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 |  |
INVOCATION.
Hush'd is the world in night and sleep,
Earth, Sea, and Air, are still as death;
Too rude to break a calm so deep,
Were music's faintest breath.
Descend, bright Visions! from aërial bowers,
Descend to gild your own soft, silent hours.
Earth, Sea, and Air, are still as death;
Too rude to break a calm so deep,
Were music's faintest breath.
Descend, bright Visions! from aërial bowers,
Descend to gild your own soft, silent hours.
In hope or fear, in toil or pain,
The weary day have mortals past;
Now, dreams of bliss! be yours to reign,
And all your spells around them cast;
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear,
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.
The weary day have mortals past;
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And all your spells around them cast;
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear,
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.
O! bear your softest balm to those,
Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead,
To them that world of peace disclose,
Where the bright soul is fled:
Where Love, immortal in his native clime,
Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time.
Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead,
To them that world of peace disclose,
Where the bright soul is fled:
Where Love, immortal in his native clime,
Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time.
Or to his loved, his distant land,
On your light wings the exile bear
To feel once more his heart expand,
In his own genial mountain-air;
Hear the wild echoes' well-known strains repeat,
And bless each note, as Heaven's own music sweet.
On your light wings the exile bear
To feel once more his heart expand,
In his own genial mountain-air;
Hear the wild echoes' well-known strains repeat,
And bless each note, as Heaven's own music sweet.
But oh! with Fancy's brightest ray,
Blest dreams! the bard's repose illume;
Bid forms of heaven around him play,
And bowers of Eden bloom!
And waft his spirit to its native skies
Who finds no charm in life's realities.
Blest dreams! the bard's repose illume;
Bid forms of heaven around him play,
And bowers of Eden bloom!
And waft his spirit to its native skies
Who finds no charm in life's realities.
No voice is on the air of night,
Through folded leaves no murmurs creep,
Nor star nor moonbeam's trembling light
Falls on the placid brow of sleep.
Descend, bright visions! from your airy bower:
Dark, silent, solemn, is your favourite hour.
Through folded leaves no murmurs creep,
Nor star nor moonbeam's trembling light
Falls on the placid brow of sleep.
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Dark, silent, solemn, is your favourite hour.
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |