The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
IV.
Yet the world will seeLittle of this, my parting work, in thee—
Thou shalt have fame!—Oh, mockery! give the reed
From storms a shelter—give the drooping vine
Something round which its tendrils may entwine—
Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the meed
Of love's kind words to woman! Worthless fame!
That in his bosom wins not for my name
Th' abiding place it ask'd! Yet how my heart,
In its own fairy world of song and art,
Once beat for praise! Are those high longings o'er?
That which I have been can I be no more?
Never! oh, never more! though still thy sky
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy!
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Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still;
And though the mantle of thy sunlight streams,
Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet-dreams:
Never! oh, never more! Where'er I move,
The shadow of this broken-hearted love
Is on me and around! Too well they know,
Whose life is all within, too soon and well,
When there the blight hath settled!—but I go
Under the silent wings of peace to dwell;
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain,
The inward burning of those words—“in vain,”
Sear'd on the heart—I go. 'Twill soon be past,
Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven,
And thou, Oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast
Unvalued wealth—who know'st not what was given
In that devotedness—the sad, and deep,
And unrepaid—farewell! If I could weep
Once, only once, beloved one! on thy breast,
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest!
But that were happiness, and unto me
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be
So richly bless'd! With thee to watch the sky,
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh:
With thee to listen, while the tones of song
Swept even as part of our sweet air along—
To listen silently: with thee to gaze
On forms, the deified of olden days—
This had been joy enough; and hour by hour,
From its glad well-springs drinking life and power,
How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame
A glory for thy brow! Dreams, dreams!—the fire
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As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre
When its full chords are hush'd—awhile to live,
And one day haply in thy heart revive
Sad thoughts of me:—I leave it, with a sound,
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound—
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell—
Say proudly yet—“'Twas hers who loved me well!”
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |