The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
IV. |
2. |
V. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
VI. |
VII. |
II. |
THE TWO MONUMENTS.
|
The works of Mrs. Hemans | ||
THE TWO MONUMENTS.
“Oh! bless'd are they who live and die like ‘him,’
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn'd!”
Wordsworth.
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn'd!”
Wordsworth.
Banners hung drooping from on high
In a dim cathedral's nave,
Making a gorgeous canopy
O'er a noble, noble grave!
In a dim cathedral's nave,
Making a gorgeous canopy
O'er a noble, noble grave!
And a marble warrior's form beneath,
With helm and crest array'd,
As on his battle-bed of death,
Lay in their crimson shade.
With helm and crest array'd,
As on his battle-bed of death,
Lay in their crimson shade.
Triumph yet linger'd in his eye,
Ere by the dark night seal'd,
And his head was pillow'd haughtily
On standard and on shield.
Ere by the dark night seal'd,
228
On standard and on shield.
And shadowing that proud trophy pile
With the glory of his wing,
An eagle sat;—yet seem'd the while
Panting through heaven to spring.
With the glory of his wing,
An eagle sat;—yet seem'd the while
Panting through heaven to spring.
He sat upon a shiver'd lance,
There by the sculptor bound;
But in the light of his lifted glance
Was that which scorn'd the ground.
There by the sculptor bound;
But in the light of his lifted glance
Was that which scorn'd the ground.
And a burning flood of gem-like hues
From a storied window pour'd,
There fell, there centred, to suffuse
The conqueror and his sword.
From a storied window pour'd,
There fell, there centred, to suffuse
The conqueror and his sword.
A flood of hues; but one rich dye
O'er all supremely spread,
With a purple robe of royalty
Mantling the mighty dead.
O'er all supremely spread,
With a purple robe of royalty
Mantling the mighty dead.
Meet was that robe for him whose name
Was a trumpet note in war,
His pathway still the march of fame,
His eye the battle star.
Was a trumpet note in war,
His pathway still the march of fame,
His eye the battle star.
But faintly, tenderly was thrown,
From the colour'd light, one ray,
Where a low and pale memorial stone
By the couch of glory lay.
From the colour'd light, one ray,
Where a low and pale memorial stone
By the couch of glory lay.
229
Few were the fond words chisell'd there,
Mourning for parted worth;
But the very heart of love and prayer
Had given their sweetness forth.
Mourning for parted worth;
But the very heart of love and prayer
Had given their sweetness forth.
They spoke of one whose life had been
As a hidden streamlet's course,
Bearing on health and joy unseen,
From its clear mountain-source:
As a hidden streamlet's course,
Bearing on health and joy unseen,
From its clear mountain-source:
Whose young pure memory, lying deep
'Midst rock, and wood, and hill,
Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,
A soft light meek and still:
'Midst rock, and wood, and hill,
Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,
A soft light meek and still:
Whose gentle voice, too early call'd
Unto Music's land away,
Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd,
By words of silvery sway.
Unto Music's land away,
Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd,
By words of silvery sway.
These were his victories—yet enroll'd
In no high song of fame,
The pastor of the mountain-fold
Left but to heaven his name.
In no high song of fame,
The pastor of the mountain-fold
Left but to heaven his name.
To heaven and to the peasant's hearth,
A blessed household sound—
And finding lowly love on earth,
Enough, enough, he found!
A blessed household sound—
And finding lowly love on earth,
Enough, enough, he found!
230
Bright and more bright before me gleam'd
That sainted image still;
Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd
The regal fane to fill.
That sainted image still;
Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd
The regal fane to fill.
Oh! how my silent spirit turn'd
From those proud trophies nigh!
How my full heart within me burn'd
Like Him to live and die!
From those proud trophies nigh!
How my full heart within me burn'd
Like Him to live and die!
The works of Mrs. Hemans | ||