 | Miscellaneous Poems |  |
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THRENODIA.
“En etiam tibi Virginei servantur honores.”
Oh! faded flower! oh! beauteous Rose of May!
I would bestow as fair a wreath on thee,
As ever Poet in his fancy wove
For her,—the gentle mistress of his song.
And art thou gone? and does this little grave,
This low and little grave, contain thee now,
Where weeping Sorrow sits?—Thy tomb hath been
To thee, as 'twere a marriage bed, and Death
The jealous bridegroom, envious of thy charms,
Plucking the gracious blossom ere it spread
Its beauty to the summer. Oh! sweet child!
How did I miss thee mid the flowers of Spring,
Then wakening round thy lattice,—how I look'd
Mid the young flow'rets for thee—where the boughs,
Crown'd with their mossy garlands, wept beside
The silver brooks, or by the tender gleams
Of twilight shadows, in the summer woods,
Where the long valleys wind into the main!
'Twas there my pensive pilgrimage I made
From early dawn—unwearied search—until
The star of eve was glittering in the West;
Nor yet my wanderings ended, nor I ceas'd
To question every gentle thing I met,
If it had seen thy footsteps in the dews
Of morn, or traced thee to the leafy cave,
Where the slow trickling streamlet lov'd to lead
Its slender waters, stealing from the sun
Into the depth of shadowy trees, and there,
Unseen and undisturbed, in silence sleep.
Wild music heard I from the groves—methought
It spake of thee, and gentlest echoes came,
Delusive sounds—mocking my search. But when
They ceas'd their airy warblings,—how the weight
Of that deep silence smote upon my heart,
And things it were a misery to know,
Came with a nearer pressure, nay uprose,
Bringing a trouble to the afflicted mind
Like to the strong realities of truth,
And then they vanish'd!
I would bestow as fair a wreath on thee,
As ever Poet in his fancy wove
For her,—the gentle mistress of his song.
And art thou gone? and does this little grave,
This low and little grave, contain thee now,
Where weeping Sorrow sits?—Thy tomb hath been
To thee, as 'twere a marriage bed, and Death
The jealous bridegroom, envious of thy charms,
Plucking the gracious blossom ere it spread
Its beauty to the summer. Oh! sweet child!
How did I miss thee mid the flowers of Spring,
Then wakening round thy lattice,—how I look'd
Mid the young flow'rets for thee—where the boughs,
Crown'd with their mossy garlands, wept beside
The silver brooks, or by the tender gleams
Of twilight shadows, in the summer woods,
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'Twas there my pensive pilgrimage I made
From early dawn—unwearied search—until
The star of eve was glittering in the West;
Nor yet my wanderings ended, nor I ceas'd
To question every gentle thing I met,
If it had seen thy footsteps in the dews
Of morn, or traced thee to the leafy cave,
Where the slow trickling streamlet lov'd to lead
Its slender waters, stealing from the sun
Into the depth of shadowy trees, and there,
Unseen and undisturbed, in silence sleep.
Wild music heard I from the groves—methought
It spake of thee, and gentlest echoes came,
Delusive sounds—mocking my search. But when
They ceas'd their airy warblings,—how the weight
Of that deep silence smote upon my heart,
And things it were a misery to know,
Came with a nearer pressure, nay uprose,
Bringing a trouble to the afflicted mind
Like to the strong realities of truth,
And then they vanish'd!
So all hope had fled,—
Hope was there none, the drooping heart to cheer.
The empty and the grief-exhausted heart
Was sinking in its sorrows—with it died
The charms that Nature, ever tender, gives
To the sweet offspring of her love—the song
Of the wild brooks—the music bursting forth
From the resounding woodlands, and the depth
Of waters silver'd by the summer-moon,
With what the spangled heavens, with other gems
In golden splendour show'd—in vain they shone:
All life, all beauty fled—the rose had lost
Its lustre, and the violet's eyes were dimm'd,
Wanting thy presence. As I call'd, methought
The low, deep murmur of the stream that flow'd
Around our flower-enamelled meadows, spake
As if a dirge funereal smote the ear,
Telling of one now absent—one that was—
And is not—every flow'ret, so it seem'd,
Along the silent pathways that I trod,
Dropt its sweet eyelids fill'd with tears, and wept.
And then, as from the Genius of the woods,
A voice lamenting came, a voice that spake,
Or seem'd to speak, in listening Fancy's ear,
Yet timidly restrain'd, like one who prays
In meek interpretation of his thoughts,
Beseeching—“Oh! ye guardian saints above,
Beautiful spirits, to whom she was dear;
Let her revisit earth,” it seem'd to say,
“Angels of love, oh! lend her from the tomb.”
Hope was there none, the drooping heart to cheer.
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Was sinking in its sorrows—with it died
The charms that Nature, ever tender, gives
To the sweet offspring of her love—the song
Of the wild brooks—the music bursting forth
From the resounding woodlands, and the depth
Of waters silver'd by the summer-moon,
With what the spangled heavens, with other gems
In golden splendour show'd—in vain they shone:
All life, all beauty fled—the rose had lost
Its lustre, and the violet's eyes were dimm'd,
Wanting thy presence. As I call'd, methought
The low, deep murmur of the stream that flow'd
Around our flower-enamelled meadows, spake
As if a dirge funereal smote the ear,
Telling of one now absent—one that was—
And is not—every flow'ret, so it seem'd,
Along the silent pathways that I trod,
Dropt its sweet eyelids fill'd with tears, and wept.
And then, as from the Genius of the woods,
A voice lamenting came, a voice that spake,
Or seem'd to speak, in listening Fancy's ear,
Yet timidly restrain'd, like one who prays
In meek interpretation of his thoughts,
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Beautiful spirits, to whom she was dear;
Let her revisit earth,” it seem'd to say,
“Angels of love, oh! lend her from the tomb.”
I knew her from her childhood! from the days
Her little cradle blossom'd with the smiles
That visionary Fancy brought in dreams,
Wakening the infant world within. She was
The mildest and the maidenliest creature born,
So gentle, and so gracious—in serene
And tender hope, the opening blossom grew.
I knew her when so young, while yet her eyes
Follow'd the glittering insects of the sky
Laughing in wonderment. All things were hers
She saw:—the gilded butterfly and moth,
Whose soft wings fann'd the summer's moveless air,
Were as her little playmates; what a joy
Came to her, when, from forth its fairy light,
The emerald lamp first glittered to her eye,
Rejoicing in its treasure!
Her little cradle blossom'd with the smiles
That visionary Fancy brought in dreams,
Wakening the infant world within. She was
The mildest and the maidenliest creature born,
So gentle, and so gracious—in serene
And tender hope, the opening blossom grew.
I knew her when so young, while yet her eyes
Follow'd the glittering insects of the sky
Laughing in wonderment. All things were hers
She saw:—the gilded butterfly and moth,
Whose soft wings fann'd the summer's moveless air,
Were as her little playmates; what a joy
Came to her, when, from forth its fairy light,
The emerald lamp first glittered to her eye,
Rejoicing in its treasure!
A little star
Perchance it seem'd—an elfin taper lit
In some small home Earth's airy spirits held
For moonlight pleasures—or a moving gem
In its green lustre twinkling through the grass.
The Bee that murmur'd round the summer hive
Had privilege peculiar—'twas a claim
Domestic, recogniz'd with double love,
For its enduring confidence in man,
Its long unwearied energies, its fond
Grateful attachment to its natal home,
And all its happy toils through duty won.
And so this little Child of Nature grew,
As round its parent-stem the tender branch
Puts forth its vernal sweetness;—the sure pledge
And promise of its birth, seem'd all fulfill'd,
As summer's florid wealth maturely glows
From out the soft and opening blooms of May.
Perchance it seem'd—an elfin taper lit
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For moonlight pleasures—or a moving gem
In its green lustre twinkling through the grass.
The Bee that murmur'd round the summer hive
Had privilege peculiar—'twas a claim
Domestic, recogniz'd with double love,
For its enduring confidence in man,
Its long unwearied energies, its fond
Grateful attachment to its natal home,
And all its happy toils through duty won.
And so this little Child of Nature grew,
As round its parent-stem the tender branch
Puts forth its vernal sweetness;—the sure pledge
And promise of its birth, seem'd all fulfill'd,
As summer's florid wealth maturely glows
From out the soft and opening blooms of May.
Oft have I seen her of a summer noon,
Beside the brooklet, launching her little fleet
Of daisies and of king-cups from the bank;
And as they floated idly down the stream,
Or lodged amidst the water-flags and weeds,
And windings of the current, she would then,
After some vain resistance useless found,
In disappointment turn aside, and haste
To other pastime, where the hawthorn glow'd
With coral berries—or the wild-rose flung
Her scented tresses lavishly around,
Amidst unnumber'd rivals for her love;
And happy was the child, that of her will
So changeable, could find wherewith to feed
Its slender wants, its transitory dream.
Nor less the vocal music of the fields,
Breathed from a thousand little voices, rose
In choral harmony to charm the ear.
The small wren's gentle twitter, and the sweet
Familiar warble of the robin's song,
First claim'd her youthful choice; a louder call,
Heard through the summer-day, then came, nor ceas'd
Till evening drew her shadowy mantle round
The neighbouring elm, its seat, whose leafy boughs
Gave shelter to the thrush's sylvan home,
The little pleasant citadel it fram'd
Among the ivy's fostering arms. But now
Another Minstrel rose—e'en thou, divine
Enchantress of the woods, whose matchless stream
Of melody was heard resounding loud,
The moon the sole companion of thy song,
When, rising like a bright and crystal orb,
Through the blue depth of heaven she mov'd along
In self-suspended majesty supreme;
Then Silence, listening with her sister Night,
Welcom'd thy glad return, and with them led,
Attendant of their joy, the youthful May,
Crown'd with the laughing garlands, which the Spring,
The blue-eyed Spring, had gather'd for her brow,
With all her breathing tresses unconfined.
Beside the brooklet, launching her little fleet
Of daisies and of king-cups from the bank;
And as they floated idly down the stream,
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And windings of the current, she would then,
After some vain resistance useless found,
In disappointment turn aside, and haste
To other pastime, where the hawthorn glow'd
With coral berries—or the wild-rose flung
Her scented tresses lavishly around,
Amidst unnumber'd rivals for her love;
And happy was the child, that of her will
So changeable, could find wherewith to feed
Its slender wants, its transitory dream.
Nor less the vocal music of the fields,
Breathed from a thousand little voices, rose
In choral harmony to charm the ear.
The small wren's gentle twitter, and the sweet
Familiar warble of the robin's song,
First claim'd her youthful choice; a louder call,
Heard through the summer-day, then came, nor ceas'd
Till evening drew her shadowy mantle round
The neighbouring elm, its seat, whose leafy boughs
Gave shelter to the thrush's sylvan home,
The little pleasant citadel it fram'd
Among the ivy's fostering arms. But now
Another Minstrel rose—e'en thou, divine
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Of melody was heard resounding loud,
The moon the sole companion of thy song,
When, rising like a bright and crystal orb,
Through the blue depth of heaven she mov'd along
In self-suspended majesty supreme;
Then Silence, listening with her sister Night,
Welcom'd thy glad return, and with them led,
Attendant of their joy, the youthful May,
Crown'd with the laughing garlands, which the Spring,
The blue-eyed Spring, had gather'd for her brow,
With all her breathing tresses unconfined.
So in the silent tenderness of life,
In modest wisdom, through her gentle growth,
Amid these soft, sequestered vales she dwelt,
And flowering fields—in piety and love,
And gratitude for mercies given, that take
From our brief days their transitory form,
And lend them an endurance not their own;
Nourished by grace divine she grew, and then
In sweet, unspotted innocence was called,
Ere that her youthful beauty reached its bloom
Mature, or her pure lip had other touch
Received, than from maternal fondness came;
Leaving its gentle pressure, as a seal
For night to guard, till morning rise again.—
To other realms, and nearer to the fount,
She went, divine of glory. 'Twas not here
She could remain, in timid thought I said,
As one whose eye first opens from a dream
Delusive; it was then indeed I felt
Rebuke, which from reflecting conscience rose,
Recalling in repentant sorrow, what
My hasty grief unsanctified had breathed
Of its own misery;—forlorn it spake
The language which unchastened nature gave,
And thoughtless, as the gales of passion sway'd
The world-benighted heart.
In modest wisdom, through her gentle growth,
Amid these soft, sequestered vales she dwelt,
And flowering fields—in piety and love,
And gratitude for mercies given, that take
From our brief days their transitory form,
And lend them an endurance not their own;
Nourished by grace divine she grew, and then
In sweet, unspotted innocence was called,
Ere that her youthful beauty reached its bloom
Mature, or her pure lip had other touch
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Leaving its gentle pressure, as a seal
For night to guard, till morning rise again.—
To other realms, and nearer to the fount,
She went, divine of glory. 'Twas not here
She could remain, in timid thought I said,
As one whose eye first opens from a dream
Delusive; it was then indeed I felt
Rebuke, which from reflecting conscience rose,
Recalling in repentant sorrow, what
My hasty grief unsanctified had breathed
Of its own misery;—forlorn it spake
The language which unchastened nature gave,
And thoughtless, as the gales of passion sway'd
The world-benighted heart.
But then I looked,
Gazing around me with contracted brow,
And lo! amid the desolated scene
Of suffering, Earth rose, pleading for her lost,
And with imploring eye to Heaven uprais'd,
Her perished children.—
Gazing around me with contracted brow,
And lo! amid the desolated scene
Of suffering, Earth rose, pleading for her lost,
And with imploring eye to Heaven uprais'd,
Her perished children.—
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It is well, I said—
And in the enlightened, renovated heart,
Renewed obedience never speaks in vain—
Well, that she left a world like this, a weak
And sordid world around her—that she fled
Ere she became its prey—a world of grief
Itself has made—a subtle selfish world,
Now brooding o'er its savage thirst of gain,
Now in blind thraldom, what it hates, to serve
In that worst evil—self-inflicted woe;
Well, that she left the earth—the venal crowd
Of voluntary slaves, and using still
In deep concealment of its thoughts, the low
And simulated language that the eye
Has borrowed from the tongue; and thus it lives,
Forgetful of the mercies it receives,
And cruel, midst the love by which 'twas made.
But now through lonely meditation form'd,
Methought before the dreaming eye there rose
A picture, as it were by Fancy built,
Amid the stern realities of truth,
With colours less substantial, yet of power
To wake reluctant Memory, as she slept
Amid her earlier stores.
And in the enlightened, renovated heart,
Renewed obedience never speaks in vain—
Well, that she left a world like this, a weak
And sordid world around her—that she fled
Ere she became its prey—a world of grief
Itself has made—a subtle selfish world,
Now brooding o'er its savage thirst of gain,
Now in blind thraldom, what it hates, to serve
In that worst evil—self-inflicted woe;
Well, that she left the earth—the venal crowd
Of voluntary slaves, and using still
In deep concealment of its thoughts, the low
And simulated language that the eye
Has borrowed from the tongue; and thus it lives,
Forgetful of the mercies it receives,
And cruel, midst the love by which 'twas made.
But now through lonely meditation form'd,
Methought before the dreaming eye there rose
A picture, as it were by Fancy built,
Amid the stern realities of truth,
With colours less substantial, yet of power
To wake reluctant Memory, as she slept
Amid her earlier stores.
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A beauteous dove,
Slumbering upon her snowy breast was seen,
Her roseate feet in softest plumage couched,
As she were Love's own bird, perchance returned
With message from celestial mansions sent.
But then the rush of heavier pinions came,
Swiftly descending—nearer still it moved,
And lo!—the vulture's sullen eye was fix'd
Upon the turtle's nest—its cruel gaze,
Cold, pitiless, relentless, o'er it hung,
Watching its prey like Death.
Slumbering upon her snowy breast was seen,
Her roseate feet in softest plumage couched,
As she were Love's own bird, perchance returned
With message from celestial mansions sent.
But then the rush of heavier pinions came,
Swiftly descending—nearer still it moved,
And lo!—the vulture's sullen eye was fix'd
Upon the turtle's nest—its cruel gaze,
Cold, pitiless, relentless, o'er it hung,
Watching its prey like Death.
Methought I saw,
As more intently on the thing I look'd,
With wonder still increasing, the dim shape
Of human features o'er the creature spread,
I once remembered; such as wont to leave
Indelible impressions on the sense,
What most it loath'd, unable to remove
From the mind's presence; and the bird became
As 'twere a thing of earth before me brought
By art, or power mysterious; now recall'd
To a new life with nature not its own.—
Passing the limitation of the laws
That gave to it existence, it partook
The semblance of a form that I had seen
In other years long past, and now beheld
Rise into actual presence.
As more intently on the thing I look'd,
With wonder still increasing, the dim shape
Of human features o'er the creature spread,
I once remembered; such as wont to leave
Indelible impressions on the sense,
What most it loath'd, unable to remove
From the mind's presence; and the bird became
As 'twere a thing of earth before me brought
By art, or power mysterious; now recall'd
To a new life with nature not its own.—
Passing the limitation of the laws
That gave to it existence, it partook
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In other years long past, and now beheld
Rise into actual presence.
Mute I gaz'd,
Wondering by strength of what transforming power
The creature to its earlier life had joined
That of another being, from itself
In order of creation all distinct,
And why of him, I most had fear'd to see?
But now dim vapours slowly round it rose,
E'en while the eye perused it, and it lost
The fearful recognition of the false
And treacherous feeling which the bird had brought
Unto its former nature; it became
An airy phantom from the wildered sight
Melting away. “Ah! why had she,” I said,—
Awe-stricken at the wild, fallacious dream,
That from the troubles of the mind arose,—
“Ah! why had she to do with things like these?”
And why have we, who loved her, and would shape
Our thoughts unto the perfectness of hers,
Through strong affection striving to attain
Similitude of that which we admire?
It was not here, oh! injured earth! not here
In this enthralled and subjugated world,
Her happiness could find its home:—far hence,
Far, to another country was she call'd,
Such as the visionary eye alone
Of Faith beholds, unseen and unrevealed,
To all beside. A fairer, lovelier land
Was hers—a world where purest Truth is known
In all the radiant majesty serene,
Which Heaven upon her queenly brow has placed;
A land like that the favoured prophet saw
Opening before him, ere the volume clos'd
Of dark futurity to man reveal'd.
Ask of it, him of Tarsus, when he rode
Down towards Damascus and the bordering vales,
When, back upon their sapphire hinges roll'd,
Heaven's gates flew open, and a voice divine
Came to him from the realms of glory, bearing
Tenderest reproaches,—Love's own voice—that spake
As sorrow listened; and he heard, remote
From earthly apprehension, to his ear
Astonish'd, words of inspiration, words
No human tongue could utter,—heart conceive,
Heaven's latest words to man, and heard no more.
So she lay down, as one lies down to sleep,
A spirit summoned to the bridal feast
Of her dear Lord;—who softly pass'd away,
By virtue of the gift that Heaven bestows,
Surrounded with her pure celestial grace.
Wondering by strength of what transforming power
The creature to its earlier life had joined
That of another being, from itself
In order of creation all distinct,
And why of him, I most had fear'd to see?
But now dim vapours slowly round it rose,
E'en while the eye perused it, and it lost
The fearful recognition of the false
And treacherous feeling which the bird had brought
Unto its former nature; it became
An airy phantom from the wildered sight
Melting away. “Ah! why had she,” I said,—
Awe-stricken at the wild, fallacious dream,
That from the troubles of the mind arose,—
“Ah! why had she to do with things like these?”
And why have we, who loved her, and would shape
Our thoughts unto the perfectness of hers,
Through strong affection striving to attain
Similitude of that which we admire?
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In this enthralled and subjugated world,
Her happiness could find its home:—far hence,
Far, to another country was she call'd,
Such as the visionary eye alone
Of Faith beholds, unseen and unrevealed,
To all beside. A fairer, lovelier land
Was hers—a world where purest Truth is known
In all the radiant majesty serene,
Which Heaven upon her queenly brow has placed;
A land like that the favoured prophet saw
Opening before him, ere the volume clos'd
Of dark futurity to man reveal'd.
Ask of it, him of Tarsus, when he rode
Down towards Damascus and the bordering vales,
When, back upon their sapphire hinges roll'd,
Heaven's gates flew open, and a voice divine
Came to him from the realms of glory, bearing
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As sorrow listened; and he heard, remote
From earthly apprehension, to his ear
Astonish'd, words of inspiration, words
No human tongue could utter,—heart conceive,
Heaven's latest words to man, and heard no more.
So she lay down, as one lies down to sleep,
A spirit summoned to the bridal feast
Of her dear Lord;—who softly pass'd away,
By virtue of the gift that Heaven bestows,
Surrounded with her pure celestial grace.
How oft, when wearied Fancy had retired
To her own cell, in leisure there to build
Around her a small pile of cherish'd thoughts,
And images congenial to the mind,
I framed a little Zodiac of her life,
Through which, as travellers under changeful skies,
Amid the pictured semblances of things,
Or imitations of the shape bestowed
By Nature, for the various use it serves,
I saw her move—divinest forms were there,
Yet wanting not similitude direct,
If well interpreted, of that which gives
Ideal things the character of truth.
But here I may not linger—for her life,
Oh! Pity! that humanity doth show
The weakness of its mortal texture, wrought
Out of the perishable things of sense;—
Yea, that substantial presence that I felt
Rising before me, like a dream is now
Slow-fading through the shadowy veil of time
Remote; e'en that which had so long been dear,
As 'twere a thing celestial, priz'd above
All other, and containing in itself
All which the mind could ask, the thought receive,
Comes with a fainter and less real shape
Than when enduring Memory held the key,
Once faithful guardian of my cherish'd stores,
Through the long morning hours of life, when Hope
Liv'd in the cheerful future,—all its form
Bright with the hues of youth, nor dimm'd as yet
With restless thoughts that hover round our life,
As changeful as the wind-controlled skies,
Beneath whose fickle canopy we dwell.
So liv'd she then in guardianship of all
I held on earth—the accumulated wealth
Of studious hours,—the jewell'd heaps of thought
And knowledge, early sought and hoarded up,
The long-collected treasures of the mind;—
All soon to vanish, as the surge of time
Rolls onward, and the printless sands are seen,
Or mutilated forms alone remain,
And scatter'd fragments hastening to decay,
And I beside my perished labours mourn.
To her own cell, in leisure there to build
Around her a small pile of cherish'd thoughts,
And images congenial to the mind,
I framed a little Zodiac of her life,
Through which, as travellers under changeful skies,
Amid the pictured semblances of things,
Or imitations of the shape bestowed
By Nature, for the various use it serves,
I saw her move—divinest forms were there,
Yet wanting not similitude direct,
If well interpreted, of that which gives
Ideal things the character of truth.
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Oh! Pity! that humanity doth show
The weakness of its mortal texture, wrought
Out of the perishable things of sense;—
Yea, that substantial presence that I felt
Rising before me, like a dream is now
Slow-fading through the shadowy veil of time
Remote; e'en that which had so long been dear,
As 'twere a thing celestial, priz'd above
All other, and containing in itself
All which the mind could ask, the thought receive,
Comes with a fainter and less real shape
Than when enduring Memory held the key,
Once faithful guardian of my cherish'd stores,
Through the long morning hours of life, when Hope
Liv'd in the cheerful future,—all its form
Bright with the hues of youth, nor dimm'd as yet
With restless thoughts that hover round our life,
As changeful as the wind-controlled skies,
Beneath whose fickle canopy we dwell.
So liv'd she then in guardianship of all
I held on earth—the accumulated wealth
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And knowledge, early sought and hoarded up,
The long-collected treasures of the mind;—
All soon to vanish, as the surge of time
Rolls onward, and the printless sands are seen,
Or mutilated forms alone remain,
And scatter'd fragments hastening to decay,
And I beside my perished labours mourn.
Not seldom in my solitude I've thought,
Mid these grey years, that, slowly moving, look
With countenance severer as they pass,
And oft imparting that which Fancy drew,
Well pleased with the similitude it made;
Likening my Life, as 'twere a Tent, that rose
On the green margin of some flowery isle,
Seen in the lucid waters, shining there
Smooth as a mirror, or as molten glass
As bright, reflecting in its azure depths,
Each transitory form that seem'd to float
Suspended mid the element serene,
In visionary beauty. Thus it stood
Proud of its palmy shadows—sweet the sound
Of waters murmuring down the mountain side,
And beautiful when o'er the sun-gilt wave,
Spreading its snowy-wings, and streamers gay,
The little fairy pinnace glides along,
Wafting its living freight from isle to isle,
And over all the rich cærulean sky
Shedding its golden lustre.
Mid these grey years, that, slowly moving, look
With countenance severer as they pass,
And oft imparting that which Fancy drew,
Well pleased with the similitude it made;
Likening my Life, as 'twere a Tent, that rose
On the green margin of some flowery isle,
Seen in the lucid waters, shining there
Smooth as a mirror, or as molten glass
As bright, reflecting in its azure depths,
Each transitory form that seem'd to float
Suspended mid the element serene,
In visionary beauty. Thus it stood
Proud of its palmy shadows—sweet the sound
Of waters murmuring down the mountain side,
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Spreading its snowy-wings, and streamers gay,
The little fairy pinnace glides along,
Wafting its living freight from isle to isle,
And over all the rich cærulean sky
Shedding its golden lustre.
Some few years
Are fled—and lo! amid the arid waste
Of the wild desert, fountainless and bare,
A solitary ruin stands, despoiled
And shatter'd by the storm.—We vainly ask
For life, nay pray for it, as for a gift
That He whose heart is mercy, hand is love,
Bestows upon His creatures at His will;
He listens, and with bounteous hand He gives,
And man receives, ere yet his prayer be closed,
The seal of everlasting weal or woe.
Are fled—and lo! amid the arid waste
Of the wild desert, fountainless and bare,
A solitary ruin stands, despoiled
And shatter'd by the storm.—We vainly ask
For life, nay pray for it, as for a gift
That He whose heart is mercy, hand is love,
Bestows upon His creatures at His will;
He listens, and with bounteous hand He gives,
And man receives, ere yet his prayer be closed,
The seal of everlasting weal or woe.
The world is, as it is,
—nor less, nor more.
'Tis as we make it for ourselves—the cloud
That the wind carries with it, as it moves,
Is not more changeable; it is the slave
Of millions, all combining, and all skilled
To shape it for their uses; this one takes
The clay and builds a pyramid, and makes
An image of himself that shall outlast
His brief mortality; at his bidding all
Fall down and worship.—Lo! another comes,
And in presumptuous emulation strives
To follow, as ambition leads him on;
And he lies buried underneath the pile
He gathered for his glory.
'Tis as we make it for ourselves—the cloud
That the wind carries with it, as it moves,
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Of millions, all combining, and all skilled
To shape it for their uses; this one takes
The clay and builds a pyramid, and makes
An image of himself that shall outlast
His brief mortality; at his bidding all
Fall down and worship.—Lo! another comes,
And in presumptuous emulation strives
To follow, as ambition leads him on;
And he lies buried underneath the pile
He gathered for his glory.
Oh! Life! thou art
Unto thy children, blinded as they are,
In worse than heathen darkness—worse, because
A purer light,—the Dayspring from on high,
From them withheld, to thee was given—thou art
An airy dream, an unsubstantial thing,
Taking each varied shape opinion holds,—
Each colour, as it dictates or persuades;
A palace built upon the summer cloud,
Melting, ere yet its vaporous surface moves
Condensed, and floating in the evening sky.
Thou art like some tall promontory hung
O'er the wild waves, whose uncontrollèd tide
Hastes to submerge it, and its verdant crown
Of Cedars, erewhile frowning at the storm
Angry defiance, headlong from the height,
Lies weltering in the waters.
Unto thy children, blinded as they are,
In worse than heathen darkness—worse, because
A purer light,—the Dayspring from on high,
From them withheld, to thee was given—thou art
An airy dream, an unsubstantial thing,
Taking each varied shape opinion holds,—
Each colour, as it dictates or persuades;
A palace built upon the summer cloud,
Melting, ere yet its vaporous surface moves
Condensed, and floating in the evening sky.
Thou art like some tall promontory hung
O'er the wild waves, whose uncontrollèd tide
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Of Cedars, erewhile frowning at the storm
Angry defiance, headlong from the height,
Lies weltering in the waters.
What other worlds
There are, I know not; but experience says,
The heart responding to the voice it bears,
This is “the World of Tears”—and never yet
Was the earth free of sorrow. Its waters lurk
Beneath the sunshine of the face, beneath
The prodigal and careless brow—the dew
That glistens in the eye of beauty shows
The fullness of the source from which it springs.
'Tis born with us—the heritage we take
From Nature's hand, that follows to the tomb.—
“This is the World of Tears”—oh! ye who dwell
Above us, in your tenderness to man
Making the sorrows of the earth your own,
Oh! ye, the mild inhabitants of air,
Answer with voice consentient to the plaint
I breathe,—if grief celestial be not felt
For this afflicted race, that dwelleth here,
Under displeasure deep, exiled from home,—
A home, that once descending angels trod,
Encompass'd by its verdant walls, which then
Smil'd in perpetual spring, create for Thee,
Crown'd as Earth's Lord supreme—from thee, to us
By mournful change inherited; —each bears
The accumulated weight, that to him comes,
Age after age succeeding:—yet how small
The amount we know of sorrow, that the heart,
The bleeding and the lacerated heart
Of man, in this broad world around us, bears;
Or feel the woe that through the soundless depths
Of pain, by its own weight of suffering, moves
O'er the pale earth, that trembles as it comes.
There are, I know not; but experience says,
The heart responding to the voice it bears,
This is “the World of Tears”—and never yet
Was the earth free of sorrow. Its waters lurk
Beneath the sunshine of the face, beneath
The prodigal and careless brow—the dew
That glistens in the eye of beauty shows
The fullness of the source from which it springs.
'Tis born with us—the heritage we take
From Nature's hand, that follows to the tomb.—
“This is the World of Tears”—oh! ye who dwell
Above us, in your tenderness to man
Making the sorrows of the earth your own,
Oh! ye, the mild inhabitants of air,
Answer with voice consentient to the plaint
I breathe,—if grief celestial be not felt
For this afflicted race, that dwelleth here,
Under displeasure deep, exiled from home,—
A home, that once descending angels trod,
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Smil'd in perpetual spring, create for Thee,
Crown'd as Earth's Lord supreme—from thee, to us
By mournful change inherited; —each bears
The accumulated weight, that to him comes,
Age after age succeeding:—yet how small
The amount we know of sorrow, that the heart,
The bleeding and the lacerated heart
Of man, in this broad world around us, bears;
Or feel the woe that through the soundless depths
Of pain, by its own weight of suffering, moves
O'er the pale earth, that trembles as it comes.
We ask for Life.—Our prayer is still the same,
To the last sigh, departing Nature yields—
Long life, the promise of our birth confirmed,
Full prolongation of the vernal year.
We ask for life—implore—with words that Death
Himself suggests, in mockery of our false
And impious wishes.—Ascending wings upbear
The fatal scroll, and heaven's wide gates are fill'd
With vain petitions from the world of woe;
“Let not the sunset of our days be clos'd
Beneath the breath of darkness.—Powers supreme!
Suspend your laws in mercy!—oh! not yet,
Unlock not yet, the chambers of the grave!”
Then as we grasp with trembling hand the gift,
Forget the awful terms on which it rests;
Each syllable uncancelled, to appear
In judgment of a bond that's unfulfilled.
To the last sigh, departing Nature yields—
Long life, the promise of our birth confirmed,
Full prolongation of the vernal year.
We ask for life—implore—with words that Death
Himself suggests, in mockery of our false
And impious wishes.—Ascending wings upbear
The fatal scroll, and heaven's wide gates are fill'd
135
“Let not the sunset of our days be clos'd
Beneath the breath of darkness.—Powers supreme!
Suspend your laws in mercy!—oh! not yet,
Unlock not yet, the chambers of the grave!”
Then as we grasp with trembling hand the gift,
Forget the awful terms on which it rests;
Each syllable uncancelled, to appear
In judgment of a bond that's unfulfilled.
Thus do I, leaning on the stone that yields
Memorial of thy presence erewhile here;
Now waken'd to a deeper thoughtfulness,
With admonitions coming from the heart,
Submissive, and repentant, and renew'd,
Pronounce thee happier, who wert early call'd
To thy soft rest within thy Saviour's love,
Safe from the storms of life, while yet the smile
Of youth, oblivious of the past, nor less
Of future ills unmindful, on thy cheek
Spread like the glow of morning, such as seen,
When first it brightens through the Eastern sky,
Shedding Elysian gleams of beauty round,
Nor heeds the tempest, that with threat'ning brow
Lies couch'd, and waiting for his evening prey.
Memorial of thy presence erewhile here;
Now waken'd to a deeper thoughtfulness,
With admonitions coming from the heart,
Submissive, and repentant, and renew'd,
Pronounce thee happier, who wert early call'd
To thy soft rest within thy Saviour's love,
Safe from the storms of life, while yet the smile
Of youth, oblivious of the past, nor less
Of future ills unmindful, on thy cheek
Spread like the glow of morning, such as seen,
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Shedding Elysian gleams of beauty round,
Nor heeds the tempest, that with threat'ning brow
Lies couch'd, and waiting for his evening prey.
The Bee is beautifully and characteristically described by the Greek poets, as αποιμαντον ποιμνιον, “the flock that goes out to pasture without a shepherd.”
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