, Affection, can thy voice compose
The stormy tide of passions and of woes;
Bid every throb of wild emotion cease,
And lull misfortune in the arms of peace!

Oh! mark yon drooping form, of aged mien,
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!

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Unequal combat raged on many a plain,
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!

Ah! gallant exile! in the storm that roll'd
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!

Yes! we may hope, that nature's deathless ties,
Renew'd, refined—shall triumph in the skies!
Heart-soothing thought! whose loved, consoling powers
With seraph-dreams can gild reflection's hours,

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Oh! still be near, and bright'ning through the gloom,
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.

Lo! by the couch where pain and chill disease,
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!

'Tis past, the struggle and the pang are o'er,
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!

But who may charm her sleepless pang to rest,
Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast?

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And, while she bends in silence o'er thy bier,
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.

Ye gentle spirits of departed friends!
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;

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Oh! then, amidst that holy calm be near,
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.

Be near when death, in virtue's brightest hour,
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!

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Oh! still be near, when, darting into day,
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.

Yes! in the noon of that Elysian clime
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!