LXXVI.

At eve? Oh, through all hours! From dark dreams oft Awakening, I look forth, and learn the might Of solitude, while thou art breathing soft, And low, my loved one! on the breast of night. I look forth on the stars--the shadowy sleep Of forests--and the lake whose gloomy deep Sends up red sparkles to the fire-flies’ light: A lonely world!--even fearful to man’s thought, But for His presence felt, whom here my soul hath sought.

[299] The varying sounds of waterfalls are thus alluded to in an interesting work of Mrs Grant’s. “On the opposite side the view was bounded by steep hills, covered with lofty pines, from which a waterfall descended, which not only gave animation to the sylvan scene, but was the best barometer imaginable; foretelling by its varied and intelligible sounds every approaching change, not only of the weather but of the wind.”--_Memoirs of an American Lady_, vol. i. p. 143.

[300] The circular rainbows, occasionally seen amongst the Andes, are described by Ulloa.

[301] Many striking instances of the vividness with which the mind, when strongly excited, has been known to renovate past impressions, and embody them into visible imagery, are noticed and accounted for in Dr Hibbert’s _Philosophy of Apparitions_. The following illustrative passage is quoted in the same work, from the writings of the late Dr Ferriar:--“I remember that, about the age of fourteen, it was a source of great amusement to myself, if I had been viewing any interesting object in the course of the day, such as a romantic ruin, a fine seat, or a review of a body of troops, as soon as evening came on, if I had occasion to go into a dark room, the whole scene was brought before my eyes with a brilliancy equal to what it had possessed in daylight, and remained visible for several minutes. I have no doubt that dismal and frightful images have been thus presented to young persons after scenes of domestic affliction or public horror.”

The following passage from the _Alcazar of Seville_, a tale or historical sketch, by the author of _Doblado’s Letters_, affords a further illustration of this subject. “When, descending fast into the vale of years, I strongly fix my mind’s eye on those narrow, shady, silent streets, where I breathed the scented air which came rustling through the surrounding groves; where the footsteps re-echoed from the clean watered porches of the houses, and where every object spoke of quiet and contentment;... the objects around me begin to fade into a mere delusion, and not only the thoughts, but the external sensations, which I then experienced, revive with a reality that almost makes me shudder--it has so much the character of a trance or vision.”

[302] “For because the breath of flowers is farre sweeter in the aire (where it comes and goes like the warbling of musick) than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that delight than to know what be the flowers and plants which doe best perfume the aire.”--Lord Bacon’s _Essay on Gardens_.

[303] “The pleasure we felt on discovering the Southern Cross was warmly shared by such of the crew as had lived in the colonies. In the solitude of the seas, we hail a star as a friend from whom we have long been separated. Among the Portuguese and the Spaniards, peculiar motives seem to increase this feeling; a religious sentiment attaches them to a constellation, the form of which recalls the sign of the faith planted by their ancestors in the deserts of the New World.... It has been observed at what hour of the night, in different seasons, the Cross of the South is erect or inclined. It is a time-piece that advances very regularly near four minutes a-day, and no other group of stars exhibits to the naked eye an observation of time so easily made. How often have we heard our guides exclaim, in the savannahs of Venezuela, or in the desert extending from Lima to Truxillo, ‘Midnight is past--the Cross begins to bend!’ How often these words reminded us of that affecting scene where Paul and Virginia, seated near the source of the river of Lataniers, conversed together for the last time; and where the old man, at the sight of the Southern Cross, warns them that it is time to separate!”--De Humboldt’s _Travels_.

[304] “Rio verde! rio verde!” the popular Spanish romance, known to the English reader in Percy’s translation:--

“Gentle river! gentle river! Lo, thy streams are stain’d with gore; Many a brave and noble captain Floats along thy willow’d shore,” etc.

[305] De Humboldt, in describing the burial of a young Asturian at sea, mentions the entreaty of the officiating priest, that the body, which had been brought upon deck during the night, might not be committed to the waves until after sunrise, in order to pay it the last rites according to the usage of the Romish Church.

[306] “And there was no more sea.”--_Revelation_, xxi. 1.

[307] The bridges over many deep chasms amongst the Andes are pendulous, and formed only of the fibres of equinoctial plants. Their tremulous motion is thus alluded to in one of the stanzas of _Gertrude of Wyoming_:--

“Anon some wilder portraiture he draws, Of nature’s savage glories he would speak; The loneliness of earth, that overawes, Where, resting by the tomb of old Cacique, The lama-driver on Peruvia’s peak Nor voice nor living motion marks around, But storks that to the boundless forest shriek, Or wild-cane arch, high flung o’er gulf profound, That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound.”

[308] Llanos, or savannahs, the great plains in South America.

[309] De Humboldt speaks of these rocks on the shores of the Oronoco. Travellers have heard from time to time subterraneous sounds proceed from them at sunrise, resembling those of an organ. He believes in the existence of this mysterious music, although not fortunate enough to have heard it himself; and thinks that it may be produced by currents of air issuing through the crevices.

[310] The same distinguished traveller frequently alludes to the extreme stillness of the air in the equatorial regions of the New World, and particularly on the thickly wooded shores of the Oronoco. “In this neighbourhood,” he says, “no breath of wind ever agitates the foliage.”

CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON “THE FOREST SANCTUARY.”

[“In the autumn of 1824 she began the poem which, in point of finish and consecutiveness, if not in popularity, may be considered her principal work, and which she herself inclined to look upon as her best. ‘I am at present,’ she wrote to one always interested in her literary occupations, ‘engaged upon a poem of some length, the idea of which was suggested to me by some passages in your friend Mr Blanco White’s delightful writings.[311] It relates to the sufferings of a Spanish Protestant, in the time of Philip the Second, and is supposed to be narrated by the sufferer himself, who escapes to America. I am very much interested in my subject, and hope to complete the poem in the course of the winter.’ The progress of this work was watched with great interest in her domestic circle, and its touching descriptions would often extract a tribute of tears from the fireside auditors. When completed, a family consultation was held as to its name. Various titles were proposed and rejected, till that of ‘The Forest Sanctuary’ was suggested by her brother, and finally decided upon. Though finished early in 1825, the poem was not published till the following year, when it was brought out in conjunction with the ‘Lays of Many Lands,’ and a collection of miscellaneous pieces.”--_Memoir_, p. 81.

“Mrs Hemans may be considered as the representative of a new school of poetry, or, to speak more precisely, her poetry discovers characteristics of the highest kind, which belong almost exclusively to that of latter times, and have been the result of the gradual advancement, and especially the moral progress of mankind. It is only when man, under the influence of true religion, feels himself connected with whatever is infinite, that his affections and powers are fully developed. The poetry of an immortal being must be of a different character from that of an earthly being. But, in recurring to the classic poets of antiquity, we find that in their conceptions the element of religious faith was wanting. Their mythology was to them no object of sober belief; and, had it been so, was adapted not to produce but to annihilate devotion. They had no thought of regarding the universe as created, animated, and ruled by God’s all-powerful and omniscient goodness.”--Professor Norton in _Christian Examiner_.

“We will now say a few words of ‘The Forest Sanctuary;’ but it so abounds with beauty, is so highly finished, and animated by so generous a spirit of moral heroism, that we can do no justice to our views of it in the narrow space which our limits allow us. A Spanish Protestant flies from persecution at home to religious liberty in America. He has imbibed the spirit of our own fathers, and his mental struggles are described in verses, with which the descendants of the pilgrims must know how to sympathise. We dare not enter on an analysis. From one scene at sea, in the second part, we will make a few extracts. The exile is attended by his wife and child, but his wife remains true to the faith of her fathers.

“‘Ora pro nobis, Mater!’ what a spell Was in those notes,” etc.

“But we must cease making extracts, for we could not transfer all that is beautiful in the poem without transferring the whole.”--_North American Review_, April 1827.

“Mrs Hemans considered this poem as almost, if not altogether, the best of her works. She would sometimes say, that in proportion to the praise which had been bestowed upon other of her less carefully meditated and shorter compositions, she thought it had hardly met with its fair share of success: for it was the first continuous effort in which she dared to write from the fulness of her own heart--to listen to the promptings of her genius freely and fearlessly. The subject was suggested by a passage in one of the letters of Don Leucadio Doblado, and was wrought upon by her with that eagerness and fervour which almost command corresponding results. I have heard Mrs Hemans say, that the greater part of this poem was written in no more picturesque a retreat than a laundry, to which, as being detached from the house, she resorted for undisturbed quiet and leisure. When she read it, while in progress, to her mother and sister, they were surprised to tears at the increased power displayed in it. She was not prone to speak with self-contentment of her own works, but, perhaps, _the one_ favourite descriptive passage was that picture of a sea-burial in the second canto,--

‘----She lay a thing for earth’s embrace,’ etc.

“The whole poem, whether in its scenes of superstition--the Auto da Fè, the dungeon, the flight, or in its delineation of the mental conflicts of its hero--or in its forest pictures of the free West, which offer such a delicious repose to the mind, is full of happy thoughts and turns of expression. Four lines of peculiar delicacy and beauty recur to me as I write, too strongly to be passed by. They are from a character of one of the martyr sisters.

‘And if she mingled with the festive train, It was but as some melancholy star Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain, In its bright stillness present, though afar.’

“But the entire episode of ‘Queen-like Teresa--radiant Inez,’ is wrought up with a nerve and an impulse which men of renown have failed to reach. The death of the latter, if, perhaps, it be a little too romantic for the stern realities of the scene, is so beautifully told, that it cannot be read without strong feeling, nor carelessly remembered. And most beautiful, too, are the sudden outbursts of thankfulness--of the quick happy consciousness of liberty with which the narrator of this ghastly sacrifice interrupts the tale, to reassure himself, ‘Sport on, my happy child! for thou art free.’ The character of the convert’s wife, Leonor, devotedly clinging to his fortunes, without a reproach or a murmur, while her heart trembles before him as though she were in the presence of a lost spirit, is one of those in which Mrs Hemans’ individual mode of thought and manner of expression are most happily impersonated. As a whole, she was hardly wrong in her own estimate of this poem; and, on recently turning to it, I have been surprised to find how well it bears the tests and trials with which it is only either fit or rational to examine works of the highest order of mind.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 126-7.

“If taste and elegance be titles to enduring fame, we might venture securely to promise that rich boon to the author before us, who adds to those great merits a tenderness and loftiness of feeling, and an ethereal purity of sentiment, which could only emanate from the soul of a woman. She must beware of becoming too voluminous, and must not venture again on any thing so long as ‘The Forest Sanctuary.’ But if the next generation inherits our taste for short poems, we are persuaded it will not readily allow her to be forgotten. For we do not hesitate to say that she is, beyond all comparison, the most touching and accomplished writer of occasional verses that our literature has yet to boast of.”--Lord Jeffrey, in _Edinburgh Review_, October 1829.]

[311] “Letters from Spain by Don Leucadio Doblado.”

LAYS OF MANY LANDS.

[The following pieces may so far be considered a series, as each is intended to be commemorative of some national recollection, popular custom, or tradition. The idea was suggested by Harder’s “_Stimmen der Völker in Liedern_;” the execution is, however, different, as the poems in his collection are chiefly translations.]

MOORISH BRIDAL-SONG.

[“It is a custom among the Moors, that a female who dies unmarried is clothed for interment in wedding apparel, and the bridal-song is sung over her remains before they are borne from her home.”--_Narrative of a Ten Years’ Residence in Tripoli, by the Sister-in-law of Mr Tully._]

The citron-groves their fruit and flowers were strewing Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh Of low sweet summer winds the branches wooing With music through their shadowy bowers went by; Music and voices, from the marble halls Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain-falls.

A song of joy, a bridal-song came swelling To blend with fragrance in those southern shades, And told of feasts within the stately dwelling, Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem-crown’d maids; And thus it flow’d:--yet something in the lay Belong’d to sadness, as it died away.

“The bride comes forth! her tears no more are falling To leave the chamber of her infant years; Kind voices from a distant home are calling; She comes like day-spring--she hath done with tears; Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers, Her soft smile gladden other hearts than ours!-- Pour the rich odours round!

“We haste! the chosen and the lovely bringing; Love still goes with her from her place of birth; Deep, silent joy within her soul is springing, Though in her glance the light no more is mirth! Her beauty leaves us in its rosy years; Her sisters weep--but she hath done with tears!-- Now may the timbrel sound!”

Know’st thou for _whom_ they sang the bridal numbers?-- One, whose rich tresses were to wave no more! One, whose pale cheek soft winds, nor gentle slumbers, Nor Love’s own sigh, to rose-tints might restore! Her graceful ringlets o’er a bier were spread. Weep for the young, the beautiful,--the dead!

THE BIRD’S RELEASE.

[The Indians of Bengal and of the coast of Malabar bring cages filled with birds to the graves of their friends, over which they set the birds at liberty. This custom is alluded to in the description of Virginia’s funeral.--See _Paul and Virginia_.]

Go forth! for she is gone! With the golden light of her wavy hair, She is gone to the fields of the viewless air; She hath left her dwelling lone!

Her voice hath pass’d away! It hath pass’d away like a summer breeze, When it leaves the hills for the far blue seas, Where we may not trace its way.

Go forth, and like her be free! With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye, Thou hast all the range of the sunny sky, And what is our grief to thee?

Is it aught e’en to her we mourn? Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed? Doth she rest with the flowers o’er her gentle head, Or float, on the light wind borne?

We know not--but she is gone! Her step from the dance, her voice from the song, And the smile of her eye from the festal throng; She hath left her dwelling lone!

When the waves at sunset shine, We may hear thy voice amidst thousands more, In the scented woods of our glowing shore; But we shall not know ’tis thine!

Even so with the loved one flown! Her smile in the starlight may wander by, Her breath may be near in the wind’s low sigh, Around us--but all unknown.

Go forth! we have loosed thy chain! We may deck thy cage with the richest flowers Which the bright day rears in our Eastern bowers; But thou wilt not be lured again.

Even thus may the summer pour All fragrant things on the land’s green breast, And the glorious earth like a bride be dress’d, But it wins _her_ back no more!

THE SWORD OF THE TOMB.

A NORTHERN LEGEND.

[The idea of this ballad is taken from a scene in _Starkother_, a tragedy by the Danish poet Ochlenschlager. The sepulchral fire here alluded to, and supposed to guard the ashes of deceased heroes, is frequently mentioned in the Northern Sagas. Severe sufferings to the departed spirit were supposed by the Scandinavian mythologists to be the consequence of any profanation of the sepulchre.--See Ochlenschlager’s _Plays_.]

“Voice of the gifted elder time! Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme! Speak! from the shades and the depths disclose How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes; Voice of the buried past! Voice of the grave! ’tis the mighty hour When night with her stars and dreams hath power, And my step hath been soundless on the snows, And the spell I have sung hath laid repose On the billow and the blast.”

Then the torrents of the North And the forest pines were still, While a hollow chant came forth From the dark sepulchral hill.

“There shines no sun midst the hidden dead, But where the day looks not the brave may tread; There is heard no song, and no mead is pour’d, But the warrior may come to the silent board In the shadow of the night. There is laid a sword in thy father’s tomb, And its edge is fraught with thy foeman’s doom; But soft be thy step through the silence deep, And move not the urn in the house of sleep, For the viewless have fearful might!”

Then died the solemn lay, As a trumpet’s music dies, By the night-wind borne away Through the wild and stormy skies.

The fir-trees rock’d to the wailing blast, As on through the forest the warrior pass’d-- Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old-- The dark place of visions and legends, told By the fires of Northern pine. The fir-trees rock’d, and the frozen ground Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound; And it seem’d that the depths of those awful shades, From the dreary gloom of their long arcades, Gave warning, with voice and sign.

But the wind strange magic knows, To call wild shape and tone From the gray wood’s tossing boughs, When Night is on her throne.

The pines closed o’er him with deeper gloom, As he took the path to the monarch’s tomb: The Pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright With the arrowy streams of the Northern light; But his road through dimness lay! He pass’d, in the heart of that ancient wood, The dark shrine stain’d with the victim’s blood; Nor paused till the rock, where a vaulted bed Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead, Arose on his midnight way.

Then first a moment’s chill Went shuddering through his breast, And the steel-clad man stood still Before that place of rest.

But he cross’d at length, with a deep-drawn breath, The threshold-floor of the hall of Death, And look’d on the pale mysterious fire Which gleam’d from the urn of his warrior-sire With a strange and solemn light. Then darkly the words of the boding strain Like an omen rose on his soul again-- “Soft be thy step through the silence deep, And move not the urn in the house of sleep; For the viewless have fearful might!”

But the gleaming sword and shield Of many a battle-day Hung o’er that urn, reveal’d By the tomb-fire’s waveless ray;

With a faded wreath of oak-leaves bound, They hung o’er the dust of the far-renown’d, Whom the bright Valkyriur’s warning voice Had call’d to the banquet where gods rejoice, And the rich mead flows in light. With a beating heart his son drew near, And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear-- “Soft be thy step through the silence deep, And move not the urn in the house of sleep; For the viewless have fearful might!”

And many a Saga’s rhyme, And legend of the grave, That shadowy scene and time Call’d back, to daunt the brave.

But he raised his arm--and the flame grew dim, And the sword in its light seem’d to wave and swim, And his faltering hand could not grasp it well-- From the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell Through the chamber of the dead! The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound, And the urn lay shiver’d in fragments round; And a rush, as of tempests, quench’d the fire, And the scatter’d dust of his warlike sire Was strewn on the champion’s head.

One moment--and all was still In the slumberer’s ancient hall, When the rock had ceased to thrill With the mighty weapon’s fall.

The stars were just fading one by one, The clouds were just tinged by the early sun, When there stream’d through the cavern a torch’s flame, And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came To seek him in the tomb. Stretch’d on his shield, like the steel-girt slain, By moonlight seen on the battle-plain, In a speechless trance lay the warrior there; But he wildly woke when the torch’s glare Burst on him through the gloom.

“The morning wind blows free, And the hour of chase is near: Come forth, come forth with me! What dost thou, Sigurd, here?”

“I have put out the holy sepulchral fire, I have scatter’d the dust of my warrior-sire! It burns on my head, and it weighs down my heart; But the winds shall not wander without their part To strew o’er the restless deep! In the mantle of death he was here with me now-- There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on his brow; And his cold still glance on my spirit fell With an icy ray and a withering spell-- Oh! chill is the house of sleep!”

“The morning wind blows free, And the reddening sun shines clear; Come forth, come forth with me! It is dark and fearful here!”

“He is there, he is there, with his shadowy frown! But gone from his head is the kingly crown-- The crown from his head, and the spear from his hand-- They have chased him far from the glorious land Where the feast of the gods is spread! He must go forth alone on his phantom steed, He must ride o’er the grave-hills with stormy speed! His place is no longer at Odin’s board, He is driven from Valhalla without his sword; But the slayer shall avenge the dead!”

That sword its fame had won By the fall of many a crest; But its fiercest work was done In the tomb, on Sigurd’s breast!

VALKYRIUR SONG.

[The Valkyriur, or Fatal Sisters of Northern mythology, were supposed to single out the warriors who were to die in battle, and be received into the halls of Odin.

When a northern chief fell gloriously in war, his obsequies were honoured with all possible magnificence. His arms, gold and silver, war-horse, domestic attendants, and whatever else he held most dear, were placed with him on the pile. His dependants and friends frequently made it a point of honour to die with their leader, in order to attend on his shade in Valhalla, or the Palace of Odin. And, lastly, his wife was generally consumed with him on the same pile.--See Mallet’s _Northern Antiquities_, Herbert’s _Helga_, &c.]

“Tremblingly flash’d th’ inconstant meteor-light, Showing thin forms like virgins of this earth; Save that all signs of human joy or grief, The flush of passion, smile, or tear, had seem’d On the fix’d brightness of each dazzling cheek Strange and unnatural.” Milman.

The Sea-king woke from the troubled sleep Of a vision-haunted night, And he look’d from his bark o’er the gloomy deep, And counted the streaks of light; For the red sun’s earliest ray Was to rouse his bands that day To the stormy joy of fight!

But the dreams of rest were still on earth, And the silent stars on high, And there waved not the smoke of one cabin hearth Midst the quiet of the sky; And along the twilight bay, In their sleep the hamlets lay, For they knew not the Norse were nigh!

The Sea-king look’d o’er the brooding wave, He turn’d to the dusky shore, And there seem’d, through the arch of a tide-worn cave, A gleam, as of snow, to pour; And forth, in watery light, Moved phantoms, dimly white, Which the garb of woman bore.

Slowly they moved to the billow-side; And the forms, as they grew more clear, Seem’d each on a tall pale steed to ride, And a shadowy crest to rear, And to beckon with faint hand From the dark and rocky strand, And to point a gleaming spear.

Then a stillness on his spirit fell, Before th’ unearthly train, For he knew Valhalla’s daughters well-- The Choosers of the slain! And a sudden rising breeze Bore, across the moaning seas, To his ear their thrilling strain.

“There are songs in Odin’s Hall For the brave ere night to fall! Doth the great sun hide his ray? He must bring a wrathful day! Sleeps the falchion in its sheath? Swords must do the work of death! Regner!--Sea-king!--_thee_ we call!-- There is joy in Odin’s Hall.

“At the feast, and in the song, Thou shalt be remember’d long! By the green isles of the flood, Thou hast left thy track in blood! On the earth and on the sea, There are those will speak of thee! ’Tis enough,--the war-gods call,-- There is mead in Odin’s Hall!

“Regner! tell thy fair-hair’d bride She must slumber at thy side! Tell the brother of thy breast Even for him thy grave hath rest! Tell the raven steed which bore thee, When the wild wolf fled before thee, He too with his lord must fall,-- There is room in Odin’s Hall!

“Lo! the mighty sun looks forth-- Arm! thou leader of the North! Lo! the mists of twilight fly-- We must vanish, thou must die! By the sword and by the spear, By the hand that knows no fear, Sea-king! nobly thou shalt fall!-- There is joy in Odin’s Hall!”

There was arming heard on land and wave, When afar the sunlight spread, And the phantom-forms of the tide-worn cave With the mists of morning fled; But at eve, the kingly hand Of the battle-axe and brand Lay cold on a pile of dead!

THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS.

A SWISS TRADITION.

[The three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are thought to sleep in a cavern near the Lake of Lucerne. The herdsmen call them the Three Tells; and say that they lie there in their antique garb, in quiet slumber; and when Switzerland is in her utmost need, they will awaken and regain the liberties of the land.--See _Quarterly Review_, No. 44.

The Grütli, where the confederates held their nightly meetings, is a meadow on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne, or Lake of the Forest Cantons, here called the Forest-Sea.]

Oh! enter not yon shadowy cave, Seek not the bright spars there, Though the whispering pines that o’er it wave With freshness fill the air: For there the Patriot Three, In the garb of old array’d, By their native Forest-Sea On a rocky couch are laid.

The Patriot Three that met of yore Beneath the midnight sky, And leagued their hearts on the Grütli shore In the name of liberty! Now silently they sleep Amidst the hills they freed; But their rest is only deep Till their country’s hour of need.

They start not at the hunter’s call, Nor the Lammer-geyer’s cry, Nor the rush of a sudden torrent’s fall, Nor the Lauwine thundering by; And the Alpine herdsman’s lay, To a Switzer’s heart so dear! On the wild wind floats away, No more for them to hear.

But when the battle-horn is blown Till the Schreckhorn’s peaks reply, When the Jungfrau’s cliffs send back the tone Through their eagles’ lonely sky; When the spear-heads light the lakes, When trumpets loose the snows, When the rushing war-steed shakes The glacier’s mute repose;

When Uri’s beechen woods wave red In the burning hamlet’s light-- _Then_ from the cavern of the dead Shall the sleepers wake in might! With a leap, like Tell’s proud leap When away the helm he flung, And boldly up the steep From the flashing billow sprung![312]

They shall wake beside their Forest-Sea, In the ancient garb they wore When they link’d the hands that made us free, On the Grütli’s moonlight shore; And their voices shall be heard, And be answer’d with a shout, Till the echoing Alps are stirr’d, And the signal-fires blaze out.

And the land shall see such deeds again As those of that proud day When Winkelried, on Sempach’s plain, Through the serried spears made way; And when the rocks came down On the dark Morgarten dell, And the crownèd casques,[313] o’erthrown, Before our fathers fell!

For the Kühreihen’s[314] notes must never sound In a land that wears the chain, And the vines on freedom’s holy ground Untrampled must remain; And the yellow harvests wave For no stranger’s hand to reap, While within their silent cave The men of Grütli sleep!

[312] The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of Gessler is marked by a chapel, and called the _Tellensprung_.

[313] Crowned Helmets, as a distinction of rank, are mentioned in Simond’s _Switzerland_.

[314] The Kühreihen--the celebrated _Ranz des Vaches_.

SWISS SONG,

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE.

[The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to celebrate the anniversaries of their ancient battles with much solemnity; assembling in the open air on the fields where their ancestors fought, to hear thanksgivings offered up by the priests, and the names of all who shared in the glory of the day enumerated. They afterwards walk in procession to chapels, always erected in the vicinity of such scenes, where masses are sung for the souls of the departed.--See Planta’s _History of the Helvetic Confederacy_.]

Look on the white Alps round! If yet they gird a land Where Freedom’s voice and step are found, Forget ye not the band,-- The faithful band, our sires, who fell Here in the narrow battle-dell!

If yet, the wilds among, Our silent hearts may burn, When the deep mountain-horn hath rung, And home our steps may turn,-- Home!--home!--if still that name be dear, Praise to the men who perish’d here!

Look on the white Alps round! Up to their shining snows That day the stormy rolling sound, The sound of battle, rose! Their caves prolong’d the trumpet’s blast, Their dark pines trembled as it pass’d!

They saw the princely crest, They saw the knightly spear, The banner and the mail-clad breast, Borne down and trampled here! They saw--and glorying there they stand, Eternal records to the land!

Praise to the mountain-born, The brethren of the glen! By them no steel array was worn, They stood as peasant-men! They left the vineyard and the field, To break an empire’s lance and shield!

Look on the white Alps round! If yet, along their steeps, Our children’s fearless feet may bound, Free as the chamois leaps: Teach them in song to bless the band Amidst whose mossy graves we stand!

If, by the wood-fire’s blaze, When winter stars gleam cold, The glorious tales of elder days May proudly yet be told, Forget not then the shepherd race. Who made the hearth a holy place!

Look on the white Alps round! If yet the Sabbath-bell Comes o’er them with a gladdening sound, Think on the battle-dell! For blood first bathed its flowery sod, That chainless hearts might worship God!

THE MESSENGER BIRD.

[Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that it brings them news from the other world.--See Picart’s _Ceremonies and Religious Customs_.]

Thou art come from the spirits’ land, thou bird! Thou art come from the spirits’ land: Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard, And tell of the shadowy band!

We know that the bowers are green and fair In the light of that summer shore; And we know that the friends we have lost are there, They are there--and they weep no more!

And we know they have quench’d their fever’s thirst From the fountain of youth ere now,[315] For _there_ must the stream in its freshness burst Which none may find below!

And we know that they will not be lured to earth From the land of deathless flowers, By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth, Though their hearts were once with ours:

Though they sat with us by the night-fire’s blaze, And bent with us the bow, And heard the tales of our fathers’ days, Which are told to others now!

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain! Can those who have loved forget? We call--and they answer not again: Do they love--do they love us yet?

Doth the warrior think of his brother _there_, And the father of his child? And the chief of those that were wont to share His wandering through the wild?

We call them far through the silent night, And they speak not from cave or hill; We know, thou bird! that their land is bright, But say, do they love there still?[316]

[315] An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Ponce de Leon, in the 16th century, with a view of discovering a wonderful fountain, believed by the natives of Puerto Rico to spring in one of the Lucayo Isles, and to possess the virtue of restoring youth to all who bathed in its waters.--See Robertson’s _History of America_.

[316] ANSWER TO “THE MESSENGER BIRD.”

BY AN AMERICAN QUAKER LADY.

Yes! I came from the spirits’ land, From the land that is bright and fair; I came with a voice from the shadowy band, To tell that they love you there.

To say, if a wish or a vain regret Could live in Elysian bowers, ’Twould be for the friends they can ne’er forget, The beloved of their youthful hours.

To whisper the dear deserted band, Who smiled on their tarriance here, That a faithful guard in the dreamless land Are the friends they have loved so dear.

’Tis true, in the silent night you call, And they answer you not again; But the spirits of bliss are voiceless all-- Sound only was made for pain.

That their land is bright and they weep no more, I have warbled from hill to hill; But my plaintive strain should have told before, That they love, oh! they love you still.

They bid me say that unfading flowers You’ll find in the path they trode; And a welcome true to their deathless bowers, Pronounced by the voice of God. 1827.

THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA.

[An early traveller mentions people on the banks of the Mississippi who burst into tears at the sight of a stranger. The reason of this is, that they fancy their deceased friends and relations to be only gone on a journey, and, being in constant expectation of their return, look for them vainly amongst these foreign travellers.--Picart’s _Ceremonies and Religious Customs_.

“J’ai passé moi-même,” says Chateaubriand in his _Souvenirs d’Amérique_, “chez une peuplade Indienne qui se prenait à pleurer à la vue d’un voyageur, parce qu’il lui rappelait des amis partis pour la Contrée des Ames, et depuis long-tems _en voyage_.”]

We saw thee, O stranger! and wept. We look’d for the youth of the sunny glance Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance; The light of his eye was a joy to see, The path of his arrows a storm to flee. But there came a voice from a distant shore-- He was call’d--he is found midst his tribe no more He is not in his place when the night-fires burn, But we look for him still--he will yet return! His brother sat with a drooping brow In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough: We roused him--we bade him no longer pine, For we heard a step--but the step was thine!

We saw thee, O stranger! and wept. We look’d for the maid of the mournful song-- Mournful, though sweet,--she hath left us long: We told her the youth of her love was gone, And she went forth to seek him--she pass’d alone. We hear not her voice when the woods are still, From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill. The joy of her sire with her smile is fled, The winter is white on his lonely head: He hath none by his side when the wilds we track, He hath none when we rest--yet she comes not back! We look’d for her eye on the feast to shine, For her breezy step--but the step was thine!

We saw thee, O stranger! and wept. We look’d for the chief, who hath left the spear And the bow of his battles forgotten here: We look’d for the hunter, whose bride’s lament On the wind of the forest at eve is sent: We look’d for the first-born, whose mother’s cry Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky!-- Where are they? Thou’rt seeking some distant coast: Oh ask of them, stranger!--send back the lost! Tell them we mourn by the dark-blue streams, Tell them our lives but of them are dreams! Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine, And to watch for a step--but the step was thine!

THE ISLE OF FOUNTS;

AN INDIAN TRADITION.

[“The river St Mary has its source from a vast lake or marsh, which lies between Flint and Oakmulge rivers, and occupies a space of near three hundred miles in circuit. This vast accumulation of waters, in the wet season, appears as a lake, and contains some large islands or knolls of rich high land; one of which the present generation of the Creek Indians represent to be a most blissful spot of earth. They say it is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, whose women are incomparably beautiful. They also tell you that this terrestrial paradise has been seen by some of their enterprising hunters, when in pursuit of game; but that in their endeavours to approach it, they were involved in perpetual labyrinths, and, like enchanted land, still as they imagined they had just gained it, it seemed to fly before them, alternately appearing and disappearing. They resolved, at length, to leave the delusive pursuit, and to return; which, after a number of difficulties, they effected. When they reported their adventures to their countrymen, the young warriors were inflamed with an irresistible desire to invade and make a conquest of so charming a country; but all their attempts have hitherto proved abortive, never having been able again to find that enchanting spot.”--Bertram’s _Travels through North and South Carolina, &c._

The additional circumstances in the “Isle of Founts” are merely imaginary.]

Son of the stranger! wouldst thou take O’er yon blue hills thy lonely way, To reach the still and shining lake Along whose banks the west winds play? Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile-- Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!

Lull but the mighty serpent-king,[317] Midst the gray rocks, his old domain; Ward but the cougar’s deadly spring,-- Thy step that lake’s green shore may gain; And the bright Isle, when all is pass’d, Shall vainly meet thine eye at last!

Yes! there, with all its rainbow streams, Clear as within thine arrow’s flight, The Isle of Founts, the isle of dreams, Floats on the wave in golden light; And lovely will the shadows be Of groves whose fruit is not for thee!

And breathings from their sunny flowers, Which are not of the things that die, And singing voices from their bowers, Shall greet thee in the purple sky; Soft voices, e’en like those that dwell Far in the green reed’s hollow cell.

Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise From the deep chambers of the earth? The wild and wondrous melodies To which the ancient rocks gave birth?[318] Like that sweet song of hidden caves Shall swell those wood-notes o’er the waves.

The emerald waves!--they take their hue And image from that sun-bright shore; But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe, And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,-- Before thee, hadst thou morning’s speed, The dreamy land should still recede!

Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear The music of its flowering shades, And ever should the sound be near Of founts that ripple through its glades; The sound, and sight, and flashing ray Of joyous waters in their play!

But woe for him who sees them burst With their bright spray-showers to the lake! Earth has no spring to quench the thirst That semblance in his soul shall wake, For ever pouring through his dreams The gush of those untasted streams!

Bright, bright in many a rocky urn, The waters of our deserts lie, Yet at their source his lip shall burn, Parch’d with the fever’s agony! From the blue mountains to the main, Our thousand floods may roll in vain.

E’en thus our hunters came of yore Back from their long and weary quest;-- Had they not seen th’ untrodden shore? And could they midst our wilds find rest? The lightning of their glance was fled, They dwelt amongst us as the dead!

They lay beside our glittering rills With visions in their darken’d eye; Their joy was not amidst the hills Where elk and deer before us fly: Their spears upon the cedar hung, Their javelins to the wind were flung.

They bent no more the forest bow, They arm’d not with the warrior band, The moons waned o’er them dim and slow-- They left us for the spirits’ land! Beneath our pines yon greensward heap Shows where the restless found their sleep.

Son of the stranger! if at eve Silence be midst us in thy place, Yet go not where the mighty leave The strength of battle and of chase! Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile-- Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!

[317] The Cherokees believe that the recesses of their mountains, overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered with old mossy rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs of rattlesnakes, whom they denominate the “bright old inhabitants.” They represent them as snakes of an enormous size, and which possess the power of drawing to them every living creature that comes within the reach of their eyes. Their heads are said to be crowned with a carbuncle of dazzling brightness.--See _Notes to_ Leyden’s _Scenes of Infancy_.

[318] The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the South American missionaries _Laxas de Musica_, and alluded to in a former note.

THE BENDED BOW.

[It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in Britain by sending messengers in different directions through the land, each bearing a _bended bow_; and that peace was in like manner announced by a bow unstrung, and therefore straight.--See the _Cambrian Antiquities_.]

There was heard the sound of a coming foe, There was sent through Britain a bended bow; And a voice was pour’d on the free winds far, As the land rose up at the sign of war.

“Heard you not the battle-horn?-- Reaper! leave thy golden corn: Leave it for the birds of heaven-- Swords must flash and spears be riven! Leave it for the winds to shed-- Arm! ere Britain’s turf grow red.”

And the reaper arm’d, like a freeman’s son; And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.

“Hunter! leave the mountain-chase, Take the falchion from its place; Let the wolf go free to-day, Leave him for a nobler prey; Let the deer ungall’d sweep by-- Arm thee! Britain’s foes are nigh.”

And the hunter arm’d ere the chase was done; And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.

“Chieftain! quit the joyous feast-- Stay not till the song hath ceased: Though the mead be foaming bright, Though the fires give ruddy light, Leave the hearth, and leave the hall-- Arm thee! Britain’s foes must fall.”

And the chieftain arm’d, and the horn was blown; And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.

“Prince! thy father’s deeds are told In the bower and in the hold, Where the goatherd’s lay is sung, Where the minstrel’s harp is strung! Foes are on thy native sea-- Give our bards a tale of thee!”

And the prince came arm’d, like a leader’s son; And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on.

“Mother! stay thou not thy boy, He must learn the battle’s joy: Sister! bring the sword and spear, Give thy brother words of cheer: Maiden! bid thy lover part: Britain calls the strong in heart!”

And the bended bow and the voice pass’d on; And the bards made song for a battle won.

HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.

[It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.]

The bark that held a prince went down, The sweeping waves roll’d on; And what was England’s glorious crown To him that wept a son? He lived--for life may long be borne Ere sorrow break its chain; Why comes not death to those who mourn? He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms around his throne, The stately and the brave; But which could fill the place of one, That one beneath the wave? Before him pass’d the young and fair, In pleasure’s reckless train; But seas dash’d o’er his son’s bright hair-- He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round, He heard the minstrel sing, He saw the tourney’s victor crown’d Amidst the knightly ring: A murmur of the restless deep Was blent with every strain, A voice of winds that would not sleep-- He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o’er the trace Of vows once fondly pour’d, And strangers took the kinsman’s place At many a joyous board; Graves, which true love had bathed with tears, Were left to heaven’s bright rain, Fresh hopes were born for other years-- _He_ never smiled again!

CŒUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

[The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey-church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Cœur-de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.]

Torches were blazing clear, Hymns pealing deep and slow, Where a king lay stately on his bier In the church of Fontevraud. Banners of battle o’er him hung, And warriors slept beneath; And light, as noon’s broad light, was flung On the settled face of death.

On the settled face of death A strong and ruddy glare, Though dimm’d at times by the censer’s breath, Yet it fell still brightest there: As if each deeply furrow’d trace Of earthly years to show. Alas! that sceptred mortal’s race Had surely closed in woe!

The marble floor was swept By many a long dark stole, As the kneeling priests round him that slept Sang mass for the parted soul: And solemn were the strains they pour’d Through the stillness of the night, With the cross above, and the crown and sword, And the silent king in sight.

There was heard a heavy clang, As of steel-girt men the tread, And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang With a sounding thrill of dread; And the holy chant was hush’d awhile, As, by the torch’s flame, A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle With a mail-clad leader came.

He came with haughty look, An eagle-glance and clear; But his proud heart through its breastplate shook, When he stood beside the bier! He stood there still with a drooping brow, And clasp’d hands o’er it raised; For his father lay before him low-- It was Cœur-de-Lion gazed!

And silently he strove With the workings of his breast; But there’s more in late repentant love Than steel may keep suppress’d! And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain,-- Men held their breath in awe; For his face was seen by his warrior train, And he reck’d not that they saw.

He look’d upon the dead-- And sorrow seem’d to lie, A weight of sorrow, even like lead, Pale on the fast-shut eye. He stoop’d--and kiss’d the frozen cheek, And the heavy hand of clay; Till bursting words--yet all too weak-- Gave his soul’s passion way.

“O father! is it vain, This late remorse and deep? Speak to me, father! once again: I weep--behold, I weep! Alas! my guilty pride and ire!-- Were but this work undone, I would give England’s crown, my sire! To hear thee bless thy son.

“Speak to me! Mighty grief Ere now the dust hath stirr’d! Hear me, but hear me!--father, chief, My king! I _must_ be heard! Hush’d, hush’d--how is it that I call, And that thou answerest not? When was it thus?----Woe, woe for all The love my soul forgot!

“Thy silver hairs I see, So still, so sadly bright! And father, father! but for me, They had not been so white! _I_ bore thee down, high heart! at last: No longer couldst thou strive. Oh! for one moment of the past, To kneel and say--‘forgive!’

“Thou wert the noblest king On royal throne e’er seen; And thou didst wear in knightly ring, Of all, the stateliest mien; And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, In war, the bravest heart: Oh! ever the renown’d and loved Thou wert--and _there_ thou art!

“Thou that my boyhood’s guide Didst take fond joy to be!-- The times I’ve sported at thy side, And climb’d thy parent knee! And there before the blessed shrine, My sire! I see thee lie,-- How will that sad still face of thine Look on me till I die!”

THE VASSAL’S LAMENT FOR THE FALLEN TREE.

[“Here (at Brereton in Cheshire) is one thing incredibly strange, but attested, as I myself have heard, by many persons, and commonly believed. Before any heir of this family dies, there are seen, in a lake adjoining, the bodies of trees swimming on the water for several days.”--Camden’s _Britannia_.]

Yes! I have seen the ancient oak On the dark deep water cast, And it was not fell’d by the woodman’s stroke, Or the rush of the sweeping blast; For the axe might never touch that tree, And the air was still as a summer sea.

I saw it fall, as falls a chief By an arrow in the fight, And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf, At the crashing of its might; And the startled deer to their coverts drew, And the spray of the lake as a fountain’s flew!

’Tis fallen! But think thou not I weep For the forest’s pride o’erthrown-- An old man’s tears lie far too deep To be pour’d for this alone; But by that sign too well I know That a youthful head must soon be low!

A youthful head, with its shining hair, And its bright quick-flashing eye; Well may I weep! for the boy is fair, Too fair a thing to die! But on his brow the mark is set-- Oh! could _my_ life redeem him yet!

He bounded by me as I gazed Alone on the fatal sign, And it seem’d like sunshine when he raised His joyous glance to mine. With a stag’s fleet step he bounded by, So full of life--but he must die!

He must, he must! in that deep dell, By that dark water’s side, ’Tis known that ne’er a proud tree fell But an heir of his fathers died. And he--there’s laughter in his eye, Joy in his voice--yet he must die!

I’ve borne him in these arms, that now Are nerveless and unstrung; And must I see, on that fair brow, The dust untimely flung? I must!--yon green oak, branch and crest, Lies floating on the dark lake’s breast!

The noble boy!--how proudly sprung The falcon from his hand! It seem’d like youth to see _him_ young, A flower in his father’s land! But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh, For the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die.

Say not ’tis vain! I tell thee, some Are warn’d by a meteor’s light, Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them home, Or a voice on the winds by night; And they must go! And he too, he!-- Woe for the fall of the glorious Tree!

THE WILD HUNTSMAN.

[It is a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the passing of the Wild Huntsman announces the approach of war. He is supposed to issue with his train from the ruined castle of Rodenstein, and traverse the air to the opposite castle of Schnellerts. It is confidently asserted, that the sound of his phantom horses and hounds was heard by the Duke of Baden before the commencement of the last war in Germany.]

Thy rest was deep at the slumberer’s hour, If thou didst not hear the blast Of the savage horn from the mountain-tower, As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d, And the roar of the stormy chase went by Through the dark unquiet sky!

The stag sprang up from his mossy bed When he caught the piercing sounds, And the oak-boughs crash’d to his antler’d head, As he flew from the viewless hounds; And the falcon soar’d from her craggy height, Away through the rushing night!

The banner shook on its ancient hold, And the pine in its desert place, As the cloud and tempest onward roll’d With the din of the trampling race; And the glens were fill’d with the laugh and shout, And the bugle, ringing out!

From the chieftain’s hand the wine-cup fell, At the castle’s festive board, And a sudden pause came o’er the swell Of the harp’s triumphal chord; And the Minnesinger’s[319] thrilling lay In the hall died fast away.

The convent’s chanted rite was stay’d, And the hermit dropp’d his beads, And a trembling ran through the forest-shade, At the neigh of the phantom steeds, And the church-bells peal’d to the rocking blast As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass’d.

The storm hath swept with the chase away, There is stillness in the sky; But the mother looks on her son to-day With a troubled heart and eye, And the maiden’s brow hath a shade of care Midst the gleam of her golden hair!

The Rhine flows bright; but its waves ere long Must hear a voice of war, And a clash of spears our hills among, And a trumpet from afar; And the brave on a bloody turf must lie-- For the Huntsman hath gone by!

[319] Minnesinger, _love-singer_--the wandering minstrels of Germany were so called in the middle ages.

BRANDENBURG HARVEST-SONG.[320]

FROM THE GERMAN OF LA MOTTE FOUQUE.

The corn in golden light Waves o’er the plain; The sickle’s gleam is bright; Full swells the grain.

Now send we far around Our harvest lay!-- Alas! a heavier sound Comes o’er the day!

Earth shrouds with burial sod Her soft eyes blue,-- Now o’er the gifts of God Fall tears like dew!

On every breeze a knell The hamlets pour: We know its cause too well-- _She is no more_!

[320] For the year of the Queen of Prussia’s death.

THE SHADE OF THESEUS.

AN ANCIENT GREEK TRADITION.

Know ye not when our dead From sleep to battle sprung?-- When the Persian charger’s tread On their covering greensward rung; When the trampling march of foes Had crush’d our vines and flowers, When jewel’d crests arose Through the holy laurel bowers; When banners caught the breeze, When helms in sunlight shone, When masts were on the seas, And spears on Marathon.

There was one, a leader crown’d, And arm’d for Greece that day; But the falchions made no sound On his gleaming war-array. In the battle’s front he stood, With his tall and shadowy crest; But the arrows drew no blood, Though their path was through his breast. When banners caught the breeze, When helms in sunlight shone, When masts were on the seas, And spears on Marathon.

His sword was seen to flash Where the boldest deeds were done; But it smote without a clash-- The stroke was heard by none! His voice was not of those That swell’d the rolling blast, And his steps fell hush’d like snows-- ’Twas the Shade of Theseus pass’d! When banners caught the breeze, When helms in sunlight shone, When masts were on the seas, And spears on Marathon.

Far sweeping through the foe, With a fiery charge he bore; And the Mede left many a bow On the sounding ocean-shore. And the foaming waves grew red, And the sails were crowded fast, When the sons of Asia fled, As the Shade of Theseus pass’d! When banners caught the breeze, When helms in sunlight shone, When masts were on the seas, And spears on Marathon.

ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE.

Where is the summer with her golden sun?-- That festal glory hath not pass’d from earth: For me alone the laughing day is done! Where is the summer with her voice of mirth? --Far in my own bright land?

Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die On the green hills?--the founts, from sparry caves Through the wild places bearing melody?-- The reeds, low whispering o’er the river waves? --Far in my own bright land!

Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining, The virgin dances, and the choral strains? Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining The spring’s first roses for their sylvan fanes? --Far in my own bright land!

Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs, The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades? The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs, And the pine forests, and the olive shades? --Far in my own bright land!

Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers, The Dryad’s footsteps, and the minstrel’s dreams?-- Oh, that my life were as a southern flower’s!-- I might not languish then by these chill streams, Far from my own bright land!

GREEK FUNERAL CHANT, OR MYRIOLOGUE.

[“Les Chants Funèbres par lesquels on déplore en Grèce la mort de ses proches, prennent le nom particulier de Myriologia--comme qui dirait, Discours de lamentation, complaintes. Un malade vient-il de rendre le dernier soupir, sa femme, sa mère, ses filles, ses sœurs, celles, en un mot, de ses plus proches parentes qui sont là, lui ferment les yeux et la bouche, en épanchant librement, chacune selon son naturel et sa mesure de tendresse pour le défunt, la douleur qu’elle ressent de sa perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirent toutes chez une de leurs parentes ou de leurs amies. Là elles changent de vêtemens, s’habillent de blanc, comme pour la cérémonie nuptiale, avec cette différence, qu’elles gardent la tête nue, les cheveux épars et pendants. Ces apprêts terminés, les parentes reviennent dans leur parure de deuil; toutes se rangent en cercle autour du mort, et leur douleur s’exhale de nouveau, et comme la première fois, sans règle et sans contrainte. A ces plaintes spontanées succèdent bientôt des lamentations d’une autre espèce: ce sont les _Myriologues_. Ordinairement c’est la plus proche parente qui prononce le sien la première; après elle les autres parentes, les amies, les simples voisines. Les Myriologues sont toujours composés et chantés par les femmes. Ils sont toujours improvisés, toujours en vers, et toujours chantés sur un air qui diffère d’un lieu à un autre, mais qui, dans un lieu donné, reste invariablement consacré à ce genre de poésie.”--_Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne, par_ C. Fauriel.]

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young-- Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung:-- “Ianthis! dost thou sleep? Thou sleep’st--but this is not the rest, The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillow’d on my breast: I lull’d thee not to _this_ repose, Ianthis! my sweet son! As, in thy glowing childhood’s time, by twilight I have done. How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee now? And that I die not, seeking death on thy pale glorious brow?

“I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave! I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave. Though mournfully thy smile is fix’d, and heavily thine eye Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie; And fast is bound the springing step, that seem’d on breezes borne, When to thy couch I came and said,--‘Wake, hunter, wake! ’tis morn!’ Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouch’d by slow decay,-- And I, the wither’d stem, remain. I would that grief might slay!

“Oh! ever, when I met thy look, I knew that _this_ would be! I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee! I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high;-- A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou must die! That thou must die, my fearless one! where swords were flashing red.-- Why doth a mother live to say--My first-born and my dead! They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won: Speak _thou_, and I will hear, my child! Ianthis! my sweet son!”

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young-- A fair-hair’d bride the Funeral Chant amidst her weeping sung:-- “Ianthis! look’st thou not on _me_? Can love indeed be fled? When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head? I would that I had follow’d thee, Ianthis, my beloved! And stood as woman oft hath stood where faithful hearts are proved; That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at thy side!-- It would have been a blessed thing together had we died!

“But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword? Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board? Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the vine, Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine? And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart Fast gushing, like a mountain-spring! And couldst thou thus depart? Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath?-- Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death!

“Yes! I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings was led, And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was spread; But not where noble blood flow’d forth, where sounding javelins flew-- Why did I hear love’s first sweet words, and not its last adieu? What now can breathe of gladness more,--what scene, what hour, what tone? The blue skies fade with all their lights; they fade, since thou art gone! Even _that_ must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved: Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis! my beloved!”

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young-- Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful sister sung:-- “Ianthis! brother of my soul!--oh! where are now the days That laugh’d among the deep-green hills, on all our infant plays? When we two sported by the streams, or track’d them to their source, And like a stag’s, the rocks along, was thy fleet, fearless course!-- I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend, But see thy bounding step no more--my brother and my friend!

“I come with flowers--for spring is come! Ianthis! art thou _here_? I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy bier. Thou shouldst be crown’d with victory’s crown--but oh! more meet _they_ seem, The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream-- More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early low. Alas! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine’s glow-- The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy to send: Woe! that it smiles, and not for thee!--my brother and my friend!”

GREEK PARTING SONG.

[This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel, in his “Chansons Populaires de la Grèce Moderne,” and accompanied by some very interesting particulars respecting the extempore parting songs, or songs of expatriation, as he informs us they are called, in which the modern Greeks are accustomed to pour forth their feelings on bidding farewell to their country and friends.]

A Youth went forth to exile, from a home Such as to early thought gives images, The longest treasured, and most oft recall’d, And brightest kept, of love;--a mountain-home, That, with the murmur of its rocking pines, And sounding waters, first in childhood’s heart Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy, And half-unconscious prayer;--a Grecian home, With the transparence of blue skies o’erhung, And, through the dimness of its olive shades, Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam Of shining pillars from the fanes of old. And this was what he left! Yet many leave Far more--the glistening eye, that first from theirs Call’d out the soul’s bright smile; the gentle hand, Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps To where the violets lay; the tender voice That earliest taught them what deep melody Lives in affection’s tones. _He_ left not these. Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part With all a mother’s love! A bitterer grief Was his--to part _unloved_!--of her unloved That should have breathed upon his heart like spring, Fostering its young faint flowers!

Yet had he friends, And they went forth to cheer him on his way Unto the parting spot; and she too went, That mother, tearless for her youngest-born. The parting spot was reach’d--a lone deep glen, Holy, perchance, of yore; for cave and fount Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes; and above, The silence of the blue still upper heaven Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore Their crowning snows. Upon a rock he sprung, The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze Through the wild laurels back; but then a light Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye, A sudden quivering light, and from his lips A burst of passionate song.

“Farewell, farewell! I hear thee, O thou rushing stream!--thou’rt from my native dell, Thou’rt bearing thence a mournful sound--a murmur of farewell! And fare _thee_ well--flow on, my stream!--flow on, thou bright and free! I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me; But I have been a thing unloved from childhood’s loving years, And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears! The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known: The woods can tell where _he_ hath wept, that ever wept alone!

“I see thee once again, my home! thou’rt there amidst thy vines, And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer shines. It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through thy groves-- The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves. The hour _the mother_ loves!--for _me_ beloved it hath not been; Yet ever in its purple smile, _thou_ smilest, a blessed scene! Whose quiet beauty o’er my soul through distant years will come-- Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home?

“Not as the dead!--no, not the dead! We speak of _them_--we keep _Their_ names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep: We hallow even the lyre they touch’d, we love the lay they sung, We pass with softer step the place _they_ fill’d our band among! But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth! I go!--the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell When mine is a forgotten voice. Woods, mountains, home, farewell!

“And farewell, mother! I have borne in lonely silence long, But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong; And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the sky, And but the dark, deep-rustling pines and rolling streams reply. Yes! I will speak! Within my breast, whate’er hath seem’d to be, There lay a hidden fount of love that would have gush’d for thee! Brightly it would have gush’d--but thou, my mother! thou hast thrown Back on the forests and the wilds, what should have been thine own!

“Then fare thee well! I leave thee not in loneliness to pine, Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow than mine. Forgive me that thou couldst not love!--it may be that a tone Yet from my burning heart may pierce through thine, when I am gone; And thou, perchance, mayst weep for him on whom thou ne’er hast smiled, And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected child! Might but my spirit _then_ return, and midst its kindred dwell, And quench its thirst with love’s free tears! ’Tis all a dream--farewell!”

“Farewell!”--the echo died with that deep word; Yet died not so the late repentant pang By the strain quicken’d in the mother’s breast! There had pass’d many changes o’er her brow, And cheek, and eye; but into one bright flood Of tears at last all melted; and she fell On the glad bosom of her child, and cried, “Return, return, my son!” The echo caught A lovelier sound than song, and woke again, Murmuring, “Return, my son!”

THE SULIOTE MOTHER.

[It is related, in a French life of Ali Pasha, that several of the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troops into the mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, and, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves, with their children, into the chasm below, to avoid becoming the slaves of the enemy.]

She stood upon the loftiest peak, Amidst the clear blue sky; A bitter smile was on her cheek, And a dark flash in her eye.

“Dost thou see them, boy?--through the dusky pines Dost thou see where the foeman’s armour shines? Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror’s crest? My babe, that I cradled on my breast! Wouldst thou spring from thy mother’s arms with joy? --That sight hath cost thee a father, boy!”

For in the rocky strait beneath, Lay Suliote sire and son: They had heap’d high the piles of death Before the pass was won.

“They have cross’d the torrent, and on they come: Woe for the mountain hearth and home! There, where the hunter laid by his spear, There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear, There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep, Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!”

And now the horn’s loud blast was heard, And now the cymbal’s clang, Till even the upper air was stirr’d, As cliff and hollow rang.

“Hark! they bring music, my joyous child! What saith the trumpet to Suli’s wild? Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire, As if at a glance of thine armèd sire? Still!--be thou still!--there are brave men low: Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now!”

But nearer came the clash of steel, And louder swell’d the horn, And farther yet the tambour’s peal Through the dark pass was borne.

“Hear’st thou the sound of their savage mirth? Boy! thou wert free when I gave thee birth,-- Free, and how cherish’d, my warrior’s son! He too hath bless’d thee, as I have done! Ay, and unchain’d must his loved ones be-- Freedom, young Suliote! for thee and me!”

And from the arrowy peak she sprung, And fast the fair child bore:-- A veil upon the wind was flung, A cry--and all was o’er!

THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD.

[The following piece is founded on a beautiful part of the Greek funeral service, in which relatives and friends are invited to embrace the deceased (whose face is uncovered) and to bid their final adieu.--See _Christian Researches in the Mediterranean_.]

“’Tis hard to lay into the earth A countenance so benign! a form that walk’d But yesterday so stately o’er the earth!” Wilson.

Come near! Ere yet the dust Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, Look on your brother; and embrace him now, In still and solemn trust! Come near!--once more let kindred lips be press’d On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest!

Look yet on this young face! What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, Leave of its image, even where most it shone, Gladdening its hearth and race? Dim grows the semblance on man’s heart impress’d. Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest!

Ye weep, and it is well! For tears befit earth’s partings! Yesterday, Song was upon the lips of this pale clay, And sunshine seem’d to dwell Where’er he moved--the welcome and the bless’d. Now gaze! and bear the silent unto rest!

Look yet on him whose eye Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth. Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth, The beings born to die?-- But not where death has power may love be bless’d. Come near! and bear ye the beloved to rest!

How may the mother’s heart Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again? The spring’s rich promise hath been given in vain-- The lovely must depart! Is _he_ not gone, our brightest and our best? Come near! and bear the early-call’d to rest!

Look on him! Is he laid To slumber from the harvest or the chase?-- Too still and sad the smile upon his face; Yet that, even that must fade: Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest. Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest!

His voice of mirth hath ceased Amidst the vineyards! there is left no place For him whose dust receives your vain embrace, At the gay bridal-feast! Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast. Come near! weep o’er him! bear him to his rest.

Yet mourn ye not as they Whose spirits’ light is quench’d! For him the past Is seal’d: he may not fall, he may not cast His birthright’s hope away! All is not _here_ of our beloved and bless’d. Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

I GO, SWEET FRIENDS!

I go, sweet friends! yet think of me When spring’s young voice awakes the flowers; For we have wander’d far and free In those bright hours, the violet’s hours.

I go; but when you pause to hear, From distant hills, the Sabbath-bell On summer-winds float silvery clear, Think on me then--I loved it well!

Forget me not around your hearth, When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze; For dear hath been its evening mirth To me, sweet friends, in other days.

And oh! when music’s voice is heard To melt in strains of parting woe, When hearts to love and grief are stirr’d, Think of me then!--I go, I go!

ANGEL VISITS.

“No more of talk where God or angel guest With man, as with his friend, familiar used To sit indulgent and with him partake Rural repast.” Milton.

Are ye for ever to your skies departed? Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more? Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted Through Eden’s fresh and flowering shades of yore! Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot, And ye--our faded earth beholds you not.

Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken, Man wander’d from his Paradise away; Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken, Came down, high guests! in many a later day, And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak, Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke.

From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending, Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper’s eye, That saw your hosts ascending and descending On those bright steps between the earth and sky: Trembling he woke, and bow’d o’er glory’s trace, And worshipp’d awe-struck, in that fearful place.

By Chebar’s[321] brook ye pass’d, such radiance wearing As mortal vision might but ill endure; Along the stream the living chariot bearing, With its high crystal arch, intensely pure; And, the dread rushing of your wings that hour Was like the noise of waters in their power.

But in the Olive Mount, by night appearing, Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done. Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering, Fraught with the breath of God to aid his Son? --Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains, Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains.

Yet one more task was Yours! your heavenly dwelling, Ye left, and by th’ unseal’d sepulchral stone, In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling, That _He_ they sought had triumph’d and was gone. Now have ye left us for the brighter shore; Your presence lights the lonely groves no more.

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover, With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet. Though the fresh glory of those days be over, When, midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met? Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high, When love, by strength, o’ermasters agony?

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining, Yields up life’s treasures unto Him who gave? When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning, Lead on the march of death, serenely brave? Dreams! But a deeper thought our souls may fill: One, One is near--a spirit holier still!

[321] Ezekiel, chap. x.

IVY SONG.

WRITTEN ON RECEIVING SOME IVY-LEAVES GATHERED FROM THE RUINED CASTLE OF RHEINFELS, ON THE RHINE.

Oh! how could Fancy crown with _thee_ In ancient days the God of Wine, And bid thee at the banquet be Companion of the vine? _Thy_ home, wild plant! is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o’er, Where song’s full notes once peal’d around, But now are heard no more.

The Roman on his battle-plains, Where kings before his eagles bent, Entwined thee with exulting strains Around the victor’s tent: Yet there, though fresh in glossy green, Triumphantly thy boughs might wave, Better thou lovest the silent scene Around the victor’s grave.

Where sleeps the sons of ages flown, The bards and heroes of the past; Where, through the halls of glory gone, Murmurs the wintry blast; Where years are hastening to efface Each record of the grand and fair; Thou, in thy solitary grace, Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime, Beneath a blue Italian sky, Hath naught of beauty left by time, Save thy wild tapestry! And, rear’d midst crags and clouds, ’tis thine To wave where banners waved of yore, O’er towers that crest the noble Rhine, Along his rocky shore.

High from the fields of air look down Those eyries of a vanish’d race-- Homes of the mighty, whose renown Hath pass’d, and left no trace. But there thou art!--thy foliage bright Unchanged the mountain storm can brave; Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height, Or deck the humblest grave!

’Tis still the same! Where’er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see-- The marvels of all ages fled Left to decay and thee! And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, grace, and strength; Days pass--thou ivy never sere![322]-- And all is thine at length!

[322] “Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”--Lycidas.

TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR’S CHILDREN ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

Where sucks the bee now? Summer is flying, Leaves round the elm-tree faded are lying; Violets are gone from their grassy dell, With the cowslip cups, where the fairies dwell; The rose from the garden hath pass’d away-- Yet happy, fair boy, is thy natal day!

For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled Ever around thee, my gentle child! Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed, And pouring out joy on thy sunny head. Roses may vanish, but _this_ will stay-- Happy and bright is thy natal day!

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

Thou wakest from rosy sleep, to play With bounding heart, my boy! Before thee lies a long bright day Of summer and of joy.

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream To cloud thy fearless eye: Long be it thus!--life’s early stream Should still reflect the sky.

Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim On thy young spirit’s wings, Now in thy mom forget not Him From whom each pure thought springs.

So, in the onward vale of tears, Where’er thy path may be, When strength hath bow’d to evil years, _He_ will remember thee!

CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.

Fear was within the tossing bark When stormy winds grew loud, And waves came rolling high and dark, And the tall mast was bow’d.

And men stood breathless in their dread, And baffled in their skill; But One was there, who rose and said To the wild sea--_Be still!_

And the wind ceased--it ceased! that word Pass’d through the gloomy sky: The troubled billows knew their Lord, And fell beneath His eye.

And slumber settled on the deep, And silence on the blast; They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep When sultry day is past.

O Thou! that in its wildest hour Didst rule the tempest’s mood, Send thy meek spirit forth in power, Soft on our souls to brood!

Thou that didst bow the billow’s pride Thy mandate to fulfil! Oh, speak to passion’s raging tide, Speak, and say, “_Peace, be still!_”

EPITAPH

OVER THE GRAVE OF TWO BROTHERS, A CHILD AND A YOUTH.

[Amongst the numerous friends Mrs Hemans was fortunate enough to possess in Scotland, there was one to whom she was linked by so peculiar a bond of union, and whose unwearied kindness is so precious an inheritance to her children, that it is hoped the owner of a name so dear to them, (though it be a part of her nature to shrink from publicity,) will forgive its being introduced into these pages.

This invaluable friend was Lady Wedderburn,[323] the mother of those “two brothers, a child and a youth,” for whose monument Mrs Hemans had written an inscription, which, with its simple pathos, has doubtless sunk deep into the heart of many a mourner, as well as of many a yet rejoicing parent, there called upon to remember that for them, too,

“Speaks the grave, Where God hath seal’d the fount of hope He gave.”

Into the gentle heart, which has found relief for its own sorrows in soothing the griefs and promoting the enjoyments of others, the author of this sacred tribute was taken with a warmth and loving-kindness which extended its genial influence to all belonging to her; and during their stay in Edinburgh, whither they proceeded from Abbotsford, Mrs Hemans and her children were cherished with a true home welcome at the house of Sir David Wedderburn.--_Memoir_, p. 192.]

Thou, that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy, And hear his prayer’s low murmur at thy knee, And o’er his slumber bend in breathless joy, Come to this tomb!--it hath a voice for thee! Pray! Thou art blest--ask strength for sorrow’s hour: Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken flower.

Thou that art gathering from the smile of youth Thy thousand hopes, rejoicing to behold All the heart’s depths before thee bright with truth, All the mind’s treasures silently unfold, Look on this tomb!--for thee, too, speaks the grave, Where God hath seal’d the fount of hope He gave.

[323] The lady of Sir David Wedderburn, Bart., and sister of the late Viscountess Hampden. The monument on which the lines are inscribed, is at Glynde, in Sussex, near Lord Hampden’s seat. This excellent lady only survived Mrs Hemans a few years.

MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION.

Earth! guard what here we lay in holy trust, That which hath left our home a darken’d place, Wanting the form, the smile, now veil’d with dust, The light departed with our loveliest face. Yet from thy bonds our sorrow’s hope is free-- We have but lent the beautiful to thee.

But thou, O heaven! keep, keep what _thou_ hast taken, And with our treasure keep our hearts on high; The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken, The faith, the love, the lofty constancy-- Guide us where these are with our sister flown: They were of Thee, and thou hast claim’d thine own!

THE SOUND OF THE SEA.

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea! For ever and the same; The ancient rocks yet ring to thee-- Those thunders naught can tame.

Oh! many a glorious voice is gone From the rich bowers of earth, And hush’d is many a lovely one Of mournfulness or mirth.

The Dorian flute that sigh’d of yore Along the wave, is still; The harp of Judah peals no more On Zion’s awful hill.

And Memnon’s lyre hath lost the chord That breathed the mystic tone; And the songs at Rome’s high triumphs pour’d Are with her eagles flown.

And mute the Moorish horn that rang O’er stream and mountain free; And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang Hath died in Galilee.

But thou art swelling on, thou deep! Through many an olden clime, Thy billowy anthem, ne’er to sleep Until the close of time.

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice To every wind and sky, And all our earth’s green shores rejoice In that one harmony.

It fills the noontide’s calm profound, The sunset’s heaven of gold; And the still midnight hears the sound, Even as first it roll’d.

Let there be silence, deep and strange, Where sceptred cities rose! _Thou_ speak’st of One who doth not change-- So. may our hearts repose.

THE CHILD AND DOVE.

SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY’S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA RUSSELL.

Thou art a thing on our dreams to rise, Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies, And to fling bright dew from the morning back, Fair form! on each image of childhood’s track.

Thou art a thing to recall the hours When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers, When a world was our own in some dim sweet grove, And treasure untold in one captive dove.

Are they gone? can we think it, while _thou_ art there, Thou joyous child with the clustering hair? Is it not spring that indeed breathes free And fresh o’er each thought, while we gaze on thee?

No! never more may we smile as thou Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow; Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine A memory of beauty undimm’d as thine--

To have met the joy of thy speaking face, To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace, To have linger’d before thee, and turn’d, and borne One vision away of the cloudless morn.

A DIRGE.

[The two first stanzas of this dirge may be found in the last scene of “The Siege of Valencia;” but they are more particularly worthy of the reader’s consideration, as having been selected for inscription on the tablet placed above the vault beneath St Ann’s Church, Dublin, where the remains of the author repose.]

Calm on the bosom of thy God, Young spirit! rest thee now! Even while with us thy footstep trod, His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath! Soul, to its place on high!-- They that have seen thy look in death, No more may fear to die.

Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, Whence thy meek smile is gone; But oh!--a brighter home than ours, In heaven, is now thine own.

## SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE.

“Oh! fondly, fervently, those two had loved, Had mingled minds in Love’s own perfect trust; Had watch’d bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful years, ----And thus they met!”

“Haste, with your torches, haste! make firelight round!”-- They speed, they press: what hath the miner found? Relic or treasure--giant sword of old? Gems bedded deep--rich veins of burning gold? --Not so--the dead, the dead! An awe-struck band In silence gathering round the silent stand, Chain’d by one feeling, hushing e’en their breath, Before the thing that, in the might of death, Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay-- A sleeper, dreaming not!--a youth with hair Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair!) O’er his cold brow: no shadow of decay Had touch’d those pale, bright features--yet he wore A mien of other days, a garb of yore. Who could unfold that mystery? From the throng A woman wildly broke; her eye was dim, As if through many tears, through vigils long, Through weary strainings:--all had been for him! Those two had loved! And there he lay, the dead, In his youth’s flower--and she, the living, stood With her gray hair, whence hue and gloss had fled-- And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood Had long since ebb’d--a meeting sad and strange! --Oh! are not meetings in this world of change Sadder than partings oft! She stood there, still, And mute, and gazing--all her soul to fill With the loved face once more--the young, fair face, Midst that rude cavern, touch’d with sculpture’s grace, By torchlight and by death: until at last From her deep heart the spirit of the past Gush’d in low broken tones:--“And there thou art! And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part As for a few brief hours! My friend, my friend! First love, and only one! Is this the end Of hope deferr’d, youth blighted! Yet thy brow Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek Smiles--how unchanged!--while I, the worn, and weak, And faded--oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now, If thou couldst look on me!--a wither’d leaf, Sear’d--though for thy sake--by the blast of grief! Better to see thee thus! For thou didst go Bearing my image on thy heart, I know, Unto the dead. My Ulric! through the night How have I call’d thee! With the morning light How have I watch’d for thee!--wept, wander’d, pray’d, Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay’d, In search of thee!--bound my worn life to one-- One torturing hope! Now let me die! ’Tis gone. Take thy betrothed!” And on his breast she fell, Oh! since their youth’s last passionate farewell, How changed in all but love!--the true, the strong, Joining in death whom life had parted long! They had one grave--one lonely bridal-bed, No friend, no kinsman there a tear to shed! _His_ name had ceased--_her_ heart outlived each tie, Once more to look on that dead face, and die!

ENGLISH SOLDIERS SONG OF MEMORY.

TO THE AIR OF “AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN!”

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, Let song and wine be pour’d! Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, Our brethren of the sword!

Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices Have mingled with our own; Fill high the cup! but when the soul rejoices, Forget not who are gone.

They that stood with us, midst the dead and dying, On Albuera’s plain; They that beside us cheerily track’d the flying, Far o’er the hills of Spain;

They that amidst us, when the shells were showering From old Rodrigo’s wall, The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle towering, First, first at Victory’s call;

They that upheld the banners, proudly waving, In Roncesvalles’ dell, With England’s blood the southern vineyards laving-- Forget not how they fell!

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, Let song and wine be pour’d! Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, Our brethren of the sword!

HAUNTED GROUND.

“And slight, withal, may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever--it may be a sound, A tone of music, summer eve, or spring, A flower--the wind--the ocean--which shall wound, Striking the electric train, wherewith we are darkly bound.”

Byron.

Yes, it _is_ haunted, this quiet scene, Fair as it looks, and all softly green; Yet fear not thou--for the spell is thrown, And the might of the shadow, on me alone.

Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays, And spirits that dwell where the water plays? Oh! in the heart there are stronger powers, That sway, though viewless, this world of ours!

Have I not lived midst these lonely dells, And loved, and sorrow’d, and heard farewells, And learn’d in my own deep soul to look, And tremble before that mysterious book?

Have I not, under these whispering leaves, Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves? Shadows--yet unto which life seem’d bound; And is it not--is it not haunted ground?

Must I not hear what _thou_ hearest not, Troubling the air of the sunny spot? Is there not something to rouse but me, Told by the rustling of every tree?

Song hath been here, with its flow of thought; Love, with its passionate visions fraught; Death, breathing stillness and sadness round; And is it not--is it not haunted ground?

Are there no phantoms, but such as come By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb? A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze, Can summon up mightier far than these!

But I may not linger amidst them here! Lovely they are, and yet things to fear; Passing and leaving a weight behind, And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind.

Away, away!--that my soul may soar As a free bird of blue skies once more! Here from its wing it may never cast The chain by those spirits brought back from the past.

Doubt it not--smile not--but go thou, too, Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew-- Where thou hast pray’d at thy mother’s knee, Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free;

Go thou, when life unto thee is changed, Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged; When from the idols thy heart hath made, Thou hast seen the colours of glory fade.

Oh! painfully then, by the wind’s low sigh, By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup’s dye, By a thousand tokens of sight and sound, Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground.

THE CHILD OF THE FORESTS.

WRITTEN AFTER READING THE MEMOIRS OF JOHN HUNTER.

[On one occasion, Mrs Hemans was somewhat ludicrously disenchanted, through the medium of a _North American Review_, on the subject of a self-constituted hero, whose history (which suggested her little poem, “The Child of the Forests”) she had read with unquestioning faith and lively interest. This was the redoubtable John Dunn Hunter, whose marvellous adventures amongst the Indians--by whom he represented himself to have been carried away in childhood--were worked up into a plausible narrative, admirably calculated to excite the sympathies of its readers. But how far it was really deserving of them, may be judged by the following extract from a letter to a friend who had been similarly mystified:--“I send you a _North American Review_, which will mortify C. and you with the sad intelligence that John Hunter--even our own John Dunn--the man of the panther’s skin--the adopted of the Kansas--the shooter with the rifle--no, with the long bow--is, I blush to say it, neither more nor less than an impostor; no better than Psalmanazar; no, no better than Carraboo herself. After this, what are we to believe again? Are there any Loo Choo Islands? Was there ever any Robinson Crusoe? Is there any Rammohun Roy? All one’s faith and trust is shaken to its foundations. No one here sympathises with me properly on this annoying occasion; but you, I think, will know how to feel, who have been quite as much devoted to that vile John Dunn as myself.”--_Memoir_, pp. 95-6.]

Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods, Where the red Indian lays his father’s dust, And, by the rushing of the torrent floods, To the Great Spirit bows in silent trust? Doth not thy soul o’ersweep the foaming main, To pour itself upon the wilds again?

They are gone forth, the desert’s warrior race, By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe; But where art thou, the swift one in the chase, With thy free footstep and unfailing bow? Their singing shafts have reach’d the panther’s lair, And where art thou?--thine arrows are not there.

They rest beside their streams--the spoil is won-- They hang their spears upon the cypress bough; The night-fires blaze, the hunter’s work is done-- They hear the tales of old--but where art thou? The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine, And there a place is fill’d that once was thine.

For thou art mingling with the city’s throng, And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside; Child of the forests! thou art borne along, E’en as ourselves, by life’s tempestuous tide. But will this be? and canst thou _here_ find rest? Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert’s breast.

Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear From the savannah land, the land of streams? Hear’st thou not murmurs which none else may hear? Is not the forest’s shadow on thy dreams? They call--wild voices call thee o’er the main, Back to thy free and boundless woods again.

Hear them not! hear them not!--thou canst not find In the far wilderness what once was thine! Thou hast quaff’d knowledge from the founts of mind, And gather’d loftier aims and hopes divine. Thou know’st the soaring thought, the immortal strain-- Seek not the deserts and the woods again!

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF * * *

In the full tide of melody and mirth, While joy’s bright spirit beams from every eye, Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from earth, Seems yet to speak in strains that cannot die.

Forget him not, for many a festal hour, Charm’d by those strains, for us has lightly flown: And memory’s visions, mingling with their power, Wake the heart’s thrill at each familiar tone.

Blest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays Revive life’s morning dreams, when youth is fled, And, fraught with images of other days, Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead.

His the dear art whose spells awhile renew Hope’s first illusions in their tenderest bloom-- Oh! what were life, unless such moments threw Bright gleams, “like angel visits,” o’er its gloom?

THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS.

Yes! thou hast met the sun’s last smile From the haunted hills of Rome; By many a bright Ægean isle Thou hast seen the billows foam.

From the silence of the Pyramid, Thou hast watch’d the solemn flow Of the Nile, that with its waters hid The ancient realm below.

Thy heart hath burn’d, as shepherds sung Some wild and warlike strain, Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung Through the pealing hills of Spain.

And o’er the lonely Grecian streams Thou hast heard the laurels moan, With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams Of the glory that is gone.

But go thou to the pastoral vales Of the Alpine mountains old, If thou wouldst hear immortal tales By the wind’s deep whispers told!

Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread Where man hath nobly striven, And life, like incense, hath been shed, An offering unto heaven.

For o’er the snows, and round the pines, Hath swept a noble flood; The nurture of the peasant’s vines Hath been the martyr’s blood!

A spirit, stronger than the sword, And loftier than despair, Through all the heroic region pour’d, Breathes in the generous air.

A memory clings to every steep Of long-enduring faith, And the sounding streams glad record keep Of courage unto death.

Ask of the peasant _where_ his sires For truth and freedom bled? Ask, where were lit the torturing fires, Where lay the holy dead!

And he will tell thee, all around, On fount, and turf, and stone, Far as the chamois’ foot can bound, Their ashes have been sown!

Go, when the Sabbath-bell is heard[324] Up through the wilds to float, When the dark old woods and caves are stirr’d To gladness by the note;

When forth, along their thousand rills, The mountain people come, Join thou their worship on those hills Of glorious martyrdom.

And while the song of praise ascends, And while the torrent’s voice, Like the swell of many an organ, blends, Then let thy soul rejoice.

Rejoice, that human hearts, through scorn, Through shame, through death, made strong, Before the rocks and heavens have borne Witness of God so long!

[324] See Gilly’s _Researches among the Mountains of Piedmont_, for an interesting account of a Sabbath-day among the upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of these Protestant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with their flocks and herds to the summit of the hills during the summer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season of the year assemble on that sacred day to worship in the open air.

SONG OF THE SPANISH WANDERER.

Pilgrim! oh say, hath thy cheek been fann’d By the sweet winds of my sunny land? Know’st thou the sound of its mountain pines? And hast thou rested beneath its vines?

Hast thou heard the music still wandering by, A thing of the breezes, in Spain’s blue sky, Floating away o’er hill and heath, With the myrtle’s whisper, the citron’s breath?

Then say, are there fairer vales than those Where the warbling of fountains for ever flows? Are there brighter flowers than mine own, which wave O’er Moorish ruin and Christian grave?

O sunshine and song! they are lying far By the streams that look to the western star; My heart is fainting to hear once more The water-voices of that sweet shore.

Many were they that have died for thee, And brave, my Spain! though thou art not free; But I call them blest--they have rent _their_ chain-- They sleep in thy valleys, my sunny Spain!

THE CONTADINA.

WRITTEN FOR A PICTURE.

Not for the myrtle, and not for the vine, Though its grape, like a gem, be the sunbeam’s shrine; And not for the rich blue heaven that showers Joy on thy spirit, like light on the flowers; And not for the scent of the citron trees-- Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for _these_.

Not for the beauty spread over thy brow, Though round thee a gleam, as of spring, it throw; And not for the lustre that laughs from thine eye, Like a dark stream’s flash to the sunny sky, Though the south in its riches naught lovelier sees-- Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for _these_.

But for those breathing and loving things-- For the boy’s fond arm that around thee clings, For the smiling cheek on thy lap that glows, In the peace of a trusting child’s repose-- For the hearts whose home is thy gentle breast, Oh! richly I call thee, and deeply blest!

TROUBADOUR SONG.

The warrior cross’d the ocean’s foam For the stormy fields of war; The maid was left in a smiling home And a sunny land afar.

_His_ voice was heard where javelin showers Pour’d on the steel-clad line; _Her_ step was midst the summer flowers, Her seat beneath the vine.

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, And the red blood stain’d his crest; While she--the gentlest wind of heaven Might scarcely fan her breast!

Yet a thousand arrows pass’d him by, And again he cross’d the seas; But she had died as roses die That perish with a breeze--

As roses die, when the blast is come For all things bright and fair: There was death within the smiling home-- How had death found her there?

THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.[325]

What hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells, Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main?-- Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour’d shells Bright things which gleam unreck’d of, and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea! We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.-- Sweep o’er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main! Earth claims not _these_ again.

Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have roll’d Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath fill’d up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o’ergrown the halls of revelry.-- Dash o’er them, ocean! in thy scornful play: Man yields them to decay.

Yet more! the billows and the depths have more! High hearts and brave are gather’d to thy breast! They hear not now the booming waters roar, The battle-thunders will not break their rest.-- Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave! Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely!--those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long, The prayer went up through midnight’s breathless gloom, And the vain yearning woke midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o’erthrown-- But all is not thine own.

To thee the love of woman hath gone down, Dark flow thy tides o’er manhood’s noble head, O’er youth’s bright locks, and beauty’s flowery crown: Yet must thou hear a voice--Restore the dead! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!-- Restore the dead, thou sea!

[325] Originally introduced in the “Forest Sanctuary.”

[“The only public mention that I have made of Mrs Hemans,” says Mr Montgomery of Sheffield, in a letter regarding her, with which we have been favoured by that excellent man and distinguished poet, “was in a series of lectures on the principal British Poets, delivered at the Royal Institution from ten to twelve years ago. In one of these, having to notice very briefly the ‘Female Poets,’ I said, ‘Mrs Hemans, in many of her lyrics, has struck out a new and attractive style of mingling the picturesque and the sentimental with such grace and beauty that, in her best pieces, she is better than almost any poet of either sex in that sprightly, yet pathetic vein, which she has exercised.’ I gave ‘The Treasures of the Deep’ as an example; and, indeed, I know nothing in our language--of the kind and the character I mean--comparable with it, either in conception or execution, for wealth of thought, felicity of diction, and commanding address:--The Ocean summoned to give an account of all that it has been doing through six thousand years, and the answers dictated by the questioner, till all the secrets of the abyss are revealed in the light by which poetry alone, of the purest order, can discover them. The last stanza is a crown of glory to the perfect whole.”

We beg to remind the author of “The World before the Flood,” and “The Pelican Island,” that the lectures to which he alludes have never been published. They were flatteringly successful, both when delivered at the Royal Institution, and before the literary societies of several of the principal provincial towns of England; and could not fail being acceptable to the great reading public, as the recorded opinions concerning the leading poets of Great Britain of past and present times, deliberately formed by one of their own number, who has himself written so much and so well, and who, in popularity as a lyrist, has no superior among contemporaries.]

BRING FLOWERS.

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, To wreath the cup ere the wine is pour’d! Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale: Their breath floats out on the southern gale, And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror’s path! He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath: He comes with the spoils of nations back, The vines lie crush’d in his chariot’s track, The turf looks red where he won the day. Bring flowers to die in the conqueror’s way!

Bring flowers to the captive’s lonely cell! They have tales of the joyous woods to tell-- Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, And the bright world shut from his languid eye; They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, And the dream of his youth. Bring him flowers, wild flowers!

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear! They were born to blush in her shining hair. She is leaving the home of her childhood’s mirth, She hath bid farewell to her father’s hearth, Her place is now by another’s side. Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o’er the bier to shed, A crown for the brow of the early dead! For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst, For this in the woods was the violet nursed! Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, They are love’s last gift. Bring ye flowers, pale flowers!

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer-- They are nature’s offering, their place is _there_! They speak of hope to the fainting heart, With a voice of promise they come and part, They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, They break forth in glory. Bring flowers, bright flowers!

THE CRUSADER’S RETURN.

“Alas! the mother that him bare, If she had been in presence there, In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair She had not known her child.” Marmion.

Rest, pilgrim, rest! Thou’rt from the Syrian land, Thou’rt from the wild and wondrous East, I know By the long-wither’d palm-branch in thy hand, And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow. Alas! the bright, the beautiful, who part So full of hope, for that far country’s bourne! Alas! the weary and the changed in heart, And dimm’d in aspect, who like thee return!

Thou’rt faint--stay, rest thee from thy toils at last: Through the high chestnuts lightly plays the breeze, The stars gleam out, the _Ave_ hour is past, The sailor’s hymn hath died along the seas. Thou’rt faint and worn--hear’st thou the fountain welling By the gray pillars of yon ruin’d shrine? Seest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelling? --He that hath left me train’d that loaded vine!

He was a child when thus the bower he wove, (Oh! hath a day fled since his childhood’s time?) That I might sit and hear the sound I love, Beneath its shade--the convent’s vesper-chime. And sit _thou_ there!--for he was gentle ever, With his glad voice he would have welcomed thee, And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parch’d lips’ fever. There in his place thou’rt resting--where is he?

If I could hear that laughing voice again, But once again! How oft it wanders by, In the still hours, like some remember’d strain, Troubling the heart with its wild melody!-- Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim! hast thou seen In that far land, the chosen land of yore, A youth--my Guido--with the fiery mien And the dark eye of this Italian shore?

The dark, clear, lightning eye! On heaven and earth It smiled--as if man were not dust it smiled! The very air seem’d kindling with his mirth, And I--my heart grew young before my child! My blessed child!--I had but him--yet he Fill’d all my home even with o’erflowing joy, Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free. Where is he now?--my pride, my flower, my boy!

His sunny childhood melted from my sight, Like a spring dew-drop. Then his forehead wore A prouder look--his eye a keener light: I knew these woods might be his world no more! He loved me--but he left me! Thus they go Whom we have rear’d, watch’d, bless’d, too much adored! He heard the trumpet of the Red Cross blow, And bounded from me with his father’s sword!

Thou weep’st--I tremble! Thou hast seen the slain Pressing a bloody turf--the young and fair, With their pale beauty strewing o’er the plain Where hosts have met: speak! answer!--was _he_ there? Oh! hath his smile departed? Could the grave Shut o’er those bursts of bright and tameless glee? No! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave!---- That look gives hope--I knew it could not be!

Still weep’st thou, wanderer? Some fond mother’s glance O’er thee, too, brooded in thine early years-- Think’st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance, Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears? Speak, for thy tears disturb me!--what art thou? Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on? Look up! Oh! is it--that wan cheek and brow!-- Is it--alas! yet joy!--my son, my son!

THEKLA’S SONG; OR, THE VOICE OF A SPIRIT.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

----“’Tis not merely The human being’s pride that peoples space With life and mystical predominance; Since likewise for the stricken heart of love This visible nature, and this common world, Are all too narrow.”--Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

[This song is said to have been composed by Schiller in answer to the inquiries of a friend respecting the fate of _Thekla_, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the tragedy of _Wallenstein’s Death_, after her resolution to visit the grave of her lover is made known.]

Ask’st thou my home?--my pathway wouldst thou know, When from thine eye my floating shadow pass’d? Was not my work fulfill’d and closed below? Had I not lived and loved? My lot was cast.

Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone, That, melting into song her soul away, Gave the spring-breeze what witch’d thee in its tone? But while she loved, she lived, in that deep lay!

Think’st thou my heart its lost one hath not found? Yes! we are one: oh! trust me, we have met, Where naught again may part what love hath bound, Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret.

There shalt _thou_ find us, there with us be blest, If, as _our_ love, _thy_ love is pure and true! There dwells my father,[326] sinless and at rest, Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue.

And well he feels, no error of the dust Drew to the stars of heaven his mortal ken; There it is with us even as is our trust-- He that believes is near the holy _then_.

There shall each feeling, beautiful and high, Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day. Oh! fear thou not to dream with waking eye! There lies deep meaning oft in childish play.

[326] Wallenstein.

THE REVELLERS.

Ring, joyous chords!--ring out again! A swifter, and a wilder strain! They are here--the fair face and the careless heart, And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.---- But I met a dimly mournful glance, In a sudden turn of the flying dance; I heard the tone of a heavy sigh In a pause of the thrilling melody! And it is not well that woe should breathe On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath!-- Ye that to thought or to grief belong, Leave, leave the hall of song!

Ring, joyous chords!----But who art _thou_ With the shadowy locks o’er thy pale young brow, And the world of dreamy gloom that lies In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes? Thou hast loved, fair girl! thou hast loved too well! Thou art mourning now o’er a broken spell; Thou hast pour’d thy heart’s rich treasures forth, And art unrepaid for their priceless worth! Mourn on!--yet come thou not _here_ the while, It is but a pain to see thee smile! There is not a tone in our songs for thee-- Home with thy sorrows flee!

Ring, joyous chords!--ring out again!---- But what dost thou with the revel’s train? A silvery voice through the soft air floats, But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes; There are bright young faces that pass thee by, But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye! Away! there’s a void in thy yearning breast, Thou weary man! wilt thou _here_ find rest! Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled, And the love of _thy_ spirit is with the dead: Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth-- Back to thy silent hearth!

Ring, joyous chords!--ring forth again! A swifter still, and a wilder strain!---- But _thou_, though a reckless mien be thine, And thy cup be crown’d with the foaming wine, By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud, By thine eye’s quick flash through its troubled cloud, I know thee! it is but the wakeful fear Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here! I know thee!--thou fearest the solemn night, With her piercing stars and her deep wind’s might! There’s a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst shun, For it asks what the secret soul hath done! And thou--there’s a dark weight on thine--away!-- Back to thy home, and pray!

Ring, joyous chords!--ring out again! A swifter still, and a wilder strain! And bring fresh wreaths!--we will banish all Save the free in heart from our festive hall. On! through the maze of the fleet dance, on!-- But where are the young and the lovely gone? Where are the brows with the Red Rose crown’d, And the floating forms with the bright zone bound? And the waving locks and the flying feet, That still should be where the mirthful meet?-- They are gone--they are fled--they are parted all: Alas! the forsaken hall!

THE CONQUEROR’S SLEEP.

Sleep midst thy banners furl’d! Yes! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying, With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing, Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the world! Sleep, while the babe sleeps on its mother’s breast. Oh! strong is night--for thou too art at rest!

Stillness hath smooth’d thy brow, And now might love keep timid vigils by thee, Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh thee, Alike unconscious and defenceless thou! Tread lightly, watchers! Now the field is won, Break not the rest of nature’s weary son!

Perchance some lovely dream Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing, To the green places of thy boyish daring, And all the windings of thy native stream. Why, this were joy! Upon the tented plain, Dream on, thou Conqueror!--be a child again!

But thou wilt wake at morn, With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping, And thy dark troubled thoughts all earth o’ersweeping; So wilt thou rise, O thou of woman born! And put thy terrors on, till none may dare Look upon thee--the tired one, slumbering there!

Why, so the peasant sleeps Beneath his vine!--and man must kneel before thee, And for his birthright vainly still implore thee! Shalt thou be stay’d because thy brother weeps?-- Wake! and forget that midst a dreaming world, Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furl’d!

Forget that thou, even thou, Hast feebly shiver’d when the wind pass’d o’er thee, And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee, And felt the night-dew chill thy fever’d brow! Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press on!-- Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son.

OUR LADY’S WELL.[327]

Fount of the woods! thou art hid no more From heaven’s clear eye, as in time of yore. For the roof hath sunk from thy mossy walls, And the sun’s free glance on thy slumber falls; And the dim tree-shadows across thee pass, As the boughs are sway’d o’er thy silvery glass; And the reddening leaves to thy breast are blown, When the autumn wind hath a stormy tone; And thy bubbles rise to the flashing rain-- Bright Fount! thou art nature’s own again!

Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more By the pilgrim’s foot, as in time of yore, When he came from afar, his beads to tell, And to chant his hymn at Our Lady’s Well. There is heard no _Ave_ through thy bowers, Thou art gleaming lone midst thy water-flowers! But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave, And there may the reaper his forehead lave, And the woodman seeks thee not in vain-- Bright Fount! thou art nature’s own again!

Fount of the Virgin’s ruin’d shrine! A voice that speaks of the past is thine! It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh With the notes that ring through the laughing sky; Midst the mirthful song of the summer bird, And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard!-- Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee, To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free? ’Tis that all on earth is of _Time’s_ domain-- He hath made thee nature’s own again!

Fount of the chapel with ages gray! Thou art springing freshly amidst decay; Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low, And the changeful hours breathe o’er thee now. Yet if at thine altar one holy thought In man’s deep spirit of old hath wrought; If peace to the mourner hath here been given, Or prayer, from a chasten’d heart, to heaven-- Be the spot still hallow’d while Time shall reign, Who hath made thee nature’s own again!

[327] A beautiful spring in the woods near St Asaph, formerly covered in with a chapel, now in ruins. It was dedicated to the Virgin, and, according to Pennant, much the resort of pilgrims.

[Those who only know the neighbourhood of St Asaph from travelling along its highways, can be little aware how much delightful scenery is attainable within walks of two or three miles’ distance from Mrs Hemans’s residence. The placid beauty of the Clwyd, and the wilder graces of the sister stream, the Elwy, particularly in the vicinity of “Our Lady’s Well,” and the interesting rocks and caves at Cefn, are little known to general tourists; though, by the lovers of her poetry, it will be remembered how sweetly she has apostrophised the

“Fount of the chapel with ages gray;”

and how tenderly, amid far different scenes, her thoughts reverted to the

“Cambrian river with slow music gliding, By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin’d towers.”

--(Sonnet to the River Clwyd.) --_Memoir_, p. 92-3.]

THE PARTING OF SUMMER.

Thou’rt bearing hence thy roses, Glad summer, fare thee well! Thou’rt singing thy last melodies In every wood and dell.

But ere the golden sunset Of thy latest lingering day, Oh! tell me, o’er this checker’d earth, How hast thou pass’d away?

Brightly, sweet Summer! brightly Thine hours have floated by, To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, The rangers of the sky;

And brightly in the forests, To the wild deer wandering free; And brightly, ’midst the garden flowers, To the happy murmuring bee:

But how to human bosoms, With all their hopes and fears, And thoughts that make them eagle-wings, To pierce the unborn years?

Sweet Summer! to the captive Thou hast flown in burning dreams Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves, And the blue rejoicing streams;--

To the wasted and the weary On the bed of sickness bound, In swift delirious fantasies, That changed with every sound;--

To the sailor on the billows, In longings, wild and vain, For the gushing founts and breezy hills, And the homes of earth again!

And unto me, glad Summer! How hast thou flown to me? _My_ chainless footstep naught hath kept From thy haunts of song and glee.

Thou hast flown in wayward visions, In memories of the dead-- In shadows from a troubled heart, O’er thy sunny pathway shed:

In brief and sudden strivings To fling a weight aside-- Midst these thy melodies have ceased, And all thy roses died.

But oh! thou gentle Summer! If I greet thy flowers once more, Bring me again the buoyancy Wherewith my soul should soar!

Give me to hail thy sunshine With song and spirit free; Or in a purer air than this May that next meeting be!

THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.

----“Sing aloud Old songs, the precious music of the heart.” Wordsworth

Sing them upon the sunny hills, When days are long and bright, And the blue gleam of shining rills Is loveliest to the sight! Sing them along the misty moor, Where ancient hunters roved, And swell them through the torrent’s roar, The songs our fathers loved!--

The songs their souls rejoiced to hear When harps were in the hall, And each proud note made lance and spear Thrill on the banner’d wall: The songs that through our valleys green, Sent on from age to age, Like his own river’s voice, have been The peasant’s heritage.

The reaper sings them when the vale Is fill’d with plumy sheaves; The woodman, by the starlight pale, Cheer’d homeward through the leaves: And unto them the glancing oars A joyous measure keep, Where the dark rocks that crest our shores Dash back the foaming deep.

So let it be! a light they shed O’er each old fount and grove; A memory of the gentle dead, A lingering spell of love. Murmuring the names of mighty men, They bid our streams roll on, And link high thoughts to every glen Where valiant deeds were done.

Teach them your children round the hearth, When evening fires burn clear, And in the fields of harvest mirth, And on the hills of deer. So shall each unforgotten word, When far those loved ones roam, Call back the hearts which once it stirr’d, To childhood’s holy home.

The green woods of their native land Shall whisper in the strain, The voices of their household band Shall breathe their names again; The heathery heights in vision rise, Where, like the stag, they roved. Sing to your sons those melodies, The songs your fathers loved!

THE WORLD IN THE OPEN AIR.

Come, while in freshness and dew it lies, To the world that is under the free blue skies! Leave ye man’s home, and forget his care-- There breathes no sigh on the dayspring’s air.

Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells A light, all made for the poet dwells-- A light, colour’d softly by tender leaves, Whence the primrose a mellower glow receives.

The stock-dove is there in the beechen tree, And the lulling tone of the honey-bee; And the voice of cool waters midst feathery fern, Shedding sweet sounds from some hidden urn.

There is life, there is youth, there is tameless mirth, Where the streams, with the lilies they wear, have birth; There is peace where the alders are whispering low: Come from man’s dwellings with all their woe!

Yes! we will come--we will leave behind The homes and the sorrows of human kind. It is well to rove where the river leads Its bright blue vein along sunny meads:

It is well through the rich wild woods to go, And to pierce the haunts of the fawn and doe; And to hear the gushing of gentle springs, When the heart has been fretted by worldly stings;

And to watch the colours that flit and pass, With insect-wings, through the wavy grass; And the silvery gleams o’er the ash-tree’s bark, Borne in with a breeze through the foliage dark.

Joyous and far shall our wanderings be, As the flight of birds o’er the glittering sea: To the woods, to the dingles where violets blow, We will bear no memory of earthly woe.

But if, by the forest-brook, we meet A line like the pathway of former feet; If, midst the hills, in some lonely spot, We reach the gray ruins of tower or cot;--

If the cell, where a hermit of old hath pray’d, Lift up its cross through the solemn shade; Or if some nook, where the wild flowers wave, Bear token sad of a mortal grave,--

Doubt not but _there_ will our steps be stay’d, There our quick spirits awhile delay’d; There will thought fix our impatient eyes, And win back our hearts to their sympathies.

For what though the mountains and skies be fair, Steep’d in soft hues of the summer air? ’Tis the soul of man, by its hopes and dreams, That lights up all nature with living gleams.

Where it hath suffer’d and nobly striven, Where it hath pour’d forth its vows to heaven; Where to repose it hath brightly pass’d, O’er this green earth there is glory cast.

And by that soul, midst groves and rills, And flocks that feed on a thousand hills, Birds of the forest, and flowers of the sod, _We_, only _we_, may be link’d to God!

KINDRED HEARTS.

Oh! ask not, hope thou not too much Of sympathy below! Few are the hearts whence one same touch Bids the sweet fountains flow-- Few, and by still conflicting powers Forbidden here to meet: Such ties would make this life of ours Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother’s eye Sees not as thine, which turns In such deep reverence to the sky, Where the rich sunset burns: It may be that the breath of spring, Born amidst violets lone, A rapture o’er thy soul can bring-- A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times-- A sorrowful delight! The melody of distant chimes, The sound of waves by night, The wind that, with so many a tone, Some chord within can thrill,-- These may have language all thine own, To _him_ a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true And steadfast love of years; The kindly, that from childhood grew, The faithful to thy tears! If there be one that o’er the dead Hath in thy grief borne part, And watch’d through sickness by thy bed,-- Call _his_ a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made, Wherein bright spirits blend, Like sister flowers of one sweet shade With the same breeze that bend-- For that full bliss of thought allied Never to mortals given, Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside, Or lift them unto heaven.

THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF THE NILE.

In sunset’s light, o’er Afric thrown, A wanderer proudly stood Beside the well-spring, deep and lone, Of Egypt’s awful flood-- The cradle of that mighty birth, So long a hidden thing to earth!

He heard its life’s first murmuring sound, A low mysterious tone-- A music sought, but never found By kings and warriors gone. He listen’d--and his heart beat high: That was the song of victory!

The rapture of a conqueror’s mood Rush’d burning through his frame,-- The depths of that green solitude Its torrents could not tame; Though stillness lay, with eve’s last smile, Round those far fountains of the Nile.

Night came with stars. Across his soul There swept a sudden change: E’en at the pilgrim’s glorious goal, A shadow dark and strange Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall O’er triumph’s hour--_and is this all_?[328]

No more than this! What seem’d it now First by that spring to stand? A thousand streams of lovelier flow Bathed his own mountain-land! Whence, far o’er waste and ocean track, Their wild, sweet voices, call’d him back.

They call’d him back to many a glade, His childhood’s haunt of play, Where brightly through the beechen shade Their waters glanced away; They call’d him, with their sounding waves, Back to his father’s hills and graves.

But, darkly mingling with the thought Of each familiar scene, Rose up a fearful vision, fraught With all that lay between-- The Arab’s lance, the desert’s gloom, The whirling sands, the red simoom!

Where was the glow of power and pride? The spirit born to roam? His alter’d heart within him died With yearnings for his home! All vainly struggling to repress That gush of painful tenderness.

He wept! The stars of Afric’s heaven Beheld his bursting tears, E’en on that spot where fate had given The meed of toiling years!-- O Happiness! how far we flee Thine own sweet paths in search of thee!

[328] Bruce’s mingled feelings on arriving at the source of the Nile, are thus portrayed by him:--“I was, at that very moment, in possession of what had for many years been the principal object of my ambition and wishes; indifference, which, from the usual infirmity of human nature, follows, at least for a time, complete enjoyment, had taken place of it. The marsh and the fountains of the Nile, upon comparison with the rise of many of our rivers, became now a trifling object in my sight. I remembered that magnificent scene in my own native country, where the Tweed, Clyde, and Annan, rise in one hill. I began, in my sorrow, to treat the inquiry about the source of the Nile as a violent effort of a distempered fancy.”

CASABIANCA.[329]

The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle’s wreck Shone round him o’er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm-- A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form.

The flames roll’d on--he would not go Without his father’s word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.

He call’d aloud:--“Say, father! say If yet my task is done!” He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

“Speak, father!” once again he cried, “If I may yet be gone!” And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames roll’d on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And look’d from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud, “My father! must I stay?” While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And stream’d above the gallant child Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder-sound-- The boy--oh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strew’d the sea!--

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part; But the noblest thing which perish’d there Was that young faithful heart!

[329] Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.

THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.[330]

’Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours, As they floated in light away, By the opening and the folding flowers, That laugh to the summer’s day.

Thus had each moment its own rich hue, And its graceful cup and bell, In whose colour’d vase might sleep the dew, Like a pearl in an ocean-shell.

To such sweet signs might the time have flow’d In a golden current on, Ere from the garden, man’s first abode, The glorious guests were gone.

So might the days have been brightly told-- Those days of song and dreams-- When shepherds gather’d their flocks of old By the blue Arcadian streams.

So in those isles of delight, that rest Far off in a breezeless main, Which many a bark, with a weary quest, Has sought, but still in vain.

Yet is not life, in its real flight, Mark’d thus--even thus--on earth, By the closing of one hope’s delight, And another’s gentle birth?

Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower, Shutting in turn, may leave A lingerer still for the sunset hour, A charm for the shaded eve.

[330] This dial was, I believe, formed by Linnæus, and marked the hours by the opening and closing, at regular intervals, of the flowers arranged in it.

OUR DAILY PATHS.[331]

“Naught shall prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith that all which we behold Is full of blessings.” Wordsworth.

There’s beauty all around our paths, if but our watchful eyes Can trace it midst familiar things, and through their lowly guise; We may find it where a hedgerow showers its blossoms o’er our way, Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red light of day.

We may find it where a spring shines clear beneath an aged tree, With the foxglove o’er the water’s glass, borne downwards by the bee; Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen stems is thrown, As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses green and lone.

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross the cold blue sky, While soft on icy pool and stream their pencil’d shadows lie, When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work bound, Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of crystals to the ground.

Yes! beauty dwells in all our paths--but sorrow too is there: How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, still summer air! When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the joyous things, That through the leafy places glance on many-colour’d wings,

With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland shades, And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in the glades; And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo’s plaintive tone Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone.

But are we free to do even thus--to wander as we will, Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o’er the breezy hill? No! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind us fast, While from their narrow round we see the golden day fleet past.

They hold us from the woodlark’s haunts, and violet dingles, back, And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining river’s track; They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, hope, and mirth, And weigh our burden’d spirits down with the cumbering dust of earth.

Yet should this be? Too much, too soon, despondingly we yield! A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field! A sweeter by the birds of heaven--which tell us, in their flight, Of One that through the desert air for ever guides them right.

Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain conflicts cease? Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy hours of peace, And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our pathway lies, By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the skies!

[331] This little poem derives an additional interest from being affectingly associated with a name no less distinguished than that of the late Mr Dugald Stewart. The admiration he always expressed for Mrs Hemans’s poetry, was mingled with regret that she so generally made choice of melancholy subjects; and on one occasion, he sent her, through a mutual friend, a message suggestive of his wish that she would employ her fine talents in giving more consolatory views of the ways of Providence, thus infusing comfort and cheer into the bosoms of her readers, in a spirit of Christian philosophy, which, he thought, would be more consonant with the pious mind and loving heart displayed in every line she wrote, than dwelling on what was painful and depressing, however beautifully and touchingly such subjects might be treated of. This message was faithfully transmitted, and almost by return of post, Mrs Hemans (who was then residing in Wales) sent to the kind friend to whom it had been forwarded, the poem of “Our Daily Paths,” requesting it might be given to Mr Stewart, with an assurance of her gratitude for the interest he took in her writings, and alleging as the reason of the mournful strain which pervaded them, “that a cloud hung over her life which she could not always rise above.”

The letter reached Mr Stewart just as he was stepping into the carriage, to leave his country residence (Kinneil House, the property of the Duke of Hamilton) for Edinburgh--the last time, alas! his presence was ever to gladden that happy home, as his valuable life was closed very shortly afterwards. The poem was read to him by his daughter, on his way to Edinburgh, and he expressed himself in the highest degree charmed and gratified with the result of his suggestions; and some of the lines which pleased him more particularly were often repeated to him during the few remaining weeks of his life.

THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS.

Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief, In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb; His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief, And his arms folded in majestic gloom; And his bow lay unstrung, beneath the mound Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.

For a pale cross above its greensward rose, Telling the cedars and the pines that there Man’s heart and hope had struggled with his woes, And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. Now all was hush’d--and eve’s last splendour shone With a rich sadness on th’ attesting stone.

There came a lonely traveller o’er the wild, And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave, Asking the tale of its memorial, piled Between the forest and the lake’s bright wave; Till, as a wind might stir a wither’d oak, On the deep dream of age his accents broke.

And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said-- “I listen’d for the words, which, years ago, Pass’d o’er these waters. Though the voice is fled Which made them as a singing fountain’s flow, Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, Sometimes the forest’s murmur gives them back.

“Ask’st thou of him whose house is lone beneath? I was an eagle in my youthful pride, When o’er the seas he came, with summer’s breath, To dwell amidst us, on the lake’s green side. Many the times of flowers have been since then-- Many, but bringing naught like _him_ again!

“Not with the hunter’s bow and spear he came, O’er the blue hills to chase the flying roe; Not the dark glory of the woods to tame, Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low; But to spread tidings of all holy things, Gladdening our souls, as with the morning’s wings.

“Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met, I and my brethren that from earth are gone, Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone? He told of One the grave’s dark bonds who broke, And our hearts burn’d within us as he spoke.

“He told of far and sunny lands, which lie Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell: Bright must they be! for _there_ are none that die, And none that weep, and none that say ‘Farewell!’ He came to guide us thither; but away The Happy call’d him, and he might not stay.

“We saw him slowly fade--athirst, perchance, For the fresh waters of that lovely clime; Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance, And on his gleaming hair no touch of time-- Therefore we hoped: but now the lake looks dim, For the green summer comes--and finds not him!

“We gather’d round him in the dewy hour Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree; From his clear voice, at first, the words of power Came low, like moanings of a distant sea; But swell’d and shook the wilderness ere long, As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.

“And then once more they trembled on his tongue, And his white eyelids flutter’d, and his head Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hung---- Know’st thou not how we pass to join the dead? It is enough! he sank upon my breast-- Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest!

“We buried him where he was wont to pray, By the calm lake, e’en here, at eventide; We rear’d this cross in token where he lay, For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died! Now hath he surely reach’d, o’er mount and wave, That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave.

“But I am sad! I mourn the clear light taken Back from my people, o’er whose place it shone, The pathway to the better shore forsaken, And the true words forgotten, save by one, Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast.”

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye: “Son of the wilderness! despair thou not, Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, And the cloud settled o’er thy nation’s lot! Heaven darkly works--yet, where the seed hath been, There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen.

“Hope on, hope ever!--by the sudden springing Of green leaves which the winter hid so long; And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing, After cold silent months the woods among; And by the rending of the frozen chains, Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains.

“Deem not the words of light that here were spoken, But as a lovely song, to leave no trace; Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken, And the full dayspring rise upon thy race! And fading mists the better path disclose, And the wide desert blossom as the rose.”

So by the cross they parted, in the wild, Each fraught with musings for life’s after day, Memories to visit _one_, the forest’s child, By many a blue stream in its lonely way; And upon _one_, midst busy throngs to press Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness.

[“‘The Cross in the Wilderness,’ by Mrs Hemans, is in every way worthy of her delightful genius; and nothing but want of room prevents us from quoting it entire. Mrs Hemans is, indeed, the star that shines most brightly in the hemisphere; and in every thing she writes, there is, along with a fine spirit of poetry, a still finer spirit of moral and religious truth. Of all the female poets of the day, Mrs Hemans is, in the best sense of the word, the most truly feminine--no false glitter about her--no ostentatious display--no gaudy and jingling ornaments--but, as an English matron ought to be, simple, sedate, cheerful, elegant, and religious.”--Professor Wilson in _Blackwood’s Magazine_. Dec. 1826.

LAST RITES.

By the mighty minster’s bell, Tolling with a sudden swell; By the colours half-mast high, O’er the sea hung mournfully; Know, a prince hath died!

By the drum’s dull muffled sound, By the arms that sweep the ground, By the volleying muskets’ tone, Speak ye of a soldier gone In his manhood’s pride.

By the chanted psalm that fills Reverently the ancient hills,[332] Learn, that from his harvests done, Peasants hear a brother on To his last repose.

By the pall of snowy white Through the yew-trees gleaming bright; By the garland on the bier, Weep! a maiden claims thy tear-- Broken is the rose!

Which is the tenderest rite of all?-- Buried virgin’s coronal, Requiem o’er the monarch’s head, Farewell gun for warrior dead, Herdsman’s funeral hymn?

Tells not each of human woe? Each of hope and strength brought low? Number each with holy things, If one chastening thought it brings Ere life’s day grow dim!

[332] A custom still retained at rural funerals in some parts of England and Wales.

THE HEBREW MOTHER.[333]

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon’s plain, When a young mother, with her first-born, thence Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow’d Unto the Temple service. By the hand She led him, and her silent soul, the while, Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think That aught so pure, so beautiful was hers, To bring before her God. So pass’d they on O’er Judah’s hills; and wheresoe’er the leaves Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs, With their cool dimness, cross’d the sultry blue Of Syria’s heaven, she paused, that he might rest; Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep That weigh’d their dark fringe down, to sit and watch The crimson deepening o’er his cheek’s repose, As at a red flower’s heart. And where a fount Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades, Making its bank green gems along the wild, There, too, she linger’d, from the diamond wave Drawing bright water for his rosy lips, And softly parting clusters of jet curls To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reach’d, The earth’s one sanctuary--and rapture hush’d Her bosom, as before her, through the day, It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep’d In light like floating gold. But when that hour Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear, Turn’d from the white-robed priest, and round her arm Clung even as joy clings--the deep spring-tide Of nature then swell’d high, and o’er her child Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds Of weeping and sad song. “Alas!” she cried,--

“Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me, The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes; And now fond thoughts arise, And silver cords again to earth have won me, And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-- How shall I hence depart?

“How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing So late, along the mountains, at my side? And I, in joyous pride, By every place of flowers my course delaying, Wove, e’en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, Beholding thee so fair!

“And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day Turn’d from its door away? While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, I languish for thy voice, which past me still Went like a singing rill?

“Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return, With the full water-urn; Nor will thy sleep’s low dove-like breathings greet me, As midst the silence of the stars I wake, And watch for thy dear sake.

“And thou, will slumber’s dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother’s hand to smooth thy bed? Wilt thou not vainly spread Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, A cry which none shall hear?

“What have I said, my child! Will _He_ not hear thee, Who the young ravens heareth from their nest? Shall He not guard thy rest, And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, Breathe o’er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy? Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy.

“I give thee to thy God--the God that gave thee, A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart! And, precious as thou art, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, My own, my beautiful, my undefiled! And thou shalt be His child.

“Therefore, farewell! I go--my soul may fail me, As the hart panteth for the water brooks, Yearning for thy sweet looks. But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me; Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, The Rock of Strength.--Farewell!”

[333] “It is long since we have read any thing more beautiful than the following poem by Mrs Hemans.”--_Blackwood’s Magazine._ Jan. 1826.

[“It would be wearisomely superfluous to enumerate the long series of lyrics which she now poured forth with increasing earnestness and rapidity, and without which none of the lighter periodicals of the day made its appearance. One or two, however, must be mentioned, as certain to survive so long as the short poem shall be popular in England. ‘The Treasures of the Deep,’ ‘The Hour of Death,’ ‘The Graves of a Household,’ ‘The Cross in the Wilderness,’ are all admirable. With these, too, may be mentioned those poems in which a short descriptive recitative (to borrow a word from the opera) introduces a lyrical burst of passion or regret, or lamentation. This form of composition became so especially popular in America, that hardly a poet has arisen, since the influence of Mrs Hemans’ genius made itself felt on the other side of the Atlantic, who has not attempted something of a similar subject and construction. ‘The Hebrew Mother’ has been followed by an infinite number of sketches from Scripture: this lyric, too, should be particularised as having made friends for its authoress among those of the ancient faith in England. Among the last strangers who visited her, eager to thank her for the pleasure her writings had afforded them, were a Jewish gentleman and lady, who entreated to be admitted by the author of the ‘Hebrew Mother.’”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 114-15.

“Her ‘Voice of Spring,’ her ‘Hour of Death,’ her ‘Treasures of the Deep,’ her ‘Graves of a Household,’ her ‘England’s Dead,’ her ‘Trumpet,’ her ‘Hebrew Mother,’ and a host of similar pieces--these are the undying lays, the lumps of pure gold. We do not think thus with reference to Mrs Hemans’ lyrics only; it strikes us that nearly all our present poets must depend for future fame on their shorter pieces.”--_Literary Magnet_, 1826.]

THE WRECK.

All night the booming minute-gun Had peal’d along the deep, And mournfully the rising sun Look’d o’er the tide-worn steep. A bark from India’s coral strand, Before the raging blast, Had vail’d her topsails to the sand, And bow’d her noble mast.

The queenly ship!--brave hearts had striven, And true ones died with her! We saw her mighty cable riven, Like floating gossamer. We saw her proud flag struck that morn-- A star once o’er the seas,-- Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn, And sadder things than these!

We saw her treasures cast away, The rocks with pearls were sown; And, strangely sad, the ruby’s ray Flash’d out o’er fretted stone. And gold was strewn the wet sands o’er, Like ashes by a breeze; And gorgeous robes--but oh! that shore Had sadder things than these!

We saw the strong man still and low, A crush’d reed thrown aside; Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, Not without strife he died. And near him on the sea-weed lay-- Till then we had not wept-- But well our gushing hearts might say, That there a _mother_ slept!

For her pale arms a babe had press’d With such a wreathing grasp, Billows had dash’d o’er that fond breast, Yet not undone the clasp. Her very tresses had been flung To wrap the fair child’s form, Where still their wet long streamers hung All tangled by the storm.

And beautiful, midst that wild scene, Gleam’d up the boy’s dead face, Like slumber’s, trustingly serene, In melancholy grace. Deep in her bosom lay his head, With half-shut violet-eye-- _He_ had known little of her dread, Naught of her agony!

O human love! whose yearning heart, Through all things vainly true, So stamps upon thy mortal part Its passionate adieu-- Surely thou hast another lot: There is some home for thee, Where thou shalt rest, remembering not The moaning of the sea!

THE TRUMPET.[334]

The trumpet’s voice hath roused the land-- Light up the beacon pyre! A hundred hills have seen the brand, And waved the sign of fire. A hundred banners to the breeze Their gorgeous folds have cast-- And, hark! was that the sound of seas? A king to war went past.

The chief is arming in his hall, The peasant by his hearth; The mourner hears the thrilling call, And rises from the earth. The mother on her first-born son Looks with a boding eye-- _They_ come not back, though all be won, Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound The falchion to his side; E’en, for the marriage altar crown’d, The lover quits his bride. And all this haste, and change, and fear, By _earthly_ clarion spread!-- How will it be when kingdoms hear The blast that wakes the dead?

[334] “We cannot refrain quoting another poem by the same distinguished writer. It has something sublime.”--_Blackwood’s Magazine_, Jan. 1826.

EVENING PRAYER, AT A GIRLS’ SCHOOL.

“Now in thy youth, beseech of Him Who giveth, upbraiding not, That His light in thy heart become not dim, And his love be unforgot; And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee.” Bernard Barton.

Hush! ’tis a holy hour. The quiet room Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads, With all their clustering locks, untouch’d by care, And bow’d, as flowers are bow’d with night, in prayer.

Gaze on--’tis lovely! Childhood’s lip and cheek, Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought! Gaze--yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?-- Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity!

O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest Lightly, when those pure orisons are done As birds with slumber’s honey-dew opprest, Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun-- Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts th’ untroubled springs Of hope make melody where’er ye tread, And o’er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman’s tenderness--how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you--silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering’s hour, And sumless riches, from affection’s deep, To pour on broken reeds--a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship. Therefore pray!

Her lot is on you--to be found untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain; Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And, oh! to love through all things. Therefore pray!

And take the thought of this calm vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from their prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight! Earth will forsake--Oh! happy to have given Th’ unbroken heart’s first fragrance unto heaven.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

“Il est dans la Nature d’aimer à se livrer à l’idée même qu’on redoute.”--Corinne.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath, And stars to set--but all, Thou hast _all_ seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care, Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer-- But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour-- Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief’s o’erwhelming power, A time for softer tears--but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee--but thou art not of those That wait the ripen’d bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath, And stars to set--but all, Thou hast _all_ seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn’s hue shall tinge the golden grain-- But who shall teach us when to look for thee!

Is it when spring’s first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?-- They have _one_ season--_all_ are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth--and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest-- Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath, And stars to set--but all-- Thou hast _all_ seasons for thine own, O Death!

THE LOST PLEIAD.

“Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below.”--Byron.

And is there glory from the heavens departed? O void unmark’d!--thy sisters of the sky Still hold their place on high, Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye!

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night? She wears her crown of old magnificence, Though thou art exiled thence-- No desert seems to part those urns of light, Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning-- The shepherd greets them on his mountains free; And from the silvery sea To them the sailor’s wakeful eye is turning-- Unchanged they rise, they have not mourn’d for thee.

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, Even as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray, Swept by the wind away? Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, And was there power to smite them with decay?

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? Bow’d be our hearts to think on what we are, When from its height afar A world sinks thus--and yon majestic heaven Shines not the less for that one vanish’d star!

THE CLIFFS OF DOVER.

“The inviolate Island of the sage and free.”--Byron.

Rocks of my country! let the cloud Your crested heights array, And rise ye like a fortress proud Above the surge and spray!

My spirit greets you as ye stand, Breasting the billow’s foam: Oh! thus for ever guard the land, The sever’d land of home!

I have left rich blue skies behind, Lighting up classic shrines, And music in the southern wind, And sunshine on the vines.

The breathings of the myrtle flowers Have floated o’er my way; The pilgrim’s voice, at vesper hours, Hath soothed me with its lay.

The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain, The purple heavens of Rome-- Yes, all are glorious,--yet again I bless thee, land of home!

For thine the Sabbath peace, my land! And thine the guarded hearth; And thine the dead--the noble band, That make thee holy earth.

Their voices meet me in thy breeze, Their steps are on thy plains; Their names, by old majestic trees, Are whisper’d round thy fanes.

Their blood hath mingled with the tide Of thine exulting sea; Oh, be it still a joy, a pride, To live and die for thee!

THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS.

The kings of old have shrine and tomb In many a minster’s haughty gloom; And green, along the ocean side, The mounds arise where heroes died; But show me, on thy flowery breast, Earth! where thy _nameless_ martyrs rest!

The thousands that, uncheer’d by praise, Have made one offering of their days; For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom’s sake, Resign’d the bitter cup to take; And silently, in fearless faith, Bowing their noble souls to death.

Where sleep they, Earth? By no proud stone Their narrow couch of rest is known; The still sad glory of their name Hallows no fountain unto Fame; No--not a tree the record bears Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.

Yet haply all around lie strew’d The ashes of that multitude: It may be that each day we tread Where thus devoted hearts have bled; And the young flowers our children sow, Take root in holy dust below.

Oh, that the many-rustling leaves, Which round our homes the summer weaves, Or that the streams, in whose glad voice Our own familiar paths rejoice, Might whisper through the starry sky, To tell where those blest slumberers lie!

Would not our inmost hearts be still’d, With knowledge of their presence fill’d, And by its breathings taught to prize The meekness of self-sacrifice? --But the old woods and sounding waves Are silent of those hidden graves.

Yet what if no light footstep there In pilgrim-love and awe repair, So let it be! Like him, whose clay Deep buried by his Maker lay, They sleep in secret,--but their sod, Unknown to man, is mark’d of God!

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

“Pregar, pregar, pregar, Ch’ altro ponno i mortali al pianger nati?” Alfieri.

Child, amidst the flowers at play, While the red light fades away; Mother, with thine earnest eye Ever following silently; Father, by the breeze of eve Call’d thy harvest-work to leave-- Pray: ere yet the dark hours be, Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Traveller, in the stranger’s land, Far from thine own household band; Mourner, haunted by the tone Of a voice from this world gone; Captive, in whose narrow cell Sunshine hath not leave to dwell; Sailor on the darkening sea-- Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Warrior, that from battle won Breathest now at set of sun; Woman, o’er the lowly slain Weeping on his burial-plain; Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, Kindred by one holy tie, Heaven’s first star alike ye see-- Lift the heart and bend the knee!

THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRODIGAL.

“Von Baumen, aus Wellen, aus Mauern, Wie ruft es dir freundlich und lind; Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauern? Komm’ spielen, du freundliches Kind!” La Motte Fouque.

Oh! when wilt thou return To thy spirit’s early loves? To the freshness of the morn, To the stillness of the groves?

The summer birds are calling Thy household porch around, And the merry waters falling With sweet laughter in their sound.

And a thousand bright-vein’d flowers, From their banks of moss and fern, Breathe of the sunny hours-- But when wilt thou return?

Oh! thou hast wander’d long From thy home without a guide; And thy native woodland song In thine alter’d heart hath died.

Thou hast flung the wealth away, And the glory of thy spring; And to thee the leaves’ light play Is a long-forgotten thing.

But when wilt thou return?-- Sweet dews may freshen soon The flower, within whose urn Too fiercely gazed the noon.

O’er the image of the sky, Which the lake’s clear bosom wore, Darkly may shadows lie-- But not for evermore.

Give back thy heart again To the freedom of the woods, To the birds’ triumphant strain, To the mountain solitudes!

But when wilt thou return? Along thine own pure air There are young sweet voices borne-- Oh! should not thine be there?

Still at thy father’s board There is kept a place for thee; And, by thy smile restored, Joy round the hearth shall be.

Still hath thy mother’s eye, Thy coming step to greet, A look of days gone by, Tender and gravely sweet.

Still, when the prayer is said, For thee kind bosoms yearn, For thee fond tears are shed-- Oh! when wilt thou return?

THE WAKENING.

How many thousands are wakening now! Some to the songs from the forest bough, To the rustling of leaves at the lattice pane, To the chiming fall of the early rain.

And some, far out on the deep mid-sea, To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee, As they break into spray on the ship’s tall side, That holds through the tumult her path of pride.

And some--oh, well may _their_ hearts rejoice!-- To the gentle sound of a mother’s voice: Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone, When from the board and the hearth ’tis gone.

And some, in the camp, to the bugle’s breath, And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath, And the sudden roar of the hostile gun, Which tells that a field must ere night be won.

And some, in the gloomy convict cell, To the dull deep note of the warning bell, As it heavily calls them forth to die, When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.

And some to the peal of the hunter’s horn, And some to the din from the city borne, And some to the rolling of torrent floods, Far midst old mountains and solemn woods.

So are we roused on this checker’d earth: Each unto light hath a daily birth; Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet, Are the voices which first our upspringing meet.

But _one_ must the sound be, and _one_ the call, Which from the dust shall awaken us all: One!--but to sever’d and distant dooms, How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs?

THE BREEZE FROM SHORE.

[“Poetry reveals to us the loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness of youthful feeling, revives the relish of simple pleasures, keeps unquenched the enthusiasm which warmed the spring-time of our being, refines youthful love, strengthens our interest in human nature, by vivid delineations of its tenderest and loftiest feelings; and, through the brightness of its prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the future life.”--Channing.]

Joy is upon the lonely seas, When Indian forests pour Forth, to the billow and the breeze, Their odours from the shore; Joy, when the soft air’s fanning sigh Bears on the breath of Araby.

Oh! welcome are the winds that tell A wanderer of the deep Where, far away, the jasmines dwell, And where the myrrh-trees weep! Blest on the sounding surge and foam Are tidings of the citron’s home!

The sailor at the helm they meet, And hope his bosom stirs, Upspringing, midst the waves, to greet The fair earth’s messengers, That woo him, from the moaning main, Back to her glorious bowers again.

They woo him, whispering lovely tales Of many a flowering glade, And fount’s bright gleam, in island vales Of golden-fruited shade: Across his lone ship’s wake they bring A vision and a glow of spring.

And, O ye masters of the lay! Come not even thus your songs That meet us on life’s weary way, Amidst her toiling throngs? Yes! o’er the spirit thus they bear A current of celestial air.

Their power is from the brighter clime That in our birth hath part; Their tones are of the world, which time Sears not within the heart: They tell us of the living light In its green places ever bright.

They call us, with a voice divine, Back to our early love,-- Our vows of youth at many a shrine, Whence far and fast we rove. Welcome high thought and holy strain That make us Truth’s and Heaven’s again!

THE DYING IMPROVISATORE.[335]

“My heart shall be pour’d over thee--and break.” Prophecy of Dante.

The spirit of my land, It visits me once more!--though I must die Far from the myrtles which thy breeze hath fann’d, My own bright Italy!

It is, it is thy breath, Which stirs my soul e’en yet, as wavering flame Is shaken by the wind,--in life and death Still trembling, yet the same!

Oh! that love’s quenchless power Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky, And through thy groves its dying music shower, Italy! Italy!

The nightingale is there, The sunbeam’s glow, the citron flower’s perfume, The south wind’s whisper in the scented air-- It will not pierce the tomb!

Never, oh! never more, On thy Rome’s purple heaven mine eye shall dwell, Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore-- My Italy! farewell!

Alas!--thy hills among Had I but left a memory of my name, Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song, Unto immortal fame!

But like a lute’s brief tone, Like a rose-odour on the breezes cast, Like a swift flush of dayspring, seen and gone, So hath my spirit pass’d--

Pouring itself away As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns, Into a fleeting lay;

That swells, and floats, and dies, Leaving no echo to the summer woods Of the rich breathings and impassion’d sighs Which thrill’d their solitudes.

Yet, yet remember me! Friends! that upon its murmurs oft have hung, When from my bosom, joyously and free, The fiery fountain sprung.

Under the dark rich blue Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea, And when woods kindle into spring’s first hue, Sweet friends! remember me!

And in the marble halls, Where life’s full glow the dreams of beauty wear, And poet-thoughts embodied light the walls, Let me be with you there!

Fain would I bind, for you, My memory with all glorious things to dwell! Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew-- Sweet friends! bright land! farewell!

[335] Sestini, the Roman Improvisatore, when on his deathbed at Paris, is said to have poured forth a Farewell to Italy, in his most impassioned poetry.

MUSIC OF YESTERDAY.

“O! mein Geist, ich fuhle es in mir, strebt nach etwas Ueberirdischem, das keinem Menschen gegonnt ist.”--Tieck

The chord, the harp’s full chord is hush’d, The voice hath died away, Whence music, like sweet waters, gush’d But yesterday.

Th’ awakening note, the breeze-like swell. The full o’ersweeping tone, The sounds that sigh’d “Farewell, farewell!” Are gone--all gone!

The love, whose fervent spirit pass’d With the rich measure’s flow; The grief, to which it sank at last-- Where are they now?

They are with the scents by summer’s breath Borne from a rose now shed: With the words from lips long seal’d in death-- For ever fled.

The sea-shell of its native deep A moaning thrill retains; But earth and air no record keep Of parted strains.

And all the memories, all the dreams, They woke in floating by; The tender thoughts, th’ Elysian gleams-- Could these too die?

They died! As on the water’s breast The ripple melts away, When the breeze that stirr’d it sinks to rest-- So perish’d they!

Mysterious in their sudden birth, And mournful in their close, Passing, and finding not on earth Aim or repose.

Whence were they?--like the breath of flowers Why thus to come and go? A long, long journey must be ours Ere this we know!

THE FORSAKEN HEARTH.

“Was mir fehlt?--Mir fehlt ja alles, Bin so ganz verlassen hier!” Tyrolese Melody.

The Hearth, the Hearth is desolate! the fire is quench’d and gone That into happy children’s eyes once brightly laughing shone; The place where mirth and music met is hush’d through day and night. Oh! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there made light!

But scatter’d are those pleasant smiles afar by mount and shore, Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed to meet no more. Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other’s joy or mirth, Unbound is that sweet wreath of home--alas! the lonely hearth!

The voices that have mingled here now speak another tongue, Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs their mother sung. Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound each household tone: The hearth, the hearth is desolate! the bright fire quench’d and gone!

But _are_ they speaking, singing yet, as in their days of glee? Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on earth or sea? Oh! some are hush’d, and some are changed, and never shall one strain Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again.

And of the hearts that here were link’d by long-remember’d years, Alas! the brother knows not now when fall the sister’s tears! One haply revels at the feast, while one may droop alone: For broken is the household chain, the bright fire quench’d and gone!

Not so--’tis _not_ a broken chain: thy memory binds them still, Thou holy hearth of other days! though silent now and chill. The smiles, the tears, the rites, beheld by thine attesting stone, Have yet a living power to mark thy children for thine own.

The father’s voice, the mother’s prayer, though call’d from earth away, With music rising from the dead, their spirits yet shall sway; And by the past, and by the grave, the parted yet are one, Though the loved hearth be desolate, the bright fire quench’d and gone!

THE DREAMER.

“There is no such thing as forgetting, possible to the mind; a thousand accidents may, and will, interpose a veil between our present consciousness and the secret inscription on the mind; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains for ever.”

English Opium-Eater.

“Thou hast been call’d, O sleep! the friend of woe, But ’tis the happy who have call’d thee so.” Southey.

Peace to thy dreams! thou art slumbering now-- The moonlight’s calm is upon thy brow; All the deep love that o’erflows thy breast Lies midst the hush of thy heart at rest-- Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell, When eve through the woodlands hath sigh’d farewell.

Peace! The sad memories that through the day With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay, The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead, That bow’d thee as winds bow the willow’s head, The yearnings for faces and voices gone-- All are forgotten! Sleep on, sleep on!

_Are_ they forgotten? It is not so! Slumber divides not the heart from its woe. E’en now o’er thine aspect swift changes pass, Like lights and shades over wavy grass: Tremblest thou, Dreamer? O love and grief! Ye have storms that shake e’en the closed-up leaf!

On thy parted lips there’s a quivering thrill, As on a lyre ere its chords are still; On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye, There’s a large tear gathering heavily-- A rain from the clouds of thy spirit press’d: Sorrowful Dreamer! this is not rest!

It is Thought at work amidst buried hours-- It is Love keeping vigil o’er perish’d flowers. --Oh, we bear within us mysterious things! Of Memory and Anguish, unfathom’d springs; And Passion--those gulfs of the heart to fill With bitter waves, which it ne’er may still.

Well might we pause ere we gave them sway, Flinging the peace of our couch away! Well might we look on our souls in fear-- They find no fount of oblivion here! They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath-- How know we if under the wings of death?

THE WINGS OF THE DOVE.

“Oh, that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away and be at rest.”--Psalm lv.

Oh, for thy wings, thou dove! Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast; That, borne like thee above, I too might flee away, and be at rest!

Where wilt thou fold those plumes, Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird? In what rich leafy glooms, By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirr’d?

Over what blessed home, What roof with dark, deep summer foliage crown’d, O fair as ocean’s foam! Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around?

Or seek’st thou some old shrine Of nymph or saint, no more by votary woo’d, Though still, as if divine, Breathing a spirit o’er the solitude?

Yet wherefore ask thy way? Blest, ever blest, whate’er its aim, thou art! Unto the greenwood spray, Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart!

No echoes that will blend A sadness with the whispers of the grove; No memory of a friend Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove!

Oh! to some cool recess Take, take me with thee on the summer wind, Leaving the weariness And all the fever of this life behind:

The aching and the void Within the heart, whereunto none reply, The young bright hopes destroy’d-- Bird! bear me with thee through the sunny sky!

Wild wish, and longing vain, And brief upspringing to be glad and free! Go to thy woodland reign: My soul is bound and held--I may not flee.

For even by all the fears And thoughts that haunt my dreams--untold, unknown, And burning woman’s tears, Pour’d from mine eyes in silence and alone;

_Had_ I thy wings, thou dove! High midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar, Soon the strong cords of love Would draw me earthwards--homewards--yet once more.

PSYCHE BORNE BY ZEPHYRS TO THE ISLAND OF PLEASURE.[336]

“Souvent l’ame, fortifiée par la contemplation des choses divines, voudroit déployer ses ailes vers le ciel. Elle croit qu’au terme de sa carrière un rideau va se lever pour lui découvrir des scènes de lumière: mais quand la mort touche son corps périssable, elle jette un regard en arrière vers les plaisirs terrestres et vers ses compagnes mortelles.”

Schlegel, translated by Madame de Stael.

Fearfully and mournfully Thou bidd’st the earth farewell; And yet thou’rt passing, loveliest one! In a brighter land to dwell.

Ascend, ascend rejoicing! The sunshine of that shore Around thee, as a glorious robe, Shall stream for evermore.

The breezy music wandering There through th’ Elysian sky, Hath no deep tone that seems to float From a happier time gone by.

And there the day’s last crimson Gives no sad memories birth, No thought of dead or distant friends, Or partings--as on earth.

Yet fearfully and mournfully Thou bidd’st that earth farewell, Although thou’rt passing, loveliest one! In a brighter land to dwell.

A land where all is deathless-- The sunny wave’s repose, The wood with its rich melodies, The summer and its rose:

A land that sees no parting, That hears no sound of sighs, That waits thee with immortal air-- Lift, lift those anxious eyes!

Oh! how like _thee_, thou trembler! Man’s spirit fondly clings With timid love, to this, its world Of old familiar things!

We pant, we thirst for fountains That gush not here below! On, on we toil, allured by dreams Of the living water’s flow:

We pine for kindred natures To mingle with our own; For communings more full and high Than aught by mortal known:

We strive with brief aspirings Against our bonds in vain; Yet summon’d to be free at last, We shrink--and clasp our chain;

And fearfully and mournfully We bid the earth farewell, Though passing from its mists, like thee, In a brighter world to dwell.

[336] Written for a picture in which Psyche, on her flight upwards, is represented looking back sadly and anxiously to the earth.

THE BOON OF MEMORY.

“Many things answered me.”--Manfred.

I go, I go!--and must mine image fade From the green spots wherein my childhood play’d, By my own streams? Must my life part from each familiar place, As a bird’s song, that leaves the woods no trace Of its lone themes?

Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget The welcomes there, the hours when we have met In grief or glee? All the sweet counsel, the communion high, The kindly words of trust, in days gone by, Pour’d full and free?

A boon, a talisman, O Memory! give, To shrine my name in hearts where I would live For evermore! Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt, Bid the stream’s voice, of all my soul hath felt, A thought restore!

In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well, In the dim brooding violet of the dell, Set deep that thought; And let the sunset’s melancholy glow, And let the spring’s first whisper, faint and low, With me be fraught!

And Memory answer’d me:--“Wild wish, and vain! I have no hues the loveliest to detain In the heart’s core. The place they held in bosoms all their own, Soon with new shadows fill’d, new flowers o’ergrown, Is theirs no more.”

Hast _thou_ such power, O Love? And Love replied: --“It is not mine! Pour out thy soul’s full tide Of hope and trust, Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain-- ’Tis but to write, with the heart’s fiery rain, Wild words on dust!”

Song, is the gift with thee? I ask a lay, Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away From the still breast; Fill’d with a tone--oh! not for deathless fame, But a sweet haunting murmur of my name, Where it would rest.

And Song made answer--“It is not in me, Though call’d immortal; though my gifts may be All but divine. A place of lonely brightness I can give: A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst live-- This is not mine!”

Death, Death! wilt _thou_ the restless wish fulfil? And Death, the Strong One, spoke:--“I can but still Each vain regret. What if forgotten?--All thy soul would crave, Thou, too, within the mantle of the grave, Wilt soon forget.”

Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die, As from all nature’s voices one reply, But one--was given. “Earth has _no_ heart, fond dreamer! with a tone To send thee back the spirit of thine own-- Seek it in heaven.”

DRAMATIC SCENE BETWEEN BRONWYLFA AND RHYLLON.

[In the spring of 1825, Mrs Hemans removed from Bronwylfa to Rhyllon, another house belonging to her brother, not more than a quarter of a mile from the former place, and in full view from its windows. The distance being so inconsiderable, this could, in fact, scarcely be considered as a removal. The two houses, each situated on an eminence on opposite sides of the river Clwyd, confronted each other so conveniently, that a telegraphic communication was established between them, (by means of a regular set of signals and vocabulary, similar to those made use of in the navy,) and was carried on for a season with no little spirit, greatly to the amusement of their respective inhabitants.

Nothing could be less romantic than the outward appearance of Mrs Hemans’s new residence--a tall, staring brick house, almost destitute of trees, and unadorned (far, indeed, from being thus “adorned the most”) by the covering mantle of honeysuckle, jessamine, or any such charitable drapery.[337] Bronwylfa, on the contrary, was a perfect bower of roses, and peeped out like a bird’s nest from amidst the foliage in which it was embosomed. The contrast between the two dwellings was thus playfully descanted upon by Mrs Hemans, in her contribution to a set of _jeux d’esprit_ called the Bronwylfa Budget for 1825.--_Memoir_, p. 87-88.]

Bronwylfa,[338] _after standing for some time in silent contemplation of_ Rhyllon, _breaks out into the following vehement strain of vituperation_.

You ugliest of fabrics! you horrible eyesore! I wish you would vanish, or put on a visor! In the face of the sun, without covering or rag on, You stand and outstare me, like any red dragon. With your great green-eyed windows, in boldness a host, (The only green things which, indeed, you can boast,) With your forehead as high, and as bare as the pate Which an eagle once took for a stone or a slate,[339] You lift yourself up, o’er the country afar, As who would say, “Look at me!--here stands great R!” I plant--I rear forest trees--shrubs great and small, To wrap myself up in--_you_ peer through them all! With your lean scraggy neck o’er my poplars you rise; You watch all my guests with your wide saucer eyes.

(_In a paroxysm of rage._)

You monster! I would I could waken some morning, And find you had taken French leave without warning; You should never be sought like Aladdin’s famed palace. You spoil my sweet temper--you make me bear malice: For it is a hard fate, I _will_ say it and sing, Which has fix’d me to gaze on so frightful a thing.

Rhyllon--(_with dignified equanimity_.) Content thee, Bronwylfa, what means all this rage? This sudden attack on my quiet old age? I am no _parvenu_: you and I, my good brother, Have stood here this century facing each other; And _I_ can remember the days that are gone, When _your_ sides were no better array’d than my own. Nay, the truth shall be told--since you flout me, restore The tall scarlet woodbine you took from my door! Since my baldness is mocked, and I’m _forced_ to explain, Pray give me my large laurustinus again.

(_With a tone of prophetic solemnity._)

Bronwylfa! Bronwylfa! thus insolent grown, Your pride and your poplars alike must come down! I look through the future (and far I can see, As St Asaph and Denbigh will answer for me,) And in spite of thy scorn, and of all thou hast done, From my kind heart’s brick bottom, I pity thee, Bron! The end of thy toiling and planting will be, That thou wilt want sunshine, and ask it of me. Thou wilt say, when thou wakest, looking out for the light, “I suppose it is morning, for Rhyllon looks bright;” While I--my green eyes with their tears overflow. (_Tenderly._) Come!--let us be friends, as we were long ago.”

[337] Its conspicuousness has since been a good deal modified by the lowering of one storey, and by the growth of the surrounding plantations.

[338] Bronwylfa is pronounced as written _Bronwylva_; and perhaps the nearest English approach to the pronunciation of Rhyllon, would be by supposing it to be spelt _Ruthln_, the _u_ sounded as in but.

[339] Bronwylfa is here supposed to allude to the pate of Æschylus, upon which an eagle dropped a tortoise to crack the shell.

[In spite, however, of the unromantic exterior of her new abode, the earlier part of Mrs Hemans’s residence at Rhyllon may, perhaps, be considered as the happiest of her life; as far, at least, as the term happiness could ever be fitly applied to any period of it later than childhood. The house, with all its ugliness, was large and convenient, the view from its windows beautiful and extensive, and its situation, on a fine green slope, terminating in a pretty woodland dingle, peculiarly healthy and cheerful. Never, perhaps, had she more thorough enjoyment of her boys than in witnessing, and often joining in, their sports in those pleasant breezy fields, where the kites soared so triumphantly, and the hoops trundled so merrily, and where the cowslips grew as cowslips had never grown before. An atmosphere of home soon gathered round the dwelling; roses were planted and honeysuckles trained, and the rustling of the solitary poplar near her window was taken to her heart like the voice of a friend. The dingle became a favourite haunt, where she would pass many dreamlike hours of enjoyment with her books, and her own sweet fancies, and her children playing around her. Every tree and flower, and tuft of moss that sprang amidst its green recesses, was invested with some individual charm by that rich imagination, so skilled in

“Clothing the palpable and the familiar With golden exhalations of the dawn.”

Here, on what the boys would call ‘mamma’s sofa’--a little grassy mound under her favourite beech-tree--she first read _The Talisman_, and has described the scene with a loving minuteness in her _Hour of Romance_:--

“There were thick leaves above me and around, And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood’s sleep, Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound As of soft showers on water. Dark and deep Lay the oak shadows o’er the turf--so still They seem’d but pictured glooms; a hidden rill Made music--such as haunts us in a dream-- Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed, Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down.”

Many years after, in the sonnet “To a Distant Scene,” she addresses, with a fond yearning, this well-remembered haunt:--

“Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, O far-off grassy dell!”

How many precious memories has she hung round the thought of the cowslip--that flower, with its “gold coat” and “fairy favours,” which is, of all others, so associated with the “voice of happy childhood,” and was to her ever redolent of the hours when her

“Heart so leapt to that sweet laughter’s tone!”

Another favourite resort was the picturesque old bridge over the Clwyd, and when her health (which was subject to continual variation, but was at this time more robust than usual) admitted of more aspiring achievements, she delighted in roaming to the hills; and the announcement of a walk to Cwm,[340] a remote little hamlet, nestled in a mountain hollow, amidst very lovely sylvan scenery, about two miles from Rhyllon, would be joyously echoed by her elated companions, to whom the recollection of these happy rambles must always be unspeakably dear. Very often, at the outset of these expeditions, the party would be reinforced by the addition of a certain little Kitty Jones, a child from a neighbouring cottage, who had taken an especial fancy to Mrs Hemans, and was continually watching her movements. This little creature never saw her without at once attaching herself to her side, and confidingly placing its tiny hand in hers. So great was her love for children, and her repugnance to hurt the feelings of any living creature, that she never would shake off this singular appendage, but let little Kitty rejoice in her “pride of place,” till the walk became too long for her capacity, and she would quietly fall behind of her own accord.--_Memoir_, p. 87-93.]

[340] Pronounced “Coom.”

RECORDS OF WOMAN. TO MRS JOANNA BAILLIE,

THIS VOLUME, AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF GRATEFUL RESPECT AND ADMIRATION, IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR.[341]

“Mightier far Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway Of magic, potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite seat be feeble woman’s breast.” Wordsworth.

“Das ist sas Loos des Schonen auf der erde.” Schiller.

[341] [“The little volume, ‘Records of Woman,’ which you kindly gave me permission to inscribe to you,” wrote Mrs H. to Mrs Joanna Baillie, “is now in the press, and I hope I shall soon be able to send you a copy; and that the dedication, which is in the simplest form, will be honoured by your approval. Mr Blackwood is its publisher.”

Mrs Hemans always spoke with pleasure of her literary intercourse with Mr Blackwood, in whose dealings she recognised all that uprightness and liberality which belonged to the sterling worth of his character. The “Records of Woman,” the first of her works published by him, was brought out in May 1828. This volume was, to use the words of its author the one in which “she had put her heart and individual feelings more than in any thing else she had written;” and it is also, and perhaps consequently, the one which has held its ground the most steadily in public favour.--_Memoir_, p. 136.]

ARABELLA STUART.

[“The Lady Arabella,” as she has been frequently entitled, was descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of Henry VII., and consequently allied by birth to Elizabeth as well as James I. This affinity to the throne proved the misfortune of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to prevent her marrying, shut her out from the enjoyment of that domestic happiness which her heart appears to have so fervently desired. By a secret but early discovered union with William Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers were immediately placed in separate confinement. From this they found means to concert a romantic plan of escape; and having won over a female attendant, by whose assistance she was disguised in male attire, Arabella, though faint from recent sickness and suffering, stole out in the night, and at last reached an appointed spot, where a boat and servants were in waiting. She embarked; and at break of day a French vessel engaged to receive her was discovered and gained. As Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, she was desirous that the vessel should lie at anchor for him; but this wish was overruled by her companions, who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, “which,” says D’Israeli, “occasioned so fatal a termination to this romantic adventure. Seymour, indeed, had escaped from the Tower; he reached the wharf, and found his confidential man waiting with a boat, and arrived at Lee. The time passed; the waves were rising; Arabella was not there; but in the distance he descried a vessel. Hiring a fisherman to take him on board, he discovered, to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not the French ship charged with his Arabella; in despair and confusion he found another ship from Newcastle, which for a large sum altered its course, and landed him in Flanders.” Arabella, meantime, whilst imploring her attendants to linger, and earnestly looking out for the expected boat of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a vessel in the king’s service, and brought back to a captivity, under the suffering of which her mind and constitution gradually sank. “What passed in that dreadful imprisonment cannot perhaps be recovered for authentic history, but enough is known--that her mind grew impaired, that she finally lost her reason, and, if the duration of her imprisonment was short, that it was only terminated by her death. Some effusions, often begun and never ended, written and erased, incoherent and rational, yet remain among her papers.”--D’Israeli’s _Curiosities of Literature_.

The following poem, meant as some record of her fate, and the imagined fluctuations of her thoughts and feelings, is supposed to commence during the time of her first imprisonment, whilst her mind was yet buoyed up by the consciousness of Seymour’s affection, and the cherished hope of eventual deliverance.]

“And is not love in vain Torture enough without a living tomb?” Byron.

“Fermossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto.” Pindemonte.