The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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THE ILLUMINATED CITY. |
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
THE ILLUMINATED CITY.
The hills all glow'd with a festive light,
For the royal city rejoiced by night:
There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree,
Banners were lifted and streaming free;
Every tall pillar was wreath'd with fire;
Like a shooting meteor was every spire;
And the outline of many a dome on high
Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky.
For the royal city rejoiced by night:
There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree,
Banners were lifted and streaming free;
Every tall pillar was wreath'd with fire;
Like a shooting meteor was every spire;
And the outline of many a dome on high
Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky.
I pass'd through the streets; there were throngs on throngs—
Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs;
There was music forth from each palace borne—
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn;
The forests heard it, the mountains rang,
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang;
Rich and victorious was every tone,
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown.
Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs;
There was music forth from each palace borne—
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn;
The forests heard it, the mountains rang,
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang;
Rich and victorious was every tone,
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown.
Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain?
Thousands lie dead on their battle plain!
Gallant and true were the hearts that fell—
Grief in the homes they have left must dwell:
Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread,
And bowing the beauty of woman's head:
Didst thou hear, 'midst the songs, not one tender moan,
For the many brave to their slumbers gone?
Thousands lie dead on their battle plain!
294
Grief in the homes they have left must dwell:
Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread,
And bowing the beauty of woman's head:
Didst thou hear, 'midst the songs, not one tender moan,
For the many brave to their slumbers gone?
I saw not the face of a weeper there—
Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamp's glare!—
I heard not a wail 'midst the joyous crowd—
The music of victory was all too loud!
Mighty it roll'd on the winds afar,
Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car;
Through torches and streamers its flood swept by—
How could I listen for moan or sigh?
Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamp's glare!—
I heard not a wail 'midst the joyous crowd—
The music of victory was all too loud!
Mighty it roll'd on the winds afar,
Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car;
Through torches and streamers its flood swept by—
How could I listen for moan or sigh?
Turn then away from life's pageants, turn,
If its deep story thy heart would learn!
Ever too bright is that outward show,
Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe.
But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view
The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true;
Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal—
So must thy spirit be taught to feel!
If its deep story thy heart would learn!
Ever too bright is that outward show,
Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe.
But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view
The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true;
Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal—
So must thy spirit be taught to feel!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |