University of Virginia Library

VII. VOL. VII.

LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC.

SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.

I.—NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE!

II.—OH! DROOP THOU NOT.

THE SISTERS.

A BALLAD.

THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

DIRGE.

A SONG OF THE ROSE.

NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.

THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS.

ECHO-SONG.

THE MUFFLED DRUM.

THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK.

SONGS OF SPAIN.

I.—ANCIENT BATTLE SONG.

II.—THE ZEGRI MAID.

III.—THE RIO VERDE SONG.

IV.—SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO.

V.—SPANISH EVENING HYMN.

VI.—BIRD, THAT ART SINGING ON EBRO'S SIDE.

VII.—MOORISH GATHERING SONG.

ZORZICO.

VIII.—THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS.

IX.—MOTHER, OH! SING ME TO REST.

X.—THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES.

THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.

THE CALL TO BATTLE.

SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.

I.—AND I TOO IN ARCADIA.

II.—THE WANDERING WIND.

III.—YE ARE NOT MISS'D, FAIR FLOWERS.

IV.—WILLOW SONG.

V.—LEAVE ME NOT YET.

VI.—THE ORANGE BOUGH.

VII.—THE STREAM SET FREE.

VIII.—THE SUMMER'S CALL.

IX.—OH! SKYLARK, FOR THY WING.

GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.

MUSIC AT A DEATHBED.

MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE.

THE FALLEN LIME-TREE.

SONGS OF CAPTIVITY.

INTRODUCTION.

I.—THE BROTHER'S DIRGE.

II.—THE ALPINE HORN.

III.—O YE VOICES.

IV.—I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE.

V.—FAR O'ER THE SEA.

VI.—THE INVOCATION.

VII.—THE SONG OF HOPE.

THE BIRD AT SEA.

THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.

THE IVY-SONG.

THE MUSIC OF ST PATRICK'S.

KEENE, OR LAMENT OF AN IRISH MOTHER OVER HER SON.

FAR AWAY.

THE LYRE AND FLOWER.

SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST.

THE LONELY BIRD.

DIRGE AT SEA.

PILGRIM'S SONG TO THE EVENING STAR.

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

COME AWAY.

FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL.

MUSIC FROM SHORE.

LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS EYES.

IF THOU HAST CRUSH'D A FLOWER.

BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED.

THE BED OF HEATH.

FAIRY SONG.

WHAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND.

OH! IF THOU WILT NOT GIVE THINE HEART.

LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE.

SING TO ME, GONDOLIER!

O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS.

O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING!

COME TO ME, DREAMS OF HEAVEN.

GOOD-NIGHT.

LET HER DEPART.

HOW CAN THAT LOVE SO DEEP, SO LONE.

WATER-LILIES.

A FAIRY SONG.

Come away, elves! while the dew is sweet,
Come to the dingles where fairies meet;
Know that the lilies have spread their bells
O'er all the pools in our forest dells;
Stilly and lightly their vases rest
On the quivering sleep of the water's breast,
Catching the sunshine through leaves that throw
To their scented bosoms an emerald glow;
And a star from the depth of each pearly cup,
A golden star unto heaven looks up,
As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie,
Set in the blue of the summer sky.
—Come away! under arching boughs we'll float,
Making those urns each a fairy boat;
We'll row them with reeds o'er the fountains free,
And a tall flag-leaf shall our streamer be,
And we'll send out wild music so sweet and low,
It shall seem from the bright flower's heart to flow,
As if 'twere a breeze with a flute's low sigh,
Or water drops train'd into melody.
—Come away! for the midsummer sun grows strong,
And the life of the lily may not be long

THE BROKEN FLOWER.

I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAIN.

FAIRIES' RECALL.

THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA.

O YE VOICES GONE.

BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM AT REST.

IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING.

THE NAME OF ENGLAND.

OLD NORWAY.

A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG.

COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP.

THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS; OR, THE MEETING ON THE FIELD OF GRUTLI.

SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE; WITH OTHER RELIGIOUS POEMS.

THE ENGLISH MARTYRS; A SCENE OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY.

Scene in a Prison.

Edith alone.
Edith.
Morn once again! Morn in the lone dim cell,
The cavern of the prisoner's fever dream,
And morn on all the green rejoicing hills,
And the bright waters round the prisoner's home,
Far, far away! Now wakes the early bird
That in the lime's transparent foliage sings,
Close to my cottage lattice—he awakes,
To stir the young leaves with his gushing soul,
And to call forth rich answers of delight
From voices buried in a thousand trees,
Through the dim starry hours. Now doth the lake
Darken and flash in rapid interchange
Unto the matin breeze; and the blue mist
Rolls, like a furling banner, from the brows
Of the forth-gleaming hills and woods that rise
As if new-born. Bright world! and I am here!
And thou, O thou! the awakening thought of whom
Was more than dayspring, dearer than the sun,
Herbert! the very glance of whose clear eye
Made my soul melt away to one pure fount
Of living, bounding gladness!—where art thou?
My friend! my only and my blessed love!
Herbert, my soul's companion!

[Gomez, a Spanish Priest enters.
Gom.
Daughter, hail!
I bring thee tidings.

Ed.
Heaven will aid my soul
Calmly to meet whate'er thy lips announce.

Gom.
Nay, lift a song of thanksgiving to Heaven,
And bow thy knee down for deliverance won!
Hast thou not pray'd for life? and would'st thou not
Once more be free?

Ed.
Have I not pray'd for life?
I, that am so beloved! that love again
With such a heart of tendrils? Heaven! thou know'st
The gushings of my prayer! And would I not
Once more be free? I that have been a child
Of breezy hills, a playmate of the fawn
In ancient woodlands from mine infancy!
A watcher of the clouds and of the stars,
Beneath the adoring silence of the night;
And a glad wanderer with the happy streams,
Whose laughter fills the mountains! Oh! to hear
Their blessed sounds again!

Gom.
Rejoice, rejoice!
Our Queen hath pity, maiden, on thy youth;
She wills not thou should'st perish.—I am come
To loose thy bonds.

Ed.
And shall I see his face,
And shall I listen to his voice again,
And lay my head upon his faithful breast,
Weeping there in my gladness? Will this be?—
Blessings upon thee, father! my quick heart
Hath deem'd thee stern—say, wilt thou not forgive
The wayward child, too long in sunshine rear'd—
Too long unused to chastening? Wilt thou not?
But Herbert, Herbert! Oh, my soul hath rush'd
On a swift gust of sudden joy away,
Forgetting all beside! Speak, father, speak!
Herbert—is he too free?

Gom.
His freedom lies
In his own choice—a boon like thine.

Ed.
Thy words
Fall changed and cold upon my boding heart.
Leave not this dim suspense o'ershadowing me.
Let all be told.

Gom.
The monarchs of the earth
Shower not their mighty gifts without a claim
Unto some token of true vassalage,
Some mark of homage.

Ed.
Oh! unlike to Him,
Who freely pours the joy of sunshine forth,
And the bright quickening rain, on those who serve
And those who heed him not!

Gom.
(laying a paper before her.)
Is it so much
That thine own hand should set the crowning seal
To thy deliverance? Look, thy task is here!
Sign but these words for liberty and life.

Ed.
(examining and then throwing it from her.)
Sign but these words! and wherefore saidst thou not,
“Be but a traitor to God's light within?”—
Cruel, oh, cruel! thy dark sport hath been
With a young bosom's hope! Farewell, glad life!
Bright opening path to love and home farewell!
And thou—now leave me with my God alone!

Gom.
Dost thou reject Heaven's mercy?

Ed.
Heaven's! doth Heaven
Woo the free spirit for dishonour'd breath
To sell its birthright? doth Heaven set a price
On the clear jewel of unsullied faith,
And the bright calm of conscience? Priest, away!
God hath been with me 'midst the holiness
Of England's mountains. Not in sport alone
I trod their heath-flowers; but high thoughts rose up
From the broad shadow of the enduring rocks,
And wander'd with me into solemn glens,
Where my soul felt the beauty of his word.
I have heard voices of immortal truth,
Blent with the everlasting torrent-sounds
That make the deep hills tremble.—Shall I quail?—
Shall England's daughter sink?—No! He who there
Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm,
Will not forsake his child!

Gom.
(turning from her.)
Then perish! lost
In thine own blindness!

Ed.
(suddenly throwing herself at his feet.)
Father! hear me yet!
Oh! if the kindly touch of human love
Hath ever warm'd thy breast—

Gom.
Away—away!
I know not love.

Ed.
Yet hear! if thou hast known
The tender sweetness of a mother's voice—
If the true vigil of affection's eye
Hath watch'd thy childhood—if fond tears have e'er
Been shower'd upon thy head—if parting words
E'er pierced thy spirit with their tenderness—
Let me but look upon his face once more,
Let me but say—farewell, my soul's beloved!
And I will bless thee still!

Gom.
(aside.)

Ed.
Oh! stormy hour of agony and joy!
But I shall see him—I shall hear his voice!

[They go out.

Scene II.

—Another Part of the Prison.
Herbert—Edith.
Ed.
Herbert, my Herbert! is it thus we meet?

Her.
The voice of my own Edith! Can such joy
Light up this place of death? And do I feel
Thy breath of love once more upon my cheek,
And the soft floating of thy gleamy hair,
My blessed Edith? Oh, so pale! so changed!
My flower, my blighted flower! thou that wert made
For the kind fostering of sweet summer airs,
How hath the storm been with thee!—Lay thy head
On this true breast again, my gentle one!
And tell me all.

Ed.
Yes, take me to thy heart,
For I am weary, weary! Oh! that heart!
The kind, the brave, the tender!—how my soul
Hath sicken'd in vain yearnings for the balm
Of rest on that warm heart!—full, deep repose!
One draught of dewy stillness after storm!
And God hath pitied me, and I am here—
Yet once before I die!

Her.
They cannot slay
One young, and meek, and beautiful as thou,
My broken lily! Surely the long days
Of the dark cell have been enough for thee!
Oh! thou shalt live, and raise thy gracious head
Yet in calm sunshine.

Ed.
Herbert! I have cast
The snare of proffer'd mercy from my soul,
This very hour. God to the weak hath given
Victory o'er life and death!—The tempter's price
Hath been rejected—Herbert, I must die.

Her.
O Edith! Edith! I, that led thee first
From the old path wherein thy fathers trod—
I, that received it as an angel's task,
To pour the fresh light on thine ardent soul,
Which drank it as a sunflower—I have been
Thy guide to death!

Ed.
To heaven! my guide to heaven,
My noble and my bless'd! Oh! look up,
Be strong, rejoice, my Herbert! But for thee,
How could my spirit have sprung up to God,
Through the dark cloud which o'er its vision hung,
The night of fear and error?—thy dear hand
First raised that veil, and show'd the glorious world
My heritage beyond.—Friend! love, and friend!
It was as if thou gav'st me mine own soul
In those bright days! Yes! a new earth and heaven,
And a new sense for all their splendours born,
These were thy gifts! and shall I not rejoice
To die, upholding their immortal worth,
Even for thy sake? Yes, fill'd with nobler life
By thy pure love, made holy to the truth,
Lay me upon the altar of thy God,
The first fruits of thy ministry below;
Thy work, thine own!

Her.
My love, my sainted love!
Oh! I can almost yield thee unto heaven;
Earth would but sully thee! Thou must depart,
With the rich crown of thy celestial gifts
Untainted by a breath! And yet, alas!
Edith! what dreams of holy happiness,
Even for this world, were ours!—the low, sweet home,
The pastoral dwelling, with its ivied porch,
And lattice gleaming through the leaves—and thou,
My life's companion!—Thou, beside my hearth,
Sitting with thy meek eyes, or greeting me
Back from brief absence with thy bounding step,
In the green meadow-path, or by my side
Kneeling—thy calm uplifted face to mine,
In the sweet hush of prayer! and now—oh! now—
How have we loved—how fervently, how long!
And this to be the close!

Ed.
Oh! bear me up
Against the unutterable tenderness
Of earthly love, my God! in the sick hour
Of dying human hope, forsake me not!
Herbert, my Herbert! even from that sweet home
Where it had been too much of Paradise
To dwell with thee—even thence the oppressor's hand
Might soon have torn us; or the touch of death
Might one day there have left a widow'd heart,
Pining alone. We will go hence, beloved!
To the bright country, where the wicked cease
From troubling, where the spoiler hath no sway;
Where no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs
The Sabbath-peace of love. We will go hence,
Together with our wedded souls, to heaven:
No solitary lingering, no cold void,
No dying of the heart! Our lives have been
Lovely through faithful love, and in our deaths
We will not be divided.

Her.
Oh! the peace
Of God is lying far within thine eyes,
Far underneath the mist of human tears,
Lighting those blue still depths, and sinking thence
On my worn heart. Now am I girt with strength,
Now I can bless thee, my true bride for Heaven!

Ed.
And let me bless thee, Herbert! in this hour
Let my soul bless thee with prevailing might!
Oh! thou hast loved me nobly! thou didst take
An orphan to thy heart, a thing unprized
And desolate; and thou didst guard her there,
That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl
Of richest price; and thou didst fill her soul
With the high gifts of an immortal wealth.—
I bless, I bless thee! Never did thine eye
Look on me but in glistening tenderness,
My gentle Herbert! Never did thy voice
But in affection's deepest music speak
To thy poor Edith! Never was thy heart
Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine,
My faithful, generous Herbert! Woman's peace
Ne'er on a breast so tender and so true
Reposed before.—Alas! thy showering tears
Fall fast upon my cheek—forgive, forgive!
I should not melt thy noble strength away
In such an hour.

Her.
[They kneel.
[They rise.
[She sings.
[Prison attendants enter.

Her.
One last embrace.
On earth the last!—We have eternity
For love's communion yet!—Farewell—farewell!—
[She is led out.
'Tis o'er—the bitterness of death is past!

FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.

Apartment in an English Country-House.—Lilian reclining, as sleeping on a couch. Her Mother watching beside her. Her Sister enters with flowers.
Mother.
Hush, lightly tread! still tranquilly she sleeps,
As, when a babe, I rock'd her on my heart.
I've watch'd, suspending e'en my breath, in fear
To break the heavenly spell. Move silently!
And oh! those flowers! dear Jessy, bear them hence—
Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears
That shook her trembling frame, when last we brought
The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know
What sudden longings for the woods and hills,
Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly,
These leaves and odours with strange influence wake
In her fast-kindled soul?

Jessy.
Oh! she would pine,
Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld,
Mother! far more than now her spirit yearns
For the blue sky, the singing-birds and brooks,
And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome spring
Their blooms recall.

Lilian,
(raising herself.)
Is that my Jessy's voice?
It woke me not, sweet mother! I had lain
Silently, visited by waking dreams,
Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness,
Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought flowers?
Nay, fear not now thy fond child's waywardness,
My thoughtful mother!—in her chasten'd soul
The passion-colour'd images of life,
Which, with their sudden startling flush awoke
So oft those burning tears, have died away;
And night is there—still, solemn, holy night,
With all her stars, and with the gentle tune
Of many fountains, low and musical,
By day unheard.

Mother.
And wherefore night, my child?
Thou art a creature all of life and dawn,
And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise,
And walk forth with the dayspring.

Lilian.

Jessy.
All, all is there
Which glad midsummer's wealthiest hours can bring;
All, save the soul of all, thy lightening smile!
Therefore I stood in sadness 'midst the leaves,
And caught an under-music of lament
In the stream's voice; but Nature waits thee still,
And for thy coming piles a fairy throne
Of richest moss.

Lilian.
Alas! it may not be!
My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly,
To all these blessed haunts of song and thought;
Yet not the less I love to look on these,
Their dear memorials;—strew them o'er my couch
Till it grow like a forest bank in spring,
All flush'd with violets and anemones.
Ah! the pale brier rose! touch'd so tenderly,
As a pure ocean shell, with faintest red,
Melting away to pearliness!—I know
How its long light festoons o'erarching hung
From the grey rock, that rises altar-like,
With its high waving crown of mountain ash,
'Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough
Of honey'd woodbine, tells me of the oak
Whose deep midsummer gloom sleeps heavily,
Shedding a verdurous twilight o'er the face
Of the glade's pool. Methinks I see it now;
I look up through the stirring of its leaves
Unto the intense blue crystal firmament.
The ringdove's wing is flitting o'er my head,
Casting at times a silvery shadow down
'Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful!
How beautiful is all this fair free world
Under God's open sky!

Mother.
Thou art o'erwrought
Once more, my child! The dewy trembling light
Presaging tears, again is in thine eye.
O, hush, dear Lilian! turn thee to repose.

Lilian.

Mother.
My Lilian! thou
Surely in thy bright life hast little known
Of lost things or of changed!

Lilian.

Jessy.
What would'st thou hear? The Italian peasant's lay,
Which makes the desolate Campagna ring
With “Roma, Roma?” or the madrigal
Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily?
Or the old ditty left by Troubadours
To girls of Languedoc?

Lilian.
Oh, no! not these.

Jessy.
What then? the Moorish melody still known
Within the Alhambra city? or those notes
Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile's heart
Even unto death?

Lilian.
No, sister, nor yet these—
Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret,
Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes
In the caressing sweetness of their tones,
For one who dies;—They would but woo me back
To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds—
And vainly, vainly—No! a loftier strain,
A deeper music!—Something that may bear
The spirit upon slow yet mighty wings,
Unsway'd by gusts of earth: something all fill'd
With solemn adoration, tearful prayer.—
Sing me that antique strain which once I deem'd
Almost too sternly simple, too austere
In its grave majesty! I love it now—
Now it seems fraught with holiest power, to hush
All billows of the soul, e'en like his voice
That said of old—“Be still!”—Sing me that strain,
“The Saviour's dying hour.”

[Jessy sings to the Harp.

CATHEDRAL HYMN.

WOOD WALK AND HYMN.

Father—Child.
Child.
There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves
Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime
And chestnut boughs, and those long arching sprays
Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood
Were all one picture!

Father.
Hast thou heard, my boy,
The peasant's legend of that quivering tree?

Child.
No, father; doth he say the fairies dance
Amidst the branches?

Father.
Oh! a cause more deep,
More solemn far, the rustic doth assign
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves!
The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon
The meek Redeemer bow'd his head to death,
Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze
Disturbs the airy thistle down, or shakes
The light lines of the shining gossamer.

Child,
(after a pause.)
Dost thou believe it, father?

Father.

Child.
Know you not
More of the legends which the woodmen tell
Amidst the trees and flowers!

Father.
Wilt thou know more?
Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-brown stains,
There—by the mossy roots of yon old beech,
'Midst the rich tuft of cowslips—see'st thou not?
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree
Just bending o'er it with a wild bee's weight.

Child.
The Arum leaf?

Father.

Child.
What, the pale star-shaped flower, with purple streaks
And light green tendrils?

Father.

[Child speaks.

WOOD HYMN.

PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT.

THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG.

BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT'S CHILD IN THE FORESTS.

Scene.—The banks of a solitary river in an American forest. A tent under pine-trees in the foreground. Agnes sitting before the tent, with a child in her arms apparently sleeping.
Agnes.
(Shudderingly.)

[Her Husband enters.
Husband.
Agnes, my Agnes! hast thou look'd thy last
On our sweet slumberer's face? The hour is come—
The couch made ready for his last repose.

Agnes.
Not yet! thou canst not take him from me yet!
If he but left me for a few short days,
This were too brief a gazing time, to draw
His angel image into my fond heart,
And fix its beauty there. And now—oh! now,
Never again the laughter of his eye
Shall send its gladd'ning summer through my soul—
Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay!
Thou canst not take him from me.

Husband.
My beloved!
Is it not God hath taken him? the God
That took our first-born, o'er whose early grave
Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and say,
“His will be done!”

Agnes.
Oh! that near household grave,
Under the turf of England, seem'd not half—
Not half so much to part me from my child
As these dark woods. It lay beside our home,
And I could watch the sunshine, through all hours,
Loving and clinging to the grassy spot;
And I could dress its greensward with fresh flowers—
Familiar, meadow flowers. O'er thee my babe,
The primrose will not blossom! Oh! that now,
Together, by thy fair young sister's side,
We lay 'midst England's valleys!

Husband.
Dost thou grieve,
Agnes! that thou hast follow'd o'er the deep
An exile's fortunes? If it thus can be,
Then, after many a conflict cheerily met,
My spirit sinks at last.

Agnes.
[Kneeling with the child in her arms.
[Giving the child to her husband.

Husband.
Now, my wife,
Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more
A light upon my path. Now shall I bear,
From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose—
With a calm, trustful heart.

Agnes.
My Edmund! where—
Where wilt thou lay him?

Husband.
See'st thou where the spire
Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun
To burning gold?—there—o'er yon willow-tuft?
Under that native desert monument
Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn,
With the grey mosses of the wilderness
Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth,
E'en from the fulness of his own pure heart,
A wild, sad forest hymn—a song of tears,
Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy
Chanting it o'er his solitary task,
As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves,
Perchance unconsciously.

Agnes.
(Bending over the child.)
[After a short pause.

Husband.
Then strength be with thy prayer!
Peace on thy bosom! Faith and heavenly hope
Unto thy spirit! Fare thee well a while!
We must be pilgrims of the woods again,
After this mournful hour.

[He goes cut with the child.—Agnes kneels in prayer.—After a time, voices without are heard singing.

THE FUNERAL HYMN.

EASTER-DAY IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD.

THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.

A POET'S DYING HYMN.

THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGIO'S.

PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.

A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

Scene—Prison of the Luxembourg, in Paris, during the Reign of Terror.
D'Aubigne, an aged Royalist—Blanche, his daughter, a young girl.
Blanche.
What was our doom, my father? In thine arms
I lay unconsciously through that dread hour.
Tell me the sentence! Could our judges look,
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair?
Was there not mercy, father? Will they not
Restore us to our home?

D'Aubigné.
Yes, my poor child!
They send us home.

Blanche.
Oh! shall we gaze again
On the bright Loire? Will the old hamlet spire,
And the grey turret of our own chateau,
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,
The loving laughter in their children's eyes,
Welcome us back at last?—But how is this?—
Father, thy glance is clouded—on thy brow
There sits no joy!

D'Aubigné.
Upon my brow, dear girl,
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace
As may befit the Christian, who receives
And recognises, in submissive awe,
The summons of his God.

Blanche.
Thou dost not mean—
No, no! it cannot be!—Didst thou not say
They sent us home?

D'Aubigné.
Where is the spirit's home?—
Oh! most of all, in these dark evil days,
Where should it be—but in that world serene,
Beyond the sword's reach, and the tempest's power—
Where, but in Heaven?

Blanche.
My father!

D'Aubigné.
We must die.
We must look up to God, and calmly die.—
Come to my heart, and weep there!—for awhile
Give Nature's passion way, then brightly rise
In the still courage of a woman's heart!
Do I not know thee?—Do I ask too much
From mine own noble Blanche?

Blanche,
(falling on his bosom.)
Oh! clasp me fast!
Thy trembling child!—Hide, hide me in thine arms—
Father!

D'Aubigné.
Alas! my flower, thou'rt young to go—
Young, and so fair!—Yet were it worse, methinks,
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave,
The loyal-hearted and the chivalrous,
And they that loved their God, have all been swept,
Like the sere leaves, away.—For them no hearth
Through the wide land was left inviolate,
No altar holy; therefore did they fall,
Rejoicing to depart.—The soil is steep'd
In noble blood; the temples are gone down;
The voice of prayer is hush'd, or fearfully
Mutter'd, like sounds of guilt.—Why, who would live?
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee,
To quit for ever the dishonour'd soil,
The burden'd air?—Our God upon the cross—
Our king upon the scaffold —let us think
Of these—and fold endurance to our hearts,
And bravely die!

Blanche.
A dark and fearful way!
An evil doom for thy dear honour'd head!
Oh! thou, the kind, the gracious!—whom all eyes
Bless'd as they look'd upon!—Speak yet again—
Say, will they part us?

D'Aubigné.
No, my Blanche; in death
We shall not be divided.

Blanche.
Thanks to God!
He, by thy glance, will aid me—I shall see
His light before me to the last.—And when—
O pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child!—
When shall the hour befall?

D'Aubigné.
Oh! swiftly now,
And suddenly, with brief dread interval,
Comes down the mortal stroke.—But of that hour
As yet I know not.—Each low throbbing pulse
Of the quick pendulum may usher in
Eternity!

Blanche,
(kneeling before him.)
My father! lay thy hand
On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness,
Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul,
Ere we are call'd.

D'Aubigné.
If I may speak through tears!—
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart!—thou who dost look on me
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love!
Thou that hast been a brightness in my path,
A guest of Heaven unto my lonely soul,
A stainless lily in my widow'd house,
There springing up—with soft light round thee shed—
For immortality!—Meek child of God!
I bless thee—He will bless thee!—In his love
He calls thee now from this rude stormy world
To thy Redeemer's breast!—And thou wilt die,
As thou hast lived—my duteous, holy Blanche!
In trusting and serene submissiveness,
Humble, yet full of Heaven.

Blanche,
(rising.)
Now is there strength
Infused through all my spirit.—I can rise
And say, “Thy will be done!”

D'Aubigné,
(pointing upwards.)
See'st thou, my child,
Yon faint light in the west? The signal star
Of our due vesper service, gleaming in
Through the close dungeon grating!—Mournfully
It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,
This night alone, without the lifted voice
Of adoration in our narrow cell,
As if unworthy fear or wavering faith
Silenced the strain?—No! let it waft to heaven
The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality,
In its dark hour once more!—And we will sleep—
Yes—calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.

[They sing together.

PRISONERS' EVENING HYMN.

HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION.

THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.

SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY.

Scene.—The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and sycamore trees. Herrmann, the missionary, seated alone before the cabin. The hour is evening twilight.
Herrmann.
[He comes forward, and meets an Indian warrior armed.

Enonio.
My father speaks my name.

Herrmann.
Are not the hunters from the chase returned?
The night-fires lit? Why is my son abroad?

Enonio.
The warrior's arrow knows of nobler prey
Than elk or deer. Now let my father leave
The lone path free.

Herrmann.
The forest way is long
From the red chieftain's home. Rest thee awhile
Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak
Of these things further.

Enonio.
Tell me not of rest!
My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift.—
I must begone.

Herrmann,
(solemnly.)
No, warrior, thou must stay!
The Mighty One hath given me power to search
Thy soul with piercing words—and thou must stay,
And hear me, and give answer! If thy heart
Be grown thus restless, is it not because
Within its dark folds thou hast mantled up
Some burning thought of ill?—

Enonio,
(with sudden impetuosity.)
How should I rest?—
Last night the spirit of my brother came,
An angry shadow in the moonlight streak,
And said, “Avenge me!”—In the clouds this morn
I saw the frowning colour of his blood—
And that, too, had a voice.—I lay at noon
Alone beside the sounding waterfall,
And through its thunder-music spake a tone—
A low tone piercing all the roll of waves—
And said “Avenge me!”—Therefore have I raised
The tomahawk, and strung the bow again,
That I may send the shadow from my couch,
And take the strange sound from the cataract,
And sleep once more.

Herrmann.
A better path, my son,
Unto the still and dewy land of sleep,
My hand in peace can guide thee—e'en the way
Thy dying brother trod,—Say, didst thou love
That lost one well?

Enonio.
Know'st thou not we grew up
Even as twin roes amidst the wilderness?
Unto the chase we journey'd in one path;
We stemm'd the lake in one canoe; we lay
Beneath one oak to rest. When fever hung
Upon my burning lips, my brother's hand
Was still beneath my head; my brother's robe
Cover'd my bosom from the chill night air.
Our lives were girdled by one belt of love
Until he turn'd him from his father's gods,
And then my soul fell from him—then the grass
Grew in the way between our parted homes,
And wheresoe'er I wander'd, then it seem'd
That all the woods were silent.—I went forth—
I journey'd, with my lonely heart, afar,
And so return'd—and where was he?—the earth
Own'd him no more.

Herrmann.
But thou thyself, since then,
Hast turn'd thee from the idols of thy tribe,
And, like thy brother, bow'd the suppliant knee
To the one God.

Enonio.
Yes, I have learn'd to pray
With my white father's words, yet all the more
My heart, that shut against my brother's love,
Hath been within me as an arrowy fire,
Burning my sleep away.—In the night hush,
'Midst the strange whispers and dim shadowy things
Of the great forests, I have call'd aloud,
“Brother! forgive, forgive!”—He answer'd not—
His deep voice, rising from the land of souls,
Cries but “Avenge me!”—and I go forth now
To slay his murderer, that when next his eyes
Gleam on me mournfully from that pale shore,
I may look up, and meet their glance, and say,
“I have avenged thee.”

Herrmann.
Oh! that human love
Should be the root of this dread bitterness,
Till heaven through all the fever'd being pours
Transmuting balsam!—Stay, Enonio, stay!
Thy brother calls thee not!—The spirit world
Where the departed go, sends back to earth
No visitants for evil.—'Tis the might
Of the strong passion, the remorseful grief
At work in thine own breast, which lends the voice
Unto the forest and the cataract,
The angry colour to the clouds of morn,
The shadow to the moonlight.—Stay, my son!
Thy brother is at peace.—Beside his couch,
When of the murderer's poison'd shaft he died,
I knelt and pray'd; he named his Saviour's name,
Meekly, beseechingly; he spoke of thee
In pity and in love.

Enonio,
(hurriedly.)
Did he not say
My arrow should avenge him?

Herrmann.
His last words
Were all forgiveness.

Enonio.
What! and shall the man
Who pierced him with the shaft of treachery,
Walk fearless forth in joy?

Herrmann.
Was he not once
Thy brother's friend?—Oh! trust me, not in joy
He walks the frowning forest. Did keen love,
Too late repentant of its heart estranged,
Wake in thy haunted bosom, with its train
Of sounds and shadows—and shall he escape?
Enonio, dream it not!—Our God, the All Just,
Unto himself reserves this royalty—
The secret chastening of the guilty heart,
The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies,
Leave it with him!—Yet make it not thy hope—
For that strong heart of thine—Oh! listen yet—
Must, in its depths, o'ercome the very wish
For death or torture to the guilty one,
Ere it can sleep again.

Enonio.
My father speaks
Of change, for man too mighty.

Herrmann.
I but speak
Of that which hath been, and again must be,
If thou would'st join thy brother, in the life
Of the bright country, where, I well believe,
His soul rejoices.—He had known such change.
He died in peace. He, whom his tribe once named
The Avenging Eagle, took to his meek heart,
In its last pangs, the spirit of those words
Which, from the Saviour's cross, went up to heaven—
“Forgive them, for they know not what they do,
Father, forgive!”—And o'er the eternal bounds
Of that celestial kingdom, undefiled,
Where evil may not enter, he, I deem,
Hath to his Master pass'd.—He waits thee there—
For love, we trust, springs heavenward from the grave,
Immortal in its holiness.—He calls
His brother to the land of golden light
And ever-living fountains—could'st thou hear
His voice o'er those bright waters, it would say,
“My brother! oh! be pure, be merciful!
That we may meet again.”

Enonio,
(hesitating.)
Can I return
Unto my tribe, and unavenged?

Herrmann.
To Him,
To Him return, from whom thine erring steps
Have wander'd far and long!—Return, my son,
To thy Redeemer!—Died he not in love—
The sinless, the divine, the Son of God—
Breathing forgiveness 'midst all agonies,
And we, dare we be ruthless? By his aid
Shalt thou be guided to thy brother's place
'Midst the pure spirits. Oh! retrace the way
Back to thy Saviour! he rejects no heart
E'en with the dark stains on it, if true tears
Be o'er them shower'd.—Ay, weep, thou Indian chief!
For, by the kindling moonlight, I behold
Thy proud lip's working—weep, relieve thy soul!
Tears will not shame thy manhood, in the hour
Of its great conflict.

Enonio,
(giving up his weapons to Herrmann.)
Father, take the bow,
Keep the sharp arrows till the hunters call
Forth to the chase once more.—And let me dwell
A little while, my father! by thy side,
That I may hear the blessed words again—
Like water brooks amidst the summer hills—
From thy true lips flow forth; for in my heart
The music and the memory of their sound
Too long have died away.

Herrmann.
O, welcome back,
Friend, rescued one!—Yes, thou shalt be my guest,
And we will pray beneath my sycamore
Together, morn and eve; and I will spread
Thy couch beside my fire, and sleep at last—
After the visiting of holy thoughts—
With dewy wing shall sink upon thine eyes!—
Enter my home, and welcome, welcome back
To peace, to God, thou lost and found again!
[They go into the cabin together.—Herrmann, lingering for a moment on the threshold, looks up to the starry skies.
Father! that from amidst yon glorious worlds
Now look'st on us, thy children! make this hour
Blessed for ever! May it see the birth
Of thine own image in the unfathom'd deep
Of an immortal soul;—a thing to name
With reverential thought, a solemn world!
To Thee more precious than those thousand stars
Burning on high in thy majestic Heaven!

PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY.

EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY.

THE DAY OF FLOWERS.

A MOTHER'S WALK WITH HER CHILD.

HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER'S HOUSEHOLD ON HIS RETURN,

IN THE OLDEN TIME.

A PRAYER OF AFFECTION.

THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK.

The Scene is an English Cottage. The lattice opens upon a Landscape at sunset.
Eugene—Teresa.
Teresa.
The fever's hue hath left thy cheek, beloved!
Thine eyes, that make the dayspring in my heart,
Are clear and still once more!—Wilt thou look forth?
Now, while the sunset with low streaming light—
The light thou lovest—hath made the elm-wood stems
All burning bronze, the river molten gold!
Wilt thou be raised upon thy couch, to meet
The rich air fill'd with wandering scents and sounds?
Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more
On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest
With our own evening hymn?

Eugene.
Not now, dear love,
My soul is wakeful—lingering to look forth,
Not on the sun, but thee!—Doth the light sleep
On the stream tenderly? and are the stems
Of our own elm-trees, by its alchemy,
So richly changed? and is the sweetbrier scent
Floating around?—But I have said farewell,
Farewell to earth, Teresa!—not to thee;
Nor yet to our deep love, nor yet awhile
Unto the spirit of mine art, which flows
Back on my soul in mastery.—One last work!
And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts,
Clinging affections, and undying hopes,
All, all in that memorial!

Teresa.
O, what dream
Is this, mine own Eugene?—Waste thou not thus
Thy scarce returning strength; keep thy rich thoughts
For happier days! they will not melt away
Like passing music from the lute—dear friend!
Dearest of friends! thou canst win back at will
The glorious visions.

Eugene.
Yes! the unseen land
Of glorious visions hath sent forth a voice
To call me hence.—Oh! be thou not deceived!
Bind to thy heart no earthly hope, Teresa!
I must, must leave thee!—Yet be strong, my love,
As thou hast still been gentle.

Teresa.
O Eugene!
What will this dim world be to me, Eugene,
When wanting thy bright soul, the life of all?
My only sunshine!—How can I bear on?
How can we part? We that have loved so well,
With clasping spirits link'd so long by grief,
By tears, by prayer?

Eugene.

Teresa,
(falling on his neck in tears.)
Eugene, Eugene
Break not my heart with thine excess of love!—
Oh! must I loose thee—thou that hast been still
The tenderest—best—

Eugene.
[She kneels beside the couch—he prays.

MOTHER'S LITANY BY THE SICKBED OF A CHILD.

NIGHT HYMN AT SEA.

THE WORDS WRITTEN FOR A MELODY BY FELTON.

FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE.

A SERIES OF SONNETS.

I.—INVOCATION.

As the tired voyager on stormy seas
Invokes the coming of bright birds from shore,
To waft him tidings, with the gentler breeze,
Of dim sweet woods that hear no billows roar;
So, from the depth of days, when earth yet wore
Her solemn beauty and primeval dew,
I call you, gracious Forms! Oh! come, restore
Awhile that holy freshness, and renew
Life's morning dreams. Come with the voice, the lyre,
Daughters of Judah! with the timbrel rise!
Ye of the dark prophetic eastern eyes,
Imperial in their visionary fire;
Oh! steep my soul in that old glorious time,
When God's own whisper shook the cedars of your clime!

II.—INVOCATION CONTINUED.

And come, ye faithful! round Messiah seen,
With a soft harmony of tears and light
Streaming through all your spiritual mien,
As in calm clouds of pearly stillness bright,
Showers weave with sunshine, and transpierce their slight
Ethereal cradle.—From your heart subdued
All haughty dreams of power had wing'd their flight,
And left high place for martyr fortitude,
True faith, long-suffering love.—Come to me, come!
And, as the seas beneath your master's tread
Fell into crystal smoothness, round him spread
Like the clear pavement of his heavenly home;
So in your presence, let the soul's great deep
Sink to the gentleness of infant sleep.

III.—THE SONG OF MIRIAM.

IV.—RUTH.

The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn,
By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann'd,
Still brings me back thine image—Oh! forlorn,
Yet not forsaken, Ruth!—I see thee stand
Lone, 'midst the gladness of the harvest band—
Lone, as a wood-bird on the ocean's foam,
Fall'n in its weariness. Thy fatherland
Smiles far away! yet to the sense of home,
That finest, purest, which can recognise
Home in affection's glance, for ever true
Beats thy calm heart; and if thy gentle eyes
Gleam tremulous through tears, 'tis not to rue
Those words, immortal in their deep love's tone,
“Thy people and thy God shall be mine own!”

V.—THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH.

VI.—THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMITE WOMAN.

“I dwell among mine own,”—Oh! happy thou!
Not for the sunny clusters of the vine,
Not for the olives on the mountain's brow;
Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line
Of streams, that make the green land where they shine
Laugh to the light of waters—not for these,
Nor the soft shadow of ancestral trees,
Whose kindly whisper floats o'er thee and thine—
Oh! not for these I call thee richly blest,
But for the meekness of thy woman's breast,
Where that sweet depth of still contentment lies;
And for thy holy household love, which clings
Unto all ancient and familiar things,
Weaving from each some link for home's dear charities.

VII.—THE ANNUNCIATION.

Lowliest of women, and most glorified!
In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone,
A brightness round thee grew—and by thy side
Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone,
Solemn, yet breathing gladness. From her throne
A queen had risen with more imperial eye,
A stately prophetess of victory
From her proud lyre had struck a tempest's tone,
For such high tidings as to thee were brought,
Chosen of Heaven! that hour:—but thou, O thou!
E'en as a flower with gracious rains o'erfraught,
Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow,
And take to thy meek breast th' all holy word,
And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord.

VIII.—THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN.

Yet as a sunburst flushing mountain snow,
Fell the celestial touch of fire erelong
On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow,
And thy calm spirit lighten'd into song.
Unconsciously, perchance, yet free and strong
Flow'd the majestic joy of tuneful words,
Which living harps the quires of Heaven among
Might well have link'd with their divinest chords.
Full many a strain, borne far on glory's blast,
Shall leave, where once its haughty music pass'd,
No more to memory than a reed's faint sigh;
While thine, O childlike virgin! through all time
Shall send its fervent breath o'er every clime,
Being of God, and therefore not to die.

IX.—THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST'S FEET.

There was a mournfulness in angel eyes,
That saw thee, woman! bright in this world's train,
Moving to pleasure's airy melodies,
Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain.
But from thy beauty's garland, brief and vain,
When one by one the rose-leaves had been torn,
When thy heart's core had quiver'd to the pain
Through every life-nerve sent by arrowy scorn;
When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odours forth
On the Redeemer's feet, with many a sigh,
And showering tear-drop, of yet richer worth
Than all those costly balms of Araby;
Then was there joy, a song of joy in heaven,
For thee, the child won back, the penitent forgiven!

X.—MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST.

Oh! bless'd beyond all daughters of the earth!
What were the Orient's thrones to that low seat
Where thy hush'd spirit drew celestial birth?
Mary! meek listener at the Saviour's feet!
No feverish cares to that divine retreat
Thy woman's heart of silent worship brought,
But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to meet,
With love, and wonder, and submissive thought.
Oh! for the holy quiet of thy breast,
'Midst the world's eager tones and footsteps flying
Thou, whose calm soul was like a well-spring, lying
So deep and still in its transparent rest,
That e'en when noontide burns upon the hills,
Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirror fills.

XI.—THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER THE

DEATH OF LAZARUS.
One grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead!
Was in your bosoms—thou, whose steps, made fleet
By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled,
Bore thee, as wings, the Lord of Life to greet;
And thou, that duteous in thy still retreat
Didst wait his summons—then with reverent love
Fall weeping at the bless'd Deliverer's feet,
Whom e'en to heavenly tears thy woe could move.
And which to Him, the All Seeing and All Just,
Was loveliest, that quick zeal, or lowly trust?
Oh! question not, and let no law be given
To those unveilings of its deepest shrine,
By the wrung spirit made in outward sign:
Free service from the heart is all in all to Heaven.

XII.—THE MEMORIAL OF MARY.

Thou hast thy record in the monarch's hall;
And on the waters of the far mid sea;
And where the mighty mountain-shadows fall,
The alpine hamlet keeps a thought of thee:
Where'er, beneath some oriental tree,
The Christian traveller rests—where'er the child
Looks upward from the English mother's knee,
With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild,
There art thou known—where'er the Book of light
Bears hope and healing, there, beyond all blight,
Is borne thy memory, and all praise above:
Oh! say what deed so lifted thy sweet name,
Mary! to that pure silent place of fame?
One lowly offering of exceeding love.

XIII.—THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE CROSS.

Like those pale stars of tempest hours, whose gleam
Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast,
Such by the cross doth your bright lingering seem,
Daughters of Zion! faithful to the last!
Ye, through the darkness o'er the wide earth cast
By the death-cloud within the Saviour's eye,
E'en till away the heavenly spirit pass'd,
Stood in the shadow of his agony.
O blessed faith! a guiding lamp, that hour
Was lit for woman's heart; to her, whose dower
Is all of love and suffering from her birth;
Still hath your act a voice—through fear, through strife,
Bidding her bind each tendril of her life,
To that which her deep soul hath proved of holiest worth.

XIV.—MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE.

Weeper! to thee how bright a morn was given
After thy long, long vigil of despair,
When that high voice which burial rocks had riven,
Thrill'd with immortal tones the silent air!
Never did clarion's royal blast declare
Such tale of victory to a breathless crowd,
As the deep sweetness of one word could bear
Into thy heart of hearts, O woman! bow'd
By strong affection's anguish! one low word—
“Mary!”—and all the triumph wrung from death
Was thus reveal'd! and thou, that so hadst err'd,
So wept, and been forgiven, in trembling faith
Didst cast thee down before the all-conquering Son,
Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had won!

XV.—MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS OF THE RESURRECTION.

Then was a task of glory all thine own,
Nobler than e'er the still small voice assign'd
To lips, in awful music making known
The stormy splendours of some prophet's mind.
“Christ is arisen!”—by thee, to wake mankind,
First from the sepulchre those words were brought!
Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind
First on its way, with those high tidings fraught—
“Christ is arisen!”—Thou, thou, the sin enthrall'd,
Earth's outcast, Heaven's own ransom'd one, wert call'd
In human hearts to give that rapture birth:
Oh! raised from shame to brightness!—there doth lie
The tenderest meaning of His ministry,
Whose undespairing love still own'd the spirit's worth.

THE TWO MONUMENTS.

THE COTTAGE GIRL.

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

A PENITENT'S RETURN.

A THOUGHT OF PARADISE.

LET US DEPART.

ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING THE CROSS,

PAINTED BY VELASQUEZ.

COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT.

SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL.

I.—THE SACRED HARP.

How shall the harp of poesy regain
That old victorious tone of prophet-years,
A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears,
And all the hovering shadows of the brain?
Dark evil wings took flight before the strain,
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall,
Sank on the soul. Oh! who may now recall
The mighty music's consecrated reign?
Spirit of God! whose glory once o'erhung
A throne, the ark's dread cherubim between,
So let thy presence brood, though now unseen,
O'er those two powers by whom the harp is strung,
Feeling and Thought! till the rekindled chords
Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words.

II.—TO A FAMILY BIBLE.

What household thoughts around thee, as their shrine,
Cling reverently?—of anxious looks beguiled
My mother's eyes, upon thy page divine,
Each day were bent—her accents, gravely mild,
Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child,
Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away,
To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild,
Some fresh discover'd nook for woodland play,
Some secret nest: yet would the solemn Word,
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard,
Fall on my wakened spirit, there to be
A seed not lost;—for which, in darker years,
O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears,
Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee!

III.—REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY.

FROM AN OLD ITALIAN PICTURE.

Under a palm-tree, by the green old Nile,
Lull'd on his mother's breast, the fair child lies,
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile,
Brooding above the slumber of his eyes.
While, through the stillness of the burning skies,
Lo! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings,
Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise,
Regal and still as everlasting things!—
Vain pomps! from him, with that pure flowery cheek,
Soft shadow'd by his mother's drooping head,
A new-born spirit, mighty, and yet meek,
O'er the whole world like vernal air shall spread!
And bid all earthly grandeurs cast the crown,
Before the suffering and the lowly, down.

IV.—PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS.

All the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing;
Round the young child luxuriantly are spread;
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing
In adoration, o'er his cradle shed.
Roses, deep-filled with rich midsummer's red,
Circle his hands; but, in his grave sweet eye,
Thought seems e'en now to wake, and prophecy
Of ruder coronals for that meek head.
And thus it was! a diadem of thorn
Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers,
To Him who pour'd forth blessings in soft showers
O'er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn!
And we repine, for whom that cup He took,
O'er blooms that mock'd our hope, o'er idols that forsook!

V.—ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST.

AN ECCE HOMO, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI.

I met that image on a mirthful day
Of youth; and, sinking with a still'd surprise,
The pride of life, before those holy eyes,
In my quick heart died thoughtfully away,
Abash'd to mute confession of a sway,
Awful, though meek; and now, that from the strings
Of my soul's lyre, the tempest's mighty wings
Have struck forth tones which then awaken'd lay;
Now, that around the deep life of my mind,
Affections, deathless as itself, have twined,
Oft does the pale bright vision still float by;
But more divinely sweet, and speaking now
Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow,
Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, humanity!

VI.—THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLESSED.

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight
Ye grew, fair children! hallow'd from that hour
By your Lord's blessing! surely thence a shower
Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light
Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright,
Through all the after years, which saw ye move
Lowly, yet still majestic, in the might,
The conscious glory of the Saviour's love!
And honour'd be all childhood, for the sake
Of that high love! Let reverential care
Watch to behold the immortal spirit wake,
And shield its first bloom from unholy air;
Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the sign
Of claims upon a heritage divine.

VII.—MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES.

A child 'midst ancient mountains I have stood,
Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest
On high. The spirit of the solitude
Fell solemnly upon my infant breast,
Though then I pray'd not; but deep thoughts have press'd
Into my being since it breathed that air,
Nor could I now one moment live the guest
Of such dread scenes, without the springs of prayer
O'erflowing all my soul. No minsters rise
Like them in pure communion with the skies,
Vast, silent, open unto night and day;
So might the o'erburden'd Son of Man have felt,
When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt,
He sought high mountains, there apart to pray.

VIII.—THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.

Flowers! when the Saviour's calm benignant eye
Fell on your gentle beauty—when from you
That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew,
Eternal, universal, as the sky—
Then, in the bosom of your purity,
A voice He set, as in a temple-shrine,
That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by,
Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine.
And though too oft its low, celestial sound,
By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drown'd,
And the loud steps of vain unlistening Haste,
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hush'd hour,
Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced!

IX.—THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.

Ye too, the free and fearless Birds of air,
Were charged that hour, on missionary wing,
The same bright lesson o'er the seas to bear,
Heaven-guided wanderers, with the winds of spring
Sing on, before the storm and after, sing!
And call us to your echoing woods away
From worldly cares; and bid our spirits bring
Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay.
So may those blessed vernal strains renew
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true
E'en than the first, within th' awaken'd mind;
While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life,
That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife,
But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resign'd.

X.—THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON.

He that was dead rose up and spoke—He spoke!
Was it of that majestic world unknown?
Those words, which first the bier's dread silence broke,
Came they with revelation in each tone?
Were the far cities of the nations gone,
The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep,
For man uncurtain'd by that spirit lone,
Back from their portal summon'd o'er the deep?
Be hush'd, my soul! the veil of darkness lay
Still drawn: thy Lord call'd back the voice departed,
To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted,
Not to reveal the mysteries of its way.
Oh! take that lesson home in silent faith,
Put on submissive strength to meet, not question, death!

XI.—THE OLIVE-TREE.

The Palm—the Vine—the Cedar—each hath power
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by,
And each quick glistening of the Laurel bower
Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye.
But thou, pale Olive!—in thy branches lie
Far deeper spells than prophet grove of old
Might e'er enshrine:—I could not hear the sigh
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold
One shiver of thy leaves' dim silvery green,
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene
When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray'd—
When pale stars look'd upon his fainting head,
And angels, minist'ring in silent dread,
Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade.

XII.—THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION.

On Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung,
Felt shudderingly at noon:—the land had driven
A Guest divine back to the gates of heaven,
A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung,
All grace, all truth:—and, when to anguish wrung,
From the sharp cross th' enlightening spirit fled,
O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread
By the great shadow of that death was flung.
O Saviour! O Atoner! thou that fain
Wouldst make thy temple in each human breast,
Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign,
Ne'er may thy presence from its depths depart,
Chased thence by guilt! Oh! turn not thou away,
The bright and morning star, my guide to perfect day!

XIII.—PLACES OF WORSHIP.

Spirit! whose life-sustaining presence fills
Air, ocean, central depths by man untried,
Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified
All place, all time! The silence of the hills
Breathes veneration:—founts and choral rills
Of thee are murmuring:—to its inmost glade
The living forest with thy whisper thrills,
And there is holiness on every shade.
Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest
With dearer consecration those pure fanes,
Which, sever'd from all sound of earth's unrest,
Hear nought but suppliant or adoring strains
Rise heavenward.—Ne'er may rock or cave possess
Their claim on human hearts to solemn tenderness.

XIV.—OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK.

Crowning a flowery slope it stood alone
In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound,
Caressingly, about the holy ground;
And warbled, with a never-dying tone,
Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone
Seem'd, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam
Of tower and cross, pale quivering on the stream,
O'er all th' ancestral woodlands to be thrown,
And something yet more deep. The air was fraught
With noble memories, whispering many a thought
Of England's fathers; loftily serene,
They that had toil'd, watch'd, struggled, to secure,
Within such fabrics, worship free and pure,
Reign'd there, the o'ershadowing spirits of the scene.

XV.—A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES.

Blessings be round it still! that gleaming fane,
Low in its mountain-glen! old mossy trees
Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane,
And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze,
The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas,
Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone,
There meets the voice of psalms!—yet not alone,
For memories lulling to the heart as these,
I bless thee, 'midst thy rocks, grey house of prayer!
But for their sakes who unto thee repair
From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore.
Oh! may the fisher and the mountaineer,
Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear,
Within thy lowly walls for evermore!

XVI.—LOUISE SCHEPLER.

A fearless journeyer o'er the mountain snow
Wert thou, Louise! the sun's decaying light,
Oft, with its latest melancholy glow,
Redden'd thy steep wild way: the starry night
Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle's height.
Piercing some dark ravine: and many a dell
Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well,
Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright
Oft in mid-storms; oh! not with beauty's eye,
Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning;
No! pilgrim of unwearying charity!
Thy spell was love—the mountain deserts turning
To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving voice!

XVII.—TO THE SAME.

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind,
Through the pine forests, by the upland rills,
Didst roam to seek the children of the hills,
A wild neglected flock! to seek, and find,
And meekly win! there feeding each young mind
With blams of heavenly eloquence: not thine,
Daughter of Christ! but his, whose love divine
Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined,
A burning light! Oh! beautiful, in truth,
Upon the mountains are the feet of those
Who bear his tidings! From thy morn of youth,
For this were all thy journeyings, and the close
Of that long path, Heaven's own bright sabbathrest,
Must wait thee, wanderer! on thy Saviour's breast.

THE WATER-LILY.

RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.

I.—A VERNAL THOUGHT.

O festal Spring! 'midst thy victorious glow,
Far-spreading o'er the kindled woods and plains,
And streams, that bound to meet thee from their chains,
Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe
For human hearts, and in the exulting flow
Of thy rich songs a melancholy tone,
Were we of mould all earthly; we alone,
Sever'd from thy great spell, and doom'd to go
Farther, still farther, from our sunny time,
Never to feel the breathings of our prime,
Never to flower again!—But we, O Spring!
Cheer'd by deep spirit-whispers not of earth,
Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth,
As here thy flowers and birds press on to bloom and sing.

II.—TO THE SKY.

Far from the rustlings of the poplar bough,
Which o'er my opening life wild music made,
Far from the green hills with their heathery glow
And flashing streams whereby my childhood play'd;
In the dim city, 'midst the sounding flow
Of restless life, to thee in love I turn
O thou rich sky! and from thy splendours learn
How song-birds come and part, flowers wane and blow.
With thee all shapes of glory find their home,
And thou hast taught me well, majestic dome!
By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rove
Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest,
That Nature's God hath left no spot unbless'd
With founts of beauty for the eye of love.

III.—ON RECORDS OF IMMATURE GENIUS.

Oh! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those,
Who, richly dower'd for life, are called to die,
Ere the soul's flame, through storms, hath won repose
In truth's divinest ether, still and high!
Let their mind's riches claim a trustful sigh!
Deem them but sad sweet fragments of a strain,
First notes of some yet struggling harmony,
By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain
Of many inspirations met, and held
From its true sphere:—Oh! soon it might have swell'd
Majestically forth!—Nor doubt, that He,
Whose touch mysterious may on earth dissolve
Those links of music, elsewhere will evolve
Their grand consummate hymn, from passion-gusts made free!

IV.—ON WATCHING THE FLIGHT OF A SKY-LARK.

Upward and upward still!—in pearly light
The clouds are steep'd; the vernal spirit sighs
With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies
Woo thee, O bird! to thy celestial height;
Bird piercing Heaven with music! thy free flight
Hath meaning for all bosoms; most of all
For those wherein the rapture and the might
Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn,
For their high place: O heirs of genius! learn
From the sky's bird your way!—No joy may fill
Your hearts, no gift of holy strength be won
To bless your songs, ye children of the sun!
Save by the unswerving flight—upward and upward still!

V.—A THOUGHT OF THE SEA.

My earliest memories to thy shores are bound,
Thy solemn shores, thou ever-chanting main!
The first rich sunsets, kindling thought profound
In my lone being, made thy restless plain
As the vast shining floor of some dread fane,
All paved with glass and fire. Yet, O blue deep!
Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep,
Never to thee did love with silvery chain
Draw my soul's dream, which through all nature sought
What waves deny;—some bower of steadfast bliss,
A home to twine with fancy, feeling, thought,
As with sweet flowers:—But chasten'd hope for this
Now turns from earth's green valleys, as from thee,
To that sole changeless world, where “there is no more sea.”

VI.—DISTANT SOUND OF THE SEA AT EVENING.

Yet, rolling far up some green mountain dale,
Oft let me hear, as ofttimes I have heard,
Thy swell, thou deep! when evening calls the bird
And bee to rest; when summer tints grow pale,
Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil,
And peasant steps are hastening to repose,
And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower-cups close
To the last whisper of the falling gale.
Then, 'midst the dying of all other sound,
When the soul hears thy distant voice profound,
Lone-worshipping, and knows that through the night
'Twill worship still, then most its anthem tone
Speaks to our being of the Eternal One,
Who girds tired nature with unslumbering might.

VII.—THE RIVER CLWYD IN NORTH WALES.

O Cambrian river, with slow music gliding
By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin'd towers;
Now 'midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding,
Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of flowers;
Long flow'd the current of my life's clear hours
Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my dream,
Though time and change, and other mightier powers,
Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, smooth stream!
Art winding still thy sunny meads along,
Murm'ring to cottage and grey hall thy song,
Low, sweet, unchanged. My being's tide hath pass'd
Through rocks and storms; yet will I not complain,
If thus wrought free and pure from earthly stain,
Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep at last.

VIII.—ORCHARD BLOSSOMS.

Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight
Of orchard blooms upon the mossy bough?
Doth their sweet household smile waft back the glow
Of childhood's morn?—the wondering fresh delight
In earth's new colouring, then all strangely bright,
A joy of fairyland?—Doth some old nook,
Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book,
Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak'd blossoms white,
Shower'd o'er the turf, and the lone primrose knot,
And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot,
And the bee's dreamy chime?—O gentle friend!
The world's cold breath, not Time's, this life bereaves
Of vernal gifts—Time hallows what he leaves,
And will for us endear spring-memories to the end.

IX.—TO A DISTANT SCENE.

Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing,
O far-off grassy dell?—and dost thou see,
When southern winds first wake the vernal singing,
The star-gleam of the wood anemone?
Doth the shy ring-dove haunt thee yet—the bee
Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell
To their wild blooms? and round my beechen tree
Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell?
—Oh! strange illusion by the fond heart wrought,
Whose own warm life suffuses nature's face!
—My being's tide of many-coloured thought
Hath pass'd from thee, and now, rich, leafy place!
I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene,
Silent, forsaken, dim, shadow'd by what hath been.

X.—A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE.

O vale and lake, within your mountain-urn
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep!
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return,
Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep
With light Elysian; for the hues that steep
Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float
On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote,
Isles of the blest; and in our memory keep
Their place with holiest harmonies: fair scene,
Most loved by evening and her dewy star!
Oh! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar
The perfect music of thy charm serene!
Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear
Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayer.

XI.—THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES.

Trees, gracious trees! how rich a gift ye are,
Crown of the earth! to human hearts and eyes!
How doth the thought of home, in lands afar,
Link'd with your forms and kindly whisperings rise!
How the whole picture of a childhood lies
Oft 'midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep!
Till gazing through them up the summer skies
As hush'd we stand, a breeze perchance may creep
And old sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world
Where memory coils—and lo! at once unfurl'd
The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight,
Spreads clear! while gushing from their long-seal'd urn
Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers return,
And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy light.

XII.—THE SAME.

And ye are strong to shelter!—all meek things,
All that need home and covert, love your shade!
Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs,
And nun-like violets, by the wind betray'd.
Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath play'd
With his first primrose-wealth: there love hath sought
A veiling gloom for his unutter'd thought;
And silent grief, of day's keen glare afraid,
A refuge for her tears; and ofttimes there
Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer,
A native temple, solemn, hush'd, and dim;
For wheresoe'er your murm'ring tremors thrill
The woody twilight, there man's heart hath still
Confess'd a spirit's breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn.

XIII.—ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN CHILDHOOD.

O gentle story of the Indian isle!
I loved thee in my lonely childhood well
On the sea-shore, when day's last purple smile
Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell
And dying cadence lent a deeper spell
Unto thine ocean-pictures. 'Midst thy palms
And strange bright birds, my fancy joy'd to dwell,
And watch the southern cross through midnight calms,
And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless'd
Thy vision of sweet love; kind, trustful, true,
Lighting the citron groves—a heavenly guest,
With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew.
Even then my young heart wept o'er the world's power,
To reach and blight that holiest Eden flower.

XIV.—A THOUGHT AT SUNSET.

Still that last look is solemn! though thy rays,
O sun! to-morrow will give back, we know,
The joy to nature's heart. Yet through the glow
Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze
Tracks thee with love half fearful; and in days
When earth too much adored thee, what a swell
Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays,
Told how the dying bade thy light farewell,
O sun of Greece! O glorious, festal sun!
Lost, lost!—for them thy golden hours were done,
And darkness lay before them! Happier far
Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchain'd,
Not thus for thy last parting unsustain'd,
Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star.

XV.—IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE.

Calm scenes of patriarch life!—how long a power
Your unworn pastoral images retain
O'er the true heart, which in its childhood's hour
Drank their pure freshness deep! The camels' train
Winding in patience o'er the desert plain—
The tent, the palm-tree, the reposing flock,
The gleaming fount, the shadow of the rock,
Oh! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain,
And in the influence of its touch how bless'd,
Are these things link'd, in many a thoughtful breast,
To household memories, for all change endear'd!
The matin bird, the ripple of a stream
Beside our native porch—the hearth-light's gleam
The voices, earliest by the soul revered!

XVI.—ATTRACTION OF THE EAST.

What secret current of man's nature turns
Unto the golden east with ceaseless flow?
Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns,
The pilgrim spirit would adore and glow;
Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint and slow,
Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know
Where pass'd the shepherd fathers of mankind.
Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far
Still points to where our alienated home
Lay in bright peace? O thou true eastern star
Saviour! atoning Lord! where'er we roam,
Draw still our hearts to thee; else, else how vain
Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain!

XVII.—TO AN AGED FRIEND.

Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard,
Servant of God!—thy day is almost done;
The charm now lingering in thy look and word
Is that which hangs about thy setting sun,
That which the spirit of decay hath won
Still from revering love. Yet doth the sense
Of life immortal—progress but begun—
Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence,
That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline;
And the loved flowers which round thee smile farewell,
Of more than vernal glory seem to tell,
By thy pure spirit touch'd with light divine;
While we, to whom its parting gleams are given,
Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven.

XVIII.—FOLIAGE.

Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive
The joy of verdure!—see, the honied lime
Showers cool green light o'er banks where wildflowers weave
Thick tapestry; and woodbine tendrils climb
Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme.
The rich deep masses of the sycamore
Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime,
And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar,
Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each gale
That sweeps the boughs:—the chestnut flowers are past,
The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail,
But arches of sweet eglantine are cast
From every hedge:—Oh! never may we lose,
Dear friend! our fresh delight in simplest nature's hues!

XIX.—A PRAYER.

Father in Heaven! from whom the simplest flower
On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown,
Draws not sweet odour or young life alone,
But the deep virtue of an inborn power
To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour,
With thoughts of Thee; to strengthen, to infuse
Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues
That speak thy presence; oh! with such a dower
Grace thou my song!—the precious gift bestow
From thy pure Spirit's treasury divine,
To wake one tear of purifying flow,
To soften one wrung heart for Thee and thine;
So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain,
Be as the meek wild-flower's—if transient, yet not vain.

XX.—PRAYER CONTINUED.

Far are the wings of intellect astray,
That strive not, Father! to thy heavenly seat;
They rove, but mount not; and the tempests beat
Still on their plumes:—O source of mental day!
Chase from before my spirit's track the array
Of mists and shadows, raised by earthly care
In troubled hosts that cross the purer air,
And veil the opening of the starry way,
Which brightens on to thee!—Oh! guide thou right
My thought's weak pinion, clear mine inward sight,
The eternal springs of beauty to discern,
Welling beside thy throne; unseal mine ear,
Nature's true oracles in joy to hear:
Keep my soul wakeful still to listen and to learn.

XXI.—MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION.

Yes! all things tell us of a birthright lost,
A brightness from our nature pass'd away!
Wanderers we seem, that from an alien coast,
Would turn to where their Father's mansion lay,
And but by some lone flower, that 'midst decay
Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone,
Revealing dimly, with grey moss o'ergrown,
The faint-worn impress of its glory's day,
Can trace their once-free heritage; though dreams
Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams
Flash o'er their souls.—But One, oh! One alone,
For us the ruin'd fabric may rebuild,
And bid the wilderness again be fill'd,
With Eden-flowers—One, mighty to atone!

RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.

I.—THE RETURN TO POETRY.

Once more the eternal melodies from far,
Woo me like songs of home: once more discerning
Through fitful clouds the pure majestic star,
Above the poet's world serenely burning,
Thither my soul, fresh-wing'd by love, is turning,
As o'er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest,
For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning,
Whence glorious minds o'erlook this earth's unrest.
—Now be the spirit of Heaven's truth my guide
Through the bright land!—that no brief gladness, found
In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound,
May lure my footsteps from their aim aside:
Their true, high quest—to seek, if ne'er to gain,
The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain.

II.—TO SILVIO PELLICO, ON READING HIS “PRIGIONE.”

There are who climb the mountain's heathery side,
Or, in life's vernal strength triumphant, urge
The bark's fleet rushing through the crested surge,
Or spur the courser's fiery race of pride
Over the green savannas, gleaming wide
By some vast lake; yet thus, on foaming sea,
Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free,
Than thou, in that lone dungeon, glorified
By thy brave suffering.—Thou from its dark cell
Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude,
Filling the dedicated solitude
With God; and where His Spirit deigns to dwell,
Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie,
There throned in peace divine is liberty!

III.—TO THE SAME, RELEASED.

How flows thy being now?—like some glad hymn,
One strain of solemn rapture?—doth thine eye
Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim,
O'er the crown'd Alps, that, 'midst the upper sky,
Sleep in the sunlight of thine Italy?
Or is thy gaze of reverent love profound,
Unto these dear parental faces bound,
Which, with their silvery hair, so oft glanced by,
Haunting thy prison-dreams?—Where'er thou art,
Blessings be shed upon thine inmost heart,
Joy, from kind looks, blue skies, and flowery sod,
For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent
Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent,
Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God!

IV.—ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE.

'Twas a bright moment of my life when first,
O thou pure stream through rocky portals flowing!
That temple-chamber of thy glory burst
On my glad sight!—thy pebbly couch lay glowing
With deep mosaic hues; and, richly throwing
O'er thy cliff-walls a tinge of autumn's vest,
High bloom'd the heath-flowers, and the wild wood's crest
Was touch'd with gold.—Flow ever thus, bestowing
Gifts of delight, sweet stream! on all who move
Gently along thy shores; and oh! if love,
—True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow fraught—
Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to thee,
Then full of kindness let thy music be,
Singing repose to every troubled thought!

V.—ON READING COLERIDGE'S EPITAPH.

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.

Spirit! so oft in radiant freedom soaring,
High through seraphic mysteries unconfined,
And oft, a diver through the deep of mind,
Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring;
And oft such strains of breezy music pouring,
As, with the floating sweetness of their sighs,
Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring
Awhile that freshness left in Paradise;
Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal?
What the rich fruitage to man's kindred soul
From wealth of thine bequeathed? O strong and high,
And sceptred intellect! thy goal confess'd
Was the Redeemer's Cross—thy last bequest
One lesson breathing thence profound humility:

VI.—ON THE DATURA ARBOREA.

Majestic plant! such fairy dreams as lie
Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip's bell,
Are not thy train:—those flowers of vase-like swell
Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill'd from high,
And in their monumental purity
Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw
Visions link'd strangely with that silent awe
Which broods o'er Sculpture's works.—A meet ally
For those heroic forms, the simply grand
Art thou: and worthy, carved by plastic hand,
Above some kingly poet's tomb to shine
In spotless marble; honouring one, whose strain
Soar'd upon wings of thought that knew no stain
Free through the starry heavens of truth divine.

VII.—DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE.

They float before my soul, the fair designs
Which I would body forth to Life and Power,
Like clouds, that with their wavering hues and lines
Pourtray majestic buildings:—Dome and tower,
Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the shower
Points to th' unchanging stars; and high arcade
Far-sweeping to some glorious altar, made
For holiest rites:—meanwhile the waning hour
Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o'erwrought,
I sink:—O friend! O link'd with each high thought
Aid me, of those rich visions to detain
All I may grasp; until thou see'st fulfill'd,
While time and strength allow, my hope to build
For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane!

VIII.—HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH NATURE.

If e'er again my spirit be allow'd
Converse with nature in her chambers deep,
Where lone, and mantled with the rolling cloud,
She broods o'er new-born waters, as they leap
In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep
From caves of mystery;—if I roam once more
Where dark pines quiver to the torrent's roar,
And voiceful oaks respond!—shall I not reap
A more ennobling joy, a loftier power,
Than e'er was shed on life's more vernal hour,
From such communion?—yes! I then shall know,
That not in vain have sorrow, love, and thought,
Their long still work of preparation wrought,
For that more perfect sense of God reveal'd below.

IX.—DREAMS OF THE DEAD.

Oft in still night-dreams a departed face
Bends o'er me with sweet earnestness of eye,
Wearing no more of earthly pains a trace,
But all the tender pity that may lie
On the clear brow of Immortality,
Calm, yet profound. Soft rays illume that mien,
Th' unshadow'd moonlight of some far-off sky
Around it floats transparently serene
As a pure veil of waters. O rich sleep!
Thou hast strong spirits in thy regions deep,
Which glorify with reconciling breath,
Effacing, brightening, giving forth to shine
Beauty's high truth, and how much more divine
Thy power when link'd in this, with thy stern brother—Death!

X.—THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS.

Nobly thy song, O minstrel! rush'd to meet
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast,
With darkness round him, as a mantle, cast,
And cherubim to waft his flying seat;
Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet,
With trumpet-voice thy spirit call'd aloud,
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat,
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud.
But far more gloriously to earth made known
By that high strain than by the thunder's tone,
The flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll,
Jehovah spake, through the imbreathing fire,
Nature's vast realms for ever to inspire
With the deep worship of a living soul.

DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION.

THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS.

I.—INTELLECTUAL POWERS.

O Thought! O Memory! gems for ever heaping
High in the illumined chambers of the mind,
And thou, divine Imagination! keeping
Thy lamp's lone star 'mid shadowy hosts enshrined;
How in one moment rent and disentwined.
At Fever's fiery touch, apart they fall,
Your glorious combinations!—broken all,
As the sand-pillars by the desert's wind
Scatter'd to whirling dust!—Oh, soon uncrown'd!
Well may your parting swift, your strange return,
Subdue the soul to lowliness profound,
Guiding its chasten'd vision to discern
How by meek Faith Heaven's portals must be pass'd
Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast.

II.—SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT.

Thou art like Night, O Sickness! deeply stilling
Within my heart the world's disturbing sound,
And the dim quiet of my chamber filling
With low sweet voices by Life's tumult drown'd,
Thou art like awful Night!—thou gather'st round
The things that are unseen—though close they lie,—
And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound,
Givest their dread presence to our mental eye.
—Thou art like starry, spiritual Night!
High and immortal thoughts attend thy way,
And revelations, which the common light
Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray
All outward life:—Be welcome then thy rod,
Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God.

III.—ON RETZSCH'S DESIGN OF THE ANGEL OF DEATH.

Well might thine awful image thus arise
With that high calm upon thy regal brow,
And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes,
Unto the glorious Artist!—Who but thou
The fleeting forms of beauty can endow
For Him with permanency? — who make those gleams
Of brighter life, that colour his lone dreams,
Immortal things?—Let others trembling bow,
Angel of Death! before thee.—Not to those,
Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose,
Art thou a fearful shape!—and oh! for me,
How full of welcome would thine aspect shine,
Did not the cords of strong affection twine
So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to thee!

IV.—REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE.

O, Nature! thou didst rear me for thine own,
With thy free singing-birds and mountain brooks;
Feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted nooks,
With fairy fantasies and wood-dreams lone;
And thou didst teach me every wandering tone
Drawn from thy many-whispering trees and waves,
And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves,
And where bright mosses wove thee a rich throne
'Midst the green hills:—and now, that far estranged
From all sweet sounds and odours of thy breath,
Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged,
So glows the love of thee, that not for Death
Seems that pure passion's fervour—but ordain'd
To meet on brighter shores thy Majesty unstain'd.

V.—FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT.

Whither, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way?
What solemn region first upon thy sight
Shall break, unveil'd for terror or delight?
What hosts, magnificent in dread array?
My spirit! when thy prison-house of clay,
After long strife is rent?—fond, fruitless guest!
The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest
Sees but a few green branches o'er him play,
And through their parting leaves, by fits reveal'd,
A glimpse of summer sky:—nor knows the field
Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried.
—Thou art that bird!—of what beyond thee lies
Far in the untrack'd, immeasurable skies,
Knowing but this—that thou shalt find thy Guide!

VI.—FLOWERS.

Welcome, O pure and lovely forms, again
Unto the shadowy stillness of my room!
For not alone ye bring a joyous train
Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom—
Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom,
Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells,
Of stars that look down on your folded bells
Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume
Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove
Like sudden music; more than this ye bring—
Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love,
Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing
Broods o'er the sufferer drawing fever'd breath,
Whether the couch be that of life or death.

VII.—RECOVERY.

Back then, once more to breast the waves of life,
To battle on against the unceasing spray,
To sink o'erwearied in the stormy strife,
And rise to strife again; yet on my way,
Oh! linger still, thou light of better day,
Born in the hours of loneliness, and you,
Ye childlike thoughts, the holy and the true,
Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay,
The faith, the insight of life's vernal morn
Back on my soul, a clear bright sense, new-born,
Now leave me not! but as, profoundly pure,
A blue stream rushes through a darker lake
Unchang'd, e'en thus with me your journey take,
Wafting sweet airs of heaven through this low world obscure.

SABBATH SONNET.

COMPOSED BY MRS HEMANS A FEW DAYS BEFORE HER DEATH, AND DEDICATED TO HER BROTHER.

How many blessed groups this hour are bending,
Through England's primrose meadow-paths, their way
Towards spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending,
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow'd day!
The halls from old heroic ages grey
Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,
With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play,
Send out their inmates in a happy flow,
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread
With them those pathways,—to the feverish bed
Of sickness bound;—yet, oh, my God! I bless
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd
My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.

JUVENILE POEMS

ON MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF EIGHT.

A PRAYER.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF NINE.

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.
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.

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.

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.

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;
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.

TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER.

On his return from Spain, after the fatal retreat under Sir John Moore, and the battle of Corunna.

TO MY ELDEST BROTHER

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE MEMORIES OF ELIZABETH SMITH.

THE SILVER LOCKS.

ADDRESSED TO AN AGED FRIEND.

THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS.

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

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!

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!

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!

THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.