The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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 | VII. |
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| SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE;
WITH OTHER
RELIGIOUS POEMS. |
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
117
SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE; WITH OTHER RELIGIOUS POEMS.
120
TO
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Esq.
IN TOKEN OF DEEP RESPECT
FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND FERVENT GRATITUDE
FOR MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL BENEFIT
DERIVED FROM REVERENTIAL COMMUNION
WITH THE SPIRIT OF HIS POETRY,
THIS VOLUME
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY
FELICIA HEMANS.
121
THE ENGLISH MARTYRS; A SCENE OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY.
“Thy face
Is all at once spread over with a calm
More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy!
I am no more disconsolate.”
Wilson.
Is all at once spread over with a calm
More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy!
I am no more disconsolate.”
Wilson.
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
122
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!
123
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
124
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!
125
(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.)
Her soul may yield,
Beholding him in fetters; woman's faith
Will bend to woman's love—
Beholding him in fetters; woman's faith
Will bend to woman's love—
Thy prayer is heard;
Follow, and I will guide thee to his cell.
Follow, and I will guide thee to his cell.
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,
126
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!
127
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,
128
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
129
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.
Sweet Edith, no! my heart
Will fail no more; God bears me up through thee,
And, by thy words, and by the heavenly light
Shining around thee, through thy very tears,
Will yet sustain me! Let us call on him!
Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft,
Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him,
Th' all-pitying One, to aid.
[They kneel.
Will fail no more; God bears me up through thee,
And, by thy words, and by the heavenly light
Shining around thee, through thy very tears,
Will yet sustain me! Let us call on him!
Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft,
Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him,
Th' all-pitying One, to aid.
O, look on us,
Father above! in tender mercy look
On us, thy children! through th' o'ershadowing cloud
Of sorrow and mortality, send aid—
Save or we perish! We would pour our lives
Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth,
But we are weak—we, the bruised reeds of earth,
Are sway'd by every gust. Forgive, O God!
The blindness of our passionate desires,
The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts,
Which cleave to dust! Forgive the strife; accept
The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears,
From mortal pangs wrung forth! And if our souls,
In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess,
Of their long-clasping love, have wander'd not,
Holiest! from thee; oh! take them to thyself,
After the fiery trial, take them home
To dwell, in that imperishable bond
Before thee link'd, for ever. Hear, through Him
Who meekly drank the cup of agony,
Who pass'd through death to victory, hear and save!
Pity us, Father! we are girt with snares;
Father in Heaven! we have no help but thee.
[They rise.
Father above! in tender mercy look
On us, thy children! through th' o'ershadowing cloud
Of sorrow and mortality, send aid—
Save or we perish! We would pour our lives
Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth,
But we are weak—we, the bruised reeds of earth,
130
The blindness of our passionate desires,
The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts,
Which cleave to dust! Forgive the strife; accept
The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears,
From mortal pangs wrung forth! And if our souls,
In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess,
Of their long-clasping love, have wander'd not,
Holiest! from thee; oh! take them to thyself,
After the fiery trial, take them home
To dwell, in that imperishable bond
Before thee link'd, for ever. Hear, through Him
Who meekly drank the cup of agony,
Who pass'd through death to victory, hear and save!
Pity us, Father! we are girt with snares;
Father in Heaven! we have no help but thee.
Is thy soul strengthen'd, my beloved one?
O Edith! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice,
And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn
We loved in happier days—the strain which tells
Of the dread conflict in the olive shade?
[She sings.
O Edith! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice,
And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn
We loved in happier days—the strain which tells
Of the dread conflict in the olive shade?
He knelt, the Saviour knelt and pray'd,
When but his Father's eye
Look'd through the lonely garden's shade
On that dread agony;
The Lord of All above, beneath,
Was bow'd with sorrow unto death.
When but his Father's eye
Look'd through the lonely garden's shade
On that dread agony;
The Lord of All above, beneath,
Was bow'd with sorrow unto death.
The sun set in a fearful hour,
The stars might well grow dim,
When this mortality had power
So to o'ershadow Him!
That he who gave man's breath, might know
The very depths of human woe.
The stars might well grow dim,
131
So to o'ershadow Him!
That he who gave man's breath, might know
The very depths of human woe.
He proved them all!—the doubt, the strife,
The faint perplexing dread,
The mists that hang o'er parting life,
All gather'd round his head;
And the Deliverer knelt to pray—
Yet pass'd it not, that cup, away!
The faint perplexing dread,
The mists that hang o'er parting life,
All gather'd round his head;
And the Deliverer knelt to pray—
Yet pass'd it not, that cup, away!
It pass'd not—though the stormy wave
Had sunk beneath his tread;
It pass'd not—though to him the grave
Had yielded up its dead.
But there was sent him from on high
A gift of strength for man to die.
Had sunk beneath his tread;
It pass'd not—though to him the grave
Had yielded up its dead.
But there was sent him from on high
A gift of strength for man to die.
And was the sinless thus beset
With anguish and dismay?
How may we meet our conflict yet,
In the dark narrow way?
Through Him—through Him, that path who trod—
Save, or we perish, Son of God!
With anguish and dismay?
How may we meet our conflict yet,
In the dark narrow way?
Through Him—through Him, that path who trod—
Save, or we perish, Son of God!
Hark, hark! the parting signal.
[Prison attendants enter.
Fare-thee-well!
O thou unutterably loved, farewell!
Let our hearts bow to God!
O thou unutterably loved, farewell!
Let our hearts bow to God!
Her.
One last embrace.
132
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.
“Once when I look'd along the laughing earth,
Up the blue heavens, and through the middle air,
Joyfully ringing with the skylark's song,
I wept! and thought how sad for one so young
To bid farewell to so much happiness.
But Christ hath call'd me from this lower world,
Delightful though it be.”
Wilson.
Up the blue heavens, and through the middle air,
Joyfully ringing with the skylark's song,
I wept! and thought how sad for one so young
To bid farewell to so much happiness.
But Christ hath call'd me from this lower world,
Delightful though it be.”
Wilson.
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,
133
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.
Hope it not!
Dream it no more, my mother!—there are things
Known but to God, and to the parting soul,
Which feels his thrilling summons.
Dream it no more, my mother!—there are things
Known but to God, and to the parting soul,
Which feels his thrilling summons.
134
But my words
Too much o'ershadow those kind loving eyes.
Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step,
Well do I see, hath not alone explored
The garden bowers, but freely visited
Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet
Is from the cool green shadowy river nook,
Where the stream chimes around th' old mossy stones
With sounds like childhood's laughter. Is that spot
Lovely as when our glad eyes hail'd it first?
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep
The clear brown wave with every passing wind?
And through the shallower waters, where they lie
Dimpling in light, do the vein'd pebbles gleam
Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies,
From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still
Among the poplar boughs?
Too much o'ershadow those kind loving eyes.
Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step,
Well do I see, hath not alone explored
The garden bowers, but freely visited
Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet
Is from the cool green shadowy river nook,
Where the stream chimes around th' old mossy stones
With sounds like childhood's laughter. Is that spot
Lovely as when our glad eyes hail'd it first?
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep
The clear brown wave with every passing wind?
And through the shallower waters, where they lie
Dimpling in light, do the vein'd pebbles gleam
Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies,
From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still
Among the poplar boughs?
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,
135
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! I cannot. In my soul the thoughts
Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire;
Importunately to my lips they throng,
And with their earthly kindred seek to blend
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone—
(For I must go)—then the remember'd words
Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth,
Will to thy fond heart be as amulets
Held there with life and love. And weep not thus,
Mother! dear sister! kindest, gentlest ones!
Be comforted that now I weep no more
For the glad earth and all the golden light
Whence I depart.
No! God hath purified my spirit's eye,
And in the folds of this consummate rose
I read bright prophecies. I see not there,
Dimly and mournfully, the word “farewell”
On the rich petals traced: No—in soft veins
And characters of beauty, I can read—
“Look up, look heavenward!”
Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire;
Importunately to my lips they throng,
And with their earthly kindred seek to blend
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone—
(For I must go)—then the remember'd words
Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth,
Will to thy fond heart be as amulets
136
Mother! dear sister! kindest, gentlest ones!
Be comforted that now I weep no more
For the glad earth and all the golden light
Whence I depart.
No! God hath purified my spirit's eye,
And in the folds of this consummate rose
I read bright prophecies. I see not there,
Dimly and mournfully, the word “farewell”
On the rich petals traced: No—in soft veins
And characters of beauty, I can read—
“Look up, look heavenward!”
Blessed God of Love
I thank thee for these gifts, the precious links
Whereby my spirit unto thee is drawn!
I thank thee that the loveliness of earth
Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these
But germs of things unperishing, that bloom
Beside th' immortal streams? Shall I not find
The lily of the field, the Saviour's flower,
In the serene and never-moaning air,
And the clear starry light of angel eyes,
A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far
Will not the violet's dusky purple glow,
When it hath ne'er been press'd to broken hearts,
A record of lost love?
I thank thee for these gifts, the precious links
Whereby my spirit unto thee is drawn!
I thank thee that the loveliness of earth
Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these
But germs of things unperishing, that bloom
Beside th' immortal streams? Shall I not find
The lily of the field, the Saviour's flower,
In the serene and never-moaning air,
And the clear starry light of angel eyes,
A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far
Will not the violet's dusky purple glow,
When it hath ne'er been press'd to broken hearts,
A record of lost love?
Mother.
My Lilian! thou
Surely in thy bright life hast little known
Of lost things or of changed!
Lilian.
Oh! little yet,
For thou hast been my shield! But had it been
My lot on this world's billows to be thrown
Without thy love—O mother! there are hearts
So perilously fashion'd, that for them
God's touch alone hath gentleness enough
To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!—
We will not speak of this!
For thou hast been my shield! But had it been
My lot on this world's billows to be thrown
137
So perilously fashion'd, that for them
God's touch alone hath gentleness enough
To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!—
We will not speak of this!
By what strange spell
Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers,
I dream of music? Something in their hues
All melting into colour'd harmonies,
Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords,
Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die
In tenderest falls away.—O, bring thy harp,
Sister! a gentle heaviness at last
Hath touch'd mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep
Will come again.
Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers,
I dream of music? Something in their hues
All melting into colour'd harmonies,
Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords,
Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die
In tenderest falls away.—O, bring thy harp,
Sister! a gentle heaviness at last
Hath touch'd mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep
Will come again.
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
138
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.
O Son of Man!
In thy last mortal hour
Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully!
All that on us is laid,
All the deep gloom,
The desolation and the abandonment,
The dark amaze of death;
All upon thee too fell,
Redeemer! Son of Man!
In thy last mortal hour
Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully!
All that on us is laid,
All the deep gloom,
The desolation and the abandonment,
The dark amaze of death;
All upon thee too fell,
Redeemer! Son of Man!
But the keen pang
Wherewith the silver cord
Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung;
The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown
Into the quick strong heart;
This, this, the passion and the agony
Of battling love and death,
Surely was not for thee,
Holy one! Son of God!
Wherewith the silver cord
Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung;
The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown
Into the quick strong heart;
This, this, the passion and the agony
Of battling love and death,
139
Holy one! Son of God!
Yes, my Redeemer!
E'en this cup was thine!
Fond wailing voices call'd thy spirit back:
E'en 'midst the mighty thoughts
Of that last crowning hour;
E'en on thine awful way to victory,
Wildly they call'd thee back!
And weeping eyes of love
Unto thy heart's deep core,
Pierced through the folds of death's mysterious veil—
Sufferer! thou Son of Man!
E'en this cup was thine!
Fond wailing voices call'd thy spirit back:
E'en 'midst the mighty thoughts
Of that last crowning hour;
E'en on thine awful way to victory,
Wildly they call'd thee back!
And weeping eyes of love
Unto thy heart's deep core,
Pierced through the folds of death's mysterious veil—
Sufferer! thou Son of Man!
Mother-tears were mingled
With thy costly blood-drops,
In the shadow of the atoning cross;
And the friend, the faithful,
He that on thy bosom,
Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain—
He a pale sad watcher—
Met with looks of anguish,
All the anguish in thy last meek glance—
Dying Son of Man!
With thy costly blood-drops,
In the shadow of the atoning cross;
And the friend, the faithful,
He that on thy bosom,
Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain—
He a pale sad watcher—
Met with looks of anguish,
All the anguish in thy last meek glance—
Dying Son of Man!
Oh! therefore unto thee,
Thou that hast known all woes
Bound in the girdle of mortality!
Thou that wilt lift the reed
Which storms have bruised,
To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry,
And, in that tempest-hour, when love and life
Mysteriously must part,
When tearful eyes
Are passionately bent
To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze,
Then, then forsake us not!
Shed on our spirits then
The faith and deep submissiveness of thine!
Thou that didst love,
Thou that didst weep and die—
Thou that didst rise a victor glorified;
Conqueror! thou Son of God!
Thou that hast known all woes
Bound in the girdle of mortality!
Thou that wilt lift the reed
Which storms have bruised,
To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry,
140
Mysteriously must part,
When tearful eyes
Are passionately bent
To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze,
Then, then forsake us not!
Shed on our spirits then
The faith and deep submissiveness of thine!
Thou that didst love,
Thou that didst weep and die—
Thou that didst rise a victor glorified;
Conqueror! thou Son of God!
CATHEDRAL HYMN.
“They dreamt not of a perishable home
Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here.”
Wordsworth.
Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here.”
Wordsworth.
A dim and mighty minster of old time!
A temple shadowy with remembrances
Of the majestic past!—the very light
Streams with a colouring of heroic days
In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle
A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back
To other years;—and the rich fretted roof,
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves,
Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose—
The tenderest image of mortality—
Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts
Cluster like stems in corn sheaves—all these things
Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly,
On their heart's worship pour'd a wealth of love!
Honour be with the dead!—The people kneel
Under the helms of antique chivalry,
And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown,
And 'midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved,
Of warriors on their tombs.—The people kneel
Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell'd crowns
On the flush'd brows of conquerors have been set;
Where the high anthems of old victories
Have made the dust give echoes.—Hence, vain thoughts!
Memories of power and pride, which, long ago,
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk
In twilight depths away.—Return, my soul!
The cross recalls thee—Lo! the blessed cross!
High o'er the banners and the crests of earth,
Fix'd in its meek and still supremacy!
And lo! the throng of beating human hearts,
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief,
All their full treasures of immortal hope,
Gather'd before their God!—Hark! how the flood
Of the rich organ harmony bears up
Their voice on its high waves!—a mighty burst!
A forest-sounding music! every tone
Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings
From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent:
And the old minster—forest-like itself—
With its long avenues of pillar'd shade,
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not
One tomb unthrill'd by the strong sympathy
Answering the electric notes.—Join, join, my soul!
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness,
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.
A temple shadowy with remembrances
Of the majestic past!—the very light
Streams with a colouring of heroic days
In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle
A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back
To other years;—and the rich fretted roof,
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves,
Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose—
The tenderest image of mortality—
Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts
Cluster like stems in corn sheaves—all these things
141
On their heart's worship pour'd a wealth of love!
Honour be with the dead!—The people kneel
Under the helms of antique chivalry,
And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown,
And 'midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved,
Of warriors on their tombs.—The people kneel
Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell'd crowns
On the flush'd brows of conquerors have been set;
Where the high anthems of old victories
Have made the dust give echoes.—Hence, vain thoughts!
Memories of power and pride, which, long ago,
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk
In twilight depths away.—Return, my soul!
The cross recalls thee—Lo! the blessed cross!
High o'er the banners and the crests of earth,
Fix'd in its meek and still supremacy!
And lo! the throng of beating human hearts,
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief,
All their full treasures of immortal hope,
Gather'd before their God!—Hark! how the flood
Of the rich organ harmony bears up
Their voice on its high waves!—a mighty burst!
A forest-sounding music! every tone
Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings
From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent:
And the old minster—forest-like itself—
With its long avenues of pillar'd shade,
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not
142
Answering the electric notes.—Join, join, my soul!
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness,
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.
Rise like an altar-fire!
In solemn joy aspire,
Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain!
On thy strong rushing wind
Bear up from humankind
Thanks and implorings—be they not in vain!
In solemn joy aspire,
Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain!
On thy strong rushing wind
Bear up from humankind
Thanks and implorings—be they not in vain!
Father, which art on high!
Weak is the melody
Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear,
Unless the heart be there,
Winging the words of prayer,
With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.
Weak is the melody
Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear,
Unless the heart be there,
Winging the words of prayer,
With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.
Let, then, thy spirit brood
Over the multitude—
Be thou amidst them through that heavenly Guest
So shall their cry have power
To win from thee a shower
Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.
Over the multitude—
Be thou amidst them through that heavenly Guest
So shall their cry have power
To win from thee a shower
Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.
What griefs that make no sign,
That ask no aid but thine,
Father of mercies! here before thee swell!
As to the open sky,
All their dark waters lie
To thee reveal'd, in each close bosom cell.
That ask no aid but thine,
Father of mercies! here before thee swell!
As to the open sky,
All their dark waters lie
To thee reveal'd, in each close bosom cell.
143
The sorrow for the dead,
Mantling its lonely head
From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free;
And the fond aching love,
Thy minister, to move
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.
Mantling its lonely head
From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free;
And the fond aching love,
Thy minister, to move
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.
And doth not thy dread eye
Behold the agony
In that most hidden chamber of the heart,
Where darkly sits remorse,
Beside the secret source
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?
Behold the agony
In that most hidden chamber of the heart,
Where darkly sits remorse,
Beside the secret source
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?
Yes! here before thy throne
Many—yet each alone—
To thee that terrible unveiling make;
And still small whispers clear
Are startling many an ear,
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake.
Many—yet each alone—
To thee that terrible unveiling make;
And still small whispers clear
Are startling many an ear,
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake.
How dreadful is this place!
The glory of thy face
Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight:
Where shall the guilty flee?
Over what far off sea?
What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light?
The glory of thy face
Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight:
Where shall the guilty flee?
Over what far off sea?
What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light?
Not to the cedar shade
Let his vain flight be made;
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;
What, but the cross, can yield
The hope—the stay—the shield?
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to Thee!
Let his vain flight be made;
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;
144
The hope—the stay—the shield?
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to Thee!
Be thou, be thou his aid!
Oh! let thy love pervade
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought;
There let the living stone
Be cleft—the seed be sown—
The song of fountains from the silence brought!
Oh! let thy love pervade
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought;
There let the living stone
Be cleft—the seed be sown—
The song of fountains from the silence brought!
So shall thy breath once more
Within the soul restore
Thine own first image—Holiest and Most High!
As a clear lake is fill'd
With hues of Heaven, instill'd
Down to the depths of its calm purity.
Within the soul restore
Thine own first image—Holiest and Most High!
As a clear lake is fill'd
With hues of Heaven, instill'd
Down to the depths of its calm purity.
And if, amidst the throng
Link'd by the ascending song,
There are, whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar;
Thanks, Father! that the power
Of joy, man's early dower,
Thus, e'en 'midst tears, can fervently adore!
Link'd by the ascending song,
There are, whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar;
Thanks, Father! that the power
Of joy, man's early dower,
Thus, e'en 'midst tears, can fervently adore!
Thanks for each gift divine!
Eternal praise be thine,
Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer!
Let the hymn pierce the sky,
And let the tombs reply!
For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there.
Eternal praise be thine,
Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer!
Let the hymn pierce the sky,
And let the tombs reply!
For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there.
145
WOOD WALK AND HYMN.
“Move along these shades
In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand
Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.”
Wordsworth.
In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand
Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.”
Wordsworth.
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.
Nay, my child,
We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now,
With something of a lingering love, I read
The characters, by that mysterious hour,
Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man
In visionary days; and thence thrown back
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign
Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven,
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so!
They do not wisely that, with hurried hand,
Would pluck these salutary fancies forth
From their strong soil within the peasant's breast,
And scatter them—far, far too fast!—away
As worthless weeds:—Oh! little do we know
When they have soothed, when saved!
We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now,
146
The characters, by that mysterious hour,
Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man
In visionary days; and thence thrown back
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign
Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven,
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so!
They do not wisely that, with hurried hand,
Would pluck these salutary fancies forth
From their strong soil within the peasant's breast,
And scatter them—far, far too fast!—away
As worthless weeds:—Oh! little do we know
When they have soothed, when saved!
But come, dear boy!
My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee.
Come—let us search for violets.
My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee.
Come—let us search for violets.
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.
Yes, these deep inwrought marks,
The villager will tell thee (and with voice
Lower'd in his true heart's reverent earnestness)
Are the flower's portion from th' atoning blood
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew;
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf,
Catching from that dread shower of agony
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus
Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains,
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind
Never to waft away!
The villager will tell thee (and with voice
Lower'd in his true heart's reverent earnestness)
Are the flower's portion from th' atoning blood
147
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf,
Catching from that dread shower of agony
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus
Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains,
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind
Never to waft away!
And hast thou seen
The passion-flower?—It grows not in the woods,
But 'midst the bright things brought from other climes.
The passion-flower?—It grows not in the woods,
But 'midst the bright things brought from other climes.
Child.
What, the pale star-shaped flower, with purple streaks
And light green tendrils?
Father.
Thou hast mark'd it well.
Yes, a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower,
As from a land of spirits!—To mine eye
Those faint wan petals—colourless—and yet
Not white, but shadowy—with the mystic lines
(As letters of some wizard language gone)
Into their vapour-like transparence wrought,
Bear something of a strange solemnity,
Awfully lovely!—and the Christian's thought
Loves, in their cloudy penciling, to find
Dread symbols of his Lord's last mortal pangs,
Set by God's hand—The coronal of thorns—
The cross—the wounds—with other meanings deep,
Which I will teach thee when we meet again
That flower, the chosen for the martyr's wreath,
The Saviour's holy flower.
Yes, a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower,
As from a land of spirits!—To mine eye
Those faint wan petals—colourless—and yet
Not white, but shadowy—with the mystic lines
(As letters of some wizard language gone)
Into their vapour-like transparence wrought,
Bear something of a strange solemnity,
Awfully lovely!—and the Christian's thought
Loves, in their cloudy penciling, to find
Dread symbols of his Lord's last mortal pangs,
Set by God's hand—The coronal of thorns—
The cross—the wounds—with other meanings deep,
Which I will teach thee when we meet again
That flower, the chosen for the martyr's wreath,
The Saviour's holy flower.
But let us pause:
Now have we reach'd the very inmost heart
Of the old wood.—How the green shadows close
Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round,
A luxury of gloom!—Scarce doth one ray,
Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal
O'er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades;
Or if it doth, 'tis with a mellow'd hue
Of glow-worm colour'd light.
Now have we reach'd the very inmost heart
148
Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round,
A luxury of gloom!—Scarce doth one ray,
Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal
O'er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades;
Or if it doth, 'tis with a mellow'd hue
Of glow-worm colour'd light.
Here, in the days
Of pagan visions, would have been a place
For worship of the wood-nymphs! Through these oaks
A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown
The quivering image of its Dorian shafts
On the stream's bosom; or a sculptured form,
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom,
Have bow'd its head o'er that dark crystal down,
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops
Under bright rain:—but we, my child, are here
With God, our God, a Spirit; who requires
Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth;
And this high knowledge—deep, rich, vast enough
To fill and hallow all the solitude,
Makes consecrated earth where'er we move,
Without the aid of shrines.
Of pagan visions, would have been a place
For worship of the wood-nymphs! Through these oaks
A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown
The quivering image of its Dorian shafts
On the stream's bosom; or a sculptured form,
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom,
Have bow'd its head o'er that dark crystal down,
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops
Under bright rain:—but we, my child, are here
With God, our God, a Spirit; who requires
Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth;
And this high knowledge—deep, rich, vast enough
To fill and hallow all the solitude,
Makes consecrated earth where'er we move,
Without the aid of shrines.
What! dost thou feel
The solemn whispering influence of the scene
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand
Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child!
'Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here,
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope
With dark exuberance—and beneath these plumes
Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds
In its pure crimson goblets, fresh and bright,
The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile
And let me hear once more the woodland verse
I taught thee late—'twas made for such a scene.
The solemn whispering influence of the scene
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand
Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child!
'Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here,
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope
149
Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds
In its pure crimson goblets, fresh and bright,
The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile
And let me hear once more the woodland verse
I taught thee late—'twas made for such a scene.
[Child speaks.
WOOD HYMN.
Broods there some spirit here?
The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud;
And o'er the pools all still and darkly clear,
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow'd;
And something of a tender cloistral gloom
Deepens the violet's bloom.
The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud;
And o'er the pools all still and darkly clear,
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow'd;
And something of a tender cloistral gloom
Deepens the violet's bloom.
The very light that streams
Through the dim dewy veil of foliage round,
Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams,
As if it knew the place were holy ground;
And would not startle, with too bright a burst,
Flowers, all divinely nursed.
Through the dim dewy veil of foliage round,
Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams,
As if it knew the place were holy ground;
And would not startle, with too bright a burst,
Flowers, all divinely nursed.
Wakes there some spirit here?
Aswift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by,
And leaves and waters, in its wild career,
Shed forth sweet voices—each a mystery!
Surely some awful influence must pervade
These depths of trembling shade!
Aswift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by,
And leaves and waters, in its wild career,
Shed forth sweet voices—each a mystery!
Surely some awful influence must pervade
These depths of trembling shade!
Yes, lightly, softly move!
There is a power, a presence in the woods;
A viewless being, that, with life and love,
Informs the reverential solitudes:
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod—
Thou, thou art here, my God!
There is a power, a presence in the woods;
150
Informs the reverential solitudes:
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod—
Thou, thou art here, my God!
And if with awe we tread
The minster floor, beneath the storied pane,
And 'midst the mouldering banners of the dead,
Shall the green voiceful wild seem less thy fane,
Where thou alone hast built?—where arch and roof
Are of thy living woof?
The minster floor, beneath the storied pane,
And 'midst the mouldering banners of the dead,
Shall the green voiceful wild seem less thy fane,
Where thou alone hast built?—where arch and roof
Are of thy living woof?
The silence and the sound,
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee;
The temple twilight of the gloom profound,
The dew cup of the frail anemone,
The reed by every wandering whisper thrill'd—
All, all with thee are fill'd!
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee;
The temple twilight of the gloom profound,
The dew cup of the frail anemone,
The reed by every wandering whisper thrill'd—
All, all with thee are fill'd!
Oh! purify mine eyes,
More and yet more, by love and lowly thought,
Thy presence, holiest One! to recognise
In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought!
And 'midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear
Ever thy voice to hear!
More and yet more, by love and lowly thought,
Thy presence, holiest One! to recognise
In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought!
And 'midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear
Ever thy voice to hear!
And sanctify my heart
To meet the awful sweetness of that tone
With no faint thrill or self-accusing start,
But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own—
Joy, such as dwelt in Eden's glorious bowers
Ere sin had dimm'd the flowers.
To meet the awful sweetness of that tone
With no faint thrill or self-accusing start,
But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own—
Joy, such as dwelt in Eden's glorious bowers
Ere sin had dimm'd the flowers.
151
Let me not know the change
O'er nature thrown by guilt!—the boding sky,
The hollow leaf-sounds ominous and strange,
The weight wherewith the dark tree shadows lie!
Father! oh! keep my footsteps pure and free,
To walk the woods with thee!
O'er nature thrown by guilt!—the boding sky,
The hollow leaf-sounds ominous and strange,
The weight wherewith the dark tree shadows lie!
Father! oh! keep my footsteps pure and free,
To walk the woods with thee!
PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT.
“Soul of our souls! and safeguard of the world!
Sustain—Thou only canst—the sick at heart,
Restore their languid spirits, and recall
Their lost affections unto thee and thine.”
Wordsworth.
Sustain—Thou only canst—the sick at heart,
Restore their languid spirits, and recall
Their lost affections unto thee and thine.”
Wordsworth.
Night—holy night—the time
For mind's free breathings in a purer clime!
Night!—when in happier hour the unveiling sky
Woke all my kindled soul,
To meet its revelations, clear and high,
With the strong joy of immortality!
Now hath strange sadness wrapp'd me—strange and deep—
And my thoughts faint, and shadows o'er them roll,
E'en when I deem'd them seraph-plumed, to sweep
Far beyond earth's control.
For mind's free breathings in a purer clime!
Night!—when in happier hour the unveiling sky
Woke all my kindled soul,
To meet its revelations, clear and high,
With the strong joy of immortality!
Now hath strange sadness wrapp'd me—strange and deep—
And my thoughts faint, and shadows o'er them roll,
E'en when I deem'd them seraph-plumed, to sweep
Far beyond earth's control.
Wherefore is this?—I see the stars returning,
Fire after fire in Heaven's rich temple burning—
Fast shine they forth—my spirit friends, my guides,
Bright rulers of my being's inmost tides;
They shine—but faintly, through a quivering haze—
Oh! is the dimness mine which clouds those rays?
They from whose glance my childhood drank delight!
A joy unquestioning—a love intense—
They, that unfolding to more thoughtful sight,
The harmony of their magnificence,
Drew silently the worship of my youth
To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth;
Shall they shower blessing, with their beams divine,
Down to the watcher on the stormy sea,
And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine
Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine,
And to the wanderer lone
On wastes of Afric thrown,
And not to me?
Am I a thing forsaken,
And is the gladness taken
From the bright-pinion'd nature which hath soar'd
Through realms by royal eagle ne'er explored,
And, bathing there in streams of fiery light,
Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite?
Fire after fire in Heaven's rich temple burning—
Fast shine they forth—my spirit friends, my guides,
Bright rulers of my being's inmost tides;
They shine—but faintly, through a quivering haze—
152
They from whose glance my childhood drank delight!
A joy unquestioning—a love intense—
They, that unfolding to more thoughtful sight,
The harmony of their magnificence,
Drew silently the worship of my youth
To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth;
Shall they shower blessing, with their beams divine,
Down to the watcher on the stormy sea,
And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine
Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine,
And to the wanderer lone
On wastes of Afric thrown,
And not to me?
Am I a thing forsaken,
And is the gladness taken
From the bright-pinion'd nature which hath soar'd
Through realms by royal eagle ne'er explored,
And, bathing there in streams of fiery light,
Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite?
And now an alien!—Wherefore must this be?
How shall I rend the chain?
How drink rich life again
From those pure urns of radiance, welling free?
Father of Spirits! let me turn to thee!
How shall I rend the chain?
How drink rich life again
From those pure urns of radiance, welling free?
Father of Spirits! let me turn to thee!
Oh! if too much exulting in her dower,
My soul, not yet to lowly thought subdued,
Hath stood without thee on her hill of power—
A fearful and a dazzling solitude!—
And therefore from that haughty summit's crown,
To dim desertion is by thee cast down;
Behold! thy child submissively hath bow'd—
Shine on him through the cloud!
My soul, not yet to lowly thought subdued,
Hath stood without thee on her hill of power—
A fearful and a dazzling solitude!—
153
To dim desertion is by thee cast down;
Behold! thy child submissively hath bow'd—
Shine on him through the cloud!
Let the now darken'd earth and curtain'd heaven
Back to his vision with thy face be given!
Bear him on high once more,
But in thy strength to soar,
And wrapt and still'd by that o'ershadowing might,
Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chasten'd sight.
Back to his vision with thy face be given!
Bear him on high once more,
But in thy strength to soar,
And wrapt and still'd by that o'ershadowing might,
Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chasten'd sight.
Or if it be, that like the ark's lone dove,
My thoughts go forth, and find no resting-place,
No sheltering home of sympathy and love,
In the responsive bosoms of my race,
And back return, a darkness and a weight,
Till my unanswer'd heart grows desolate—
Yet, yet sustain me, Holiest!—I am vow'd
To solemn service high;
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow'd,
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary.
Fainting beneath the burden of the day,
Because no human tone,
Unto the altar-stone,
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate,
Where it should make eternal truth its mate,
May cheer the sacred solitary way?
My thoughts go forth, and find no resting-place,
No sheltering home of sympathy and love,
In the responsive bosoms of my race,
And back return, a darkness and a weight,
Till my unanswer'd heart grows desolate—
Yet, yet sustain me, Holiest!—I am vow'd
To solemn service high;
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow'd,
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary.
Fainting beneath the burden of the day,
Because no human tone,
Unto the altar-stone,
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate,
Where it should make eternal truth its mate,
May cheer the sacred solitary way?
Oh! be the whisper of thy voice within
Enough to strengthen! Be the hope to win
A more deep-seeing homage for thy name,
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame!
Make me thine only!—Let me add but one
To those refulgent steps all undefiled,
Which glorious minds have piled
Through bright self-offering, earnest, childlike, lone,
For mounting to thy throne!
And let my soul, upborne
On wings of inner morn,
Find, in illumined secresy, the sense
Of that bless'd work, its own high recompense.
Enough to strengthen! Be the hope to win
154
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame!
Make me thine only!—Let me add but one
To those refulgent steps all undefiled,
Which glorious minds have piled
Through bright self-offering, earnest, childlike, lone,
For mounting to thy throne!
And let my soul, upborne
On wings of inner morn,
Find, in illumined secresy, the sense
Of that bless'd work, its own high recompense.
The dimness melts away
That on your glory lay,
O ye majestic watchers of the skies!
Through the dissolving veil,
Which made each aspect pale,
Your gladd'ning fires once more I recognise;
And once again a shower
Of hope, and joy, and power,
Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes.
And, if that splendour to my sober'd sight
Come tremulous, with more of pensive light—
Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught,
With more that pierces through each fold of thought
Than I was wont to trace
On Heaven's unshadow'd face—
Be it e'en so!—be mine, though set apart
Unto a radiant ministry, yet still
A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart;
Bow'd before thee, O Mightiest! whose bless'd will
All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil.
That on your glory lay,
O ye majestic watchers of the skies!
Through the dissolving veil,
Which made each aspect pale,
Your gladd'ning fires once more I recognise;
And once again a shower
Of hope, and joy, and power,
Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes.
And, if that splendour to my sober'd sight
Come tremulous, with more of pensive light—
Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught,
With more that pierces through each fold of thought
Than I was wont to trace
On Heaven's unshadow'd face—
Be it e'en so!—be mine, though set apart
Unto a radiant ministry, yet still
A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart;
155
All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil.
Written after hearing the introductory Lecture on Astronomy delivered in Trinity College, Dublin, by Sir William Hamilton, royal astronomer of Ireland, on the 8th November 1832.
THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG.
Father, guide me! Day declines.
Hollow winds are in the pines;
Darkly waves each giant bough
O'er the sky's last crimson glow;
Hush'd is now the convent's bell,
Which erewhile with breezy swell
From the purple mountains bore
Greeting to the sunset-shore.
Now the sailor's vesper-hymn
Dies away.
Father! in the forest dim,
Be my stay!
Hollow winds are in the pines;
Darkly waves each giant bough
O'er the sky's last crimson glow;
Hush'd is now the convent's bell,
Which erewhile with breezy swell
From the purple mountains bore
Greeting to the sunset-shore.
Now the sailor's vesper-hymn
Dies away.
Father! in the forest dim,
Be my stay!
In the low and shivering thrill
Of the leaves that late hung still;
In the dull and muffled tone
Of the sea-wave's distant moan;
In the deep tints of the sky
There are signs of tempests nigh.
Ominous, with sullen sound,
Falls the closing dusk around.
Father! through the storm and shade
O'er the wild,
Oh! be Thou the lone one's aid—
Save thy child!
Of the leaves that late hung still;
In the dull and muffled tone
Of the sea-wave's distant moan;
In the deep tints of the sky
There are signs of tempests nigh.
Ominous, with sullen sound,
Falls the closing dusk around.
156
O'er the wild,
Oh! be Thou the lone one's aid—
Save thy child!
Many a swift and sounding plume
Homewards, through the boding gloom,
O'er my way hath flitted fast,
Since the farewell sunbeam pass'd
From the chestnut's ruddy bark,
And the pools, now lone and dark,
Where the wakening night-winds sigh
Through the long reeds mournfully.
Homeward, homeward, all things haste—
God of might!
Shield the homeless 'midst the waste,
Be his light!
Homewards, through the boding gloom,
O'er my way hath flitted fast,
Since the farewell sunbeam pass'd
From the chestnut's ruddy bark,
And the pools, now lone and dark,
Where the wakening night-winds sigh
Through the long reeds mournfully.
Homeward, homeward, all things haste—
God of might!
Shield the homeless 'midst the waste,
Be his light!
In his distant cradle nest,
Now my babe is laid to rest;
Beautiful his slumber seems
With a glow of heavenly dreams,
Beautiful, o'er that bright sleep,
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep,
Where his mother bends to pray
For the loved and far away.—
Father, guard that household bower,
Hear that prayer!
Back, through thine all-guiding power,
Lead me there!
Now my babe is laid to rest;
Beautiful his slumber seems
With a glow of heavenly dreams,
Beautiful, o'er that bright sleep,
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep,
Where his mother bends to pray
For the loved and far away.—
Father, guard that household bower,
Hear that prayer!
Back, through thine all-guiding power,
Lead me there!
Darker, wilder, grows the night,
Not a star sends quivering light
Through the massy arch of shade
By the stern old forest made.
Thou! to whose unslumbering eyes
All my pathway open lies,
By thy Son, who knew distress
In the lonely wilderness,
Where no roof to that bless'd head
Shelter gave—
Father! through the time of dread,
Save—oh, save!
Not a star sends quivering light
157
By the stern old forest made.
Thou! to whose unslumbering eyes
All my pathway open lies,
By thy Son, who knew distress
In the lonely wilderness,
Where no roof to that bless'd head
Shelter gave—
Father! through the time of dread,
Save—oh, save!
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.
Surely 'tis all a dream—a fever-dream!
The desolation and the agony—
The strange red sunrise—and the gloomy woods,
So terrible with their dark giant boughs,
And the broad lonely river! all a dream!
And my boy's voice will wake me, with its clear,
Wild singing tones, as they were wont to come,
Through the wreath'd sweetbrier at my lattice-panes
In happy, happy England! Speak to me!
Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch'd
All the dread night beside thee, till her brain
Is darken'd by swift waves of fantasies,
And her soul faint with longing for thy voice.
Oh! I must wake him with one gentle kiss
On his fair brow!
(Shudderingly.)
The desolation and the agony—
The strange red sunrise—and the gloomy woods,
So terrible with their dark giant boughs,
And the broad lonely river! all a dream!
And my boy's voice will wake me, with its clear,
Wild singing tones, as they were wont to come,
Through the wreath'd sweetbrier at my lattice-panes
In happy, happy England! Speak to me!
Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch'd
All the dread night beside thee, till her brain
Is darken'd by swift waves of fantasies,
158
Oh! I must wake him with one gentle kiss
On his fair brow!
The strange damp thrilling touch!
The marble chill! Now, now it rushes back—
Now I know all!—dead—dead!—a fearful word!
My boy hath left me in the wilderness,
To journey on without the blessed light
In his deep loving eyes—he's gone—he's gone!
The marble chill! Now, now it rushes back—
Now I know all!—dead—dead!—a fearful word!
My boy hath left me in the wilderness,
To journey on without the blessed light
In his deep loving eyes—he's gone—he's gone!
[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
159
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.
Forgive, forgive!
My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild—
Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount
Of unknown bitterness! Thou art my home!
Mine only and my blessed one! Where'er
Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness,
There is my country! there my head shall rest,
And throb no more. Oh! still, by thy strong love,
Bear up the feeble reed!
[Kneeling with the child in her arms.
My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild—
Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount
Of unknown bitterness! Thou art my home!
Mine only and my blessed one! Where'er
Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness,
There is my country! there my head shall rest,
And throb no more. Oh! still, by thy strong love,
Bear up the feeble reed!
And thou, my God!
Hear my soul's cry from this dread wilderness,
Oh! hear, and pardon me! If I have made
This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark
Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness,
Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume,
Oh, pardon me!
Hear my soul's cry from this dread wilderness,
Oh! hear, and pardon me! If I have made
This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark
Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness,
Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume,
Oh, pardon me!
If nature hath rebell'd,
And from thy light turn'd wilfully away,
Making a midnight of her agony,
When the despairing passion of her clasp
Was from its idol stricken at one touch
Of thine Almighty hand—oh, pardon me!
By thy Son's anguish, pardon! In the soul
The tempests and the waves will know thy voice—
Father say, “Peace, be still!”
[Giving the child to her husband.
And from thy light turn'd wilfully away,
160
When the despairing passion of her clasp
Was from its idol stricken at one touch
Of thine Almighty hand—oh, pardon me!
By thy Son's anguish, pardon! In the soul
The tempests and the waves will know thy voice—
Father say, “Peace, be still!”
Farewell, my babe!
Go from my bosom now to other rest!
With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow,
And on thy pale calm cheek these contrite tears,
I yield thee to thy Maker!
Go from my bosom now to other rest!
With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow,
And on thy pale calm cheek these contrite tears,
I yield thee to thy Maker!
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,
161
Perchance unconsciously.
Agnes.
My gentle son!
The affectionate, the gifted! With what joy—
Edmund, rememberest thou?—with what bright joy
His baby brother ever to his arms
Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair
In that kind youthful breast! Oh! now no more,
But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart,
Even to a well-spring of adoring tears,
For many a blessing left.
(Bending over the child.)
The affectionate, the gifted! With what joy—
Edmund, rememberest thou?—with what bright joy
His baby brother ever to his arms
Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair
In that kind youthful breast! Oh! now no more,
But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart,
Even to a well-spring of adoring tears,
For many a blessing left.
Once more farewell!
Oh, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look!
How can it be sustain'd? Away, away!
[After a short pause.
Oh, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look!
How can it be sustain'd? Away, away!
Edmund, my woman's nature still is weak—
I cannot see thee render dust to dust!
Go thou, my husband, to thy solemn task;
I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer
Till thy return.
I cannot see thee render dust to dust!
Go thou, my husband, to thy solemn task;
I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer
Till thy return.
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.
162
THE FUNERAL HYMN.
Where the long reeds quiver,
Where the pines make moan,
By the forest river,
Sleeps our babe alone.
England's field flowers may not deck his grave,
Cypress shadows o'er him darkly wave.
Where the pines make moan,
By the forest river,
Sleeps our babe alone.
England's field flowers may not deck his grave,
Cypress shadows o'er him darkly wave.
Woods unknown receive him,
'Midst the mighty wild;
Yet with God we leave him,
Blessed, blessed child!
And our tears gush o'er his lovely dust,
Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust.
'Midst the mighty wild;
Yet with God we leave him,
Blessed, blessed child!
And our tears gush o'er his lovely dust,
Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust.
Though his eye hath brighten'd
Oft our weary way,
And his clear laugh lighten'd
Half our hearts' dismay;
Still in hope we give back what was given,
Yielding up the beautiful to Heaven.
Oft our weary way,
And his clear laugh lighten'd
Half our hearts' dismay;
Still in hope we give back what was given,
Yielding up the beautiful to Heaven.
And to her who bore him,
Her who long must weep,
Yet shall Heaven restore him
From his pale, sweet sleep!
Those blue eyes of love and peace again
Through her soul will shine, undimm'd by pain.
Her who long must weep,
Yet shall Heaven restore him
From his pale, sweet sleep!
Those blue eyes of love and peace again
Through her soul will shine, undimm'd by pain.
Where the long reeds quiver,
Where the pines make moan,
Leave we by the river
Earth to earth alone!
God and Father! may our journeyings on
Lead to where the blessed boy is gone!
Where the pines make moan,
163
Earth to earth alone!
God and Father! may our journeyings on
Lead to where the blessed boy is gone!
From the exile's sorrow,
From the wanderer's dread
Of the night and morrow,
Early, brightly fled;
Thou hast call'd him to a sweeter home
Than our lost one o'er the ocean's foam.
From the wanderer's dread
Of the night and morrow,
Early, brightly fled;
Thou hast call'd him to a sweeter home
Than our lost one o'er the ocean's foam.
Now let thought behold him
With his angel look,
Where those arms enfold him,
Which benignly took
Israel's babes to their Good Shepherd's breast,
When his voice their tender meekness blest.
With his angel look,
Where those arms enfold him,
Which benignly took
Israel's babes to their Good Shepherd's breast,
When his voice their tender meekness blest.
Turn thee now, fond mother!
From thy dead, oh, turn!
Linger not, young brother,
Here to dream and mourn:
Only kneel once more around the sod,
Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God!
From thy dead, oh, turn!
Linger not, young brother,
Here to dream and mourn:
Only kneel once more around the sod,
Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God!
164
EASTER-DAY IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD.
There is a wakening on the mighty hills,
A kindling with the spirit of the morn!
Bright gleams are scatter'd from the thousand rills,
And a soft visionary hue is born
On the young foliage, worn
By all the embosom'd woods—a silvery green,
Made up of Spring and dew, harmoniously serene.
A kindling with the spirit of the morn!
Bright gleams are scatter'd from the thousand rills,
And a soft visionary hue is born
On the young foliage, worn
By all the embosom'd woods—a silvery green,
Made up of Spring and dew, harmoniously serene.
And lo! where floating through a glory, sings
The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky!
Lo! where the darkness of his buoyant wings,
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high,
Trembles with melody!
While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice
To the rich laugh of music in that voice.
The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky!
Lo! where the darkness of his buoyant wings,
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high,
Trembles with melody!
While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice
To the rich laugh of music in that voice.
But purer light than of the early sun
Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth!
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth,
By this glad morning's birth!
And gifts more precious by its breath are shed
Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet's head.
Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth!
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth,
By this glad morning's birth!
And gifts more precious by its breath are shed
Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet's head.
Gifts for the soul, from whose illumined eye,
O'er nature's face the colouring glory flows;
Gifts from the fount of immortality,
Which, fill'd with balm, unknown to human woes,
Lay hush'd in dark repose,
Till thou, bright dayspring! madest its waves our own,
By thine unsealing of the burial stone.
O'er nature's face the colouring glory flows;
Gifts from the fount of immortality,
165
Lay hush'd in dark repose,
Till thou, bright dayspring! madest its waves our own,
By thine unsealing of the burial stone.
Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills!
And let a full victorious tone be given,
By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills
Your urn-like depths with sound! The tomb is riven,
The radiant gate of heaven
Unfolded—and the stern, dark shadow cast
By death's o'ersweeping wing, from the earth's bosom past.
And let a full victorious tone be given,
By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills
Your urn-like depths with sound! The tomb is riven,
The radiant gate of heaven
Unfolded—and the stern, dark shadow cast
By death's o'ersweeping wing, from the earth's bosom past.
And you, ye graves! upon whose turf I stand,
Girt with the slumber of the hamlet's dead,
Time with a soft and reconciling hand
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread
O'er every narrow bed:
But not by time, and not by nature sown
Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown.
Girt with the slumber of the hamlet's dead,
Time with a soft and reconciling hand
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread
O'er every narrow bed:
But not by time, and not by nature sown
Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown.
Christ hath arisen! oh! not one cherish'd head
Hath, 'midst the flowery sods, been pillow'd here
Without a hope, (howe'er the heart hath bled
In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier,)
A hope, upspringing clear
From those majestic tidings of the morn,
Which lit the living way to all of woman born.
Hath, 'midst the flowery sods, been pillow'd here
Without a hope, (howe'er the heart hath bled
In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier,)
A hope, upspringing clear
From those majestic tidings of the morn,
Which lit the living way to all of woman born.
166
Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love!
E'en on this greensward; night hath heard thy cry,
Heart-stricken one! thy precious dust above,
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply
Unto thine agony!
But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide,
Christ hath arisen, O love! thy tears shall all be dried.
E'en on this greensward; night hath heard thy cry,
Heart-stricken one! thy precious dust above,
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply
Unto thine agony!
But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide,
Christ hath arisen, O love! thy tears shall all be dried.
Dark must have been the gushing of those tears,
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb
On thine impassion'd soul, in elder years
When, burden'd with the mystery of its doom,
Mortality's thick gloom
Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death.
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb
On thine impassion'd soul, in elder years
When, burden'd with the mystery of its doom,
Mortality's thick gloom
Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death.
By thee, sad Love, and by thy sister, Fear,
Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought
To vail that haunting shadow, still too near,
Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought,
And, where the board was fraught
With wine and myrtles in the summer bower,
Felt, e'en when disavow'd, a presence and a power.
Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought
To vail that haunting shadow, still too near,
Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought,
And, where the board was fraught
With wine and myrtles in the summer bower,
Felt, e'en when disavow'd, a presence and a power.
But that dark night is closed: and o'er the dead,
Here, where the gleamy primrose tufts have blown,
And where the mountain-heath a couch has spread,
And, settling oft on some grey letter'd stone,
The redbreast warbles lone;
And the wild-bee's deep drowsy murmurs pass,
Like a low thrill of harp-strings, through the grass:
Here, where the gleamy primrose tufts have blown,
And where the mountain-heath a couch has spread,
And, settling oft on some grey letter'd stone,
The redbreast warbles lone;
And the wild-bee's deep drowsy murmurs pass,
Like a low thrill of harp-strings, through the grass:
167
Here, 'midst the chambers of the Christian's sleep,
We o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye,
For hope sits, dovelike, on the gloomy deep,
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie
Seem all one sanctuary
Of holiest thought—nor needs their fresh bright sod,
Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God.
We o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye,
For hope sits, dovelike, on the gloomy deep,
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie
Seem all one sanctuary
Of holiest thought—nor needs their fresh bright sod,
Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God.
Christ hath arisen!—O mountain peaks! attest,
Witness, resounding glen and torrent wave,
The immortal courage in the human breast
Sprung from that victory—tell how oft the brave
To camp 'midst rock and cave,
Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne,
Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn!
Witness, resounding glen and torrent wave,
The immortal courage in the human breast
Sprung from that victory—tell how oft the brave
To camp 'midst rock and cave,
Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne,
Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn!
The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day—
Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone,
Have thrill'd their pines, when those that knelt to pray
Rose up to arm! the pure high snows have known
A colouring not their own,
But from true hearts which by that crimson stain
Gave token of a trust that call'd no suffering vain.
Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone,
Have thrill'd their pines, when those that knelt to pray
Rose up to arm! the pure high snows have known
A colouring not their own,
But from true hearts which by that crimson stain
Gave token of a trust that call'd no suffering vain.
Those days are past—the mountains wear no more
The solemn splendour of the martyr's blood,
And may that awful record, as of yore,
Never again be known to field or flood!
E'en though the faithful stood,
A noble army, in the exulting sight
Of earth and heaven, which bless'd their battle for the right!
The solemn splendour of the martyr's blood,
And may that awful record, as of yore,
Never again be known to field or flood!
E'en though the faithful stood,
168
Of earth and heaven, which bless'd their battle for the right!
But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken
Is yet borne silently in homes obscure;
And many a bitter cup is meekly taken;
And, for the strength whereby the just and pure
Thus steadfastly endure,
Glory to Him whose victory won that dower,
Him, from whose rising stream'd that robe of spirit power.
Is yet borne silently in homes obscure;
And many a bitter cup is meekly taken;
And, for the strength whereby the just and pure
Thus steadfastly endure,
Glory to Him whose victory won that dower,
Him, from whose rising stream'd that robe of spirit power.
Glory to Him! Hope to the suffering breast!
Light to the nations! He hath roll'd away
The mists, which, gathering into deathlike rest,
Between the soul and heaven's calm ether lay—
His love hath made it day
With those that sat in darkness.—Earth and sea!
Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made free!
Light to the nations! He hath roll'd away
The mists, which, gathering into deathlike rest,
Between the soul and heaven's calm ether lay—
His love hath made it day
With those that sat in darkness.—Earth and sea!
Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made free!
THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.
“A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, to waylay. [OMITTED]
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death.”
Wordsworth.
To haunt, to startle, to waylay. [OMITTED]
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death.”
Wordsworth.
I saw him at his sport erewhile,
The bright exulting boy,
Like Summer's lightning came the smile
Of his young spirit's joy;
A flash that wheresoe'er it broke,
To life undreamt-of beauty woke.
The bright exulting boy,
169
Of his young spirit's joy;
A flash that wheresoe'er it broke,
To life undreamt-of beauty woke.
His fair locks waved in sunny play,
By a clear fountain's side,
Where jewel-colour'd pebbles lay
Beneath the shallow tide;
And pearly spray at times would meet
The glancing of his fairy feet.
By a clear fountain's side,
Where jewel-colour'd pebbles lay
Beneath the shallow tide;
And pearly spray at times would meet
The glancing of his fairy feet.
He twined him wreaths of all Spring-flowers,
Which drank that streamlet's dew;
He flung them o'er the wave in showers,
Till, gazing, scarce I knew
Which seem'd more pure, or bright, or wild,
The singing fount or laughing child.
Which drank that streamlet's dew;
He flung them o'er the wave in showers,
Till, gazing, scarce I knew
Which seem'd more pure, or bright, or wild,
The singing fount or laughing child.
To look on all that joy and bloom
Made earth one festal scene,
Where the dull shadow of the tomb
Seem'd as it ne'er had been.
How could one image of decay
Steal o'er the dawn of such clear day?
Made earth one festal scene,
Where the dull shadow of the tomb
Seem'd as it ne'er had been.
How could one image of decay
Steal o'er the dawn of such clear day?
I saw once more that aspect bright—
The boy's meek head was bow'd
In silence o'er the Book of Light,
And, like a golden cloud—
The still cloud of a pictured sky—
His locks droop'd round it lovingly.
The boy's meek head was bow'd
In silence o'er the Book of Light,
And, like a golden cloud—
The still cloud of a pictured sky—
His locks droop'd round it lovingly.
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And if my heart had deem'd him fair,
When in the fountain glade,
A creature of the sky and air,
Almost on wings he play'd;
Oh! how much holier beauty now
Lit the young human being's brow!
When in the fountain glade,
A creature of the sky and air,
Almost on wings he play'd;
Oh! how much holier beauty now
Lit the young human being's brow!
The being born to toil, to die,
To break forth from the tomb,
Unto far nobler destiny
Than waits the skylark's plume!
I saw him, in that thoughtful hour,
Win the first knowledge of his dower.
To break forth from the tomb,
Unto far nobler destiny
Than waits the skylark's plume!
I saw him, in that thoughtful hour,
Win the first knowledge of his dower.
The soul, the awakening soul I saw,
My watching eye could trace
The shadows of its new-born awe,
Sweeping o'er that fair face:
As o'er a flower might pass the shade
By some dread angel's pinion made!
My watching eye could trace
The shadows of its new-born awe,
Sweeping o'er that fair face:
As o'er a flower might pass the shade
By some dread angel's pinion made!
The soul, the mother of deep fears,
Of high hopes infinite,
Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears,
Of sleepless inner sight;
Lovely, but solemn, it arose,
Unfolding what no more might close.
Of high hopes infinite,
Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears,
Of sleepless inner sight;
Lovely, but solemn, it arose,
Unfolding what no more might close.
The red-leaved tablets,
undefiled,
As yet, by evil thought—
Oh! little dream'd the brooding child,
Of what within me wrought,
While his young heart first burn'd and stirr'd,
And quiver'd to the eternal word.
As yet, by evil thought—
171
Of what within me wrought,
While his young heart first burn'd and stirr'd,
And quiver'd to the eternal word.
And reverently my spirit caught
The reverence of his gaze;
A sight with dew of blessing fraught
To hallow after-days;
To make the proud heart meekly wise,
By the sweet faith in those calm eyes.
The reverence of his gaze;
A sight with dew of blessing fraught
To hallow after-days;
To make the proud heart meekly wise,
By the sweet faith in those calm eyes.
It seem'd as if a temple rose
Before me brightly there,
And in the depths of its repose
My soul o'erflow'd with prayer,
Feeling a solemn presence nigh—
The power of infant sanctity!
Before me brightly there,
And in the depths of its repose
My soul o'erflow'd with prayer,
Feeling a solemn presence nigh—
The power of infant sanctity!
O Father! mould my heart once more,
By thy prevailing breath!
Teach me, oh! teach me to adore
E'en with that pure one's faith;
A faith, all made of love and light,
Child-like, and therefore full of might!
By thy prevailing breath!
Teach me, oh! teach me to adore
E'en with that pure one's faith;
A faith, all made of love and light,
Child-like, and therefore full of might!
172
A POET'S DYING HYMN.
“Be mute who will, who can,
Yet I will praise thee with impassion'd voice!
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine
In such a temple as we now behold,
Rear'd for thy presence; therefore am I bound
To worship, here and every where.”
Wordsworth.
Yet I will praise thee with impassion'd voice!
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine
In such a temple as we now behold,
Rear'd for thy presence; therefore am I bound
To worship, here and every where.”
Wordsworth.
The blue, deep, glorious heavens!—I lift mine eye,
And bless thee, O my God! that I have met
And own'd thine image in the majesty
Of their calm temple still!—that never yet
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night:
I bless thee, O my God!
And bless thee, O my God! that I have met
And own'd thine image in the majesty
Of their calm temple still!—that never yet
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night:
I bless thee, O my God!
That now still clearer, from their pure expanse,
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine,
Touching death's features with a lovely glance
Of light, serenely, solemnly divine,
And lending to each holy star a ray
As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away:
I bless thee, O my God!
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine,
Touching death's features with a lovely glance
Of light, serenely, solemnly divine,
And lending to each holy star a ray
As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away:
I bless thee, O my God!
That I have heard thy voice, nor been afraid,
In the earth's garden—'midst the mountains old
And the low thrillings of the forest-shade,
And the wild sound of waters uncontroll'd—
And upon many a desert plain and shore—
No solitude—for there I felt thee more:
I bless thee, O my God!
In the earth's garden—'midst the mountains old
And the low thrillings of the forest-shade,
And the wild sound of waters uncontroll'd—
And upon many a desert plain and shore—
No solitude—for there I felt thee more:
I bless thee, O my God!
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And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed
The gift, the vision of the unseal'd eye,
To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread,
To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie
Far in man's heart—if I have kept it free
And pure—a consecration unto thee:
I bless thee, O my God!
The gift, the vision of the unseal'd eye,
To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread,
To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie
Far in man's heart—if I have kept it free
And pure—a consecration unto thee:
I bless thee, O my God!
If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught
With an awakening power—if thou hast made,
Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my thought,
And by the swift winds bid them be convey'd
To lands of other lays, and there become
Native as early melodies of home:
I bless thee, O my God!
With an awakening power—if thou hast made,
Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my thought,
And by the swift winds bid them be convey'd
To lands of other lays, and there become
Native as early melodies of home:
I bless thee, O my God!
Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead,
But that perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,
A still small whisper in my song hath led
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne,
Or but one hope, one prayer:—for this alone
I bless thee, O my God!
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead,
But that perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,
A still small whisper in my song hath led
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne,
Or but one hope, one prayer:—for this alone
I bless thee, O my God!
That I have loved—that I have known the love
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs,
Yet, with a colouring halo from above,
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things,
Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be,
Still weaving links for intercourse with thee:
I bless thee, O my God!
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs,
Yet, with a colouring halo from above,
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things,
Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be,
Still weaving links for intercourse with thee:
I bless thee, O my God!
174
That by the passion of its deep distress,
And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer,
And by the yearning of its tenderness,
Too full for words upon their stream to bear,
I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine,
Well-spring of love, the unfathom'd, the divine;
I bless thee, O my God!
And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer,
And by the yearning of its tenderness,
Too full for words upon their stream to bear,
I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine,
Well-spring of love, the unfathom'd, the divine;
I bless thee, O my God!
That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken,
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread,
Calm, rejoicingly, the things hath taken
Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed:
That passing storms have only fann'd the fire,
Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire,
I bless thee, O my God!
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread,
Calm, rejoicingly, the things hath taken
Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed:
That passing storms have only fann'd the fire,
Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire,
I bless thee, O my God!
Now art thou calling me in every gale,
Each sound and token of the dying day:
Thou leavest me not, though early life grows pale,
I am not darkly sinking to decay;
But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud.
I bless thee, O my God!
Each sound and token of the dying day:
Thou leavest me not, though early life grows pale,
I am not darkly sinking to decay;
But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud.
I bless thee, O my God!
And if this earth, with all its choral streams,
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies,
And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams,
Be lovely still in my departing eyes—
'Tis not that fondly I would linger here,
But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear:
I bless thee, O my God!
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies,
And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams,
Be lovely still in my departing eyes—
'Tis not that fondly I would linger here,
But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear:
I bless thee, O my God!
175
And that the tender shadowing I behold,
The tracery veining every leaf and flower,
Of glories cast in more consummate mould,
No longer vassals to the changeful hour;
That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring
Rich visions of imperishable spring:
I bless thee, O my God!
The tracery veining every leaf and flower,
Of glories cast in more consummate mould,
No longer vassals to the changeful hour;
That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring
Rich visions of imperishable spring:
I bless thee, O my God!
Yes! the young vernal voices in the skies
Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear,
Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies,
The spirit-music, imperturb'd and clear;
The full of soul, yet passionate no more—
Let me, too, joining those pure strains, adore!
I bless thee, O my God!
Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear,
Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies,
The spirit-music, imperturb'd and clear;
The full of soul, yet passionate no more—
Let me, too, joining those pure strains, adore!
I bless thee, O my God!
Now aid, sustain me still!—to thee I come,
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are!
And for the hope of that immortal home,
And for thy Son, the bright and morning star,
The sufferer and the victor-king of death,
I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath!
I bless thee, O my God!
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are!
And for the hope of that immortal home,
And for thy Son, the bright and morning star,
The sufferer and the victor-king of death,
I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath!
I bless thee, O my God!
THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
“Many an eye
May wail the dimming of our shining star.”
Shakspeare.
May wail the dimming of our shining star.”
Shakspeare.
A glorious voice hath ceased!—
Mournfully, reverently—the funeral chant
Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound,
A hollow murmur of the dying year,
In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad!
A more Æolian melancholy tone
Than ever wail'd o'er bright things perishing!
For that is passing from the darken'd land,
Which the green summer will not bring us back—
Though all her songs return. The funeral chant
Breathe reverently!—They bear the mighty forth,
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind—
They bear him through the household paths, the groves,
Where every tree had music of its own
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love—
And he is silent!—Past the living stream
They bear him now; the stream, whose kindly voice
On alien shores his true heart burn'd to hear—
And he is silent! O'er the heathery hills,
Which his own soul had mantled with a light
Richer than autumn's purple, now they move—
And he is silent!—he, whose flexile lips
Were but unseal'd, and lo! a thousand forms,
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height,
In glowing life upsprang:—Vassal and chief,
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal,
Fast rushing through the brightly troubled air,
Like the wild huntsman's band. And still they live,
To those fair scenes imperishably bound,
And, from the mountain mist still flashing by,
Startle the wanderer who hath listen'd there
To the seer's voice: phantoms of colour'd thought,
Surviving him who raised.—O eloquence!
O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead!
Who shall wake thee? lord of the buried past!
And art thou there—to those dim nations join'd,
Thy subject-host so long?—The wand is dropp'd,
The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand
Touch'd, and the genii came!—Sing reverently
The funeral chant!—The mighty is borne home—
And who shall be his mourners?—Youth and age,
For each hath felt his magic—love and grief,
For he hath communed with the heart of each:
Yes—the free spirit of humanity
May join the august procession, for to him
Its mysteries have been tributary things,
And all its accents known:—from field or wave,
Never was conqueror on his battle bier,
By the vail'd banner and the muffled drum,
And the proud drooping of the crested head,
More nobly follow'd home.—The last abode,
The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach'd:
A still majestic spot: girt solemnly
With all th' imploring beauty of decay;
A stately couch 'midst ruins! meet for him
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant
Over the honour'd grave!—the grave!—oh, say
Rather the shrine!—An altar for the love,
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths
Of years unborn—a place where leaf and flower,
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead,
Shall be made holy things—where every weed
Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift
From buried glory breathed. And now, what strain,
Making victorious melody ascend
High above sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb
Where he that sway'd the nations thus is laid—
The crown'd of men?
Mournfully, reverently—the funeral chant
Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound,
176
In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad!
A more Æolian melancholy tone
Than ever wail'd o'er bright things perishing!
For that is passing from the darken'd land,
Which the green summer will not bring us back—
Though all her songs return. The funeral chant
Breathe reverently!—They bear the mighty forth,
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind—
They bear him through the household paths, the groves,
Where every tree had music of its own
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love—
And he is silent!—Past the living stream
They bear him now; the stream, whose kindly voice
On alien shores his true heart burn'd to hear—
And he is silent! O'er the heathery hills,
Which his own soul had mantled with a light
Richer than autumn's purple, now they move—
And he is silent!—he, whose flexile lips
Were but unseal'd, and lo! a thousand forms,
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height,
In glowing life upsprang:—Vassal and chief,
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal,
Fast rushing through the brightly troubled air,
Like the wild huntsman's band. And still they live,
To those fair scenes imperishably bound,
And, from the mountain mist still flashing by,
Startle the wanderer who hath listen'd there
To the seer's voice: phantoms of colour'd thought,
Surviving him who raised.—O eloquence!
O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead!
177
And art thou there—to those dim nations join'd,
Thy subject-host so long?—The wand is dropp'd,
The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand
Touch'd, and the genii came!—Sing reverently
The funeral chant!—The mighty is borne home—
And who shall be his mourners?—Youth and age,
For each hath felt his magic—love and grief,
For he hath communed with the heart of each:
Yes—the free spirit of humanity
May join the august procession, for to him
Its mysteries have been tributary things,
And all its accents known:—from field or wave,
Never was conqueror on his battle bier,
By the vail'd banner and the muffled drum,
And the proud drooping of the crested head,
More nobly follow'd home.—The last abode,
The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach'd:
A still majestic spot: girt solemnly
With all th' imploring beauty of decay;
A stately couch 'midst ruins! meet for him
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant
Over the honour'd grave!—the grave!—oh, say
Rather the shrine!—An altar for the love,
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths
Of years unborn—a place where leaf and flower,
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead,
Shall be made holy things—where every weed
Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift
From buried glory breathed. And now, what strain,
178
High above sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb
Where he that sway'd the nations thus is laid—
The crown'd of men?
A lowly, lowly song.
Lowly and solemn be
Thy children's cry to thee,
Father divine!
A hymn of suppliant breath,
Owning that life and death
Alike are thine!
Thy children's cry to thee,
Father divine!
A hymn of suppliant breath,
Owning that life and death
Alike are thine!
A spirit on its way,
Sceptred the earth to sway,
From thee was sent:
Now call'st thou back thine own—
Hence is that radiance flown—
To earth but lent.
Sceptred the earth to sway,
From thee was sent:
Now call'st thou back thine own—
Hence is that radiance flown—
To earth but lent.
Watching in breathless awe,
The bright head bow'd we saw,
Beneath thy hand!
Fill'd by one hope, one fear,
Now o'er a brother's bier,
Weeping we stand.
The bright head bow'd we saw,
Beneath thy hand!
Fill'd by one hope, one fear,
Now o'er a brother's bier,
Weeping we stand.
How hath he pass'd!—the lord
Of each deep bosom chord,
To meet thy sight,
Unmantled and alone,
On thy bless'd mercy thrown,
O Infinite!
Of each deep bosom chord,
To meet thy sight,
Unmantled and alone,
On thy bless'd mercy thrown,
O Infinite!
179
So, from his harvest home,
Must the tired peasant come;
So, in one trust,
Leader and king must yield
The naked soul, reveal'd
To thee, All Just!
Must the tired peasant come;
So, in one trust,
Leader and king must yield
The naked soul, reveal'd
To thee, All Just!
The sword of many a fight—
What then shall be its might?
The lofty lay,
That rush'd on eagle wing—
What shall its memory bring?
What hope, what stay?
What then shall be its might?
The lofty lay,
That rush'd on eagle wing—
What shall its memory bring?
What hope, what stay?
O Father! in that hour,
When earth all succouring power
Shall disavow;
When spear, and shield, and crown,
In faintness are cast down—
Sustain us, Thou!
When earth all succouring power
Shall disavow;
When spear, and shield, and crown,
In faintness are cast down—
Sustain us, Thou!
By Him who bow'd to take
The death-cup for our sake,
The thorn, the rod;
From whom the last dismay
Was not to pass away—
Aid us, O God!
The death-cup for our sake,
The thorn, the rod;
From whom the last dismay
Was not to pass away—
Aid us, O God!
Tremblers beside the grave,
We call on thee to save.
Father divine!
Hear, hear our suppliant breath,
Keep us, in life and death,
Thine, only thine!
We call on thee to save.
Father divine!
Hear, hear our suppliant breath,
180
Thine, only thine!
THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGIO'S.
In the deep wilderness unseen she pray'd,
The daughter of Jerusalem; alone,
With all the still small whispers of the night,
And with the searching glances of the stars,
And with her God, alone:—she lifted up
Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o'er her head,
The dark leaves thrill'd with prayer—the tearful prayer
Of woman's quenchless, yet repentant love.
The daughter of Jerusalem; alone,
With all the still small whispers of the night,
And with the searching glances of the stars,
And with her God, alone:—she lifted up
Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o'er her head,
The dark leaves thrill'd with prayer—the tearful prayer
Of woman's quenchless, yet repentant love.
Father of Spirits, hear!
Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal'd,
Look on the fountain of the burning tear,
Before thy sight in solitude unseal'd!
Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal'd,
Look on the fountain of the burning tear,
Before thy sight in solitude unseal'd!
Hear, Father! hear, and aid!
If I have loved too well, if I have shed,
In my vain fondness, o'er a mortal head,
Gifts, on thy shrine my God! more fitly laid.
If I have loved too well, if I have shed,
In my vain fondness, o'er a mortal head,
Gifts, on thy shrine my God! more fitly laid.
If I have sought to live
But in one light, and made a human eye
The lonely star of mine idolatry,
Thou that art Love! oh, pity and forgive!
But in one light, and made a human eye
The lonely star of mine idolatry,
Thou that art Love! oh, pity and forgive!
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Chasten'd and school'd at last,
No more, no more my struggling spirit burns,
But fix'd on thee, from that wild worship turns—
What have I said?—the deep dream is not past!
No more, no more my struggling spirit burns,
But fix'd on thee, from that wild worship turns—
What have I said?—the deep dream is not past!
Yet hear!—if still I love,
Oh! still too fondly—if, for ever seen,
An earthly image comes, my heart between,
And thy calm glory, Father, throned above.
Oh! still too fondly—if, for ever seen,
An earthly image comes, my heart between,
And thy calm glory, Father, throned above.
If still a voice is near,
(E'en while I strive these wanderings to control,)
An earthly voice, disquieting my soul
With its deep music, too intensely dear.
(E'en while I strive these wanderings to control,)
An earthly voice, disquieting my soul
With its deep music, too intensely dear.
O Father! draw to thee
My lost affections back!—the dreaming eyes
Clear from their mist—sustain the heart that dies,
Give the worn soul once more its pinions free!
My lost affections back!—the dreaming eyes
Clear from their mist—sustain the heart that dies,
Give the worn soul once more its pinions free!
I must love on, O God!
This bosom must love on!—but let thy breath
Touch and make pure the flame that knows not death,
Bearing it up to heaven—love's own abode!
This bosom must love on!—but let thy breath
Touch and make pure the flame that knows not death,
Bearing it up to heaven—love's own abode!
Ages and ages past, the wilderness,
With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night,
With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds,
That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers.
How many such hath woman's bursting heart
Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed,
Like the dim night-flower's odour, up to God!
With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night,
With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds,
That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers.
How many such hath woman's bursting heart
Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed,
Like the dim night-flower's odour, up to God!
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PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.
A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
“From their spheres
The stars of human glory are cast down;
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms
Of all the mighty, wither'd and consumed!
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence
Long to protect her own.”
Wordsworth.
The stars of human glory are cast down;
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms
Of all the mighty, wither'd and consumed!
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence
Long to protect her own.”
Wordsworth.
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,
183
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—
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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
185
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
186
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.
We see no more in thy pure skies,
How soft, O God! the sunset dies;
How every colour'd hill and wood
Seems melting in the golden flood:
Yet, by the precious memories won
From bright hours now for ever gone,
Father! o'er all thy works, we know,
Thou still art shedding beauty's glow;
Still touching every cloud and tree
With glory, eloquent of Thee;
Still feeding all thy flowers with light,
Though man hath barr'd it from our sight.
We know Thou reign'st, the Unchanging One, th' All Just!
And bless thee still with free and boundless trust!
How soft, O God! the sunset dies;
How every colour'd hill and wood
Seems melting in the golden flood:
Yet, by the precious memories won
From bright hours now for ever gone,
Father! o'er all thy works, we know,
Thou still art shedding beauty's glow;
Still touching every cloud and tree
With glory, eloquent of Thee;
Still feeding all thy flowers with light,
Though man hath barr'd it from our sight.
We know Thou reign'st, the Unchanging One, th' All Just!
And bless thee still with free and boundless trust!
187
We read no more, O God! thy ways
On earth, in these wild evil days.
The red sword in the oppressor's hand
Is ruler of the weeping land;
Fallen are the faithful and the pure,
No shrine is spared, no hearth secure.
Yet, by the deep voice from the past,
Which tells us these things cannot last—
And by the hope which finds no ark,
Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark—
We trust thee!—As the sailor knows
That in its place of bright repose
His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud
May veil it with a midnight shroud.
We know thou reign'st—All holy one, all just!
And bless thee still with love's own boundless trust.
On earth, in these wild evil days.
The red sword in the oppressor's hand
Is ruler of the weeping land;
Fallen are the faithful and the pure,
No shrine is spared, no hearth secure.
Yet, by the deep voice from the past,
Which tells us these things cannot last—
And by the hope which finds no ark,
Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark—
We trust thee!—As the sailor knows
That in its place of bright repose
His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud
May veil it with a midnight shroud.
We know thou reign'st—All holy one, all just!
And bless thee still with love's own boundless trust.
We feel no more that aid is nigh,
When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer—and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.
Yet, by the anguish of thy Son
When his last hour came darkly on—
By his dread cry, the air which rent
In terror of abandonment—
And by his parting word, which rose
Through faith victorious o'er all woes—
We know that Thou may'st wound, may'st break
The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake!
Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn,
In our deep need to Thee we turn!
To whom but Thee!—All merciful, all just!
In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust!
When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer—and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.
Yet, by the anguish of thy Son
When his last hour came darkly on—
By his dread cry, the air which rent
In terror of abandonment—
And by his parting word, which rose
Through faith victorious o'er all woes—
We know that Thou may'st wound, may'st break
The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake!
Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn,
In our deep need to Thee we turn!
To whom but Thee!—All merciful, all just!
In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust!
The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her Letters from France, gave rise to this little scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, which they every night sung together in a low and restrained voice.
A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and hearing some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamentations, turned towards the sufferer, and thus addressed him:—“My friend, whoever you may be, remember that your God expired upon the cross—your king upon the scaffold—and he who now speaks to you has had his limbs shot from under him. Meet your fate as becomes a man.”
188
HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION.
“Thanks be to God for the mountains.”
Howitt's Book of the Seasons.
Howitt's Book of the Seasons.
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Thou hast made thy children mighty,
By the touch of the mountain sod.
Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge
Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Our God, our fathers' God!
Thou hast made thy children mighty,
By the touch of the mountain sod.
Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge
Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
We are watchers of a beacon
Whose light must never die;
We are guardians of an altar
'Midst the silence of the sky:
The rocks yield founts of courage,
Struck forth as by thy rod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Whose light must never die;
We are guardians of an altar
'Midst the silence of the sky:
The rocks yield founts of courage,
Struck forth as by thy rod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
For the dark resounding caverns,
Where thy still, small voice is heard;
For the strong pines of the forests,
That by thy breath are stirr'd;
For the storms, on whose free pinions
Thy spirit walks abroad;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Where thy still, small voice is heard;
For the strong pines of the forests,
That by thy breath are stirr'd;
For the storms, on whose free pinions
Thy spirit walks abroad;
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Our God, our fathers' God!
The royal eagle darteth
On his quarry from the heights,
And the stag that knows no master,
Seeks there his wild delights;
But we, for thy communion,
Have sought the mountain sod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
On his quarry from the heights,
And the stag that knows no master,
Seeks there his wild delights;
But we, for thy communion,
Have sought the mountain sod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
The banner of the chieftain,
Far, far below us waves;
The war-horse of the spearman
Cannot reach our lofty caves:
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold
Of freedom's last abode;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Far, far below us waves;
The war-horse of the spearman
Cannot reach our lofty caves:
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold
Of freedom's last abode;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
For the shadow of thy presence,
Round our camp of rock outspread;
For the stern defiles of battle,
Bearing record of our dead;
For the snows and for the torrents,
For the free heart's burial-sod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
Round our camp of rock outspread;
For the stern defiles of battle,
Bearing record of our dead;
For the snows and for the torrents,
For the free heart's burial-sod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers' God!
190
THE INDIAN'S REVENGE.
SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY.
“But by my wrongs and by my wrath,
To-morrow Areouski's breath
That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light me to the foe!”
Indian Song in “Gertrude of Wyoming.”
To-morrow Areouski's breath
That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light me to the foe!”
Indian Song in “Gertrude of Wyoming.”
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.
Was that the light from some lone swift canoe
Shooting across the waters?—No, a flash
From the night's first quick fire-fly, lost again
In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark
Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze
Comes through the forest. In this new, strange world,
Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems
The mighty melancholy of the woods!
The desert's own great spirit, infinite!
Little they know, in mine own fatherland,
Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst
The wild Harz mountains, or the silvan glades
Deep in the Odenwald, they little know
Of what is solitude! In hours like this,
There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths
Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices,
To guide the peasant, singing cheerily,
On the home path; while round his lowly porch,
With eager eyes awaiting his return,
The cluster'd faces of his children shine
To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts!
Melting my spirit's grasp from heavenly hope
By your vain earthward yearnings. O my God!
Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee,
Till all the hollow of these deep desires
May with thyself be fill'd!—Be it enough
At once to gladden and to solemnize
My lonely life, if for thine altar here
In this dread temple of the wilderness,
By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win
The offering of one heart, one human heart,
Bleeding, repenting, loving!
Shooting across the waters?—No, a flash
From the night's first quick fire-fly, lost again
In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark
Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze
Comes through the forest. In this new, strange world,
Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems
The mighty melancholy of the woods!
The desert's own great spirit, infinite!
Little they know, in mine own fatherland,
Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst
The wild Harz mountains, or the silvan glades
Deep in the Odenwald, they little know
191
There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths
Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices,
To guide the peasant, singing cheerily,
On the home path; while round his lowly porch,
With eager eyes awaiting his return,
The cluster'd faces of his children shine
To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts!
Melting my spirit's grasp from heavenly hope
By your vain earthward yearnings. O my God!
Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee,
Till all the hollow of these deep desires
May with thyself be fill'd!—Be it enough
At once to gladden and to solemnize
My lonely life, if for thine altar here
In this dread temple of the wilderness,
By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win
The offering of one heart, one human heart,
Bleeding, repenting, loving!
Hark! a step,
An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound—
Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass
Gliding so serpent-like.
[He comes forward, and meets an Indian warrior armed.
An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound—
Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass
Gliding so serpent-like.
Enonio, is it thou? I see thy form
Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine eye
Discerns thy face.
Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine eye
Discerns thy face.
Enonio.
My father speaks my name.
Herrmann.
Are not the hunters from the chase returned?
The night-fires lit? Why is my son abroad?
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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,
193
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,
194
'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
195
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,
196
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
197
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!
Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is founded, are recorded in Carne's Narrative of the Moravian Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch.
198
PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY.
“The land shall never rue,
So England to herself do prove but true.”
Shakspeare.
So England to herself do prove but true.”
Shakspeare.
Through evening's bright repose
A voice of prayer arose,
When the sea-fight was done:
The sons of England knelt,
With hearts that now could melt,
For on the wave her battle had been won.
A voice of prayer arose,
When the sea-fight was done:
The sons of England knelt,
With hearts that now could melt,
For on the wave her battle had been won.
Round their tall ship, the main
Heaved with a dark red stain,
Caught not from sunset's cloud;
While with the tide swept past
Pennon and shiver'd mast,
Which to the Ocean Queen that day had bow'd.
Heaved with a dark red stain,
Caught not from sunset's cloud;
While with the tide swept past
Pennon and shiver'd mast,
Which to the Ocean Queen that day had bow'd.
But free and fair on high,
A native of the sky,
Her streamer met the breeze;
It flow'd o'er fearless men,
Though hush'd and child-like then,
Before their God they gather'd on the seas.
A native of the sky,
Her streamer met the breeze;
It flow'd o'er fearless men,
Though hush'd and child-like then,
Before their God they gather'd on the seas.
Oh! did not thoughts of home
O'er each bold spirit come
As, from the land, sweet gales?
In every word of prayer
Had not some hearth a share,
Some bower, inviolate 'midst England's vales?
O'er each bold spirit come
As, from the land, sweet gales?
In every word of prayer
Had not some hearth a share,
Some bower, inviolate 'midst England's vales?
199
Yes! bright green spots that lay
In beauty far away,
Hearing no billows roar;
Safer from touch of spoil,
For that day's fiery toil,
Rose on high hearts, that now with love gush'd o'er.
In beauty far away,
Hearing no billows roar;
Safer from touch of spoil,
For that day's fiery toil,
Rose on high hearts, that now with love gush'd o'er.
A solemn scene and dread!
The victors and the dead,
The breathless burning sky!
And, passing with the race
Of waves that keep no trace,
The wild, brief signs of human victory!
The victors and the dead,
The breathless burning sky!
And, passing with the race
Of waves that keep no trace,
The wild, brief signs of human victory!
A stern, yet holy scene!
Billows, where strife hath been,
Sinking to awful sleep;
And words, that breathe the sense
Of God's omnipotence,
Making a minster of that silent deep.
Billows, where strife hath been,
Sinking to awful sleep;
And words, that breathe the sense
Of God's omnipotence,
Making a minster of that silent deep.
Borne through such hours afar,
Thy flag hath been a star,
Where eagle's wing ne'er flew:—
England! the unprofaned,
Thou of the hearths unstain'd,
Oh! to the banner and the shrine be true!
Thy flag hath been a star,
Where eagle's wing ne'er flew:—
England! the unprofaned,
Thou of the hearths unstain'd,
Oh! to the banner and the shrine be true!
200
EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY.
Father of heaven and earth!
I bless thee for the night,
The soft, still night!
The holy pause of care and mirth,
Of sound and light!
I bless thee for the night,
The soft, still night!
The holy pause of care and mirth,
Of sound and light!
Now, far in glade and dell,
Flower-cup, and bud, and bell,
Have shut around the sleeping woodlark's nest—
The bee's long murmuring toils are done,
And I, the o'erwearied one,
O'erwearied and o'erwrought,
Bless thee, O God! O Father of the oppress'd,
With my last waking thought,
In the still night!
Flower-cup, and bud, and bell,
Have shut around the sleeping woodlark's nest—
The bee's long murmuring toils are done,
And I, the o'erwearied one,
O'erwearied and o'erwrought,
Bless thee, O God! O Father of the oppress'd,
With my last waking thought,
In the still night!
Yes, e'er I sink to rest,
By the fire's dying light,
Thou Lord of earth and heaven!
I bless thee, who hast given
Unto life's fainting travellers, the night,
The soft, still, holy night!
By the fire's dying light,
Thou Lord of earth and heaven!
I bless thee, who hast given
Unto life's fainting travellers, the night,
The soft, still, holy night!
201
THE DAY OF FLOWERS.
A MOTHER'S WALK WITH HER CHILD.
“One spirit—His
Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows,
Rules universal nature.—Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues,
And bathes their eyes with nectar.
Happy who walks with him!”
Cowper.
Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows,
Rules universal nature.—Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues,
And bathes their eyes with nectar.
Happy who walks with him!”
Cowper.
Come to the woods, my boy!
Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth,
My happy child! The spirit of bright hours
Woos us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents
From thickets where the lonely stock-dove broods,
Enter our lattice; fitful songs of joy
Float in with each soft current of the air;
And we will hear their summons; we will give
One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad thoughts,
And thou shalt revel 'midst free nature's wealth,
And for thy mother twine wild wreaths; while she
From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart
The vernal extasy of childhood back:
Come to the woods, my boy!
Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth,
My happy child! The spirit of bright hours
Woos us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents
From thickets where the lonely stock-dove broods,
Enter our lattice; fitful songs of joy
Float in with each soft current of the air;
And we will hear their summons; we will give
One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad thoughts,
And thou shalt revel 'midst free nature's wealth,
And for thy mother twine wild wreaths; while she
From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart
The vernal extasy of childhood back:
Come to the woods, my boy!
What! wouldst thou lead already to the path
Along the copsewood brook? Come, then! in truth
Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child,
Is a glad singing stream, heard or unheard,
Singing its melody of happiness
Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace
To that sweet chime. With what a sparkling life
It fills the shadowy dingle!—now the wing
Of some low skimming swallow shakes bright spray
Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave;
Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep,
The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam
And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings
Of mazy insects o'er the shallow tide
Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light
From burnish'd films! And mark yon silvery line
Of gossamer, so tremulously hung
Across the narrow current, from the tuft
Of hazels to the hoary poplar's bough!
See, in the air's transparence, how it waves,
Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale,
Yet breaking not—a bridge for fairy shapes,
How delicate, how wondrous!
Along the copsewood brook? Come, then! in truth
Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child,
Is a glad singing stream, heard or unheard,
Singing its melody of happiness
Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace
202
It fills the shadowy dingle!—now the wing
Of some low skimming swallow shakes bright spray
Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave;
Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep,
The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam
And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings
Of mazy insects o'er the shallow tide
Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light
From burnish'd films! And mark yon silvery line
Of gossamer, so tremulously hung
Across the narrow current, from the tuft
Of hazels to the hoary poplar's bough!
See, in the air's transparence, how it waves,
Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale,
Yet breaking not—a bridge for fairy shapes,
How delicate, how wondrous!
Yes, my boy!
Well may we make the stream's bright winding vein
Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream
Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness,
For ever deepening. Oh, forget him not,
Dear child! that airy gladness which thou feel'st
Wafting thee after bird and butterfly,
As 'twere a breeze within thee, is not less
His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours,
Than this rich outward sunshine, mantling all
The leaves, and grass, and mossy tinted stones
With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step
My merry wanderer! let us rest a while
By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung
From alder boughs and osiers o'er its breast,
The soft red of the flowering willow-herb
So vividly is pictured. Seems it not
E'en melting to a more transparent glow
In that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams!
And, through all ages, human hearts have loved
Their music, still accordant with each mood
Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown
Into vain worship, which hath left its trace
On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still
Beneath dim olive boughs, by many a fount
Of Italy and Greece. But we will take
Our lesson e'en from erring hearts, which bless'd
The river deities or fountain nymphs,
For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade,
And the sweet water's tune. The One supreme,
The all-sustaining, ever-present God,
Who dower'd the soul with immortality,
Gave also these delights, to cheer on earth
Its fleeting passage; therefore let us greet
Each wandering flower scent as a boon from Him,
Each bird-note, quivering 'midst light summer leaves,
And every rich celestial tint unnamed,
Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of morn and eve,
Kindle and melt away!
Well may we make the stream's bright winding vein
Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream
Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness,
For ever deepening. Oh, forget him not,
Dear child! that airy gladness which thou feel'st
Wafting thee after bird and butterfly,
As 'twere a breeze within thee, is not less
His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours,
Than this rich outward sunshine, mantling all
The leaves, and grass, and mossy tinted stones
With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step
My merry wanderer! let us rest a while
By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung
From alder boughs and osiers o'er its breast,
203
So vividly is pictured. Seems it not
E'en melting to a more transparent glow
In that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams!
And, through all ages, human hearts have loved
Their music, still accordant with each mood
Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown
Into vain worship, which hath left its trace
On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still
Beneath dim olive boughs, by many a fount
Of Italy and Greece. But we will take
Our lesson e'en from erring hearts, which bless'd
The river deities or fountain nymphs,
For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade,
And the sweet water's tune. The One supreme,
The all-sustaining, ever-present God,
Who dower'd the soul with immortality,
Gave also these delights, to cheer on earth
Its fleeting passage; therefore let us greet
Each wandering flower scent as a boon from Him,
Each bird-note, quivering 'midst light summer leaves,
And every rich celestial tint unnamed,
Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of morn and eve,
Kindle and melt away!
And now, in love,
In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend
Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers
Around the ruin'd mansion. Thou, my boy,
Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn
But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee
Will wear no shadow of subduing thought—
No colouring from the past. This way our path
Winds through the hazels;—mark how brightly shoots
The dragon-fly along the sunbeam's line,
Crossing the leafy gloom. How full of life,
The life of song, and breezes, and free wings,
Is all the murmuring shade! and thine, O thine!
Of all the brightest and the happiest here,
My blessed child! my gift of God! that makest
My heart o'erflow with summer!
In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend
Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers
Around the ruin'd mansion. Thou, my boy,
Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn
But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee
Will wear no shadow of subduing thought—
No colouring from the past. This way our path
204
The dragon-fly along the sunbeam's line,
Crossing the leafy gloom. How full of life,
The life of song, and breezes, and free wings,
Is all the murmuring shade! and thine, O thine!
Of all the brightest and the happiest here,
My blessed child! my gift of God! that makest
My heart o'erflow with summer!
Hast thou twined
Thy wreath so soon! yet will we loiter not,
Though here the blue-bell wave, and gorgeously
Round the brown twisted roots of yon scathed oak
The heath-flower spread its purple. We must leave
The copse, and through yon broken avenue,
Shadow'd by drooping walnut foliage, reach
The ruin's glade.
Thy wreath so soon! yet will we loiter not,
Though here the blue-bell wave, and gorgeously
Round the brown twisted roots of yon scathed oak
The heath-flower spread its purple. We must leave
The copse, and through yon broken avenue,
Shadow'd by drooping walnut foliage, reach
The ruin's glade.
And, lo! before us fair,
Yet desolate, amidst the golden day,
It stands, that house of silence! wedded now
To verdant nature by the o'ermantling growth
Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman's hands
Once loved to train. How the rich wallflower scent
From every niche and mossy cornice floats,
Embalming its decay! The bee alone
Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more
Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine,
Watching some homeward footstep. See! unbound
From the old fretted stone-work, what thick wreaths
Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down,
Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and load
The air with mournful fragrance, for it speaks
Of life gone hence; and the faint southern breath
Of myrtle leaves from yon forsaken porch,
Startles the soul with sweetness! Yet rich knots
Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sown
Through all the sunny hollow, spread around
A flush of youth and joy, free nature's joy,
Undimm'd by human change. How kindly here,
With the low thyme and daisies, they have blent!
And, under arches of wild eglantine,
Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely seems
The frail gum-cistus o'er the turf to snow
Its pearly flower-leaves down!—Go, happy boy!
Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets,
Whilst I, beside this fallen dial-stone,
Under the tall moss rose-tree, long unpruned,
Rest where thick clustering pansies weave around
Their many-tinged mosaic, 'midst dark grass,
Bedded like jewels.
Yet desolate, amidst the golden day,
It stands, that house of silence! wedded now
To verdant nature by the o'ermantling growth
Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman's hands
Once loved to train. How the rich wallflower scent
From every niche and mossy cornice floats,
Embalming its decay! The bee alone
Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more
Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine,
Watching some homeward footstep. See! unbound
From the old fretted stone-work, what thick wreaths
Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down,
Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and load
205
Of life gone hence; and the faint southern breath
Of myrtle leaves from yon forsaken porch,
Startles the soul with sweetness! Yet rich knots
Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sown
Through all the sunny hollow, spread around
A flush of youth and joy, free nature's joy,
Undimm'd by human change. How kindly here,
With the low thyme and daisies, they have blent!
And, under arches of wild eglantine,
Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely seems
The frail gum-cistus o'er the turf to snow
Its pearly flower-leaves down!—Go, happy boy!
Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets,
Whilst I, beside this fallen dial-stone,
Under the tall moss rose-tree, long unpruned,
Rest where thick clustering pansies weave around
Their many-tinged mosaic, 'midst dark grass,
Bedded like jewels.
He hath bounded on,
Wild with delight!—the crimson on his cheek
Purer and richer e'en than that which lies
In this deep-hearted rose-cup!—Bright moss rose!
Though now so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree!
Once thou wert cherish'd! and, by human love,
Through many a summer duly visited
For thy bloom-offerings, which o'er festal board,
And youthful brow, and e'en the shaded couch
Of long secluded sickness, may have shed
A joy, now lost.
Wild with delight!—the crimson on his cheek
Purer and richer e'en than that which lies
In this deep-hearted rose-cup!—Bright moss rose!
Though now so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree!
Once thou wert cherish'd! and, by human love,
Through many a summer duly visited
For thy bloom-offerings, which o'er festal board,
And youthful brow, and e'en the shaded couch
Of long secluded sickness, may have shed
A joy, now lost.
Yet shall there still be joy,
Where God hath pour'd forth beauty, and the voice
Of human love shall still be heard in praise
Over his glorious gifts!—O Father, Lord!
The all-beneficent! I bless thy name,
That thou hast mantled the green earth with flowers,
Linking our hearts to nature! By the love
Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first
Into her deep recesses are beguiled,
Her minster cells; dark glen and forest bower,
Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee,
Amidst the low religious whisperings
And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude,
The spirit wakes to worship, and is made
Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers,
Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares,
Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain streams,
That sing of Thee! back to free childhood's heart,
Fresh with the dews of tenderness!—Thou bidd'st
The lilies of the field with placid smile
Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse
Through his worn soul a more unworldly life,
With their soft holy breath. Thou hast not left
His purer nature, with its fine desires,
Uncared for in this universe of thine!
The glowing rose attests it, the beloved
Of poet hearts, touch'd by their fervent dreams
With spiritual light, and made a source
Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint age
Thou lend'st the vernal bliss:—the old man's eye
Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul
Remembers youth and love, and hopefully
Turns unto thee, who call'st earth's buried germs
From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed
Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up
To put on glory to be girt with power,
And fill'd with immortality. Receive
Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons,
And, most of all, their heavenward influences,
O Thou that gavest us flowers!
Where God hath pour'd forth beauty, and the voice
206
Over his glorious gifts!—O Father, Lord!
The all-beneficent! I bless thy name,
That thou hast mantled the green earth with flowers,
Linking our hearts to nature! By the love
Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first
Into her deep recesses are beguiled,
Her minster cells; dark glen and forest bower,
Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee,
Amidst the low religious whisperings
And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude,
The spirit wakes to worship, and is made
Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers,
Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares,
Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain streams,
That sing of Thee! back to free childhood's heart,
Fresh with the dews of tenderness!—Thou bidd'st
The lilies of the field with placid smile
Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse
Through his worn soul a more unworldly life,
With their soft holy breath. Thou hast not left
His purer nature, with its fine desires,
Uncared for in this universe of thine!
The glowing rose attests it, the beloved
Of poet hearts, touch'd by their fervent dreams
With spiritual light, and made a source
Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint age
Thou lend'st the vernal bliss:—the old man's eye
Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul
Remembers youth and love, and hopefully
Turns unto thee, who call'st earth's buried germs
From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed
207
To put on glory to be girt with power,
And fill'd with immortality. Receive
Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons,
And, most of all, their heavenward influences,
O Thou that gavest us flowers!
Return, my boy,
With all thy chaplets and bright bands return!
See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch'd
And glorified the ruin! glow-worm light
Will twinkle on the dewdrops, e'er we reach
Our home again. Come, with thy last sweet prayer
At thy bless'd mother's knee, to-night shall thanks
Unto our Father in his heaven arise,
For all the gladness, all the beauty shed
O'er one rich day of flowers.
With all thy chaplets and bright bands return!
See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch'd
And glorified the ruin! glow-worm light
Will twinkle on the dewdrops, e'er we reach
Our home again. Come, with thy last sweet prayer
At thy bless'd mother's knee, to-night shall thanks
Unto our Father in his heaven arise,
For all the gladness, all the beauty shed
O'er one rich day of flowers.
HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER'S HOUSEHOLD ON HIS RETURN,
IN THE OLDEN TIME.
Joy! the lost one is restored!
Sunshine comes to hearth and board.
From the far-off countries old
Of the diamond and red gold:
From the dusky archer bands,
Roamers of the fiery sands!
From the desert winds, whose breath
Smites with sudden silent death;
He hath reach'd his home again,
Where we sing
In thy praise a fervent strain,
God our King!
Sunshine comes to hearth and board.
From the far-off countries old
Of the diamond and red gold:
From the dusky archer bands,
Roamers of the fiery sands!
From the desert winds, whose breath
Smites with sudden silent death;
208
Where we sing
In thy praise a fervent strain,
God our King!
Mightiest! unto Thee he turn'd,
When the noon-day fiercest burn'd;
When the fountain springs were far,
And the sounds of Arab war
Swell'd upon the sultry blast,
And the sandy columns past,
Unto Thee he cried! and Thou,
Merciful! didst hear his vow!
Therefore unto Thee again
Joy shall sing,
Many a sweet and thankful strain,
God our King!
When the noon-day fiercest burn'd;
When the fountain springs were far,
And the sounds of Arab war
Swell'd upon the sultry blast,
And the sandy columns past,
Unto Thee he cried! and Thou,
Merciful! didst hear his vow!
Therefore unto Thee again
Joy shall sing,
Many a sweet and thankful strain,
God our King!
Thou wert with him on the main,
And the snowy mountain chain,
And the rivers, dark and wide,
Which through Indian forests glide,
Thou didst guard him from the wrath
Of the lion in his path,
And the arrows on the breeze,
And the dropping poison-trees:
Therefore from our household train
Oft shall spring
Unto thee a blessing strain,
God our King!
And the snowy mountain chain,
And the rivers, dark and wide,
Which through Indian forests glide,
Thou didst guard him from the wrath
Of the lion in his path,
And the arrows on the breeze,
And the dropping poison-trees:
Therefore from our household train
Oft shall spring
Unto thee a blessing strain,
God our King!
Thou to his lone watching wife
Hast brought back the light of life!
Thou hast spared his loving child
Home to greet him from the wild.
Though the suns of eastern skies
On his cheek have set their dyes,
Though long toils and sleepless cares
On his brow have blanch'd the hairs,
Yet the night of fear is flown,
He is living, and our own!—
Brethren! spread his festal board,
Hang his mantle and his sword,
With the armour, on the wall—
While this long, long silent hall
Joyfully doth hear again
Voice and string
Swell to Thee the exulting strain,
God our King!
Hast brought back the light of life!
209
Home to greet him from the wild.
Though the suns of eastern skies
On his cheek have set their dyes,
Though long toils and sleepless cares
On his brow have blanch'd the hairs,
Yet the night of fear is flown,
He is living, and our own!—
Brethren! spread his festal board,
Hang his mantle and his sword,
With the armour, on the wall—
While this long, long silent hall
Joyfully doth hear again
Voice and string
Swell to Thee the exulting strain,
God our King!
A PRAYER OF AFFECTION.
Blessings, O Father! shower,
Father of Mercies! round his precious head!
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour,
And the pure visions of his midnight bed,
Blessings be shed!
Father of Mercies! round his precious head!
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour,
And the pure visions of his midnight bed,
Blessings be shed!
Father! I pray Thee not
For earthly treasure to that most beloved,
Fame, fortune, power:—oh! be his spirit proved
By these, or by their absence, at Thy will!
But let Thy peace be wedded to his lot,
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill,
With its dove-pinion still!
Let such a sense of Thee,
Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love,
His bosom guest inalienably be,
That wheresoe'er he move,
A heavenly light serene
Upon his heart and mien
May sit undimm'd! a gladness rest his own,
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown!
Such as from childhood's morning land of dreams,
Remember'd faintly, gleams,
Faintly remember'd, and too swiftly flown!
For earthly treasure to that most beloved,
Fame, fortune, power:—oh! be his spirit proved
By these, or by their absence, at Thy will!
But let Thy peace be wedded to his lot,
210
With its dove-pinion still!
Let such a sense of Thee,
Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love,
His bosom guest inalienably be,
That wheresoe'er he move,
A heavenly light serene
Upon his heart and mien
May sit undimm'd! a gladness rest his own,
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown!
Such as from childhood's morning land of dreams,
Remember'd faintly, gleams,
Faintly remember'd, and too swiftly flown!
So let him walk with Thee,
Made by Thy spirit free;
And when Thou call'st him from his mortal place,
To his last hour be still that sweetness given,
That joyful trust! and brightly let him part,
With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart,
Mature to meet in heaven
His Saviour's face!
Made by Thy spirit free;
And when Thou call'st him from his mortal place,
To his last hour be still that sweetness given,
That joyful trust! and brightly let him part,
With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart,
Mature to meet in heaven
His Saviour's face!
THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK.
“Clasp me a little longer on the brink
Of life, while I can feel thy dear caress;
And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh! think,
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship just—
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,
And by the hope of an immortal trust,
God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust!”
Campbell.
Of life, while I can feel thy dear caress;
And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh! think,
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship just—
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And by the hope of an immortal trust,
God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust!”
Campbell.
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
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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.
E'en therefore we can part,
With an immortal trust, that such high love
Is not of things to perish.
With an immortal trust, that such high love
Is not of things to perish.
Let me leave
One record still of its ethereal flame
Brightening thro' death's cold shadow. Once again,
Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast,
And eyes half veil'd, in thine own soul absorb'd,
As in thy watchings, e'er I sink to sleep;
And I will give the bending flower-like grace
Of that soft form, and the still sweetness throned
On that pale brow, and in that quivering smile
Of voiceless love, a life that shall outlast
Their delicate earthly being. There! thy head
Bow'd down with beauty, and with tenderness,
And lowly thought—even thus—my own Teresa!
Oh! the quick-glancing radiance and bright bloom
That once around thee hung, have melted now
Into more solemn light—but holier far,
And dearer, and yet lovelier in mine eyes,
Than all that summer flush! For by my couch,
In patient and serene devotedness,
Thou hast made those rich hues and sunny smiles
Thine offering unto me. Oh! I may give
Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow,
And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye,
Unto the canvass;—I may catch the flow
Of all those drooping locks, and glorify
With a soft halo what is imaged thus—
But how much rests unbreathed! my faithful one!
What thou hast been to me! This bitter world,
This cold unanswering world, that hath no voice
To greet the gentle spirit, that drives back
All birds of Eden, which would sojourn here
A little while—how have I turn'd away
From its keen soulless air, and in thy heart
Found ever the sweet fountain of response,
To quench my thirst for home!
One record still of its ethereal flame
Brightening thro' death's cold shadow. Once again,
Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast,
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As in thy watchings, e'er I sink to sleep;
And I will give the bending flower-like grace
Of that soft form, and the still sweetness throned
On that pale brow, and in that quivering smile
Of voiceless love, a life that shall outlast
Their delicate earthly being. There! thy head
Bow'd down with beauty, and with tenderness,
And lowly thought—even thus—my own Teresa!
Oh! the quick-glancing radiance and bright bloom
That once around thee hung, have melted now
Into more solemn light—but holier far,
And dearer, and yet lovelier in mine eyes,
Than all that summer flush! For by my couch,
In patient and serene devotedness,
Thou hast made those rich hues and sunny smiles
Thine offering unto me. Oh! I may give
Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow,
And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye,
Unto the canvass;—I may catch the flow
Of all those drooping locks, and glorify
With a soft halo what is imaged thus—
But how much rests unbreathed! my faithful one!
What thou hast been to me! This bitter world,
This cold unanswering world, that hath no voice
To greet the gentle spirit, that drives back
All birds of Eden, which would sojourn here
A little while—how have I turn'd away
From its keen soulless air, and in thy heart
Found ever the sweet fountain of response,
To quench my thirst for home!
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The dear work grows
Beneath my hand,—the last!
Beneath my hand,—the last!
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.
Weep, weep not thus, beloved!
Let my true heart o'er thine retain its power
Of soothing to the last!—Mine own Teresa!
Take strength from strong affection!—Let our souls,
Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain
Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God's rich boon—
Our perfect love!—Oh! blessed have we been
In that high gift; Thousands o'er earth may pass
With hearts unfreshen'd by the heavenly dew,
Which hath kept ours from withering.—Kneel, true wife!
And lay thy hands in mine.
[She kneels beside the couch—he prays.
Let my true heart o'er thine retain its power
Of soothing to the last!—Mine own Teresa!
Take strength from strong affection!—Let our souls,
Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain
Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God's rich boon—
Our perfect love!—Oh! blessed have we been
In that high gift; Thousands o'er earth may pass
With hearts unfreshen'd by the heavenly dew,
Which hath kept ours from withering.—Kneel, true wife!
And lay thy hands in mine.
Oh, thus receive
Thy children's thanks, Creator! for the love
Which thou hast granted, through all earthly woes,
To spread heaven's peace around them; which hath bound
Their spirits to each other and to thee,
With links whereon unkindness ne'er hath breathed,
Nor wandering thought. We thank thee, gracious God!
For all its treasured memories! tender cares,
Fond words, bright, bright sustaining looks, unchanged
Through tears and joy. O Father! most of all
We thank, we bless Thee, for the priceless trust,
Through Thy redeeming Son vouchsafed, to those
That love in Thee, of union, in Thy sight,
And in Thy heavens, immortal! Hear our prayer!
Take home our fond affections, purified
To spirit radiance from all earthly stain;
Exalted, solemnized, made fit to dwell,
Father! where all things that are lovely meet.
And all things that are pure—for evermore,
With Thee and Thine!
Thy children's thanks, Creator! for the love
Which thou hast granted, through all earthly woes,
To spread heaven's peace around them; which hath bound
Their spirits to each other and to thee,
With links whereon unkindness ne'er hath breathed,
Nor wandering thought. We thank thee, gracious God!
For all its treasured memories! tender cares,
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Through tears and joy. O Father! most of all
We thank, we bless Thee, for the priceless trust,
Through Thy redeeming Son vouchsafed, to those
That love in Thee, of union, in Thy sight,
And in Thy heavens, immortal! Hear our prayer!
Take home our fond affections, purified
To spirit radiance from all earthly stain;
Exalted, solemnized, made fit to dwell,
Father! where all things that are lovely meet.
And all things that are pure—for evermore,
With Thee and Thine!
Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter Blake, which is beautifully related by Allan Cunningham.
MOTHER'S LITANY BY THE SICKBED OF A CHILD.
Saviour, that of woman born,
Mother-sorrow didst not scorn,
Thou, with whose last anguish strove
One dear thought of earthly love—
Hear and aid!
Mother-sorrow didst not scorn,
Thou, with whose last anguish strove
One dear thought of earthly love—
Hear and aid!
Low he lies, my precious child,
With his spirit wandering wild
From its gladsome tasks and play,
And its bright thoughts far away—
Saviour, aid!
With his spirit wandering wild
From its gladsome tasks and play,
And its bright thoughts far away—
Saviour, aid!
Pain sits heavy on his brow,
E'en though slumber seal it now;
Round his lip is quivering strife,
In his hand unquiet life—
Aid! oh, aid!
E'en though slumber seal it now;
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In his hand unquiet life—
Aid! oh, aid!
Saviour! loose the burning chain
From his fever'd heart and brain,
Give, oh! give his young soul back,
Into its own cloudless track!
Hear and aid!
From his fever'd heart and brain,
Give, oh! give his young soul back,
Into its own cloudless track!
Hear and aid!
Thou that said'st, “Awake, arise!”
E'en when death had quench'd the eyes,
In this hour of grief's deep sighing,
When o'erwearied hope is dying!
Hear and aid!
E'en when death had quench'd the eyes,
In this hour of grief's deep sighing,
When o'erwearied hope is dying!
Hear and aid!
Yet, oh! make him thine, all thine,
Saviour! whether death's or mine!
Yet, oh! pour on human love,
Strength, trust, patience, from above!
Hear and aid!
Saviour! whether death's or mine!
Yet, oh! pour on human love,
Strength, trust, patience, from above!
Hear and aid!
NIGHT HYMN AT SEA.
THE WORDS WRITTEN FOR A MELODY BY FELTON.
Night sinks on the wave,
Hollow gusts are sighing,
Sea-birds to their cave
Through the gloom are flying.
Oh! should storms come sweeping,
Thou, in heaven unsleeping,
O'er thy children vigil keeping,
Hear, hear, and save!
Hollow gusts are sighing,
Sea-birds to their cave
Through the gloom are flying.
Oh! should storms come sweeping,
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O'er thy children vigil keeping,
Hear, hear, and save!
Stars look o'er the sea,
Few, and sad, and shrouded;
Faith our light must be,
When all else is clouded.
Thou, whose voice came thrilling,
Wind and billow stilling,
Speak once more! our prayer fulfilling—
Power dwells with Thee!
Few, and sad, and shrouded;
Faith our light must be,
When all else is clouded.
Thou, whose voice came thrilling,
Wind and billow stilling,
Speak once more! our prayer fulfilling—
Power dwells with Thee!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |