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. |
|
THE BARD'S FAREWELL. |
|
|
| 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 works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
THE BARD'S FAREWELL.
Thou setting moon! when next thy rays
Are trembling on the shadowy deep,
The land, now fading from my gaze,
These eyes in vain shall weep;
And wander o'er the lonely sea,
And fix their tearful glance on thee,
On thee! whose light so softly gleams,
Through the green oaks that fringe my native streams.
Are trembling on the shadowy deep,
The land, now fading from my gaze,
These eyes in vain shall weep;
And wander o'er the lonely sea,
And fix their tearful glance on thee,
On thee! whose light so softly gleams,
Through the green oaks that fringe my native streams.
But, 'midst those ancient groves, no more
Shall I thy quivering lustre hail,
Its plaintive strain my harp must pour,
To swell a foreign gale;
The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke,
When its full tones their stillness broke,
Deserted now, shall hear alone,
The brook's wild voice, the wind's mysterious moan.
Shall I thy quivering lustre hail,
Its plaintive strain my harp must pour,
To swell a foreign gale;
The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke,
When its full tones their stillness broke,
Deserted now, shall hear alone,
The brook's wild voice, the wind's mysterious moan.
And oh! ye fair, forsaken halls,
Left by your lord to slow decay,
Soon shall the trophies on your walls
Be mouldering fast away!
There shall no choral songs resound,
There shall no festal board be crown'd;
But ivy wreath the silent gate,
And all be hush'd, and cold, and desolate.
Left by your lord to slow decay,
Soon shall the trophies on your walls
Be mouldering fast away!
There shall no choral songs resound,
There shall no festal board be crown'd;
But ivy wreath the silent gate,
And all be hush'd, and cold, and desolate.
170
No banner from the stately tower,
Shall spread its blazon'd folds on high,
There the wild brier and summer flower,
Unmark'd, shall wave and die.
Home of the mighty! thou art lone,
The noonday of thy pride is gone,
And, 'midst thy solitude profound,
A step shall echo like unearthly sound!
Shall spread its blazon'd folds on high,
There the wild brier and summer flower,
Unmark'd, shall wave and die.
Home of the mighty! thou art lone,
The noonday of thy pride is gone,
And, 'midst thy solitude profound,
A step shall echo like unearthly sound!
From thy cold hearths no festal blaze
Shall fill the hall with ruddy light,
Nor welcome, with convivial rays,
Some pilgrim of the night;
But there shall grass luxuriant spread,
As o'er the dwellings of the dead;
And the deep swell of every blast,
Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past.
Shall fill the hall with ruddy light,
Nor welcome, with convivial rays,
Some pilgrim of the night;
But there shall grass luxuriant spread,
As o'er the dwellings of the dead;
And the deep swell of every blast,
Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past.
And I—my joy of life is fled,
My spirit's power, my bosom's glow,
The raven locks that graced my head,
Wave in a wreath of snow!
And where the star of youth arose,
I deem'd life's lingering ray should close,
And those loved trees my tomb o'ershade,
Beneath whose arching bowers my childhood play'd.
My spirit's power, my bosom's glow,
The raven locks that graced my head,
Wave in a wreath of snow!
And where the star of youth arose,
I deem'd life's lingering ray should close,
And those loved trees my tomb o'ershade,
Beneath whose arching bowers my childhood play'd.
Vain dream! that tomb in distant earth
Shall rise, forsaken and forgot;
And thou, sweet land, that gav'st me birth,
A grave must yield me not!
Yet, haply he for whom I leave
Thy shores, in life's dark winter-eve,
When cold the hand, and closed the lays,
And mute the voice he loved to praise,
O'er the hush'd harp one tear may shed,
And one frail garland o'er the minstrel's bed!
Shall rise, forsaken and forgot;
And thou, sweet land, that gav'st me birth,
A grave must yield me not!
171
Thy shores, in life's dark winter-eve,
When cold the hand, and closed the lays,
And mute the voice he loved to praise,
O'er the hush'd harp one tear may shed,
And one frail garland o'er the minstrel's bed!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |