III.

Hark! a wild sound of the desert’s horn Through the woods round the Indian city borne, A peal of the cymbal and tambour afar-- War! ’tis the gathering of Moslem war! The Bramin look’d from the leaguer’d towers-- He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers; And the lake that flash’d through the plantain shade, As the light of the lances along it play’d; And the canes that shook as if winds were high, When the fiery steed of the waste swept by; And the camp as it lay like a billowy sea, Wide round the sheltering banian-tree.

There stood one tent from the rest apart-- That was the place of a wounded heart. Oh! deep is a wounded heart, and strong A voice that cries against mighty wrong; And full of death as a hot wind’s blight, Doth the ire of a crush’d affection light.

Maimuna from realm to realm had pass’d, And her tale had rung like a trumpet’s blast. There had been words from her pale lips pour’d, Each one a spell to unsheath the sword. The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear, And the dark chief of Araby grasp’d his spear, Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall, And a vow was recorded that doom’d its fall. Back with the dust of her son she came, When her voice had kindled that lightning flame; She came in the might of a queenly foe, Banner, and javelin, and bended bow; But a deeper power on her forehead sate-- _There_ sought the warrior his star of fate: Her eye’s wild flash through the tented line Was hail’d as a spirit and a sign, And the faintest tone from her lip was caught As a sibyl’s breath of prophetic thought.

Vain, bitter glory!--the gift of grief, That lights up vengeance to find relief, Transient and faithless! It cannot fill So the deep void of the heart, nor still The yearning left by a broken tie, That haunted fever of which we die!

Sickening she turn’d from her sad renown, As a king in death might reject his crown. Slowly the strength of the walls gave way-- _She_ wither’d faster from day to day: All the proud sounds of that banner’d plain, To stay the flight of her soul were vain; Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn The frail dust, ne’er for such conflicts born, Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come For its fearful rushing through darkness home.

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride, As on that eve when the fair boy died: She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell O’er her weary heart with the day’s farewell; She spoke, and her voice, in its dying tone, Had an echo of feelings that long seem’d flown. She murmur’d a low sweet cradle-song, Strange midst the din of a warrior throng-- A song of the time when her boy’s young cheek Had glow’d on her breast in its slumber meek. But something which breathed from that mournful strain Sent a fitful gust o’er her soul again; And starting, as if from a dream, she cried-- “Give him proud burial at my side! There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave, When the temples are fallen, make there our grave.” And the temples fell, though the spirit pass’d, That stay’d not for victory’s voice at last; When the day was won for the martyr dead, For the broken heart and the bright blood shed.

Through the gates of the vanquish’d the Tartar steed Bore in the avenger with foaming speed; Free swept the flame through the idol fanes, And the streams glow’d red, as from warrior veins; And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay, Like the panther leapt on its flying prey, Till a city of ruin begirt the shade Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid.

Palace and tower on that plain were left, Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft; The wild vine mantled the stately square, The Rajah’s throne was the serpent’s lair, And the jungle grass o’er the altar sprung-- This was the work of one deep heart wrung!

THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE.

----“There is but one place in the world-- Thither, where he lies buried! ... There, there is all that still remains of him: That single spot is the whole earth to me.”

Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

“Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert.”--Childe Harold.

There went a warrior’s funeral through the night, A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone, Far down the waters. Heavily and dead, Under the moaning trees, the home-hoof’s tread In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell, As chieftains pass’d; and solemnly the swell Of the deep requiem, o’er the gleaming river Borne with the gale, and with the leaves’ low shiver, Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale, Wore man’s mute anguish sternly;--but of _one_, Oh, who shall speak? What words _his_ brow unveil? A father following to the grave his son!-- That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow, Through the wood-shadows, moved the knightly train, With youth’s fair form upon the bier laid low-- Fair even when found amidst the bloody slain, Stretch’d by its broken lance. They reach’d the lone Baronial chapel, where the forest-gloom Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb. Stately they trode the hollow-ringing aisle, A strange deep echo shudder’d through the pile, Till crested heads at last in silence bent Round the De Coucis’ antique monument, When dust to dust was given:--and Aymer slept Beneath the drooping banners of his line, Whose broider’d folds the Syrian wind had swept Proudly and oft o’er fields of Palestine. So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave; And the pale image of a youth, array’d As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid In slumber on his shield. Then all was done-- All still around the dead. His name was heard Perchance when wine-cups flow’d, and hearts were stirr’d By some old song, or tale of battle won Told round the hearth. But in his father’s breast Manhood’s high passions woke again, and press’d On to their mark; and in his friend’s clear eye There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by; And with the brethren of his fields, the feast Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceased Mingled with theirs. Even thus life’s rushing tide Bears back affection from the grave’s dark side; Alas! to think of this!--the heart’s void place Fill’d up so soon!--so like a summer cloud, All that we loved to pass and leave no trace!-- He lay forgotten in his early shroud. Forgotten?--not of all! The sunny smile Glancing in play o’er that proud lip erewhile, And the dark locks, whose breezy waving threw A gladness round, whene’er their shade withdrew From the bright brow; and all the sweetness lying Within that eagle eye’s jet radiance deep, And all the music with that young voice dying, Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap As at a hunter’s bugle--these things lived Still in one breast, whose silent love survived The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day by day, On Aymer’s tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay, Through the dim fane soft summer odours breathing, And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing, And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing Through storied windows down. The violet there Might speak of love--a secret love and lowly; And the rose image all things fleet and fair; And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy, Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand, As for an altar, wove the radiant band? Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells, That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells, To blush through every season? Blight and chill Might touch the changing woods; but duly still For years those gorgeous coronals renew’d, And brightly clasping marble spear and helm, Even through mid-winter, fill’d the solitude With a strange smile--a glow of summer’s realm. Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring Its youth’s vain worship on the dust, adoring In lone devotedness! One spring morn rose, And found, within that tomb’s proud shadow laid-- Oh! not as midst the vineyards, to repose From the fierce noon--a dark-hair’d peasant maid. Who could reveal her story? That still face Had once been fair; for on the clear arch’d brow And the curved lip there linger’d yet such grace As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low The deep black lashes, o’er the half-shut eye-- For death was on its lids--fell mournfully. But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair Dimm’d, the slight form all wasted, as by care. Whence came that early blight? _Her_ kindred’s place Was not amidst the high De Couci race; Yet there her shrine had been! She grasp’d a wreath, The tomb’s last garland!--This was love in death.

INDIAN WOMAN’S DEATH-SONG.

[An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband’s desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with her children, and rowed it down the Mississippi towards a cataract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing a mournful death-song, until overpowered by the sound of the waters in which she perished. The tale is related in Long’s “Expedition to the Source of St Peter’s River.”]

“Non, je ne puis vivre avec un cœur brise. Il faut que je retrouve la joie, et que je m’unisse aux esprits libres de l’air.”

“Bride of Messina.” Translated by Madame de Stael.

“Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman.” “The Prairie.”

Down a broad river of the western wilds, Piercing thick forest-glooms, a light canoe Swept with the current: fearful was the speed Of the frail bark, as by a tempest’s wing Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray Rose with the cataract’s thunder. Yet within, Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone, Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast, A woman stood! Upon her Indian brow Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved As if triumphantly. She press’d her child, In its bright slumber, to her beating heart, And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile Above the sound of waters, high and clear, Wafting a wild proud strain--a song of death.

“Roll swiftly to the spirits’ land, thou mighty stream and free! Father of ancient waters,[349] roll! and bear our lives with thee! The weary bird that storms have toss’d would seek the sunshine’s calm, And the deer that hath the arrow’s hurt flies to the woods of balm.

“Roll on!--my warrior’s eye hath look’d upon another’s face, And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moonbeam’s trace: My shadow comes not o’er his path, my whisper to his dream-- He flings away the broken reed. Roll swifter yet, thou stream!

“The voice that spoke of other days is hush’d within _his_ breast, But _mine_ its lonely music haunts, and will not let me rest; It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that is gone-- I cannot live without that light. Father of waves! roll on!

“Will he not miss the bounding step that met him from the chase? The heart of love that made his home an ever-sunny place? The hand that spread the hunter’s board, and deck’d his couch of yore?-- He will not! Roll, dark foaming stream, on to the better shore!

“Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright land must flow, Whose waters from my soul may lave the memory of this woe; Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose breath may waft away The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the day.

“And thou, my babe! though born, like me, for woman’s weary lot, Smile!--to that wasting of the heart, my own! I leave thee not; Too bright a thing art _thou_ to pine in aching love away-- Thy mother bears thee far, young fawn! from sorrow and decay.

“She bears thee to the glorious bowers where none are heard to weep, And where th’ unkind one hath no power again to trouble sleep; And where the soul shall find its youth, as wakening from a dream: One moment, and that realm is ours. On, on, dark-rolling stream!”

[349] “Father of waters,” the Indian name for the Mississippi.

JOAN OF ARC IN RHEIMS.

[“Jeanne d’Arc avait eu la joie de voir à Chalons quelques amis de son enfance. Une joie plus ineffable encore l’attendait à Rheims, au sein de son triomphe: Jacques d’Arc, son père, y se trouva, aussitôt que de troupes de Charles VII. y furent entrées; et comme les deux frères de notre héroine l’avaient accompagnée, elle se vit pour un instant au milieu de sa famille, dans les bras d’un père vertueux.”--_Vie de Jeanne d’Arc_.]

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame! A draught that mantles high, And seems to lift this earth-born frame Above mortality: Away! to me--a woman--bring Sweet waters from affection’s spring!

That was a joyous day in Rheims of old, When peal on peal of mighty music roll’d Forth from her throng’d cathedral; while around, A multitude, whose billows made no sound, Chain’d to a hush of wonder, though elate With victory, listen’d at their temple’s gate. And what was done within? Within, the light, Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing, Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight-- The chivalry of France their proud heads bowing In martial vassalage! While midst that ring, And shadow’d by ancestral tombs, a king Received his birth-right’s crown. For this, the hymn Swell’d out like rushing waters, and the day With the sweet censer’s misty breath grew dim, As through long aisles it floated o’er th’ array Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone And unapproach’d, beside the altar-stone, With the white banner forth like sunshine streaming, And the gold helm through clouds of fragrance gleaming. Silent and radiant stood? The helm was raised, And the fair face reveal’d, that upward gazed, Intensely worshipping--a still, clear face, Youthful, but brightly solemn! Woman’s cheek And brow were there, in deep devotion meek, Yet glorified, with inspiration’s trace On its pure paleness; while, enthroned above, The pictured Virgin, with her smile of love, Seem’d bending o’er her votaress. That slight form! Was that the leader through the battle-storm? Had the soft light in that adoring eye Guided the warrior where the swords flash’d high? ’Twas so, even so!--and thou, the shepherd’s child, Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild! Never before, and never since that hour, Hath woman, mantled with victorious power, Stood forth as _thou_ beside the shrine didst stand, Holy amidst the knighthood of the land, And, beautiful with joy and with renown, Lift thy white banner o’er the olden crown, Ransom’d for France by thee!

The rites are done. Now let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken, And bid the echoes of the tomb awaken, And come thou forth, that heaven’s rejoicing sun May give thee welcome from thine own blue skies, Daughter of victory! A triumphant strain, A proud rich stream of warlike melodies, Gush’d through the portals of the antique fane, And forth she came. Then rose a nation’s sound: Oh! what a power to bid the quick heart bound, The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer Man gives to glory on her high career! Is there indeed such power?--far deeper dwells In one kind household voice, to reach the cells Whence happiness flows forth! The shouts that fill’d The hollow heaven tempestuously, were still’d One moment; and in that brief pause, the tone, As of a breeze that o’er her home had blown, Sank on the bright maid’s heart. “Joanne!”--Who spoke Like those whose childhood with _her_ childhood grew Under one roof? “Joanne!”--_that_ murmur broke With sounds of weeping forth! She turn’d--she knew Beside her, mark’d from all the thousands there, In the calm beauty of his silver hair, The stately shepherd; and the youth, whose joy, From his dark eye flash’d proudly; and the boy, The youngest born, that ever loved her best:-- “Father! and ye, my brothers!” On the breast Of that gray sire she sank--and swiftly back, Even in an instant, to their native track Her free thoughts flow’d. She saw the pomp no more The plumes, the banners: to her cabin-door, And to the Fairy’s Fountain in the glade,[350] Where her young sisters by her side had play’d, And to her hamlet’s chapel, where it rose Hallowing the forest unto deep repose, Her spirit turn’d. The very wood-note, sung In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt Where o’er her father’s roof the beech leaves hung, Was in her heart; a music heard and felt, Winning her back to nature. She unbound The helm of many battles from her head, And, with her bright locks bow’d to sweep the ground, Lifting her voice up, wept for joy and said-- “Bless me, my father! bless me! and with thee, To the still cabin and the beechen tree, Let me return!”

Oh! never did thine eye Through the green haunts of happy infancy Wander again, Joanne! Too much of fame Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name; And bought alone by gifts beyond all price-- The trusting heart’s repose, the paradise Of home, with all its loves--doth fate allow The crown of glory unto woman’s brow.

[350] A beautiful fountain, near Domremi, believed to be haunted by fairies, and a favourite resort of Jeanne d’Arc in her childhood.

PAULINE.

To die for what we love! Oh! there is power In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this: It is to live without the vanish’d light That strength is needed.

“Cosi trapassa al trapassar d’un Giorno Della vita mortal il fiore e’l verde.” Tasso.

Along the starlit Seine went music swelling, Till the air thrill’d with its exulting mirth; Proudly it floated, even as if no dwelling For cares or stricken hearts were found on earth; And a glad sound the measure lightly beat, A happy chime of many dancing feet.

For in a palace of the land that night, Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were hung; And from the painted walls, a stream of light On flying forms beneath soft splendour flung; But loveliest far amidst the revel’s pride Was one--the lady from the Danube side.[351]

Pauline, the meekly bright! though now no more Her clear eye flash’d with youth’s all-tameless glee, Yet something holier than its dayspring wore, There in soft rest lay beautiful to see; A charm with graver, tenderer, sweetness fraught-- The blending of deep love and matron thought.

Through the gay throng she moved, serenely fair, And such calm joy as fills a moonlight sky Sat on her brow beneath its graceful hair, As her young daughter in the dance went by, With the fleet step of one that yet hath known Smiles and kind voices in this world alone.

Lurk’d there no secret boding in her breast? Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh? Such oft awake when most the heart seems blest Midst the light laughter of festivity. Whence come those tones? Alas! enough we know To mingle fear with all triumphal show!

Who spoke of evil when young feet were flying In fairy rings around the echoing hall? Soft airs through braided locks in perfume sighing, Glad pulses beating unto music’s call? Silence!--the minstrels pause--and hark! a sound, A strange quick rustling which their notes had drown’d!

And lo! a light upon the dancers breaking-- Not such their clear and silvery lamps had shed! From the gay dream of revelry awaking, One moment holds them still in breathless dread. The wild fierce lustre grows: then bursts a cry-- _Fire!_ through the hall and round it gathering--fly!

And forth they rush, as chased by sword and spear, To the green coverts of the garden bowers-- A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear, Startling the birds and trampling down the flowers: While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven.

And where is she--Pauline? The hurrying throng Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast Might sweep some faint o’erwearied bird along-- Till now the threshold of that death is past, And free she stands beneath the starry skies, Calling her child--but no sweet voice replies.

“Bertha! where art thou? Speak! oh! speak, my own!” Alas! unconscious of her pangs the while, The gentle girl, in fear’s cold grasp alone, Powerless had sunk within the blazing pile; A young bright form, deck’d gloriously for death, With flowers all shrinking from the flame’s fierce breath!

But oh! thy strength, deep love! There is no power To stay the mother from that rolling grave, Though fast on high the fiery volumes tower, And forth like banners from each lattice wave: Back, back she rushes through a host combined-- Mighty is anguish, with affection twined!

And what bold step may follow, midst the roar Of the red billows, o’er their prey that rise? None!--Courage there stood still--and never more Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes! Was one bright meeting theirs, one wild farewell? And died they heart to heart?--Oh! who can tell?

Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke On that sad palace, midst its pleasure shades; Its painted roofs had sunk--yet black with smoke And lonely stood its marble colonnades: But yester eve their shafts with wreaths were bound, Now lay the scene one shrivell’d scroll around!

And bore the ruins no recording trace Of all that woman’s heart had dared and done? Yes! there were gems to mark its mortal place, That forth from dust and ashes dimly shone! Those had the mother, on her gentle breast, Worn round her child’s fair image, there at rest.

And they were all!--the tender and the true Left this alone her sacrifice to prove, Hallowing the spot where mirth once lightly flew, To deep lone chasten’d thoughts of grief and love. Oh! we have need of patient faith below, To clear away the mysteries of such woe!

[351] The Princess Pauline Schwartzenberg. The story of her fate is beautifully related in _L’Allemagne_, vol. iii. p. 336.

JUANA.

[Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon the death of her husband, Philip the Handsome of Austria, who had treated her with uniform neglect, had his body laid upon a bed of state, in a magnificent dress; and being possessed with the idea that it would revive, watched it for a length of time, incessantly waiting for the moment of returning life.]

It is but dust thou look’st upon. This love, This wild and passionate idolatry, What doth it in the shadow of the grave? Gather it back within thy lonely heart, So must it ever end: too much we give Unto the things that perish.

The night-wind shook the tapestry round an ancient palace room, And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the gorgeous gloom, And o’er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams and red, Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching by the dead.

Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious still to see, Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his heart and step were free: No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there majestic lay, Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty’s array.

But she that with the dark hair watch’d by the cold slumberer’s side, On _her_ wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her garb no pride; Only her full impassion’d eyes as o’er that clay she bent, A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplendence blent.

And as the swift thoughts cross’d her soul, like shadows of a cloud, Amidst the silent room of death the dreamer spoke aloud; She spoke to him that could not hear, and cried, “Thou yet wilt wake, And learn my watchings and my tears, beloved one! for thy sake.

“They told me this was death, but well I knew it could not be; Fairest and stateliest of the earth! who spoke of death for _thee_? They would have wrapp’d the funeral shroud thy gallant form around, But I forbade--and there thou art, a monarch, robed and crown’d!

“With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their coronal beneath, And thy brow so proudly beautiful--who said that this was death? Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness round thee long, But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimm’d and strong.

“I know thou hast not loved me yet; I am not fair like thee, The very glance of whose clear eye threw round a light of glee! A frail and drooping form is mine--a cold unsmiling cheek-- Oh! I have but a woman’s heart wherewith _thy_ heart to seek.

“But when thou wakest, my prince, my lord! and hear’st how I have kept A lonely vigil by thy side, and o’er thee pray’d and wept-- How in one long deep dream of thee my nights, and days have past-- Surely that humble patient love _must_ win back love at last!

“And thou wilt smile--my own, my own, shall be the sunny smile, Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all _but_ me erewhile! No more in vain affection’s thirst my weary soul shall pine-- Oh! years of hope deferr’d were paid by one fond glance of thine!

“Thou’lt meet me with that radiant look when thou comest from the chase-- For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o’er thy face! Thou’lt reck no more though beauty’s gift mine aspect may not bless; In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love shall give me loveliness.

“But wake! my heart within me burns, yet once more to rejoice In the sound to which it ever leap’d, the music of thy voice. Awake! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and tone, And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all be mine alone.”

In the still chambers of the dust, thus pour’d forth day by day, The passion of that loving dream from a troubled soul found way, Until the shadows of the grave had swept o’er every grace, Left midst the awfulness of death on the princely form and face.

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watcher’s breast, And they bore away the royal dead with requiems to his rest, With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the wind-- But a woman’s broken heart was left in its lone despair behind.

THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL.

A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid, Woman!--a power to suffer and to love; Therefore thou so canst pity.

Wildly and mournfully the Indian drum On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke-- “Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come”-- So the red warriors to their captive spoke. Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, A youth, a fair-hair’d youth of England stood, Like a king’s son; though from his cheek had flown The mantling crimson of the island blood, And his press’d lips look’d marble. Fiercely bright And high around him blazed the fires of night, Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro, As the wind pass’d, and with a fitful glow Lighting the victim’s face: but who could tell Of what within his secret heart befell, Known but to heaven that hour? Perchance a thought Of his far home then so intensely wrought, That its full image, pictured to his eye On the dark ground of mortal agony, Rose clear as day!--and he might _see_ the band Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, Where the laburnums droop’d; or haply binding The jasmine up the door’s low pillars winding; Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth, Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth, Where sat their mother; and that mother’s face Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place Where so it ever smiled! Perchance the prayer Learn’d at her knee came back on his despair; The blessing from her voice, the very tone Of her “_Good-night_” might breathe from boyhood gone! --He started and look’d up: thick cypress boughs, Full of strange sound, waved o’er him, darkly red In the broad stormy firelight; savage brows, With tall plumes crested and wild hues o’erspread, Girt him like feverish phantoms; and pale stars Look’d through the branches as through dungeon bars, Shedding no hope. He knew, he felt his doom-- Oh! what a tale to shadow with its gloom That happy hall in England. Idle fear! Would the winds tell it? Who might dream or hear The secret of the forests? To the stake They bound him; and that proud young soldier strove His father’s spirit in his breast to wake, Trusting to die in silence! He, the love Of many hearts!--the fondly rear’d--the fair, Gladdening all eyes to see! And fetter’d there He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand Flamed up to light it in the chieftain’s hand. He thought upon his God. Hush! hark! a cry Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity-- A step hath pierced the ring! Who dares intrude On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood? A girl--a young slight girl--a fawn-like child Of green savannas and the leafy wild, Springing unmark’d till then, as some lone flower, Happy because the sunshine is its dower; Yet one that knew how early tears are shed, For _hers_ had mourn’d a playmate-brother dead.

She had sat gazing on the victim long, Until the pity of her soul grew strong; And, by its passion’s deepening fervour sway’d, Even to the stake she rush’d, and gently laid His bright head on her bosom, and around His form her slender arms to shield it wound Like close Liannes; then raised her glittering eye, And clear-toned voice, that said, “He shall not die!” “He shall not die!”--the gloomy forest thrill’d To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell On the fierce throng; and heart and hand were still’d, Struck down as by the whisper of a spell. They gazed: their dark souls bow’d before the maid, She of the dancing step in wood and glade! And, as her cheek flush’d through its olive hue, As her black tresses to the night-wind flew, Something o’ermaster’d them from that young mien-- Something of heaven in silence felt and seen; And seeming, to their childlike faith, a token That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken.

They loosed the bonds that held their captive’s breath; From his pale lips they took the cup of death; They quench’d the brand beneath the cypress tree: “Away,” they cried, “young stranger, thou art free!”

COSTANZA.

Art thou then desolate? Of friends, of hopes forsaken? Come to me! I am thine own. Have trusted hearts proved false? Flatterers deceived thee? Wanderer, come to me! Why didst thou ever leave me? Know’st thou all I would have borne, and call’d it joy to bear, For thy sake? Know’st thou that thy voice hath power To shake me with a thrill of happiness By one kind tone?--to fill mine eyes with tears Of yearning love? And thou--oh! thou didst throw That crush’d affection back upon my heart Yet come to me!--it died not.

She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell Through the stain’d window of her lonely cell, And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow, Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna brow, While o’er her long hair’s flowing jet it threw Bright waves of gold--the autumn forest’s hue-- Seem’d all a vision’s mist of glory, spread By painting’s touch around some holy head, Virgin’s or fairest martyr’s. In her eye Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, What solemn fervour lived! And yet what woe, Lay like some buried thing, still seen below The glassy tide! Oh! he that could reveal What life had taught that chasten’d heart to feel, Might speak indeed of woman’s blighted years, And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears! But she had told her griefs to heaven alone, And of the gentle saint no more was known, Than that she fled the world’s cold breath, and made A temple of the pine and chestnut shade, Filling its depths with soul, whene’er her hymn Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim, And ancient solitude; where hidden streams Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in dreams-- Music for weary hearts! Midst leaves and flowers She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers, All nature’s balms, wherewith her gliding tread To the sick peasant on his lowly bed Came and brought hope! while scarce of mortal birth He deem’d the pale fair form that held on earth Communion but with grief.

Ere long, a cell, A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone Gleam’d through the dark trees o’er a sparkling well; And a sweet voice, of rich yet mournful tone, Told the Calabrian wilds that duly there Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. And now ’twas prayer’s own hour. That voice again Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, That made the cypress quiver where it stood, In day’s last crimson soaring from the wood Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, Other and wilder sounds in tumult met The floating song. Strange sounds!--the trumpet’s peal, Made hollow by the rocks; the clash of steel; The rallying war-cry. In the mountain pass There had been combat; blood was on the grass, Banners had strewn the waters; chiefs lay dying, And the pine branches crash’d before the flying.

And all was changed within the still retreat, Costanza’s home: there enter’d hurrying feet, Dark looks of shame and sorrow--mail-clad men, Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen, Scaring the ringdoves from the porch roof, bore A wounded warrior in. The rocky floor Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword, As there they laid their leader, and implored The sweet saint’s prayers to heal him: then for flight, Through the wide forest and the mantling night, Sped breathlessly again. They pass’d; but he, The stateliest of a host--alas! to see What mother’s eyes have watch’d in rosy sleep, Till joy, for very fulness, turn’d to weep, Thus changed!--a fearful thing! His golden crest Was shiver’d, and the bright scarf on his breast-- Some costly love-gift--rent: but what of these? There were the clustering raven locks--the breeze, As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers, Might scarcely lift them; steep’d in bloody showers, So heavily upon the pallid clay Of the damp cheek they hung. The eyes’ dark ray, Where was it? And the lips!--they gasp’d apart, With their light curve, as from the chisel’s art, Still proudly beautiful! But that white hue-- Was it not death’s?--that stillness--that cold dew On the scarr’d forehead? No! his spirit broke From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke To wander in wild dreams; and there he lay, By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken, The haughty chief of thousands--the forsaken Of all save one. _She_ fled not. Day by day-- Such hours are woman’s birthright--she, unknown, Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone; Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving His brow with tears that mourn’d the strong man’s raving. He felt them not, nor mark’d the light veil’d form Still hovering nigh! yet sometimes, when that storm Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low As a young mother’s by the cradle singing, Would soothe him with sweet _aves_, gently bringing Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow Ebb’d from his hollow cheek.

At last faint gleams Of memory dawn’d upon the cloud of dreams; And feebly lifting, as a child, his head, And gazing round him from his leafy bed, He murmur’d forth, “Where am I? What soft strain Pass’d like a breeze across my burning brain? Back from my youth it floated, with a tone Of life’s first music, and a thought of one-- Where is she now? and where the gauds of pride, Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side? All lost!--and this is death!--I _cannot_ die Without forgiveness from that mournful eye! Away! the earth hath lost her. Was she born To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn? My first, my holiest love!--her broken heart Lies low, and I--unpardon’d I depart.”

But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil From her dark locks and features brightly pale, And stood before him with a smile--oh! ne’er Did aught that _smiled_ so much of sadness wear-- And said, “Cesario! look on me; I live To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive. I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust, As should be heaven’s alone--and heaven is just! I bless thee--be at peace!”

But o’er his frame Too fast the strong tide rush’d--the sudden shame, The joy, th’ amaze! He bow’d his head--it fell On the wrong’d bosom which had loved so well; And love, still perfect, gave him refuge there-- His last faint breath just waved her floating hair.

MADELINE.

A DOMESTIC TALE.

“Who should it be?--Where shouldst thou look for kindness? When we are sick, where can we turn for succour; When we are wretched, where can we complain; And when the world looks cold and surly on us, Where can we go to meet a warmer eye With such sure confidence as to a mother?”--Joanna Baillie.

“My child, my child, thou leavest me! I shall hear The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear With its first utterance: I shall miss the sound Of thy light step amidst the flowers around, And thy soft-breathing hymn at twilight’s close, And thy ‘Good-night’ at parting for repose. Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone, And the low breeze will have a mournful tone Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee, My child! and thou, along the moonlight sea, With a soft sadness haply in thy glance, Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France, Fading to air. Yet blessings with thee go! Love guard thee, gentlest! and the exile’s woe From thy young heart be far! And sorrow not For me, sweet daughter! in my lonely lot, God shall be with me. Now, farewell! farewell! Thou that hast been what words may never tell Unto thy mother’s bosom, since the days When thou wert pillow’d there, and wont to raise In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye That still sought mine: these moments are gone by-- Thou too must go, my flower! Yet with thee dwell The peace of God! One, one more gaze: farewell!”

This was a mother’s parting with her child-- A young meek bride, on whom fair fortune smiled, And woo’d her with a voice of love away From childhood’s home: yet there, with fond delay, She linger’d on the threshold, heard the note Of her caged bird through trellis’d rose-leaves float, And fell upon her mother’s neck and wept, Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept, Gush’d o’er her soul, and many a vanish’d day, As in one picture traced, before her lay.

But the farewell was said; and on the deep, When its breast heaved in sunset’s golden sleep, With a calm’d heart, young Madeline ere long Pour’d forth her own sweet, solemn vesper-song, Breathing of home. Through stillness heard afar, And duly rising with the first pale star, That voice was on the waters; till at last The sounding ocean solitudes were pass’d, And the bright land was reach’d, the youthful world That glows along the West: the sails were furl’d In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride Look’d on the home that promised hearts untried A bower of bliss to come. Alas! we trace The map of our own paths, and long ere years With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface, On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with tears! That home was darken’d soon: the summer breeze Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas: Death unto one, and anguish--how forlorn! To her that, widow’d in her marriage morn, Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him, Her bosom’s first beloved, her friend and guide, Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, As from the sun shut out on every side By the close veil of misery. Oh! but ill, When with rich hopes o’erfraught, the young high heart Bears its first blow! It knows not yet the part Which life will teach--to suffer and be still, And with submissive love to count the flowers Which yet are spared, and through the future hours To send no busy dream! _She_ had not learn’d Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn’d In weariness from life. Then came th’ unrest, The heart-sick yearning of the exile’s breast, The haunting sounds of voices far away, And household steps: until at last she lay On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams Of the gay vineyards and blue rushing streams In her own sunny land; and murmuring oft Familiar names, in accents wild yet soft, To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught. To strangers? Oh! could strangers raise the head Gently as hers was raised? Did strangers shed The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow And wasted cheek with half-unconscious flow? Something was there that, through the lingering night, Outwatches patiently the taper’s light-- Something that faints not through the day’s distress, That fears not toil, that knows not weariness-- Love, true and perfect love! Whence came that power, Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower? Whence?--who can ask? The wild delirium pass’d, And from her eyes the spirit look’d at last Into her _mother’s_ face, and wakening knew The brow’s calm grace, the hair’s dear silvery hue, The kind sweet smile of old!--and had _she_ come, Thus in life’s evening from her distant home, To save her child? Even so--nor yet in vain; In that young heart a light sprang up again, And lovely still, with so much love to give, Seem’d this fair world, though faded; still to live Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast That rock’d her childhood, sinking in soft rest, “Sweet mother! gentlest mother! can it be?” The lorn one cried, “and do I look on thee? Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore: Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more.”

THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA’S TOMB.

[“This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburg, near Berlin. It was not without surprise that I came suddenly, among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might and should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, but the cypress and the willow declare it a habitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, and the outline of the human form was plainly visible beneath its folds. The person with me reverently turned it back, and displayed the statue of his queen. It is a portrait statue recumbent, said to be a perfect resemblance--not as in death, but when she lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing can be more calm and kind than the expression of her features. The hands are folded on the bosom; the limbs are sufficiently crossed to show the repose of life. Here the king brings her children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These hang in withered mournfulness above this living image of their departed mother.”--Sherer’s _Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany_.]

“In sweet pride upon that insult keen She smiled; then drooping mute and brokenhearted, To the cold comfort of the grave departed.” Milman.

It stands where northern willows weep, A temple fair and lone; Soft shadows o’er its marble sweep From cypress branches thrown; While silently around it spread, Thou feel’st the presence of the dead.

And what within is richly shrined? A sculptured woman’s form, Lovely, in perfect rest reclined, As one beyond the storm: Yet not of death, but slumber, lies The solemn sweetness on those eyes.

The folded hands, the calm pure face, The mantle’s quiet flow, The gentle yet majestic grace Throned on the matron brow; These, in that scene of tender gloom, With a still glory robe the tomb.

There stands an eagle, at the feet Of the fair image wrought; A kingly emblem--nor unmeet To wake yet deeper thought: She whose high heart finds rest below, Was royal in her birth and woe.

There are pale garlands hung above, Of dying scent and hue; She was a mother--in her love How sorrowfully true! Oh! hallow’d long be every leaf, The record of her children’s grief!

She saw their birthright’s warrior-crown Of olden glory spoil’d, The standard of their sires borne down, The shield’s bright blazon soil’d: She met the tempest, meekly brave, Then turn’d o’erwearied to the grave.

She slumber’d: but it came--it came, Her land’s redeeming hour, With the glad shout, and signal flame Sent on from tower to tower! Fast through the realm a spirit moved-- ’Twas hers, the lofty and the loved.

Then was her name a note that rung To rouse bold hearts from sleep; Her memory, as a banner flung Forth by the Baltic deep; Her grief, a bitter vial pour’d To sanctify th’ avenger’s sword. And the crown’d eagle spread again His pinion to the sun; And the strong land shook off its chain-- So was the triumph won! But woe for earth, where sorrow’s tone Still blends with victory’s!--She was gone!

THE MEMORIAL PILLAR.

[On the road-side, between Penrith and Appleby, stands a small pillar, with this inscription:--“This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess-Dowager of Pembroke, for a memorial of her last

## parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret,

Countess-Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d April 1616.”--See notes to the _Pleasures of Memory_.]

Mother and child! whose blending tears Have sanctified the place, Where, to the love of many years, Was given one last embrace-- Oh! ye have shrined a spell of power Deep in your record of that hour!

A spell to waken solemn thought-- A still, small under tone, That calls back days of childhood, fraught With many a treasure gone; And smites, perchance, the hidden source, Though long untroubled--of remorse.

For who, that gazes on the stone Which marks your parting spot, Who but a mother’s love hath known-- The _one_ love changing not? Alas! and haply learn’d its worth First with the sound of “Earth to earth!”

But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou, O’er whose bright honour’d head Blessings and tears of holiest flow E’en here were fondly shed-- Thou from the passion of thy grief, In its full burst, couldst draw relief.

For, oh! though painful be th’ excess, The might wherewith it swells, In nature’s fount no bitterness Of nature’s mingling dwells; And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride, Poison’d the free and healthful tide.

But didst thou meet the face no more Which thy young heart first knew? And all--was all in this world o’er With ties thus close and true? It was! On earth no other eye Could give thee back thine infancy.

No other voice could pierce the maze Where, deep within thy breast, The sounds and dreams of other days With memory lay at rest; No other smile to thee could bring A gladdening, like the breath of spring.

Yet, while thy place of weeping still Its lone memorial keeps, While on thy name, midst wood and hill, The quiet sunshine sleeps, And touches, in each graven line, Of reverential thought a sign;

Can I, while yet these tokens wear The impress of the dead, Think of the love embodied there As of a vision fled? A perish’d thing, the joy and flower And glory of one earthly hour?

Not so!--I will not bow me so To thoughts that breathe despair! A loftier faith we need below, Life’s farewell words to bear. Mother and child!--your tears are past-- Surely your hearts have met at last.

THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.[352]

I stood beside thy lowly grave; Spring odours breathed around, And music, in the river wave, Pass’d with a lulling sound.

All happy things that love the sun In the bright air glanced by, And a glad murmur seem’d to run Through the soft azure sky.

Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough That fringed the ruins near; Young voices were abroad--but thou Their sweetness couldst not hear.

And mournful grew my heart for thee! Thou in whose woman’s mind The ray that brightens earth and sea, The light of song, was shrined.

Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low, With a dread curtain drawn Between thee and the golden glow Of this world’s vernal dawn.

Parted from all the song and bloom Thou wouldst have loved so well, To thee the sunshine round thy tomb Was but a broken spell.

The bird, the insect on the wing, In their bright reckless play, Might feel the flush and life of spring-- And thou wert pass’d away.

But then, e’en then, a nobler thought O’er my vain sadness came; Th’ immortal spirit woke, and wrought Within my thrilling frame.

Surely on lovelier things, I said, Thou must have look’d ere now, Than all that round our pathway shed Odours and hues below.

The shadows of the tomb are here, Yet beautiful is earth! What see’st thou, then, where no dim fear, No haunting dream hath birth?

Here a vain love to passing flowers Thou gavest; but where thou art, The sway is not with changeful hours-- _There_ love and death must part.

Thou hast left sorrow in thy song, A voice not loud but deep! The glorious bowers of earth among, How often didst thou weep?

Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground Thy tender thoughts and high?-- Now peace the woman’s heart hath found, And joy the poet’s eye.

[352] “Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last residence of the author of _Psyche_. Her grave is one of many in the churchyard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey, that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it.”--_Tales by the O’Hara Family._

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

“Where’s the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land?” Marmion.

The stately homes of England! How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O’er all the pleasant land! The deer across their greensward bound, Through shade and sunny gleam; And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! There woman’s voice flows forth in song, Or childhood’s tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell’s chime Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o’er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England! Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be rear’d To guard each hallow’d wall! And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child’s glad spirit loves Its country and its God!

THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE.

“I have dreamt thou wert A captive in thy hopelessness; afar From the sweet home of thy young infancy, Whose image unto thee is as a dream Of fire and slaughter; I can see thee wasting, Sick for thy native air.” L. E. L.

The champions had come from their fields of war, Over the crests of the billows far; They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores, Where the deep had foam’d to their flashing oars.

They sat at their feast round the Norse king’s board; By the glare of the torch-light the mead was pour’d; The hearth was heap’d with the pine-boughs high, And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by.

The Scalds had chanted in Runic rhyme Their songs of the sword and the olden time; And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung, Had breathed from the walls where the bright spears hung.

But the swell was gone from the quivering string, They had summon’d a softer voice to sing; And a captive girl, at the warriors’ call, Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall.

Lonely she stood,--in her mournful eyes Lay the clear midnight of southern skies; And the drooping fringe of their lashes low Half-veil’d a depth of unfathom’d woe.

Stately she stood--though her fragile frame Seem’d struck with the blight of some inward flame, And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn, Under the waves of her dark hair worn.

And a deep flush pass’d, like a crimson haze, O’er her marble cheek by the pine-fire’s blaze-- No soft hue caught from the south wind’s breath, But a token of fever at strife with death.

She had been torn from her home away, With her long locks crown’d for her bridal-day, And brought to die of the burning dreams That haunt the exile by foreign streams.

They bade her sing of her distant land-- She held its lyre with a trembling hand, Till the spirit its blue skies had given her woke, And the stream of her voice into music broke.

Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow-- Troubled its murmur, and sad and low; But it swell’d into deeper power ere long, As the breeze that swept o’er her soul grew strong.

“They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny land! of thee! Am I not parted from thy shores by the mournful-sounding sea? Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul? In silence let me die, In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and thy pure, deep sapphire sky: How should thy lyre give _here_ its wealth of buried sweetness forth-- Its tones of summer’s breathings born, to the wild winds of the north?

“Yet thus it shall be once, once more! My spirit shall awake, And through the mists of death shine out, my country, for thy sake! That I may make _thee_ known, with all the beauty and the light, And the glory never more to bless thy daughter’s yearning sight! Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright streams warble by, Thy soul flow o’er my lips again--yet once, my Sicily!

“There are blue heavens--far hence, far hence! but, oh! their glorious blue! Its very night is beautiful with the hyacinth’s deep hue! It is above my own fair land, and round my laughing home, And arching o’er my vintage hills, they hang their cloudless dome; And making all the waves as gems, that melt along the shore, And steeping happy hearts in joy--that now is mine no more.

“And there are haunts in that green land--oh! who may dream or tell Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell! By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy leaves, And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled weaves; The myrtle dwells there, sending round the richness of its breath, And the violets gleam like amethysts from the dewy moss beneath.

“And there are floating sounds that fill the skies through night and day-- Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away; They wander through the olive woods, and o’er the shining seas-- They mingle with the orange scents that load the sleepy breeze; Lute, voice, and bird are blending there,--it were a bliss to die, As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily!

“_I_ may not thus depart--farewell! Yet no, my country! no! Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so! My fleeting spirit shall o’ersweep the mountains and the main, And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy woods again. Its passion deepens--it prevails!--I break my chain--I come To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest--in thy sweet air, my home!”

And her pale arms dropp’d the ringing lyre-- There came a mist o’er her eye’s wild fire-- And her dark rich tresses in many a fold, Loosed from their braids, down her bosom roll’d.

For her head sank back on the rugged wall-- A silence fell o’er the warriors’ hall; She had pour’d out her soul with her song’s last tone: The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone!

IVAN THE CZAR.

[“Ivan le Terrible, étant déjà devenu vieux, assiégait Novgorod. Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui demandèrent s’il ne voulait pas donner le commandement de l’assaut à son fils. Sa fureur fut si grande à cette proposition, que rien ne pût l’appaiser; son fils se prosterna à ses pieds; il le repoussa avec un coup d’une telle violence, que deux jours après le malheureux en mourut. Le père, alors au désespoir, devint indifférent à la guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne survécut que peu de mois à son fils.”--_Dix Années d’Exil, par_ Madame de Stael.]

“Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss Ihn wieder haben! ... ... Trostlose allmacht, Die nicht einmal in Graber ihren arm Verlangern, eine kleine Ubereilung Mit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann!” Schiller.

He sat in silence on the ground, The old and haughty Czar, Lonely, though princes girt him round, And leaders of the war; He had cast his jewell’d sabre, That many a field had won, To the earth beside his youthful dead-- His fair and first-born son. With a robe of ermine for its bed Was laid that form of clay, Where the light a stormy sunset shed Through the rich tent made way; And a sad and solemn beauty On the pallid face came down, Which the lord of nations mutely watch’d, In the dust, with his renown.

Low tones at last, of woe and fear, From his full bosom broke-- A mournful thing it was to hear How then the proud man spoke! The voice that through the combat Had shouted far and high, Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, Burden’d with agony.

“There is no crimson on thy cheek, And on thy lip no breath; I call thee, and thou dost not speak-- They tell me this is death! And fearful things are whispering That I the deed have done-- For the honour of thy father’s name, Look up, look up, my son!

“Well might I know death’s hue and mien-- But on _thine_ aspect, boy! What, till this moment, have I seen Save pride and tameless joy? Swiftest thou wert to battle, And bravest there of all-- How could I think a warrior’s frame Thus like a flower should fall?

“I will not bear that still cold look-- Rise up, thou fierce and free! Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook All, save this calm, from thee! Lift brightly up, and proudly, Once more thy kindling eyes! Hath my word lost its power on earth? I say to thee, arise!

“Didst thou not know I loved thee well? Thou didst not! and art gone, In bitterness of soul, to dwell Where man must dwell alone. Come back, young fiery spirit! If but one hour, to learn The secrets of the folded heart That seem’d to thee so stern.

“Thou wert the first, the first, fair child That in mine arms I press’d: Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled Like summer on my breast! I rear’d thee as an eagle, To the chase thy steps I led, I bore thee on my battle-horse, I look upon thee--dead!

“Lay down my warlike banners here, Never again to wave, And bury my red sword and spear, Chiefs! in my first-born’s grave! And leave me!--I have conquer’d, I have slain: my work is done! Whom have I slain? Ye answer not-- _Thou_ too art mute, my son!”

And thus his wild lament was pour’d Through the dark resounding night, And the battle knew no more his sword, Nor the foaming steed his might. He heard strange voices moaning In every wind that sigh’d; From the searching stars of heaven he shrank-- Humbly the conqueror died.

CAROLAN’S PROPHECY.

[“It is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish bard, even in his gayest mood, never could compose a planxty for a Miss Brett, in the county of Sligo, whose father’s house he frequented, and where he always met with a reception due to his exquisite taste and mental endowments. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to compose something in a sprightly strain for this lady, he threw aside his harp with a mixture of rage and grief; and addressing himself in Irish to her mother, ‘Madam,’ said he, ‘I have often, from my great respect to your family, attempted a planxty in order to celebrate your daughter’s perfections, but to no purpose. Some evil genius hovers over me; there is not a string in my harp that does not vibrate a melancholy sound when I set about this task. I fear she is not doomed to remain long among us; nay,’ said he emphatically, ‘she will not survive twelve months.’ The event verified the prediction, and the young lady died within the period limited by the unconsciously prophetic bard.”--_Percy Anecdotes_.]

Thy cheek too swiftly flushes, o’er thine eye The lights and shadows come and go too fast; Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice Are sounds of tenderness too passionate For peace on earth: oh! therefore, child of song! ’Tis well thou shouldst depart.

A sound of music, from amidst the hills, Came suddenly, and died; a fitful sound Of mirth, soon lost in wail. Again it rose, And sank in mournfulness. There sat a bard By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept Flashing through rock and wood: the sunset’s light Was on his wavy, silver-gleaming hair, And the wind’s whisper in the mountain ash, Whose clusters droop’d above. His head was bow’d, His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch Had drawn but broken strains; and many stood Waiting around, in silent earnestness, Th’ unchaining of his soul, the gush of song-- Many and graceful forms!--yet one alone Seem’d present to his dream; and she, indeed, With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek, And the clear starlight of her serious eyes, Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful, E’en painfully!--a creature to behold With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth Too dim without its brightness! Did such fear O’ershadow in that hour the gifted one, By his own rushing stream? Once more he gazed Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out A few short festive notes, an opening strain Of bridal melody, soon dash’d with grief-- As if some wailing spirit in the strings Met and o’ermaster’d him; but yielding then To the strong prophet impulse, mournfully, Like moaning waters o’er the harp he pour’d The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang--

“Voice of the grave! I hear thy thrilling call; It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, In the sere leaf’s trembling fall! In the shiver of the tree, I hear thee, O thou voice! And I would thy warning were but for me, That my spirit might rejoice.

“But thou art sent For the sad earth’s young and fair, For the graceful heads that have not bent To the wintry hand of care! They hear the wind’s low sigh, And the river sweeping free, And the green reeds murmuring heavily, And the woods--but they hear not thee!

“Long have I striven With my deep-foreboding soul, But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, And darkly on must roll. There’s a young brow smiling near, With a bridal white-rose wreath-- Unto _me_ it smiles from a flowery bier, Touch’d solemnly by death!

“Fair art thou, Morna! The sadness of thine eye Is beautiful as silvery clouds On the dark-blue summer sky! And thy voice comes like the sound Of a sweet and hidden rill, That makes the dim woods tuneful round-- But soon it must be still!

“Silence and dust On thy sunny lips must lie-- Make not the strength of love thy trust, A stronger yet is nigh! No strain of festal flow That my hand for thee hath tried, But into dirge-notes wild and low Its ringing tones have died.

“Young art thou, Morna! Yet on thy gentle head, Like heavy dew on the lily’s leaves, A spirit hath been shed! And the glance is thine which sees Through nature’s awful heart-- But bright things go with the summer breeze, And thou too must depart!

“Yet, shall I weep? I know that in thy breast There swells a fount of song too deep, Too powerful for thy rest! And the bitterness I know, And the chill of this world’s breath-- Go--all undimm’d in thy glory, go! Young and crown’d bride of death!

“Take hence to heaven Thy holy thoughts and bright, And soaring hopes, that were not given For the touch of mortal blight! Might we follow in thy track, This parting should not be! But the spring shall give us violets back, And every flower but thee!”

There was a burst of tears around the bard: All wept but one--and she serenely stood, With her clear brow and dark religious eye Raised to the first faint star above the hills, And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek Was paler than before. So Morna heard The minstrel’s prophecy. And spring return’d, Bringing the earth her lovely things again-- All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile, A young sweet spirit gone.

THE LADY OF THE CASTLE.

FROM THE “PORTRAIT GALLERY,” AN UNFINISHED POEM.

If there be but one spot on thy name, One eye thou fear’st to meet, one human voice Whose tones thou shrink’st from--Woman! veil thy face, And bow thy head--and die!

Thou see’st her pictured with her shining hair, (Famed were those tresses in Provençal song,) Half braided, half o’er cheek and bosom fair Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along Her gorgeous vest. A child’s light hand is roving Midst the rich curls; and, oh! how meekly loving Its earnest looks are lifted to the face Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace! Yet that bright lady’s eye, methinks, hath less Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness, Than might beseem a mother’s; on her brow Something too much there sits of native scorn, And her smile kindles with a conscious glow As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. These may be dreams--but how shall woman tell Of woman’s shame, and not with tears? She fell! That mother left that child!--went hurrying by Its cradle--haply not without a sigh, Haply one moment o’er its rest serene She hung. But no! it could not thus have been, For _she went on!_--forsook her home, her hearth, All pure affection, all sweet household mirth, To live a gaudy and dishonour’d thing, Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king.

Her lord, in very weariness of life, Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife. He reck’d no more of glory: grief and shame Crush’d out his fiery nature, and his name Died silently. A shadow o’er his halls Crept year by year: the minstrel pass’d their walls; The warder’s horn hung mute. Meantime the child On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled, A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew Into sad youth; for well, too well, she knew Her mother’s tale! Its memory made the sky Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye; Check’d on her lip the flow of song, which fain Would there have linger’d; flush’d her cheek to pain, If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone, E’en to the spring’s glad voice. Her own was low And plaintive. Oh! there lie such depths of woe In a _young_ blighted spirit! Manhood rears A haughty brow, and age has done with tears; But youth bows down to misery, in amaze At the dark cloud o’ermantling its fresh days;-- And thus it was with her. A mournful sight In one so fair--for she indeed was fair; Not with her mother’s dazzling eyes of light-- _Hers_ were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer, And with long lashes o’er a white-rose cheek Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek, Still that fond child’s--and oh! the brow above So pale and pure! so form’d for holy love To gaze upon in silence! But she felt That love was not for her, though hearts would melt Where’er she moved, and reverence mutely given Went with her; and low prayers, that call’d on heaven To bless the young Isaure.

One sunny morn With alms before her castle-gate she stood, Midst peasant groups: when, breathless and o’erworn, And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, A stranger through them broke. The orphan maid, With her sweet voice and proffer’d hand of aid, Turn’d to give welcome; but a wild sad look Met hers--a gaze that all her spirit shook; And that pale woman, suddenly subdued By some strong passion, in its gushing mood, Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears As rain the hoarded agonies of years From the heart’s urn; and with her white lips press’d The ground they trod; then, burying in her vest Her brow’s deep flush, sobb’d out--“O undefiled! I am thy mother--spurn me not, my child!”

Isaure had pray’d for that lost mother; wept O’er her stain’d memory, while the happy slept In the hush’d midnight; stood with mournful gaze Before yon picture’s smile of other days, But never breathed in human ear the name Which weigh’d her being to the earth with shame. What marvel if the anguish, the surprise, The dark remembrances, the alter’d guise, Awhile o’erpower’d her? From the weeper’s touch She shrank--’twas but a moment--yet too much For that all-humbled one; its mortal stroke Came down like lightning, and her full heart broke At once in silence. Heavily and prone She sank, while o’er her castle’s threshold stone, Those long fair tresses--_they_ still brightly wore Their early pride, though bound with pearls no more-- Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll’d, And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold.

Her child bent o’er her--call’d her: ’twas too late-- Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate! The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard-- How didst thou fall, O bright-hair’d Ermengarde!

THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES.

“O good old man! how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world! Thou art not for the fashion of these times.” As You Like It.

Fallen was the house of Giafar; and its name, The high romantic name of Barmecide, A sound forbidden on its own bright shores, By the swift Tigris’ wave. Stern Haroun’s wrath, Sweeping the mighty with their fame away, Had so pass’d sentence: but man’s chainless heart Hides that within its depths which never yet Th’ oppressor’s thought could reach.

’Twas desolate Where Giafar’s halls, beneath the burning sun, Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceased; The lights, the perfumes, and the genii tales Had ceased; the guests were gone. Yet still one voice Was there--the fountain’s; through those Eastern courts, Over the broken marble and the grass, Its low clear music shedding mournfully.

And still another voice! An aged man, Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath His silvery hair, came day by day, and sate On a white column’s fragment; and drew forth, From the forsaken walls and dim arcades, A tone that shook them with its answering thrill, To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale He told that sad yet stately solitude, Pouring his memory’s fulness o’er its gloom, Like waters in the waste; and calling up, By song or high recital of their deeds, Bright solemn shadows of its vanish’d race To people their own halls: with these alone, In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughts Held still unbroken converse. He had been Rear’d in this lordly dwelling, and was now The ivy of its ruins, unto which His fading life seem’d bound. Day roll’d on day, And from that scene the loneliness was fled; For crowds around the gray-hair’d chronicler Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts Fear with deep feeling strives; till, as a breeze Wanders through forest branches, and is met By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves, The spirit of his passionate lament, As through their stricken souls it pass’d, awoke One echoing murmur. But this might not be Under a despot’s rule, and, summon’d thence, The dreamer stood before the Caliph’s throne: Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale, And with his white lips rigidly compress’d; Till, in submissive tones, he ask’d to speak Once more, ere thrust from earth’s fair sunshine forth. Was it to sue for grace? His burning heart Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye, And he was changed!--and thus, in rapid words, Th’ o’ermastering thoughts, more strong than death, found way:--

“And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble and the brave, With the glory on their brows, are gone before me to the grave? What is there left to look on now, what brightness in the land? I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their princely band!

“My chiefs! my chiefs! the old man comes that in your halls was nursed-- That follow’d you to many a fight, where flash’d your sabres first-- That bore your children in his arms, your name upon his heart:-- Oh! must the music of that name with him from earth depart?

“It shall not be! A thousand tongues, though human voice were still, With that high sound the living air triumphantly shall fill; The wind’s free flight shall bear it on as wandering seeds are sown, And the starry midnight whisper it with a deep and thrilling tone.

“For it is not as a flower whose scent with the dropping leaves expires, And it is not as a household lamp, that a breath should quench its fires; It is written on our battle-fields with the writing of the sword, It hath left upon our desert-sands a light in blessings pour’d.

“The founts, the many gushing founts which to the wild ye gave, Of you, my chiefs! shall sing aloud, as they pour a joyous wave; And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloom ye hung the pilgrim’s way, Shall send from all their sighing leaves your praises on the day.

“The very walls your bounty rear’d for the stranger’s homeless head, Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious dead! Though the grass be where ye feasted once, where lute and cittern rung, And the serpent in your palaces lie coil’d amidst its young.

“It is enough! Mine eye no more of joy or splendour sees-- I leave your name in lofty faith to the skies and to the breeze! I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the bright and fair, And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my chiefs! are there.”

But while the old man sang, a mist of tears O’er Haroun’s eyes had gather’d, and a thought-- Oh! many a sudden and remorseful thought-- Of his youth’s once-loved friends, the martyr’d race, O’erflow’d his softening heart. “Live! live!” he cried, “Thou faithful unto death! Live on, and still Speak of thy lords--they _were_ a princely band!”

THE SPANISH CHAPEL.[353]

“Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life’s early morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a veil o’er the spirit’s young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.” Moore.

I made a mountain brook my guide Through a wild Spanish glen, And wander’d on its grassy side, Far from the homes of men.

It lured me with a singing tone, And many a sunny glance, To a green spot of beauty lone, A haunt for old romance.

A dim and deeply bosom’d grove Of many an aged tree, Such as the shadowy violets love, The fawn and forest bee.

The darkness of the chestnut-bough There on the waters lay, The bright stream reverently below Check’d its exulting play;

And bore a music all subdued, And led a silvery sheen On through the breathing solitude Of that rich leafy scene.

For something viewlessly around Of solemn influence dwelt, In the soft gloom and whispery sound, Not to be told, but felt;

While, sending forth a quiet gleam Across the wood’s repose, And o’er the twilight of the stream, A lowly chapel rose.

A pathway to that still retreat Through many a myrtle wound, And there a sight--how strangely sweet! My steps in wonder bound.

For on a brilliant bed of flowers, E’en at the threshold made, As if to sleep through sultry hours, A young fair child was laid.

To sleep?--oh! ne’er, on childhood’s eye And silken lashes press’d, Did the warm _living_ slumber lie With such a weight of rest!

Yet still a tender crimson glow Its cheeks’ pure marble dyed-- ’Twas but the light’s faint streaming flow Through roses heap’d beside.

I stoop’d--the smooth round arm was chill, The soft lips’ breath was fled, And the bright ringlets hung so still-- The lovely child was dead!

“Alas!” I cried, “fair faded thing! Thou hast wrung bitter tears, And thou hast left a woe, to cling Round yearning hearts for years!”

But then a voice came sweet and low-- I turn’d, and near me sate A woman with a mourner’s brow, Pale, yet not desolate.

And in her still, clear, matron face, All solemnly serene, A shadow’d image I could trace Of that young slumberer’s mien.

“Stranger! thou pitiest me,” she said With lips that faintly smiled, “As here I watch beside my dead, My fair and precious child.

“But know, the time-worn heart may be By pangs in this world riven, Keener than theirs who yield, like me, An angel thus to heaven!”

[353] Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the _Recollections of the Peninsula_.

THE KAISER’S FEAST.

[Louis, Emperor of Germany, having put his brother, the Palsgrave Rodolphus, under the ban of the empire in the twelfth century, that unfortunate prince fled to England, where he died in neglect and poverty. “After his decease, his mother Matilda privately invited his children to return to Germany; and, by her mediation, during a season of festivity, when Louis kept wassail in the castle of Heidelberg, the family of his brother presented themselves before him in the garb of suppliants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To this appeal the victor softened.”--_Miss Benger’s Memoirs of the Queen of Bohemia._]

The Kaiser feasted in his hall-- The red wine mantled high; Banners were trembling on the wall To the peals of minstrelsy: And many a gleam and sparkle came From the armour hung around, As it caught the glance of the torch’s flame, Or the hearth with pine-boughs crown’d.

Why fell there silence on the chord Beneath the harper’s hand? And suddenly from that rich board, Why rose the wassail band? The strings were hush’d--the knights made way For the queenly mother’s tread, As up the hall, in dark array, Two fair-hair’d boys she led.

She led them e’en to the Kaiser’s place, And still before him stood; Till, with strange wonder, o’er his face Flush’d the proud warrior-blood: And “Speak, my mother! speak!” he cried, “Wherefore this mourning vest? And the clinging children by thy side, In weeds of sadness drest?”

“Well may a mourning vest be mine, And theirs, my son, my son! Look on the features of thy line In each fair little one! Though grief awhile within their eyes Hath tamed the dancing glee, Yet there thine own quick spirit lies-- Thy brother’s children see!

“And where is he, thy brother--where? He in thy home that grew, And smiling, with his sunny hair, Ever to greet thee flew? How would his arms thy neck entwine, His fond lips press thy brow! My son! oh, call these orphans thine!-- Thou hast no brother now!

“What! from their gentle eyes doth naught Speak of thy childhood’s hours, And smite thee with a tender thought Of thy dead father’s towers? Kind was thy boyish heart and true, When rear’d together there, Through the old woods like fawns ye flew-- Where is thy brother--where?

“Well didst thou love him then, and he Still at thy side was seen! How is it that such things can be As though they ne’er had been? Evil was this world’s breath, which came Between the good and brave! Now must the tears of grief and shame Be offer’d to the grave.

“And let them, let them there be pour’d! Though all unfelt below-- Thine own wrung heart, to love restored, Shall soften as they flow. Oh! death is mighty to make peace; Now bid his work be done! So many an inward strife shall cease-- Take, take these babes, my son!”

His eye was dimm’d--the strong man shook With feelings long suppress’d; Up in his arms the boys he took, And strain’d them to his breast. And a shout from all in the royal hall Burst forth to hail the sight; And eyes were wet midst the brave that met At the Kaiser’s feast that night.

TASSO AND HIS SISTER.

“Devant vous est Sorrente; la demeuroit la sœur de Tasse, quand il vint en pelerin demander a cette obscure amie un asyle contre l’injustice des princes.--Ses longues douleurs avaient presque egare sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que son genie.”--Corinne.

She sat, where on each wind that sigh’d The citron’s breath went by, While the red gold of eventide Burn’d in the Italian sky. Her bower was one where daylight’s close Full oft sweet laughter found, As thence the voice of childhood rose To the high vineyards round.

But still and thoughtful at her knee Her children stood that hour, Their bursts of song and dancing glee Hush’d as by words of power. With bright fix’d wondering eyes, that gazed Up to their mother’s face, With brows through parted ringlets raised, They stood in silent grace.

While she--yet something o’er her look Of mournfulness was spread-- Forth from a poet’s magic book The glorious numbers read; The proud undying lay, which pour’d Its light on evil years; _His_ of the gifted pen and sword,[354] The triumph, and the tears.

She read of fair Erminia’s flight, Which Venice once might hear Sung on her glittering seas at night By many a gondolier: Of him she read, who broke the charm That wrapt the myrtle grove; Of Godfrey’s deeds, of Tancred’s arm, That slew his Paynim love.

Young cheeks around that bright page glow’d, Young holy hearts were stirr’d; And the meek tears of woman flow’d Fast o’er each burning word. And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, Came sweet, each pause between, When a strange voice of sudden grief Burst on the gentle scene.

The mother turn’d--a way-worn man, In pilgrim garb, stood nigh, Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, Of proud yet mournful eye. But drops which would not stay for pride From that dark eye gush’d free, As pressing his pale brow, he cried, “Forgotten! e’en by thee!

“Am I so changed?--and yet we two Oft hand in hand have play’d; This brow hath been all bathed in dew From wreaths which thou hast made; We have knelt down and said one prayer, And sung one vesper strain; My soul is dim with clouds of care-- Tell me those words again!

“Life hath been heavy on my head-- I come a stricken deer, Bearing the heart, midst crowds that bled, To bleed in stillness here.” She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept Shook all her thrilling frame-- She fell upon his neck and wept, Murmuring her brother’s name.

Her _brother’s_ name!--and who was he, The weary one, th’ unknown, That came, the bitter world to flee, A stranger to his own? He was the bard of gifts divine To sway the souls of men; He of the song for Salem’s shrine, He of the sword and pen!

[354] It is scarcely necessary to recall the well-known Italian saying, that Tasso, with his sword and pen, was superior to all men.

ULLA; OR, THE ADJURATION.

“Yet speak to me! I have outwatch’d the stars, And gazed o’er heaven in vain, in search of thee. Speak to me! I have wander’d o’er the earth, And never found thy likeness. Speak to me! This once--once more!” Manfred.

“Thou’rt gone!--thou’rt slumbering low, With the sounding seas above thee: It is but a restless woe, But a haunting dream to love thee! Thrice the glad swan has sung To greet the spring-time hours, Since thine oar at parting flung The white spray up in showers. There’s a shadow of the grave on thy hearth and round thy home; Come to me from the ocean’s dead!--thou’rt surely of them--come!”

’Twas Ulla’s voice! Alone she stood In the Iceland summer night, Far gazing o’er a glassy flood From a dark rock’s beetling height.

“I know thou hast thy bed Where the sea-weed’s coil hath bound thee; The storm sweeps o’er thy head, But the depths are hush’d around thee. What wind shall point the way To the chambers where thou’rt lying? Come to me thence, and say If thou thought’st on me in dying? I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and cheek. Come to me from the ocean’s dead!--thou’rt surely of them--speak!”

She listen’d--’twas the wind’s low moan, ’Twas the ripple of the wave, ’Twas the wakening osprey’s cry alone As it startled from its cave.

“I know each fearful spell Of the ancient Runic lay, Whose mutter’d words compel The tempest to obey. But I adjure not _thee_ By magic sign or song; My voice shall stir the sea By love--the deep, the strong! By the might of woman’s tears, by the passion of her sighs, Come to me from the ocean’s dead!--by the vows we pledged, arise!”

Again she gazed with an eager glance, Wandering and wildly bright;-- She saw but the sparkling waters dance To the arrowy northern-light.

“By the slow and struggling death Of hope that loathed to part, By the fierce and withering breath Of despair on youth’s high heart-- By the weight of gloom which clings To the mantle of the night, By the heavy dawn which brings Naught lovely to the sight-- By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung of grief and fear, Come to me from the ocean’s dead! Awake, arise, appear!”

Was it her yearning spirit’s dream? Or did a pale form rise, And o’er the hush’d wave glide and gleam, With bright, still, mournful eyes?

“Have the depths heard? They have! My voice prevails: thou’rt there, Dim from thy watery grave-- O thou that wert so fair! Yet take me to thy rest! There dwells no fear with love; Let me slumber on thy breast, While the billow rolls above! Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the bright ones have their home, We will sleep among the ocean’s dead. Stay for me, stay!--I come!”

There was a sullen plunge below, A flashing on the main; And the wave shut o’er that wild heart’s woe-- Shut, and grew still again.

TO WORDSWORTH.

Thine is a strain to read among the hills, The old and full of voices,--by the source Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills The solitude with sound; for in its course Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken To the still breast in sunny garden bowers, Where vernal winds each tree’s low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, When night hath hush’d the woods with all their birds, There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet As antique music, link’d with household words; While in pleased murmurs woman’s lip might move, And the raised eye of childhood shine in love.

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews Brood silently o’er some lone burial-ground, Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around; From its own glow of hope and courage high, And steadfast faith’s victorious constancy.

True bard and holy!--thou art e’en as one Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye, In every spot beneath the smiling sun, Sees where the springs of living waters lie: Unseen awhile they sleep--till, touch’d by thee, Bright healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wanderer free.

[These verses, addressed “To the Author of the Excursion and the Lyrical Ballads,” first appeared in the _Literary Magnet_ for April 1826--a clever and tasteful periodical at that time conducted by Mr Alaric A. Watts--who appended to it the following complimentary editorial note:--

“We have much pleasure in presenting to our readers this exquisite address to the poet Wordsworth, with which we have been kindly favoured by its distinguished author. Those who are acquainted with Mr W.’s writings, will readily feel and appreciate the truth and beauty of the tribute.”

The same little poem was afterwards inclosed by Mrs Hemans in one of her letters to her accomplished and deeply attached friend, Miss Jewsbury--at whose recommendation the writings of the great poet of the Lakes had become an earnest study with our author, and with what advantage, her compositions subsequent to this time sufficiently testify. In the letter referred to, Mrs Hemans seems proud to avow these obligations.

“The inclosed lines,” she says--“an effusion of deep and sincere admiration--will give you some idea of the enjoyment, and I hope I may say advantage, which you have been the means of imparting, by so kindly intrusting me with your precious copy of Wordsworth’s Miscellaneous Poems. It has opened to me such a treasure of thought and feeling, that I shall always associate your name with some of my pleasantest recollections, as having introduced me to the knowledge of what I can only regret should have been so long a ‘Yarrow unvisited.’ I would not write to you sooner, because I wished to tell you that I had really _studied_ these poems, and they have been the daily food of my mind ever since I borrowed them. There is hardly any scene of a happy, though serious, domestic life, or any mood of a reflective mind, with the spirit of which some one or other of them does not beautifully harmonise. This author is the true poet of home, and of all the lofty feelings which have their root in the soil of home affections. His fine sonnets to Liberty, and indeed all his pieces which have any reference to political interest, remind me of the spirit in which Schiller has conceived the character of William Tell--a calm, single-hearted herdsman of the hills, breaking forth into fiery and indignant eloquence when the sanctity of his hearth is invaded. Then what power Wordsworth condenses into single lines, like Lord Byron’s ‘curdling a long life into one hour!’

‘The still, sad music of humanity’--

‘The river glideth at his own sweet will’--

‘Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods’--

and a thousand others, which we must some time (and I hope not a very distant one) talk over together. Many of these lines quite haunt me: and I have a strange feeling, as if I must have known them in my childhood; they come over me so like old melodies. I can hardly speak of favourites among so many things that delight me; but I think ‘The Narrow Glen,’ the ‘Lines on Corra Linn,’ the ‘Song for the Feast of Brougham Castle,’ ‘Yarrow Visited,’ and ‘The Cuckoo,’ are among those which take hold of imagination the soonest, and recur most frequently to memory.

* * * * *

“I know not how I can have so long omitted to mention the _Ecclesiastical Sketches_, which I have read, and do constantly read, with deep interest. Their beauty grows upon you, and develops as you study it, like that of the old pictures by the Italian masters.”]

A MONARCH’S DEATH-BED.

[The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the wayside, and only supported in his last moments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing.]

A monarch on his deathbed lay-- Did censers waft perfume, And soft lamps pour their silvery ray, Through his proud chamber’s gloom? He lay upon a greensward bed, Beneath a darkening sky-- A lone tree waving o’er his head, A swift stream rolling by.

Had he then fallen as warriors fall, Where spear strikes fire with spear? Was there a banner for his pall, A buckler for his bier? Not so--nor cloven shields nor helms Had strewn the bloody sod, Where he, the helpless lord of realms, Yielded his soul to God.

Were there not friends with words of cheer, And princely vassals nigh? And priests, the crucifix to rear Before the glazing eye? A peasant girl that royal head Upon her bosom laid, And, shrinking not for woman’s dread, The face of death survey’d.

Alone she sat: from hill and wood Red sank the mournful sun; Fast gush’d the fount of noble blood-- Treason its worst had done. With her long hair she vainly press’d The wounds, to stanch their tide-- Unknown, on that meek humble breast, Imperial Albert died!

TO THE MEMORY OF HEBER.

“Umile in tanta gloria.”--Petrarch.

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone, Of sainted genius call’d too soon away, Of light from this world taken, while it shone Yet kindling onward to the perfect day-- How shall our grief, if mournful these things be, Flow forth, O thou of many gifts! for thee? Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard And that deep soul of gentleness and power, Have we not felt its breath in every word Wont from thy lip as Hermon’s dew to shower? Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn’d-- Of heaven they were, and thither have return’d.

How shall we mourn thee? With a lofty trust, Our life’s immortal birthright from above! With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just, Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love, And yet can weep!--for nature thus deplores The friend that leaves us, though for happier shores.

And one high tone of triumph o’er thy bier, One strain of solemn rapture, be allow’d! Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career, Not to decay, but unto death hast bow’d, In those bright regions of the rising sun, Where victory ne’er a crown like thine had won.

Praise! for yet one more name with power endow’d To cheer and guide us, onward as we press; Yet one more image on the heart bestow’d To dwell there, beautiful in holiness! Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from the dead Shines as the star which to the Saviour led!

THE ADOPTED CHILD.

“Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child? Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, A straw-roof’d cabin, with lowly wall-- Mine is a fair and a pillar’d hall, Where many an image of marble gleams, And the sunshine of picture for ever streams.”

“Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play, Through the long bright hours of the summer day; They find the red cup-moss where they climb, And they chase the bee o’er the scented thyme, And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know-- Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”

“Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell-- Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well; Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, Harps which the wandering breezes tune, And the silvery wood-note of many a bird Whose voice was ne’er in thy mountains heard.”

“Oh! my mother sings, at the twilight’s fall, A song of the hills far more sweet than all; She sings it under our own green tree To the babe half slumbering on her knee: I dreamt last night of that music low-- Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”

“Thy mother is gone, from her cares to rest-- She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast; Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy! no more, Nor hear the song at the cabin door. Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, And we’ll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.”

“Is my mother gone from her home away? But I know that my brothers are there at play-- I know they are gathering the foxglove’s bell, Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well; Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow-- Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”

“Fair child! thy brothers are wanderers now, They sport no more on the mountain’s brow; They have left the fern by the spring’s green side, And the streams where the fairy barks were tried. Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, For thy cabin home is a lonely spot.”

“Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill?-- But the bird and the blue-fly rove o’er it still; And the red-deer bound in their gladness free, And the heath is bent by the singing bee, And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow-- Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”

INVOCATION.

“I call’d on dreams and visions, to disclose That which is veil’d from waking thought; conjured Eternity, as men constrain a ghost To appear and answer.” Wordsworth.

Answer me, burning stars of night! Where is the spirit gone, That past the reach of human sight As a swift breeze hath flown? And the stars answer’d me--“We roll In light and power on high; But, of the never-dying soul, Ask that which cannot die.” O many-toned and chainless wind! Thou art a wanderer free; Tell me if thou its place canst find, Far over mount and sea? And the wind murmur’d in reply-- “The blue deep I have cross’d, And met its barks and billows high, But not what thou hast lost.”

Ye clouds that gorgeously repose Around the setting sun, Answer! have ye a home for those Whose earthly race is run? The bright clouds answer’d--“We depart, We vanish from the sky; Ask what is deathless in thy heart, For that which cannot die.”

Speak then, thou voice of God within, Thou of the deep low tone! Answer me, through life’s restless din-- Where is the spirit flown? And the voice answer’d--“Be thou still! Enough to know is given: Clouds, winds, and stars _their_ part fulfil-- _Thine_ is, to trust in Heaven.”

KÖRNER AND HIS SISTER.

[“Charles Theodore Körner, the celebrated young German poet and soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a detachment of French troops on the 20th of August 1813, a few hours after the composition of his popular piece, _The Sword-Song_. He was buried at the village of Wöbbelin in Mecklenburg, under a beautiful oak, in a recess of which he had frequently deposited verses composed by him while campaigning in its vicinity. The monument erected to his memory is of cast-iron; and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and sword, a favourite emblem of Körner’s, from which one of his works had been entitled. Near the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for his loss, having only survived him long enough to complete his portrait and a drawing of his burial-place. Over the gate of the cemetery is engraved one of his own lines:--

‘Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht.’ (Forget not the faithful dead.)”

--See Richardson’s _Translation of Körner’s Life and Works_, and Downe’s _Letters from Mecklenburg_.]

Green wave the oak for ever o’er thy rest, Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, And, in the stillness of thy country’s breast, Thy place of memory as an altar keepest; Brightly thy spirit o’er her hills was pour’d, Thou of the Lyre and Sword! Rest, bard! rest, soldier! By the father’s hand Here shall the child of after years be led, With his wreath-offering silently to stand In the hush’d presence of the glorious dead-- Soldier and bard! for thou thy path hast trod With freedom and with God.

The oak waved proudly o’er thy burial rite, On thy crown’d bier to slumber warriors bore thee, And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight Wept as they veil’d their drooping banners o’er thee; And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token That Lyre and Sword were broken.

_Thou_ hast a hero’s tomb: a lowlier bed Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying-- The gentle girl that bow’d her fair young head When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. Brother, true friend! the tender and the brave!-- She pined to share thy grave.

Fame was thy gift from others;--but for her, To whom the wide world held that only spot, _She_ loved thee!--lovely in your lives ye were, And in your early deaths divided not. Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy,--what hath she? Her own bless’d place by thee!

It was thy spirit, brother! which had made The bright earth glorious to her youthful eye, Since first in childhood midst the vines ye play’d, And sent glad singing through the free blue sky. Ye were but two--and when that spirit pass’d, Woe to the one, the last!

Woe, yet not long! She linger’d but to trace Thine image from the image in her breast-- Once, once again to see that buried face But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. Too sad a smile! its living light was o’er-- It answer’d hers no more.

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, The home too lonely whence thy step had fled; What then was left for her the faithful-hearted? Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead! Softly she perish’d: be the Flower deplored Here with the Lyre and Sword!

Have ye not met ere now?--so let those trust That meet for moments but to part for years-- That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust-- That love, where love is but a fount of tears. Brother! sweet sister! peace around ye dwell: Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell![355]

[355] The following lines, addressed to the author of the above, by the venerable father of Körner, who, with the mother, survived the “Lyre, Sword, and Flower,” here commemorated, may not be uninteresting to the German reader:--

“Wohllaut tont aus der Ferne von freundlichen Luften getragen, Schmeichelt mit lindernder Kraft sich in der Trauernden Ohr, Starkt den erhebenden Glauben an solcher seelen Verwandschaft, Die zum Tempel die brust nur fur das Wurdige weihn.

Aus dem Lande zu dem sich stets der gefeyerte Jungling Hingezogen gefuhlt, wird ihm ein glazender Lohn. Heil dem Brittischen Volke, wenn ihm das Deutsche nicht fremd ist! Uber Lander und Meer reichen sich beyde die Hand.” Theodor Körner’s Vater.

THE DEATH-DAY OF KÖRNER.[356]

A song for the death-day of the brave-- A song of pride! The youth went down to a hero’s grave, With the sword, his bride.[357]

He went, with his noble heart unworn, And pure, and high-- An eagle stooping from clouds of morn, Only to die.

He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone Beneath his hand Had thrill’d to the name of his God alone And his fatherland.

And with all his glorious feelings yet In their first glow, Like a southern stream that no frost hath met To chain its flow.

A song for the death-day of the brave-- A song of pride! For him that went to a hero’s grave, With the sword, his bride.

He hath left a voice in his trumpet lays To turn the flight, And a guiding spirit for after days, Like a watch-fire’s light.

And a grief in his father’s soul to rest, Midst all high thought; And a memory unto his mother’s breast, With healing fraught.

And a name and fame above the blight Of earthly breath, Beautiful--beautiful and bright, In life and death!

A song for the death-day of the brave-- A song of pride! For him that went to a hero’s grave, With the sword, his bride!

[356] On reading part of a letter from Körner’s father, addressed to Mr Richardson, the translator of his works, in which he speaks of “The Death-day of his son.”

[357] See _The Sword Song_, composed on the morning of his death.

[As the great German writers at this time, and ever afterwards, exerted a great influence over the mind of Mrs Hemans, it may please the reader to know, on the authority of her sister, the degrees of estimation in which she held some of these. We quote from the _Memoir_, p. 54-8.

“She in general preferred the writings of Schiller to those of Goethe, and could for ever find fresh beauties in _Wallenstein_, with which she was equally familiar in its eloquent original, and in Coleridge’s magnificent translation, or, as it may truly be called, transfusion. Those most conversant with her literary tastes, will remember her almost actual relation-like love for the characters of Max and Thekla, whom, like many other ‘beings of the mind,’ she had learned to consider as friends; and her constant quotations of certain passages from this noble tragedy, which peculiarly accorded with her own views and feelings. In the _Stimmen der Völker in Lieder_ of Herder, she found a rich store of thoughts and suggestions; and it was this work which inspired her with the idea of her own ‘Lays of Many Lands,’ most of which appeared originally in the _New Monthly Magazine_, then edited by Mr Campbell. She also took great delight in the dreamy beauties of Novalis and Tieck, and in what has been gracefully characterised by Mr Chorley, as the ‘moonlight tenderness’ of Oehlenschläger. Of the works of the latter, her especial favourite was _Coreggio_; and of Tieck, _Sternbald’s Wanderungen_, which she often made her out-of-doors companion. It was always an especial mark of her love for a book, and of her considering it true to nature, and to the best wisdom of the heart,[358] when she promoted it to the list of those with which she would ‘take sweet counsel’ amidst the woods and fields.

“But, amongst all these names of power, none awakened a more lively interest in her mind, than that of the noble-hearted Körner, the young soldier-bard, who, in the words of Professor Bouterwek, ‘would have become a distinguished tragic poet, had he not met with the still more glorious fate of falling on the field of battle, while fighting for the deliverance of Germany.’ The stirring events of his life, the heroism of his early death, and the beautiful tie which subsisted between him and his only sister, whose fate was so touchingly bound up with his own, formed a romance of real life which could not fail to excite feelings of the warmest enthusiasm in a bosom so ready as hers to respond to all things high and holy. The lyric of ‘The Grave of Körner,’ is, perhaps, one of the most impressive Mrs Hemans ever wrote. Her whole heart was in a subject which so peculiarly combined the two strains dearest to her nature, the chivalrous and the tender.

‘They were but two--and when that spirit pass’d, Woe to the one, the last!’

“That mournful echo--‘They were but two,’ was, by some indefinable association, connected in her mind with another and far differing brother and sister, called into existence by the magic pen of Sir Walter Scott. The affecting ejaculation, ‘There are but two of us!’ so often repeated by the hapless Clara Mowbray in _St Ronan’s Well_, was frequently quoted by Mrs Hemans as an instance of the deepest pathos. The lyric in question was, it is believed, one of the first tributes which appeared in England to the memory of the author of ‘The Lyre and Sword,’ though his name has since become ‘familiar in our ears as household words.’ A translation of the ‘Life of Körner,’ with selections from his poems, &c., was published in 1827, by G. F. Richardson, Esq., whose politeness in presenting a copy of the work to Mrs Hemans, inscribed with a dedicatory sonnet, led to an interchange of letters with that gentleman, and was further the means of procuring for her the high gratification of a direct message, full of the most feeling acknowledgment, from the venerable father of the hero, who afterwards addressed to her a poetical tribute from _Theodor Körner’s Father_ [see p. 425.] Her pleasure in receiving this genuine offering was thus expressed to Mr Richardson, who had been the medium through which it reached her. ‘_Theodor Körner’s Vater!_’--it is, indeed, a title beautifully expressing all the holy pride which the memory of _die treuen Todten_[359] must inspire; and awakening every good and high feeling to its sound. I shall prize the lines as a relic. Will you be kind enough to assure M. Körner, with my grateful respects, of the value which will be attached to them, a value so greatly enhanced by their being in his own hand. They are very beautiful, I think, in their somewhat antique and _treuherzig_[360] simplicity, and worthy to have proceeded from _Theodor Körner’s Vater_.

“The following almost literal translation of these lines is given by W. B. Chorley, Esq., in his interesting little volume, ‘The Lyre and Sword,’ published in 1834:--

‘Gently a voice from afar is borne to the ear of the mourner; Mildly it soundeth, yet strong, grief in his bosom to soothe; Strong in the soul-cheering faith, that hearts have a share in his sorrow, In whose depths all things holy and noble are shrined. From that land once dearly beloved by our brave one, the fallen, Mourning blent with bright fame--cometh a wreath for his urn. Hail to thee, England the free! thou see’st in the German no stranger. Over the earth and the seas, join’d be both lands, heart and hand!’

“There was nothing which delighted Mrs Hemans more in German literature, than the cordial feeling of brotherhood, so conspicuous amongst its most eminent authors, and their freedom from all the petty rivalries and manœuvres on which she herself looked down with as much of wonder as of contempt. In a letter, in which she speaks of the bitterness, and jealousy, and strife, pervading the tone of many of our own Reviews, she adds, turning to a brighter picture with a feeling of relief, like that of one emerging from the heated atmosphere of a city to breathe the fresh air of the mountains:--‘How very different seems the spirit of literary men in Germany! I am just reading a work of Tieck’s, which is dedicated to Schlegel; and I am delighted with the beautiful simplicity of these words in the dedication:--_Es war eine schöne Zeit meines Lebens, als ich dich und deinen Bruder Friedrich zuerst kennen lernte’; eine noch schönere als wir und Novalis für Kunst und Wissenschaft vereinigt lebten, und uns in mannigfaltigen Bestrebungen begegneten. Jetzt hat uns das Schicksal schon seit vielen Jahren getrennt. Ich kann nur in Geist und in der Erinnerung mit dir leben._[361] ‘Is not that union of bright minds, _für Kunst und Wissenschaft_, a picture on which it is delightful to repose?’”]

[358] “One of our poets says, with equal truth and beauty, ‘The heart is wise.’ We should be not only happier but better if we attended more to its dictates.”--Ethel Churchill, by L. E. L. vol. i. p. 234.

[359] The faithful dead.

[360] True-hearted.

[361] “That was a bright era in my life when I first learned to know you and your brother Frederick; a still brighter, when we and Novalis lived united for art and knowledge, and emulated one another in various competitions. Fate has since, for many years, divided us. I can now live with you only in spirit and in memory.”

AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.

“I come To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path, And thymy mound that flings unto the winds Its morning incense, is my friend.”--Barry Cornwall.

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, And steep’d the magic page wherein I read Of royal chivalry and old renown, A tale of Palestine.[362] Meanwhile the bee Swept past me with a tone of summer hours-- A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers, Blue skies, and amber sunshine: brightly free, On filmy wings, the purple dragon-fly Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by; And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell Where sat the lone wood-pigeon. But ere long, All sense of these things faded, as the spell Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong On my chain’d soul. ’Twas not the leaves I heard:-- A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirr’d, Through its proud floating folds. ’Twas not the brook Singing in secret through its grassy glen;-- A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen Peal’d from the desert’s lonely heart, and shook The burning air. Like clouds when winds are high, O’er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear Flash’d where a fountain’s diamond wave lay clear, Shadow’d by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout Of merry England’s joy swell’d freely out, Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose glorious hue Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue: And harps were there--I heard their sounding strings, As the waste echo’d to the mirth of kings. The bright mask faded. Unto life’s worn track, What call’d me from its flood of glory back? A voice of happy childhood!--and they pass’d, Banner, and harp, and Paynim’s trumpet’s blast. Yet might I scarce bewail the splendours gone, My heart so leap’d to that sweet laughter’s tone.[363]

[362] _The Talisman--Tales of the Crusaders._

[363] See Annotation on “Dramatic Scene between Bronwylfa and Rhyllon,” p. 385.

A VOYAGER’S DREAM OF LAND.

“His very heart athirst To gaze at nature in her green array, Upon the ship’s tall side he stands possess’d With visions prompted by intense desire; Fair fields appear below, such as he left Far distant, such as he would die to find: He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.” Cowper.

The hollow dash of waves!--the ceaseless roar!-- Silence, ye billows!--vex my soul no more. There’s a spring in the woods by my sunny home, Afar from the dark sea’s tossing foam; Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear, As a song from the shore to the sailor’s ear! And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws Through the feathery fern and the olive boughs, And the gleam on its path as it steals away Into deeper shades from the sultry day, And the large water-lilies that o’er its bed Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread, They haunt me! I dream of that bright spring’s flow, I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe!

Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry! My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by.

Know ye my home, with the lulling sound Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round Know ye it, brethren! where bower’d it lies Under the purple of southern skies? With the streamy gold of the sun that shines In through the cloud of its clustering vines, And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers, Borne from the mountain in dewy hours, And the fire-fly’s glance through the darkening shades, Like shooting stars in the forest glades, And the scent of the citron at eve’s dim fall-- Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all?

The heavy-rolling surge! the rocking mast!-- Hush! give my dream’s deep music way, thou blast!

Oh, the glad sounds of the joyous earth! The notes of the singing cicala’s mirth, The murmurs that live in the mountain pines, The sighing of reeds as the day declines, The wings flitting home through the crimson glow That steeps the wood when the sun is low, The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still-- I hear them!--around me they rise, they swell, They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell-- They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time, And waken my youth in its hour of prime.

The white foam dashes high--away, away! Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray!

It is there!--down the mountains I see the sweep Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep, With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear Floating upborne on the blue summer air, And the light pouring through them in tender gleams, And the flashing forth of a thousand streams! Hold me not, brethren! I go, I go To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow, To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest, Massy and still, on the greensward’s breast, To the rocks that resound with the water’s play-- I hear the sweet laugh of my fount--give way!

Give way!--the booming surge, the tempest’s roar, The sea-bird’s wail shall vex my soul no more.

THE EFFIGIES.

“Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann: Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied. Allein die Thränen, die unendlichen Der überbliebnen, der verlass’nen Frau, Zählt keine Nachwelt.” Goethe.

Warrior! whose image on thy tomb, With shield and crested head, Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom By the stain’d window shed; The records of thy name and race Have faded from the stone, Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace What thou hast been and done.

A banner, from its flashing spear, Flung out o’er many a fight; A war-cry ringing far and clear, And strong to turn the flight; An arm that bravely bore the lance On for the holy shrine; A haughty heart and a kingly glance-- Chief! were not these things thine?

A lofty place where leaders sate Around the council board; In festive halls a chair of state When the blood-red wine was pour’d; A name that drew a prouder tone From herald, harp, and bard: Surely these things were all thine own-- So hadst thou thy reward.

Woman! whose sculptured form at rest By the arm’d knight is laid, With meek hands folded o’er a breast In matron robes array’d; What was _thy_ tale?--O gentle mate Of him, the bold and free, Bound unto his victorious fate, What bard hath sung of _thee_?

_He_ woo’d a bright and burning star-- _Thine_ was the void, the gloom, The straining eye that follow’d far His fast-receding plume; The heart-sick listening while his steed Sent echoes on the breeze; The pang--but when did _Fame_ take heed Of griefs obscure as these?

Thy silent and secluded hours Through many a lonely day While bending o’er thy broider’d flowers, With spirits far away; Thy weeping midnight prayers for him Who fought on Syrian plains, Thy watchings till the torch grew dim-- _These_ fill no minstrel strains.

A still, sad life was thine!--long years With tasks unguerdon’d fraught-- Deep, quiet love, submissive tears, Vigils of anxious thought; Prayer at the cross in fervour pour’d, Alms to the pilgrim given-- Oh! happy, happier than thy lord, In that lone path to heaven!

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND.

“Look now abroad! Another race has fill’d Those populous borders--wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till’d; The land is full of harvests and green meads.” Bryant.

The breaking waves dash’d high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches toss’d;

And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o’er, When a band of exiles moor’d their bark On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear;-- They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soar’d From his nest by the white wave’s foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roar’d-- This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band;-- Why had _they_ come to wither there, Away from their childhood’s land?

There was woman’s fearless eye, Lit by her deep love’s truth; There was manhood’s brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?-- Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-- They sought a faith’s pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trode. They have left unstain’d what there they found-- Freedom to worship God.

THE SPIRIT’S MYSTERIES.

“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’s breath, or spring-- A flower--a leaf--the ocean--which may wound-- Striking th’ electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.” Childe Harold.

The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken Vague yearnings, like the sailor’s for the shore, And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken From some bright former state, our own no more; Is not this all a mystery? Who shall say Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?

The sudden images of vanish’d things, That o’er the spirit flash, we know not why; Tones from some broken harp’s deserted strings, Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by; A rippling wave--the dashing of an oar-- A flower-scent floating past our parents’ door;

A word--scarce noted in its hour perchance, Yet back returning with a plaintive tone; A smile--a sunny or a mournful glance, Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown; Are not these mysteries when to life they start, And press vain tears in gushes from the heart?

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams, Calling up shrouded faces from the dead, And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams, Familiar objects brightly to o’erspread; And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear-- These are night’s mysteries--who shall make them clear?

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, In a low tone which naught can drown or still, Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest; Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall? Why shakes the spirit thus? ’Tis mystery all!

Darkly we move--we press upon the brink Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not; Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think Are those whom death has parted from our lot! Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made-- Let us walk humbly on, but undismay’d!

Humbly--for knowledge strives in vain to feel Her way amidst these marvels of the mind; Yet undismay’d--for do they not reveal Th’ immortal being with our dust entwin’d?-- So let us deem! and e’en the tears they wake Shall then be blest, for that high nature’s sake.

THE DEPARTED.

“Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings, The powerful of the earth--the wise--the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre.” Bryant.

And shrink ye from the way To the spirit’s distant shore?-- Earth’s mightiest men, in arm’d array, Are thither gone before.

The warrior-kings, whose banner Flew far as eagles fly, They are gone where swords avail them not, From the feast of victory.

And the seers who sat of yore By Orient palm or wave, They have pass’d with all their starry lore-- Can _ye_ still fear the grave?

We fear! we fear! The sunshine Is joyous to behold, And we reck not of the buried kings, Nor the awful seers of old.

Ye shrink! The bards whose lays Have made your deep hearts burn, They have left the sun, and the voice of praise, For the land whence none return.

And the beautiful, whose record Is the verse that cannot die, They too are gone, with their glorious bloom, From the love of human eye.

Would ye not join that throng Of the earth’s departed flowers, And the masters of the mighty song, In their far and fadeless bowers?

Those songs are high and holy, But they vanquish not our fear: Not from _our_ path those flowers are gone-- We fain would linger here!

Linger then yet awhile, As the last leaves on the bough!-- Ye have loved the light of many a smile That is taken from you now.

There have been sweet singing voices In your walks, that now are still; There are seats left void in your earthly homes, Which none again may fill.

Soft eyes are seen no more, That made spring-time in your heart; Kindred and friends are gone before-- And _ye_ still fear to part?

We fear not now, we fear not! Though the way through darkness bends; Our souls are strong to follow _them_, Our own familiar friends!

THE PALM-TREE.[364]

It waved not through an eastern sky, Beside a fount of Araby; It was not fann’d by southern breeze In some green isle of Indian seas; Nor did its graceful shadow sleep O’er stream of Afric, lone and deep.

But fair the exiled palm-tree grew Midst foliage of no kindred hue; Through the laburnum’s dropping gold Rose the light shaft of orient mould, And Europe’s violets, faintly sweet, Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.

Strange look’d it there! The willow stream’d Where silvery waters near it gleam’d; The lime-bough lured the honey-bee To murmur by the desert’s tree, And showers of snowy roses made A lustre in its fan-like shade.

There came an eve of festal hours-- Rich music fill’d that garden’s bowers; Lamps, that from flowering branches hung, On sparks of dew soft colour flung; And bright forms glanced--a fairy show-- Under the blossoms to and fro.

But one, a lone one, midst the throng, Seem’d reckless all of dance or song: He was a youth of dusky mien, Whereon the Indian sun had been, Of crested brow and long black hair-- A stranger, like the palm-tree, there.

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, Glittering athwart the leafy glooms. He pass’d the pale-green olives by, Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye; But when to that sole palm he came, Then shot a rapture through his frame!

To him, to him its rustling spoke-- The silence of his soul it broke! It whisper’d of his own bright isle, That lit the ocean with a smile; Ay, to his ear that native tone Had something of the sea-wave’s moan?

His mother’s cabin-home, that lay Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay; The dashing of his brethren’s oar-- The conch-note heard along the shore; All through his wakening bosom swept-- He clasp’d his country’s tree, and wept!

Oh! scorn him not! The strength whereby The patriot girds himself to die, Th’ unconquerable power which fills The freeman battling on his hills, These have one fountain deep and clear-- The same whence gush’d that childlike tear!

[364] This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of _Les Jardins_.

THE CHILD’S LAST SLEEP.

SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREY’S.

Thou sleepest--but when wilt thou wake, fair child? When the fawn awakes in the forest wild? When the lark’s wing mounts with the breeze of morn? When the first rich breath of the rose is born?-- Lovely thou sleepest! yet something lies Too deep and still on thy soft-seal’d eyes; Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see-- When will the hour of thy rising be?

Not when the fawn wakes--not when the lark On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark. Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet; Love, with sad kisses unfelt, hath press’d Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast; And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee, Shall colour all blossoms, fair child! but thee.

Thou’rt gone from us, bright one!--that _thou_ shouldst die, And life be left to the butterfly![365] Thou’rt gone as a dewdrop is swept from the bough: Oh! for the world where thy home is now! How may we love but in doubt and fear, How may we anchor our fond hearts here; How should e’en joy but a trembler be, Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?

[365] A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on the monument.

THE SUNBEAM.

Thou art no lingerer in monarch’s hall-- A joy thou art, and a wealth to all! A bearer of hope unto land and sea-- Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee?

Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles; Thou hast touch’d with glory his thousand isles; Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam, And gladden’d the sailor like words from home.

To the solemn depths of the forest-shades, Thou art streaming on through their green arcades; And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.

I look’d on the mountains--a vapour lay Folding their heights in its dark array: Thou brakest forth, and the mist became A crown and a mantle of living flame.

I look’d on the peasant’s lowly cot-- Something of sadness had wrapt the spot; But a gleam of _thee_ on its lattice fell, And it laugh’d into beauty at that bright spell.

To the earth’s wild places a guest thou art, Flushing the waste like the rose’s heart; And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed A tender smile on the ruin’s head.

Thou tak’st through the dim church-aisle thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold.

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave; Thou scatter’st its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.

Sunbeam of summer! oh, what is like thee? Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea!-- _One_ thing is like thee to mortals given, The faith touching all things with hues of heaven!

BREATHINGS OF SPRING.

Thou givest me flowers, thou givest me songs; bring back The love that I have lost!

What wakest thou, Spring? Sweet voices in the woods, And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute: Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes, The lark’s clear pipe, the cuckoo’s viewless flute, Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, E’en as our hearts may be.

And the leaves greet thee, Spring!--the joyous leaves, Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery shade, And happy murmurs, running through the grass, Tell that thy footsteps pass.

And the bright waters--they too hear thy call, Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep! Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall Makes melody, and in the forests deep, Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray Their windings to the day.

And flowers--the fairy-peopled world of flowers! Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours, And penciling the wood anemone: Silent they seem--yet each to thoughtful eye Glows with mute poesy.

But what awakest thou in the _heart_, O Spring! The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs? Thou that givest back so many a buried thing, Restorer of forgotten harmonies! Fresh songs and scents break forth where’er thou art-- What wakest thou in the heart?

Too much, oh! there too much! We know not well Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee, What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul’s deep cell, Gush for the faces we no more may see! How are we haunted, in the wind’s low tone, By voices that are gone!

Looks of familiar love, that never more, Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, Past words of welcome to our household door, And vanish’d smiles, and sounds of parted feet-- Spring! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, Why, why revivest thou these?

Vain longings for the dead!--why come they back With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms? Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs? Yes, gentle Spring! no sorrow dims thine air, Breathed by our loved ones _there_!

THE ILLUMINATED CITY.

The hills all glow’d with a festive light, For the royal city rejoiced by night: There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree, Banners were lifted and streaming free; Every tall pillar was wreath’d with fire; Like a shooting meteor was every spire; And the outline of many a dome on high Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky.

I pass’d through the streets. There were throngs on throngs-- Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs; There was music forth from each palace borne-- A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn; The forests heard it, the mountains rang, The hamlets woke to its haughty clang; Rich and victorious was every tone, Telling the land of her foes o’erthrown.

Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain? Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain! Gallant and true were the hearts that fell-- Grief in the homes they have left must dwell: Grief o’er the aspect of childhood spread, And bowing the beauty of woman’s head! Didst thou hear, midst the songs, not one tender moan For the many brave to their slumbers gone?

I saw not the face of a weeper there-- Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamps’ glare! I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd-- The music of victory was all too loud! Mighty it roll’d on the winds afar, Shaking the streets like a conqueror’s car-- Through torches and streamers its flood swept by: How could I listen for moan or sigh?

Turn then away from life’s pageants--turn, If its deep story thy heart would learn! Ever too bright is that outward show, Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe. But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true; Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal:-- So must thy spirit be taught to feel!

THE SPELLS OF HOME.

“There blend the ties that strengthen Our hearts in hours of grief, The silver links that lengthen Joy’s visits when most brief.” Bernard Barton.

By the soft green light in the woody glade, On the banks of moss where thy childhood play’d, By the household tree through which thine eye First look’d in love to the summer sky, By the dewy gleam, by the very breath Of the primrose-tufts in the grass beneath, Upon thy heart there is laid a spell, Holy and precious--oh, guard it well!

By the sleepy ripple of the stream, Which hath lull’d thee into many a dream, By the shiver of the ivy leaves To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves, By the bee’s deep murmur in the limes, By the music of the Sabbath chimes, By every sound of thy native shade, Stronger and dearer the spell is made.

By the gathering round the winter hearth, When twilight call’d unto household mirth, By the fairy tale or the legend old In that ring of happy faces told, By the quiet hour when hearts unite In the parting prayer and the kind “Good-night!” By the smiling eye, and the loving tone, Over thy life has the spell been thrown.

And bless that gift!--it hath gentle might, A guardian power and a guiding light. It hath led the freeman forth to stand In the mountain-battles of his land; It hath brought the wanderer o’er the seas To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze; And back to the gates of his father’s hall It hath led the weeping prodigal.

Yes! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray From the pure first-loves of its youth away-- When the sullying breath of the world would come O’er the flowers it brought from its childhood’shome-- Think thou again of the woody glade, And the sound by the rustling ivy made-- Think of the tree at thy father’s door, And the kindly spell shall have power once more!

ROMAN GIRL’S SONG.

“Roma, Roma, Roma! Non e piu come era prima.”

Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! On thy seven hills of yore Thou sat’st a queen.

Thou hadst thy triumphs then Purpling the street, Leaders and sceptred men Bow’d at thy feet.

They that thy mantle wore, As gods were seen-- Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been!

Rome! thine imperial brow Never shall rise: What hast thou left thee now?-- Thou hast thy skies!

Blue, deeply blue, they are, Gloriously bright! Veiling thy wastes afar With colour’d light.

Thou hast the sunset’s glow, Rome! for thy dower, Flushing tall cypress-bough, Temple and tower!

And all sweet sounds are thine, Lovely to hear, While night, o’er tomb and shrine, Rests darkly clear.

Many a solemn hymn, By starlight sung, Sweeps through the arches dim, Thy wrecks among.

Many a flute’s low swell, On thy soft air Lingers and loves to dwell With summer there.

Thou hast the south’s rich gift Of sudden song-- A charm’d fountain, swift, Joyous and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread; Thou hast proud fanes above Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber’s shore A mournful mien:-- Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been!

THE DISTANT SHIP.

The sea-bird’s wing o’er ocean’s breast Shoots like a glancing star, While the red radiance of the west Spreads kindling fast and far; And yet that splendour wins thee not-- Thy still and thoughtful eye Dwells but on one dark distant spot Of all the main and sky. Look round thee! O’er the slumbering deep A solemn glory broods; A fire hath touch’d the beacon-steep, And all the golden woods; A thousand gorgeous clouds on high Burn with the amber light!-- What spell from that rich pageantry Chains down thy gazing sight?

A softening thought of human cares, A feeling link’d to earth! Is not yon speck a bark which bears The loved of many a hearth? Oh! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear, Crowd her frail world even now, And manhood’s prayer and woman’s tear Follow her venturous prow?

Bright are the floating clouds above, The glittering seas below; But we are bound by cords of love To kindred weal and woe. Therefore, amidst this wide array Of glorious things and fair, My soul is on that bark’s lone way-- For human hearts are there.

THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing! Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring? “We come from the shores of the green old Nile, From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.

“We have swept o’er cities in song renown’d-- Silent they lie with the deserts round! We have cross’d proud rivers, whose tide hath roll’d All dark with the warrior-blood of old; And each worn wing hath regain’d its home, Under peasant’s roof-trees or monarch’s dome.”

And what have ye found in the monarch’s dome, Since last ye traversed the blue sea’s foam?-- “We have found a change, we have found a pall, And a gloom o’ershadowing the banquet’s hall, And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt-- Naught looks the same, save the nest we built!”

O joyous birds! it hath still been so; Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go! But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep, And the hills o’er their quiet a vigil keep: Say what have ye found in the peasant’s cot, Since last ye parted from that sweet spot?--

“A change we have found there--and many a change! Faces and footsteps, and all things strange! Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, And the young that were have a brow of care, And the place is hush’d where the children play’d-- Naught looks the same, save the nest we made!”

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, Birds that o’ersweep it in power and mirth! Yet through the wastes of the trackless air _Ye_ have a guide, and shall we despair? Ye over desert and deep have pass’d-- So may _we_ reach our bright home at last!

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

They grew in beauty side by side, They fill’d one home with glee;-- Their graves are sever’d far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night O’er each fair sleeping brow: She had each folded flower in sight-- Where are those dreamers now?

One, midst the forest of the West, By a dark stream is laid-- The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar-shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-- He lies where pearls lie deep; _He_ was the loved of all, yet none O’er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain: He wrapt his colours round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one--o’er _her_ the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann’d; She faded ’midst Italian flowers-- The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who play’d Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they pray’d Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheer’d with song the hearth!-- Alas, for love! if _thou_ wert all, And naught beyond, O Earth!

MOZART’S REQUIEM.

[A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger of remarkable appearance, and dressed in deep mourning, called at his house, and requested him to prepare a requiem, in his best style, for the funeral of a distinguished person. The sensitive imagination of the composer immediately seized upon the circumstance as an omen of his own fate; and the nervous anxiety with which he laboured to fulfil the task, had the effect of realising his impression. He died within a few days after completing this magnificent piece of music, which was performed at his interment.]

“These birds of Paradise but long to flee Back to their native mansion.” “Prophecy of Dante.”

A requiem!--and for whom? For beauty in its bloom? For valour fallen--a broken rose or sword? A dirge for king or chief, With pomp of stately grief, Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored?

Not so--it is not so! The warning voice I know, From other worlds a strange mysterious tone; A solemn funeral air It call’d me to prepare, And my heart answer’d secretly--my own!

One more then, one more strain, In links of joy and pain, Mighty the troubled spirit to enthrall! And let me breathe my dower Of passion and of power Full into that deep lay--the last of all!

The last!--and I must go From this bright world below, This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound! Must leave its festal skies, With all their melodies, That ever in my breast glad echoes found!

Yet have I known it long: Too restless and too strong Within this clay hath been th’ o’ermastering flame; Swift thoughts, that came and went, Like torrents o’er me sent, Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame.

Like perfumes on the wind, Which none may stay or bind, The beautiful comes floating through my soul; I strive with yearnings vain The spirit to detain Of the deep harmonies that past me roll!

Therefore disturbing dreams Trouble the secret streams And founts of music that o’erflow my breast; Something far more divine Than may on earth be mine, Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest.

Shall I then _fear_ the tone That breathes from worlds unknown?-- Surely these feverish aspirations _there_ Shall grasp their full desire, And this unsettled fire Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air.

One more then, one more strain; To earthly joy and pain A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell! I pour each fervent thought, With fear, hope, trembling, fraught, Into the notes that o’er my dust shall swell.

[One of the peculiar features of the increased sensitiveness of her temperament at this time, was an awakened enthusiasm for music, which amounted to an absolute passion. “I do not think,” she wrote, “that I can bear the burden of my life without music for more than two or three days.” Yet, with sensibilities so exquisite as hers, this melomania was a source of far more pain than pleasure; it was so impossible for any earthly strains to approach that ideal and unattainable standard of perfection which existed within her mind, and which she has shadowed forth with a mournful energy in “Mozart’s Requiem.”

From time to time, however, she had enjoyment of music of a very high character, for much of which she was indebted to her acquaintance with Mr Lodge, the distinguished amateur, by whom so many of her songs have been set to melodies of infinite beauty and feeling. At a somewhat later period she derived much delight from the talents of Mr James Zengheer Herrmann, from whom, for a time, she took lessons, for the express purpose of studying, and fully understanding, the _Stabat Mater_ of Pergolesi, which had taken an extraordinary hold of her imagination. This fine composition was first brought to her notice by Mr Lodge, to whom she thus expressed her appreciation of it:--“It is quite impossible for me to tell you the impression I have received from that most spiritual music of Pergolesi’s, which really haunted me the whole night. How much I have to thank you for introducing me, in such a manner, to so new and glorious a world of musical thought and feeling!”--_Memoir_, p. 167-8.]

THE IMAGE IN LAVA.[366]

Thou thing of years departed! What ages have gone by Since here the mournful seal was set By love and agony?

Temple and tower have moulder’d, Empires from earth have pass’d, And woman’s heart hath left a trace Those glories to outlast!

And childhood’s fragile image, Thus fearfully enshrined, Survives the proud memorials rear’d By conquerors of mankind.

Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering Upon thy mother’s breast When suddenly the fiery tomb Shut round each gentle guest?

A strange, dark fate o’ertook you, Fair babe and loving heart! One moment of a thousand pangs-- Yet better than to part!

Haply of that fond bosom On ashes here impress’d, Thou wert the only treasure, child! Whereon a hope might rest.

Perchance all vainly lavish’d Its other love had been, And where it trusted, naught remain’d But thorns on which to lean.

Far better, then, to perish, Thy form within its clasp, Than live and lose thee, precious one! From that impassion’d grasp.

Oh! I could pass all relics Left by the pomps of old, To gaze on this rude monument Cast in affection’s mould. Love! human love! what art thou? Thy print upon the dust Outlives the cities of renown Wherein the mighty trust!

Immortal, oh! immortal Thou art, whose earthly glow Hath given these ashes holiness-- It must, it _must_ be so!

[366] The impression of a woman’s form, with an infant clasped to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum.

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

O lovely voices of the sky, That hymn’d the Saviour’s birth! Are ye not singing still on high, Ye that sang “Peace on earth?” To us yet speak the strains Wherewith, in days gone by, Ye bless’d the Syrian swains, O voices of the sky!

O clear and shining light! whose beams That hour heaven’s glory shed Around the palms, and o’er the streams, And on the shepherd’s head; Be near, through life and death, As in that holiest night Of Hope, and Joy, and Faith, O clear and shining light!

O star! which led to Him whose love Brought down man’s ransom free; Where art thou?--Midst the hosts above May we still gaze on thee? In heaven thou art not set, Thy rays earth might not dim-- Send them to guide us yet, O star which led to Him!

A FATHER READING THE BIBLE.

’Twas early day, and sunlight stream’d Soft through a quiet room, That hush’d, but not forsaken seem’d, Still, but with naught of gloom. For there, serene in happy age Whose hope is from above, A father communed with the page Of heaven’s recorded love.

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, On his gray holy hair, And touch’d the page with tenderest light, As if its shrine were there! But oh! that patriarch’s aspect shone With something lovelier far-- A radiance all the spirit’s own, Caught not from sun or star.

Some word of life e’en then had met His calm, benignant eye; Some ancient promise, breathing yet Of immortality! Some martyr’s prayer, wherein the glow Of quenchless faith survives: While every feature said--“_I know_ _That my Redeemer lives!_”

And silent stood his children by, Hushing their very breath, Before the solemn sanctity Of thoughts o’ersweeping death. Silent--yet did not each young breast With love and reverence melt? Oh! blest be those fair girls, and blest That home where God is felt!

[This little poem, which, as its Author herself expressed in a letter to Mrs Joanna Baillie, was to her “a thing set apart,” as being the last of her productions ever read to her beloved mother, was written at the request of a young lady, who thus made known her wish “that Mrs Hemans would embody in poetry a picture that so warmed a daughter’s heart:”--

“Upon going into our dear father’s sitting-room this morning, my sister and I found him deeply engaged reading his Bible, and, being unwilling to interrupt such a holy occupation, we retired to the further end of the apartment, to gaze unobserved upon the serene picture. The bright morning sun was beaming on his venerable silver hair, while his defective sight increased the earnestness with which he perused the blessed book. Our fancy led us to believe that some immortal thought was engaging his mind, for he raised his fine open brow to the light, and we felt we had never loved him more deeply. After an involuntary prayer had passed from our hearts, we whispered to each other, ‘Oh! if Mrs Hemans could only see our father at this moment, her glowing pen would detain the scene; for even as we gaze upon it, the bright gleam is vanishing.’

“_December 9, 1826._”

THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS.[367]

----“His early days Were with him in his heart.” Wordsworth.

The voices of two forest boys, In years when hearts entwine, Had fill’d with childhood’s merry noise A valley of the Rhine: To rock and stream that sound was known, Gladsome as hunter’s bugle-tone.

The sunny laughter of their eyes, There had each vineyard seen; Up every cliff whence eagles rise, Their bounding step had been: Ay! their bright youth a glory threw O’er the wild place wherein they grew.

But this, as day-spring’s flush, was brief As early bloom or dew; Alas! ’tis but the wither’d leaf That wears th’ enduring hue! Those rocks along the Rhine’s fair shore Might girdle in their world no more.

For now on manhood’s verge they stood, And heard life’s thrilling call, As if a silver clarion woo’d To some high festival; And parted as young brothers part, With love in each unsullied heart.

They parted. Soon the paths divide Wherein our steps were one, Like river branches, far and wide, Dissevering as they run; And making strangers in their course, Of waves that had the same bright source.

Met they no more? Once more they met, Those kindred hearts and true! ’Twas on a field of death, where yet The battle-thunders flew, Though the fierce day was wellnigh past, And the red sunset smiled its last.

But as the combat closed, they found For tender thoughts a space, And e’en upon that bloody ground Room for one bright embrace, And pour’d forth on each other’s neck Such tears as warriors need not check.

The mists o’er boyhood’s memory spread All melted with those tears, The faces of the holy dead Rose as in vanish’d years; The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever-blest, Lifted its voice in each full breast!

Oh! was it _then_ a time to die? It was!--that not in vain The soul of childhood’s purity And peace might turn again. A ball swept forth--’twas guided well-- Heart unto heart those brothers fell!

Happy, yes, happy thus to go! Bearing from earth away Affections, gifted ne’er to know A shadow--a decay-- A passing touch of change or chill, A breath of aught whose breath can kill.

And they, between whose sever’d souls, Once in close union tied, A gulf is set, a current rolls For ever to divide; Well may _they_ envy such a lot, Whose hearts yearn on--but mingle not.

[367] For the tale on which this little poem is founded, see _L’Hermite en Italie_.

THE LAST WISH.

Go to the forest-shade, Seek thou the well-known glade, Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie, Gleaming through moss-tufts deep, Like dark eyes fill’d with sleep, And bathed in hues of summer’s midnight sky.

Bring me their buds, to shed Around my dying bed A breath of May and of the wood’s repose; For I, in sooth, depart With a reluctant heart, That fain would linger where the bright sun glows.

Fain would I stay with thee!-- Alas! this may not be; Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours! Go where the fountain’s breast Catches, in glassy rest, The dim green light that pours through laurel bowers.

I know how softly bright, Steep’d in that tender light, The water-lilies tremble there e’en now; Go to the pure stream’s edge, And from its whispering sedge Bring me those flowers to cool my fever’d brow!

Then, as in Hope’s young days, Track thou the antique maze Of the rich garden to its grassy mound; There is a lone white rose, Shedding, in sudden snows, Its faint leaves o’er the emerald turf around.

Well know’st thou that fair tree-- A murmur of the bee Dwells ever in the honey’d lime above: Bring me one pearly flower Of all its clustering shower-- For on that spot we first reveal’d our love.

Gather one woodbine bough, Then, from the lattice low Of the bower’d cottage which I bade thee mark, When by the hamlet last Through dim wood-lanes we pass’d, While dews were glancing to the glowworm’s spark.

Haste! to my pillow bear Those fragrant things and fair; My hand no more may bind them up at eve-- Yet shall their odour soft One bright dream round me waft Of life, youth, summer--all that I must leave!

And oh! if thou wouldst ask Wherefore thy steps I task, The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace-- ’Tis that some thought of me, When I am gone, may be The spirit bound to each familiar place.

I bid mine image dwell (Oh! break not thou the spell!) In the deep wood and by the fountain-side; Thou must not, my beloved! Rove where we two have roved, Forgetting her that in her spring-time died!

FAIRY FAVOURS.

[This little poem was written in the winter of 1827. In writing to a friend shortly afterwards, Mrs Hemans herself thus alludes to it: “I am so glad you liked ‘Fairy Favours.’ It is, indeed, filled with my own true and ever-yearning feeling--that longing for more affection, more confidence, more entire interchange of thought, than I am ever likely to meet with. However, I will not repine whilst I have friends who love me as you do.”]

----Give me but Something whereunto I may bind my heart; Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp Affection’s tendrils round.

Wouldst thou wear the gift of immortal bloom? Wouldst thou smile in scorn at the shadowy tomb? Drink of this cup! it is richly fraught With balm from the gardens of Genii brought; Drink! and the spoiler shall pass thee by, When the young all scatter’d like rose-leaves lie.

And would not the youth of my soul be gone, If the loved had left me, one by one? Take back the cup that may never bless, The gift that would make me brotherless. How should I live, with no kindred eye To reflect mine immortality!

Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell, Over the mighty in air that dwell? Wouldst thou call the spirits of shore and steep To fetch thee jewels from ocean’s deep? Wave but this rod, and a viewless band, Slaves to thy will, shall around thee stand.

And would not fear, at my coming, then Hush every voice in the homes of men? Would not bright eyes in my presence quail? Young cheeks with a nameless thrill turn pale? No gift be mine that aside would turn The human love for whose founts I yearn!

Wouldst thou then read through the hearts of those Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose? Wear this rich gem! it is charm’d to show When a change comes over affection’s glow: Look on its flushing or fading hue, And learn if the trusted be false or true!

Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust, Though my heart’s wealth be but pour’d on dust! Let not a doubt in my soul have place, To dim the light of a loved one’s face; Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile-- That glory would pass could I look on guile!

Say, then, what boon of my power shall be, Favour’d of spirits! pour’d forth on thee? Thou scornest the treasures of wave and mine, Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine, Thou art fain with a mortal’s lot to rest-- Answer me! how may I grace it best?

Oh! give me no sway o’er the powers unseen, But a human heart where my own may lean! A friend, one tender and faithful friend, Whose thoughts’ free current with mine may blend; And, leaving not either on earth alone, Bid the bright, calm close of our lives be one!

ANNOTATION ON “RECORDS OF WOMAN,” &C.

[We feel certain that every admirer of the genius of Mrs Hemans will be obliged to us for here reprinting, almost at length, the admirable critique on her writings which appeared in the XCIXth Number of the _Edinburgh Review_. The acumen, the taste, and elegance of Lord Jeffrey, are evident throughout.

“Women, we fear, cannot do every thing, nor even every thing they attempt. But what they can do, they do, for the most part, excellently--and much more frequently with an absolute and perfect success, than the aspirants of our rougher and more ambitious sex. They cannot, we think, represent naturally the fierce and sullen passions of men--nor their coarser vices--nor even scenes of actual business or contention--and the mixed motives, and strong and faulty characters, by which affairs of moment are usually conducted on the great theatre of the world. For much of this they are disqualified by the delicacy of their training and habits, and the still more disabling delicacy which pervades their conceptions and feelings; and from much they are excluded by their actual inexperience of the realities they might wish to describe--by their substantial and incurable ignorance of business--of the way in which serious affairs are actually managed--and the true nature of the agents and impulses that give movement and direction to the stronger currents of ordinary life. Perhaps they are also incapable of long moral or political investigations, where many complex and indeterminate elements are to be taken into account, and a variety of opposite probabilities to be weighed before coming to a conclusion. They are generally too impatient to get at the ultimate results, to go well through with such discussions; and either stop short at some imperfect view of the truth, or turn aside to repose in the shadow of some plausible error. This, however, we are persuaded, arises entirely from their being seldom set on such tedious tasks. Their proper and natural business is the practical regulations of private life, in all its bearings, affections, and concerns; and the questions with which they have to deal in that most important department, though often of the utmost difficulty and nicety, involve, for the most part, but few elements; and may generally be better described as delicate than intricate--requiring for their solution rather a quick tact and fine perception, than a patient or laborious examination. For the same reason, they rarely succeed in long works, even on subjects the best suited to their genius; their natural training rendering them equally averse to long doubt and long labour.

“For all other intellectual efforts, however, either of the understanding or the fancy, and requiring a thorough knowledge either of man’s strength or his weakness, we apprehend them to be, in all respects, as well qualified as their brethren of the stronger sex; while, in their perceptions of grace, propriety, ridicule--their power of detecting artifice, hypocrisy, and affectation--the force and prompitude of their sympathy, and their capacity of noble and devoted attachment, and of the efforts and sacrifices it may require--they are, beyond all doubt, our superiors.

“Their business being, as we have said, with actual or social life, and the colours it receives from the conduct and dispositions of individuals, they unconsciously acquire, at a very early age, the finest perception of character and manners, and are almost as soon instinctively schooled in the deep and dangerous learning of feeling and emotion; while the very minuteness with which they make and meditate on these interesting observations, and the finer shades and variations of sentiment which are thus treasured and recorded, trains their whole faculties to a nicety and precision of operation, which often discloses itself to advantage in their application to studies of a very different character. When women, accordingly, have turned their minds--as they have done but too seldom--to the exposition or arrangement of any branch of knowledge, they have commonly exhibited, we think, a more beautiful accuracy, and a more uniform and complete justness of thinking, than their less discriminating brethren. There is a finish and completeness about every thing they put out of their hands, which indicates not only an inherent taste for elegance and neatness, but a habit of nice observation, and singular exactness of judgment.

“It has been so little the fashion, at any time, to encourage women to write for publication, that it is more difficult than it should be to prove these truths by examples. Yet there are enough, within the reach of a very careless and superficial glance over the open field of literature, to enable us to explain, at least, and illustrate, if not entirely to verify, our assertions. No _man_, we will venture to say, could have written the letters of Madame de Sevigné, or the novels of Miss Austin, or the hymns and early lessons of Mrs Barbauld, or the conversations of Mrs Marcet. These performances, too, are not only essentially and intensely feminine, but they are, in our judgment, decidedly more perfect than any masculine productions with which they can be brought into comparison. They accomplish more completely all the ends at which they aim, and are worked out with a gracefulness and felicity of execution which excludes all idea of failure, and entirely satisfies the expectations they may have raised. We might easily have added to these instances. There are many parts of Miss Edgeworth’s earlier stories, and of Miss Mitford’s sketches and descriptions, and not a little of Mrs Opie’s, that exhibit the same fine and penetrating spirit of observation, the same softness and delicacy of hand, and unerring truth of delineation, to which we have alluded as characterising the pure specimens of female art. The same distinguishing traits of a woman’s spirit are visible through the grief and the piety of Lady Russell, and the gaiety, the spite, and the venturesomeness of Lady Mary Wortley. We have not as yet much female poetry; but there is a truly feminine tenderness, purity, and elegance, in the Psyche of Mrs Tighe, and in some of the smaller pieces of Lady Craven. On some of the works of Madame de Staël--her Corinne especially--there is a still deeper stamp of the genius of her sex. Her pictures of its boundless devotedness--its depth and capacity of suffering--its high aspirations--its painful irritability, and inextinguishable thirst for emotion, are powerful specimens of that morbid anatomy of the heart, which no hand but that of a woman’s was fine enough to have laid open, or skilful enough to have recommended to our sympathy and love. There is the same exquisite and inimitable delicacy, if not the same power, in many of the happier passages of Madame de Souza and Madame Cottin--to say nothing of the more lively and yet melancholy records of Madame de Staël, during her long penance in the Court of the Duchesse de Maine.

“But we are preluding too largely; and must come at once to the point, to which the very heading of this article has already admonished the most careless of our readers that we are tending. We think the poetry of Mrs Hemans a fine exemplification of female poetry; and we think it has much of the perfection which we have ventured to ascribe to the happier productions of female genius.

“It may not be the best imaginable poetry, and may not indicate the very highest or most commanding genius, but it embraces a great deal of that which gives the very best poetry its chief power of pleasing; and would strike us, perhaps, as more impassioned and exalted, if it were not regulated and harmonised by the most beautiful taste. It is infinitely sweet, elegant, and tender--touching, perhaps, and contemplative, rather than vehement and overpowering; and not only finished throughout with an exquisite delicacy, and even serenity of execution, but informed with a purity and loftiness of feeling, and a certain sober and humble tone of indulgence and piety, which must satisfy all judgments, and allay the apprehensions of those who are most afraid of the passionate exaggerations of poetry. The diction is always beautiful, harmonious, and free; and the themes, though of infinite variety, uniformly treated with a grace, originality, and judgment, which mark the same master-hand. These themes she has borrowed, with the peculiar interest and imagery that belong to them, from the legends of different nations, and the most opposite states of society; and has contrived to retain much of what is interesting and peculiar in each of them, without adopting, along with it, any of the revolting or extravagant excesses which may characterise the taste or manners of the people or the age from which it has been derived. She has thus transfused into her German or Scandinavian legends, the imaginative and daring tone of the originals, without the mystical exaggerations of the one, or the painful fierceness and coarseness of the other--she has preserved the clearness and elegance of the French, without their coldness or affectation--and the tenderness and simplicity of the early Italians, without their diffuseness or languor. Though occasionally expatiating, somewhat fondly and at large, amongst the sweets of her own planting, there is, on the whole, a great condensation and brevity in most of her pieces, and, almost without exception, a most judicious and vigorous conclusion. The great merit, however, of her poetry, is undoubtedly in its tenderness and its beautiful imagery. The first requires no explanation; but we must be allowed to add a word as to the peculiar charm and character of the latter.

“It has always been our opinion, that the very essence of poetry, apart from the pathos, the wit, or the brilliant description which may be embodied in it, but may exist equally in prose, consists in the fine perception and vivid expression of that subtle and mysterious analogy which exists between the physical and the moral world--which makes outward things and qualities the natural types and emblems of inward gifts and emotions, and leads us to ascribe life and sentiment to every thing that interests us in the aspects of external nature. The feeling of this analogy, obscure and inexplicable as the theory of it may be, is so deep and universal in our nature, that it has stamped itself on the ordinary language of men of every kindred and speech: and that to such an extent, that one-half of the epithets by which we familiarly designate moral and physical qualities, are in reality so many metaphors, borrowed reciprocally, upon this analogy, from those opposite forms of existence. The very familiarity, however, of the expression, in these instances, takes away its poetical effect--and indeed, in substance, its metaphorical character. The original sense of the word is entirely forgotten in the derivative one to which it has succeeded; and it requires some etymological recollection to convince us that it was originally nothing else than a typical or analogical illustration. Thus we talk of a penetrating understanding, and a furious blast--a weighty argument, and a gentle stream--without being at all aware that we are speaking in the language of poetry, and transferring qualities from one extremity of the sphere of being to another. In these cases, accordingly, the metaphor, by ceasing to be felt, in reality ceases to exist; and the analogy, being no longer intimated, of course can produce no effect. But whenever it is intimated, it does produce an effect; and that effect, we think, is poetry.

“It has substantially two functions, and operates in two directions. In the _first_ place, it strikes vividly out, and flashes at once on our minds, the conception of an inward feeling or emotion, which it might otherwise have been difficult to convey, by the presentment of some bodily form or quality, which is instantly felt to be its true representative; and enables us to fix and comprehend it with a force and clearness not otherwise attainable: and, in the _second_ place, it vivifies dead and inanimate matter with the attributes of living and sentient mind; and fills the whole visible universe around us with objects of interest and sympathy, by tinging them with the hues of life, and associating them with our own passions and affections. This magical operation the poet, too, performs, for the most part, in one of two ways--either by the direct agency of similes and metaphors, more or less condensed or developed, or by the mere graceful presentment of such visible objects on the scene of his passionate dialogues or adventures, as partake of the character of the emotion he wishes to excite, and thus form an appropriate accompaniment or preparation for its direct indulgence or display. The former of those methods has perhaps been most frequently employed, and certainly has most attracted attention. But the latter, though less obtrusive, and perhaps less frequently resorted to of set purpose, is, we are inclined to think, the most natural and efficacious of the two, and is often adopted, we believe unconsciously, by poets of the highest order--the predominant emotion of their minds overflowing spontaneously on all the objects which present themselves to their fancy, and calling out from them, and colouring with its own hues, those that are naturally emblematic of its character, and in accordance with its general expression. It would be easy to show how habitually this is done by Shakspeare and Milton especially, and how much many of their finest passages are indebted, both for force and richness of effect, to this general and diffusive harmony of the external character of their scenes with the passions of their living agents--this harmonising and appropriate glow with which they kindle the whole surrounding atmosphere, and bring all that strikes the sense into unison with all that touches the heart.

“But it is more to our present purpose to say, that we think the fair writer before us is eminently a mistress of this poetical secret; and, in truth, it was solely for the purpose of illustrating this great charm and excellence in her imagery, that we have ventured upon this little dissertation. Almost all her poems are rich with fine descriptions, and studded over with images of visible beauty. But these are never idle ornaments: all her pomps have a meaning; and her flowers and her gems are arranged, as they are said to be among Eastern lovers, so as to speak the language of truth and of passion. This is peculiarly remarkable in some little pieces, which seem at first sight to be purely descriptive, but are soon found to tell upon the heart, with a deep moral and pathetic impression. But it is a truth nearly as conspicuous in the greater part of her productions, where we scarcely meet with any striking sentiment that is not ushered in by some such symphony of external nature, and scarcely a lovely picture that does not serve as a foreground to some deep or lofty emotion. We may illustrate this proposition, we think, by opening either of these little volumes at random, and taking what they first present to us. The following exquisite lines, for example, on a Palm-tree in an English garden:--

‘It waved not through an Eastern sky, Beside a fount of Araby,’ etc.

“The following, which the author has named, ‘Graves of a Household,’ has rather less of external scenery, but serves, like the others, to show how well the graphic and pathetic may be made to set off each other:--

‘They grew in beauty, side by side, They fill’d one home with glee,’ etc.

“We have taken these pieces chiefly on account of their shortness; but it would not be fair to Mrs Hemans not to present our readers with one longer specimen, and to give a portion of her graceful narrative along with her pathetic descriptions. This story, of ‘The Lady of the Castle,’ is told, we think, with great force and sweetness:--.

‘Thou see’st her pictured with her shining hair, (Famed were these tresses in Provençal song,)’ etc.

“The following sketch of ‘Joan of Arc in Rheims,’ is in a loftier and more ambitious vein, but sustained with equal grace, and as touching in its solemn tenderness. We can afford to extract but a part of it:--

----‘Within, the light, Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing,’ etc.

“There are several strains of a more passionate character, especially in the two poetical epistles from Lady Arabella Stuart and Properzia Rossi. We shall venture to give a few lines from the former. The Lady Arabella was of royal descent; and having excited the fears of our pusillanimous James by a secret union with the Lord Seymour, was detained in a cruel captivity, by that heartless monarch, till the close of her life--during which she is supposed to have indited this letter to her lover from her prison-house:--

‘My friend, my friend! where art thou? Day by day, Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away,’ etc.

“The following, though it has no very distinct object or moral, breathes, we think, the very spirit of poetry, in its bright and vague picturings, and is well entitled to the name it bears--‘An Hour of Romance:’

‘There were thick leaves above me and around, And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood’s sleep,’ etc.

“There is great sweetness in the following portion of a little poem on a ‘Girl’s School:’--

‘Oh! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,’ etc.

“There is a fine and stately solemnity in these lines on ‘The Lost Pleiad:’

‘Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night? She wears her crown of old magnificence,’ etc.

“The following on ‘The Dying Improvisatore,’ have a rich lyrical cadence, and glow of deep feeling:--

‘Never, oh! never more, On thy Rome’s purple heaven mine eye shall dwell,’ etc.

“But we must stop here. There would be no end of our extracts, if we were to yield to the temptation of noting down every beautiful passage which arrests us in turning over the leaves of the volumes before us. We ought to recollect, too, that there are few to whom our pages are likely to come, who are not already familiar with their beauties; and, in fact, we have made these extracts, less with the presumptuous belief that we are introducing Mrs Hemans for the first time to the knowledge or admiration of our readers, than from a desire of illustrating, by means of them, the singular felicity in the choice and employment of her imagery, of which we have already spoken so much at large;--that fine accord she has established between the world of sense and of soul--that delicate blending of our deep inward emotions with their splendid symbols and emblems without.”]

SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.

They tell but dreams--a lonely spirit’s dreams; Yet ever through their fleeting imagery Wanders a vein of melancholy love, An aimless thought of home; as in the song Of the caged skylark ye may deem there dwells A passionate memory of blue skies and flowers. And living streams--far off!

A SPIRIT’S RETURN.

“This is to be a mortal. And seek the things beyond mortality!” Manfred.

Thy voice prevails--dear friend, my gentle friend! This long-shut heart for thee shall be unseal’d; And though thy soft eye mournfully will bend Over the troubled stream, yet once reveal’d Shall its freed waters flow; then rocks must close For evermore, above their dark repose.

Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie; Come to the woods, where all strange wandering sound Is mingled into harmony profound; Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind Fills with a viewless being, unconfined, The trembling reeds and fountains. Our own dell, With its green dimness and Æolian breath, Shall suit th’ unveiling of dark records well-- Hear me in tenderness and silent faith!

Thou knew’st me not in life’s fresh vernal morn-- I would thou hadst!--for then my heart on thine Had pour’d a worthier love; now, all o’erworn By its deep thirst for something too divine, It hath but fitful music to bestow, Echoes of harp-strings broken long ago.

Yet even in youth companionless I stood, As a lone forest-bird midst ocean’s foam; For me the silver cords of brotherhood Were early loosed; the voices from my home Pass’d one by one, and melody and mirth Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth.

But, with the fulness of a heart that burn’d For the deep sympathies of mind, I turn’d From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought In all wild scenes with thrilling murmurs fraught, In every still small voice and sound of power, And flute-note of the wind through cave and bower, A perilous delight!--for then first woke My life’s lone passion, the mysterious quest Of secret knowledge; and each tone that broke From the wood-arches or the fountain’s breast, Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre, But minister’d to that strange inborn fire.

Midst the bright silence of the mountain dells, In noontide-hours or golden summer-eves, My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves Shakes out response. O thou rich world unseen! Thou curtain’d realm of spirits!--thus my cry Hath troubled air and silence--dost thou lie Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen Shut from us ever? The resounding woods, Do their depths teem with marvels?--and the floods, And the pure fountains, leading secret veins Of quenchless melody through rock and hill, Have they bright dwellers?--are their lone domains Peopled with beauty, which may never still _Our_ weary thirst of soul? Cold, weak and cold, Is earth’s vain language, piercing not one fold Of our deep being! Oh, for gifts more high! For a seer’s glance to rend mortality! For a charm’d rod, to call from each dark shrine The oracles divine! I woke from those high fantasies, to know My kindred with the earth--I woke to love. O gentle friend! to love in doubt and woe, Shutting the heart the worshipp’d name above, Is to love deeply; and _my_ spirit’s dower Was a sad gift, a melancholy power Of so adoring--with a buried care, And with the o’erflowing of a voiceless prayer, And with a deepening dream, that day by day, In the still shadow of its lonely sway, Folded me closer, till the world held naught Save the _one_ being to my centred thought. There was no music but his voice to hear, No joy but such as with _his_ step drew near; Light was but where he look’d--life where he moved: Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved. Oh! but such love is fearful!--and I knew Its gathering doom: the soul’s prophetic sight Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw O’er all things round a full, strong, vivid light, Too sorrowfully clear!--an under-tone Was given to Nature’s harp, for me alone Whispering of grief. Of grief?--be strong, awake! Hath not thy love been victory, O my soul? Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake Death’s fastnesses?--a magic to control Worlds far removed?--from o’er the grave to thee Love hath made answer; and _thy_ tale should be Sung like a lay of triumph! Now return And take thy treasure from its bosom’d urn, And lift it once to light!

In fear, in pain, I said I loved--but yet a heavenly strain Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream, A joy flash’d through the trouble of my dream! I knew myself beloved! We breathed no vow, No mingling visions might our fate allow, As unto happy hearts; but still and deep, Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave, Like golden sand in some dark river’s wave, So did my soul that costly knowledge keep, So jealously!--a thing o’er which to shed, When stars alone beheld the drooping head, Lone tears! yet ofttimes burden’d with the excess Of our strange nature’s quivering happiness.

But, oh! sweet friend! we dream not of love’s might Till death has robed with soft and solemn light The image we enshrine! Before _that_ hour, We have but glimpses of the o’ermastering power Within us laid!--_then_ doth the spirit-flame With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame; The wings of that which pants to follow fast Shake their clay-bars, as with a prison’d blast-- The sea is in our souls!

He died--_he_ died On whom my lone devotedness was cast! I might not keep one vigil by his side, _I_, whose wrung heart watch’d with him to the last! I might not once his fainting head sustain, Nor bathe his parch’d lips in the hour of pain, Nor say to him, “Farewell!” He pass’d away-- Oh! had _my_ love been there, its conquering sway Had won him back from death! But thus removed, Borne o’er th’ abyss no sounding line hath proved, Join’d with the unknown, the viewless--he became Unto my thoughts another, yet the same-- Changed--hallow’d--glorified!--and his low grave Seem’d a bright mournful altar--mine, all mine: Brother and friend soon left me _that_ sole shrine, The birthright of the faithful!--_their_ world’s wave Soon swept them from its brink. Oh! deem thou not That on the sad and consecrated spot My soul grew weak! I tell thee that a power There kindled heart and lip--a fiery shower My words were made--a might was given to prayer, And a strong grasp to passionate despair, And a dread triumph! Know’st thou what I sought? For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought? --Communion with the dead! I sent a cry Through the veil’d empires of eternity-- A voice to cleave them! By the mournful truth, By the lost promise of my blighted youth. By the strong chain a mighty love can bind On the beloved, the spell of mind o’er mind; By words, which in themselves are magic high, Armed, and inspired, and wing’d with agony; By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem To bear the heart’s blood in their passion-stream; I summon’d, I adjured!--with quicken’d sense, With the keen vigil of a life intense. I watch’d, an answer from the winds to wring, I listen’d, if perchance the stream might bring Token from worlds afar; I taught _one_ sound Unto a thousand echoes--one profound Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky-- One prayer to night--“Awake! appear! reply!” Hast thou been told that from the viewless bourne The dark way never hath allow’d return? That all, which tears can move, with life is fled-- That earthly love is powerless on the dead? Believe it not!--There is a large lone star Now burning o’er yon western hill afar, And under its clear light there lies a spot Which well might utter forth--Believe it not!

I sat beneath that planet. I had wept My woe to stillness; every night-wind slept; A hush was on the hills; the very streams Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams; And the dark tree o’ershadowing me that hour, Stood motionless, even as the gray church-tower Whereon I gazed unconsciously. There came A low sound, like the tremor of a flame, Or like the light quick shiver of a wing, Flitting through twilight woods, across the air; And I look’d up! Oh! for strong words to bring Conviction o’er thy thought! Before me there, He, the departed, stood! Ay, face to face, So near, and yet how far! His form, his mien, Gave to remembrance back each burning trace Within:--Yet something awfully serene, Pure, sculpture-like, on the pale brow, that wore Of the once beating heart no token more; And stillness on the lip--and o’er the hair A gleam, that trembled through the breathless air; And an unfathom’d calm, that seem’d to lie In the grave sweetness of th’ illumined eye, Told of the gulfs between our being set, And, as that unsheath’d spirit-glance I met, Made my soul faint:--with _fear_? Oh! _not_ with fear! With the sick feeling that in _his_ far sphere _My_ love could be as nothing! But he spoke-- How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill My bosom’s infinite? O friend! I woke _Then_ first to heavenly life! Soft, solemn, clear, Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear, Yet strangely seem’d as if the while they rose From depths of distance, o’er the wide repose Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo-cells. But, as they murmur’d on, the mortal chill Pass’d from me, like a mist before the morn; And, to that glorious intercourse upborne By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still, Possess’d my frame. I sought that lighted eye-- From its intense and searching purity I drank in _soul_!--I question’d of the dead-- Of the hush’d, starry shores their footsteps tread, And I was answer’d. If remembrance there With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air; If thought, here piled from many a jewel-heap, Be treasure in that pensive land to keep; If love, o’ersweeping change, and blight, and blast, Find _there_ the music of his home at last: I ask’d, and I was answer’d. Full and high Was that communion with eternity-- Too rich for aught so fleeting! Like a knell Swept o’er my sense its closing words, “Farewell! On earth we meet no more!” And all was gone-- The pale, bright settled brow--the thrilling tone, The still and shining eye! and never more May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore That radiant guest! One full-fraught hour of heaven, To earthly passion’s wild implorings given, Was made my own--the ethereal fire hath shiver’d The fragile censer in whose mould it quiver’d, Brightly, consumingly! What now is left? A faded world, of glory’s hues bereft-- A void, a chain! I dwell midst throngs, apart, In the cold silence of the stranger’s heart; A fix’d immortal shadow stands between My spirit and life’s fast-receding scene; A gift hath sever’d me from human ties, A power is gone from all earth’s melodies, Which never may return: their chords are broken, The music of another land hath spoken-- No after-sound is sweet! This weary thirst! And I have heard celestial fountains burst! What _here_ shall quench it?

Dost thou not rejoice, When the spring sends forth an awakening voice Through the young woods? Thou dost! And in that birth Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth, Thousands, like thee, find gladness! Couldst thou know How every breeze then summons _me_ to go! How all the light of love and beauty shed By those rich hours, but woos me to the dead! The _only_ beautiful that change no more-- The only loved!--the dwellers on the shore Of spring fulfill’d! The dead! _whom_ call we so? They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know Things wrapt from us! Away! within me pent, That which is barr’d from its own element Still droops or struggles! But the day _will_ come-- Over the deep the free bird finds its home; And the stream lingers midst the rocks, yet greets The sea at last; and the wing’d flower-seed meets A soil to rest in: shall not _I_, too, be, My spirit-love! upborne to dwell with thee? Yes! by the power whose conquering anguish stirr’d The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard, Whose agony of triumph won thee back Through the dim pass no mortal step may track, Yet shall we meet! that glimpse of joy divine Proved thee for ever and for ever mine!

[“It was towards the close of the year 1829, that Mrs Hemans began to contemplate the publication of a new volume of poems. She had already made some preparation for this by contributing a series of lyrics under the title of “Songs of the Affections,” to Blackwood’s Magazine, together with the long ballad, “The Lady of Provence,” which, for the glowing pictures it contains, the lofty yet tender affection to which it is consecrated, and the striking but never uncouth changes of its versification, must be considered as one of its author’s finest chivalresque poems. She had still, however, to produce some work of greater importance than these, suitable for the commencement of a volume. The subject at length fixed upon by her, as peculiar as it was almost dangerously fascinating, was suggested by a fireside conversation. It had long been a favourite amusement to wind up our evenings by telling ghost-stories. One night, however, the store of thrilling narratives was exhausted, and we began to talk of the feelings with which the presence and the speech of a visitant from another world, (if indeed a spirit could return,) would be most likely to impress the person so visited. After having exhausted all the common varieties of fear and terror in our speculations, Mrs Hemans said that she thought the predominant sensation at the time must partake of awe and rapture, and resemble the feelings of those who listen to a revelation, and at the same moment know themselves to be favoured above all men, and humbled before a being no longer sharing their own cares or passions; but that the person so visited must thenceforward and for ever be inevitably separated from this world and its concerns: for the soul which had once enjoyed such a strange and spiritual communion, which had been permitted to look, though but for a moment, beyond the mysterious gates of death, must be raised, by its experience, too high for common grief again to perplex, or common joy to enliven. She spoke long and eloquently upon this subject; and I have reason to believe that this conversation settled her wandering fancy, and gave rise to the principal poem in her next volume.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 69-72.

Mr Chorley, in an after part of the same work, makes the following ingenious and suggestive remarks in reference to the same exquisite poem:--“The coming of the apparition is described with all the plainness and intensity of the most entire conviction, so difficult in these days for a writer to assume--might it not almost be said, so impossible to be assumed by those who have wholly and scornfully cast off those superstitions, so distasteful to reason, but so dear to fancy? It is impossible, in reading Sir Walter Scott’s incomparable descriptions of supernatural visitations,--the episode of the ‘Bodach Glas’ for instance, or ‘Wandering Willie’s tale,’ or the vigil of Master Holdenough in the Mirror Chamber, (though this is afterwards explained away,)--to imagine that the creator of these scenes did not in some measure _believe_ in their possibility, though it might be but with a poetical faith. Were it otherwise, they must strike us as unnaturally as the recent French revivifications of the antique Catholic legends and mysteries--as merely grotesque old fables, adopted as studies by clever artists, for the sake of their glaring contrasts and effective situations.”--_Memorials_, p. 103.

In conclusion, we add the comparative estimate formed of this production by its author. It is from one of her letters to a friend. “Your opinion of the ‘Spirit’s Return’ has given me particular pleasure, because I prefer that poem to any thing else I have written; but if there be, as my friends say, a greater power in it than I had before evinced, I paid dearly for the discovery, and it almost made me tremble as I sounded ‘the deep places’ of my soul.”]

THE LADY OF PROVENCE.[368]

“Courage was cast about her like a dress Of solemn comeliness, A gather’d mind and an untroubled face Did give her dangers grace.” Donne.

The war-note of the Saracen Was on the winds of France; It had still’d the harp of the Troubadour, And the clash of the tourney’s lance. The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night, And the hollow echoes of charge and flight, Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray In a chapel where the mighty lay, On the old Provençal shore. Many a Chatillon beneath, Unstirr’d by the ringing trumpet’s breath, His shroud of armour wore; And the glimpses of moonlight that went and came Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame, Gave quivering life to the slumber pale Of stern forms couch’d in their marble mail, At rest on the tombs of the knightly race, The silent throngs of that burial-place.

They were imaged there with helm and spear, As leaders in many a bold career, And haughty their stillness look’d and high, Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory. But meekly the voice of the lady rose Through the trophies of their proud repose; Meekly, yet fervently, calling down aid, Under their banners of battle she pray’d; With her pale, fair brow, and her eyes of love, Upraised to the Virgin’s portray’d above, And her hair flung back, till it swept the grave Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave; And her fragile frame, at every blast, That full of the savage war-horn pass’d, Trembling, as trembles a bird’s quick heart, When it vainly strives from its cage to part-- So knelt she in her woe; A weeper alone with the tearless dead-- Oh! they reck not of tears o’er their quiet shed, Or the dust had stirr’d below!

Hark! a swift step! she hath caught its tone, Through the dash of the sea, through the wild wind’s moan: Is her lord return’d with his conquering bands? No! a breathless vassal before her stands! --“Hast thou been on the field?--Art thou come from the host?” --“From the slaughter, lady!--All, all is lost! Our banners are taken, our knights laid low, Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe; And thy lord,” his voice took a sadder sound-- “Thy lord--he is not on the bloody ground! There are those who tell that the leader’s plume Was seen on the flight through th’ gathering gloom.”

--A change o’er her mien and her spirit pass’d: She ruled the heart which had beat so fast, She dash’d the tears from her kindling eye, With a glance, as of sudden royalty: The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow, Quick o’er bosom, and cheek, and brow, And her young voice rose till the peasant shook At the thrilling tone and the falcon-look: --“Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious dead, And fear not to say that their son hath fled? --Away! he is lying by lance and shield,-- Point me the path to his battle-field!”

The shadows of the forest Are about the lady now; She is hurrying through the midnight on, Beneath the dark pine-bough.

There’s a murmur of omens in every leaf, There’s a wail in the stream like the dirge of a chief; The branches that rock to the tempest strife Are groaning like things of troubled life; The wind from the battle seems rushing by With a funeral-march through the gloomy sky; The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long, But her frame in the daring of love is strong, And her soul as on swelling seas upborne, And girded all fearful things to scorn.

And fearful things were around her spread, When she reach’d the field of the warrior-dead; There lay the noble, the valiant, low-- Ay! but _one_ word speaks of deeper woe; There lay the _loved_--on each fallen head Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed; Sisters were watching in many a home For the fetter’d footstep, no more to come; Names in the prayer of that night were spoken, Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken; And the fire was heap’d, and the bright wine pour’d, For those, now needing nor hearth nor board; Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell, And oh! ye beloved of women, farewell!

Silently, with lips compress’d, Pale hands clasp’d above her breast, Stately brow of anguish high, Deathlike cheek, but dauntless eye; Silently, o’er that red plain, Moved the lady midst the slain.

Sometimes it seem’d as a charging-cry, Or the ringing tramp of a steed, came nigh; Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn, Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne; And her maidens trembled;--but on _her_ ear No meaning fell with those sounds of fear; They had less of mastery to shake her now, Than the quivering, erewhile, of an aspen bough. She search’d into many an unclosed eye, That look’d, without soul, to the starry sky; She bow’d down o’er many a shatter’d breast, She lifted up helmet and cloven crest-- Not there, not there he lay! “Lead where the most hath been dared and done, Where the heart of the battle hath bled,--lead on!” And the vassal took the way.

He turn’d to a dark and lonely tree That waved o’er a fountain red: Oh! swiftest _there_ had the currents free From noble veins been shed.

Thickest there the spear-heads gleam’d, And the scatter’d plumage stream’d, And the broken shields were toss’d, And the shiver’d lances cross’d, And the mail-clad sleepers round Made the harvest of that ground.

He was there! the leader amidst his band, Where the faithful had made their last, vain stand; He was there! but affection’s glance alone The darkly-changed in that hour had known; With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasp’d, And a banner of France to his bosom clasp’d, And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace, And the face--oh! speak not of that dead face! As it lay to answer love’s look no more, Yet never so proudly loved before!

She quell’d in her soul the deep floods of woe,-- The time was not yet for their waves to flow; She felt the full presence, the might of death, Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath; And a proud smile shone o’er her pale despair, As she turn’d to his followers--“Your lord is there! Look on him! know him by scarf and crest!-- Bear him away with his sires to rest!”

Another day, another night, And the sailor on the deep Hears the low chant of a funeral rite From the lordly chapel sweep.

It comes with a broken and muffled tone, As if that rite were in terror done; Yet the song midst the seas hath a thrilling power, And he knows ’tis a chieftain’s burial-hour.

Hurriedly, in fear and woe, Through the aisle the mourners go; With a hush’d and stealthy tread, Bearing on the noble dead; Sheath’d in armour of the field-- Only his wan face reveal’d, Whence the still and solemn gleam Doth a strange, sad contrast seem To the anxious eyes of that pale band, With torches wavering in every hand, For they dread each moment the shout of war And the burst of the Moslem scimitar.

There is no plumed head o’er the bier to bend, No brother of battle, no princely friend: No sound comes back, like the sounds of yore, Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor; By the red fountain the valiant lie, The flower of Provençal chivalry; But _one_ free step, and one lofty heart, Bear through that scene to the last their part.

She hath led the death-train of the brave To the verge of his own ancestral grave; She hath held o’er her spirit long rigid sway, But the struggling passion must now have way. In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil, By turns does the swift blood flush and fail; The pride on the lip is lingering still, But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill; Anguish and triumph are met at strife, Rending the cords of her frail young life; And she sinks at last on her warrior’s bier, Lifting her voice, as if death might hear. “I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong, My soul hath risen for thy glory strong! Now call me hence, by thy side to be, The world thou leav’st has no place for me. The light goes with thee, the joy, the worth-- Faithful and tender! Oh! call me forth! Give me my home on thy noble heart,-- Well have we loved, let us both depart!”-- And pale on the breast of the dead she lay, The living cheek to the cheek of clay; The _living_ cheek!--oh! it was not vain, That strife of the spirit to rend its chain; She is there at rest in her place of pride, In death how queen-like--a glorious bride!

Joy for the freed one!--she might not stay When the crown had fallen from her life away; She might not linger--a weary thing, A dove with no home for its broken wing, Thrown on the harshness of alien skies, That know not its own land’s melodies. From the long heart-withering early gone; She hath lived--she hath loved--her task is done!

[368] Founded on an incident in the early French history.

THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.

“Tableau, ou l’Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe; union redoutable de la mort et de la vie.”--Madame de Stael.

There was music on the midnight-- From a royal fane it roll’d; And a mighty bell, each pause between, Sternly and slowly toll’d. Strange was their mingling in the sky, It hush’d the listener’s breath; For the music spoke of triumph high, The lonely bell--of death!

There was hurrying through the midnight A sound of many feet; But they fell with a muffled fearfulness Along the shadowy street: And softer, fainter, grew their tread, As it near’d the minster gate, Whence a broad and solemn light was shed From a scene of royal state.

Full glow’d the strong red radiance In the centre of the nave, Where the folds of a purple canopy Swept down in many a wave, Loading the marble pavement old With a weight of gorgeous gloom; For something lay midst their fretted gold, Like a shadow of the tomb.

And within that rich pavilion, High on a glittering throne, A woman’s form sat silently, Midst the glare of light alone. Her jewell’d robes fell strangely still-- The drapery on her breast Seem’d with no pulse beneath to thrill, So stonelike was its rest!

But a peal of lordly music Shook e’en the dust below, When the burning gold of the diadem Was set on her pallid brow! Then died away that haughty sound; And from the encircling band Stepp’d prince and chief, midst the hush profound, With homage to her hand.

Why pass’d a faint, cold shuddering Over each martial frame, As one by one, to touch that hand, Noble and leader came? Was not the settled aspect fair? Did not a queenly grace, Under the parted ebon hair, Sit on the pale still face?

Death! death! canst _thou_ be lovely Unto the eye of life? Is not each pulse of the quick high breast With thy cold mien at strife? --It was a strange and fearful sight, The crown upon that head, The glorious robes, and the blaze of light, All gather’d round the Dead!

And beside her stood in silence One with a brow as pale, And white lips rigidly compress’d, Lest the strong heart should fail: King Pedro, with a jealous eye, Watching the homage done By the land’s flower and chivalry To her, his martyr’d one.

But on the face he look’d not, Which once his star had been; To every form his glance was turn’d, Save of the breathless queen: Though something, won from the grave’s embrace, Of her beauty still was there, Its hues were all of that shadowy place, It was not for _him_ to bear.

Alas! the crown, the sceptre, The treasures of the earth, And the priceless love that pour’d those gifts, Alike of wasted worth! The rites are closed:--bear back the dead Unto the chamber deep! Lay down again the royal head, Dust with the dust to sleep!

There is music on the midnight-- A requiem sad and slow, As the mourners through the sounding aisle In dark procession go; And the ring of state, and the starry crown, And all the rich array, Are borne to the house of silence down, With her, that queen of clay!

And tearlessly and firmly King Pedro led the train; But his face was wrapt in his folding robe, When they lower’d the dust again. ’Tis hush’d at last the tomb above-- Hymns die, and steps depart: Who call’d thee strong as Death, O Love? _Mightier_ thou wast and art.

ITALIAN GIRL’S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

“O sanctissima, O purissima! Dulcis Virgo Maria! Mater amata, intemerata, Ora, ora pro nobis.” Sicilian Mariner’s Hymn.

In the deep hour of dreams, Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea, And by the starlight gleams, Mother of sorrows! lo, I come to thee!

Unto thy shrine I bear Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie All, all unfolded there, Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye.

For thou, that once didst move In thy still beauty through an early home-- Thou know’st the grief, the love, The fear of woman’s soul;--to thee I come!

Many, and sad, and deep, Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast; Thou, too, couldst watch and weep-- Hear, gentlest mother! hear a heart oppress’d!

There is a wandering bark Bearing one from me o’er the restless wave: Oh, let thy soft eye mark His course! Be with him, holiest! guide and save!

My soul is on that way; My thoughts are travellers o’er the waters dim; Through the long weary day I walk, o’ershadow’d by vain dreams of him.

Aid him--and me, too, aid! Oh! ’tis not well, this earthly love’s excess! On thy weak child is laid The burden of too deep a tenderness.

Too much o’er _him_ is pour’d My being’s hope--scarce leaving heaven a part; Too fearfully adored, Oh! make not him the chastener of my heart!

I tremble with a sense Of grief to be; I hear a warning low-- Sweet mother! call me hence! This wild idolatry must end in woe.

The troubled joy of life, Love’s lightning happiness, my soul hath known; And, worn with feverish strife, Would fold its wings: take back, take back thine own!

Hark! how the wind swept by! The tempest’s voice comes rolling o’er the wave-- Hope of the sailor’s eye, And maiden’s heart, blest mother! guide and save.

TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT.

From the bright stars, or from the viewless air, Or from some world unreach’d by human thought, Spirit, sweet spirit! if thy home be there, And if thy visions with the past be fraught, Answer me, answer me!

Have we not communed here of life and death? Have we not said that love, such love as ours, Was not to perish as a rose’s breath, To melt away, like song from festal bowers? Answer, oh! answer me!

Thine eye’s last light was mine--the soul that shone Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze-- Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown, Naught of what lived in that long, earnest gaze? Hear, hear and answer me!

Thy voice--its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone Thrill’d through the tempest of the parting strife, Like a faint breeze: oh! from that music flown, Send back _one_ sound, if love’s be quenchless life! But once, oh! answer me!

In the still noontide, in the sunset’s hush, In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep, When the heart’s phantoms from the darkness rush, Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep-- Spirit! then answer me!

By the remembrance of our blended prayer; By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet; By our last hope, the victor o’er despair;-- Speak! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet; Answer me, answer me!

The grave is silent: and the far-off sky, And the deep midnight--silent all, and lone! Oh! if thy buried love make no reply, What voice has earth? Hear, pity, speak, mine own! Answer me, answer me!

THE CHAMOIS HUNTER’S LOVE.

“For all his wildness and proud fantasies, I love him.” Croly.

Thy heart is in the upper world, where fleet the chamois bounds, Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the torrent-sounds; And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, through the stillness of the air, And where the Lauwine’s[369] peal is heard--hunter! thy heart is there!

I know thou lov’st me well, dear friend! but better, better far, Thou lovest that high and haughty life, with rocks and storms at war; In the green, sunny vales with me, thy spirit would but pine-- And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine!

And I will not seek to woo thee down from those thy native heights, With the sweet song, our land’s own song, of pastoral delights; For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not as mine-- And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine.

And I will leave my blessed home, my father’s joyous hearth, With all the voices meeting there in tenderness and mirth, With all the kind and laughing eyes, that in its firelight shine, To sit forsaken in thy hut, yet know that thou art mine!

It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad free heart, That I cast away for thee--for thee, all reckless as thou art! With tremblings and with vigils lone I bind myself to dwell-- Yet, yet I would not change that lot; oh no! I love too well!

A mournful thing is love which grows to one so wild as thou, With that bright restlessness of eye, that tameless fire of brow! Mournful!--but dearer far I call its mingled fear and pride, And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on earth beside.

To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every breath, To watch through long, long nights of storm, to sleep and dream of death, To wake in doubt and loneliness--this doom I know is mine; And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine!

That I may greet thee from thine Alps, when thence thou com’st at last, That I may hear thy thrilling voice tell o’er each danger past, That I may kneel and pray for thee, and win thee aid divine-- For this I will be thine, my love! for this I will be thine!

[369] _Lauwine_, the avalanche.

THE INDIAN WITH HIS DEAD CHILD.[370]

In the silence of the midnight I journey with my dead; In the darkness of the forest boughs A lonely path I tread.

But my heart is high and fearless, As by mighty wings upborne; The mountain eagle hath not plumes So strong as love and scorn.

I have raised thee from the grave-sod, By the white man’s path defiled; On to th’ ancestral wilderness, I bear thy dust, my child!

I have ask’d the ancient deserts To give my dead a place, Where the stately footsteps of the free Alone should leave a trace.

And the tossing pines made answer-- “Go, bring us back thine own!” And the streams from all the hunters’ hills, Rush’d with an echoing tone.

Thou shalt rest by sounding waters That yet untamed may roll; The voices of that chainless host With joy shall fill thy soul.

In the silence of the midnight I journey with the dead, Where the arrows of my father’s bow Their falcon-flight have sped.

I have left the spoilers’ dwellings For evermore behind; Unmingled with their household sounds, For me shall sweep the wind.

Alone, amidst their hearth-fires, I watch’d my child’s decay, Uncheer’d I saw the spirit-light From his young eyes fade away.

When his head sank on my bosom, When the death-sleep o’er him fell, Was there one to say, “A friend is near?” There was none!--pale race, farewell!

To the forests, to the cedars, To the warrior and his bow, Back, back!--I bore thee laughing thence, I bear thee slumbering now!

I bear thee unto burial With the mighty hunters gone; I shall hear thee in the forest breeze, Thou wilt speak of joy, my son!

In the silence of the midnight I journey with the dead; But my heart is strong, my step is fleet, My fathers’ path I tread.

[370] An Indian, who had established himself in a township of Maine, feeling indignantly the want of sympathy evinced towards him by the white inhabitants, particularly on the death of his only child, gave up his farm soon afterwards, dug up the body of his child, and carried it with him two hundred miles through the forests to join the Canadian Indians.--See _Tudor’s Letters on the Eastern States of America_.

SONG OF EMIGRATION.

There was heard a song on the chiming sea. A mingled breathing of grief and glee; Man’s voice, unbroken by sighs, was there, Filling with triumph the sunny air; Of fresh, green lands, and of pastures new, It sang, while the bark through the surges flew.

But ever and anon A murmur of farewell Told, by its plaintive tone, That from woman’s lip it fell.

“Away, away o’er the foaming main!” This was the free and the joyous strain, “There are clearer skies than ours, afar, We will shape our course by a brighter star; There are plains whose verdure no foot hath press’d, And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest.”

“But, alas! that we should go,” Sang the farewell voices then, “From the homesteads, warm and low, By the brook and in the glen!”

“We will rear new homes under trees that glow As if gems were the fruitage of every bough; O’er our white walls we will train the vine, And sit in its shadow at day’s decline; And watch our herds, as they range at will Through the green savannas, all bright and still.

“But woe for that sweet shade Of the flowering orchard-trees, Where first our children play’d Midst the birds and honey-bees!

“All, all our own shall the forests be, As to the bound of the roebuck free! None shall say, ‘Hither, no further pass!’ We will track each step through the wavy grass We will chase the elk in his speed and might, And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night.”

“But, oh! the gray church-tower, And the sound of Sabbath bell, And the shelter’d garden-bower, We have bid them all farewell!

“We will give the names of our fearless race To each bright river whose course we trace; We will leave our memory with mounts and floods, And the path of our daring in boundless woods; And our works unto many a lake’s green shore, Where the Indians’ graves lay, alone, before.”

“But who shall teach the flowers, Which our children loved, to dwell In a soil that is not ours? Home, home and friends, farewell!”

THE KING OF ARRAGON’S LAMENT FOR HIS BROTHER.[371]

“If I could see him, it were well with me!” Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

There were lights and sounds of revelling in the vanquish’d city’s halls, As by night the feast of victory was held within its walls; And the conquerors fill’d the wine-cup high, after years of bright blood shed; But their lord, the King of Arragon, midst the triumph wail’d the dead.

He look’d down from the fortress won, on the tents and flowers below, The moonlit sea, the torchlit streets--and a gloom came o’er his brow: The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbal’s tone; But his heart, midst that proud music, felt more utterly alone.

And he cried, “Thou art mine, fair city! thou city of the sea! But, oh! what portion of delight is mine at last in thee?-- I am lonely midst thy palaces, while the glad waves past them roll, And the soft breath of thine orange bowers is mournful to my soul.

“My brother! O my brother! thou art gone--the true and brave, And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy grave. There are many round my throne to stand, and to march where I lead on; There was _one_ to _love_ me in the world--my brother! thou art gone!

“In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-tempest’s wrath, We stood together, side by side--one hope was ours, one path; Thou hast wrapp’d me in thy soldier’s cloak, thou hast fenced me with thy breast; Thou hast watch’d beside my couch of pain--oh! bravest heart, and best!

“I see the festive lights around,--o’er a dull, sad world they shine; I hear the voice of victory--my Pedro! where is _thine_? The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit found reply!-- O brother! I have bought too dear this hollow pageantry!

“I have hosts and gallant fleets, to spread my glory and my sway, And chiefs to lead them fearlessly,--my _friend_ hath pass’d away! For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart may thirst in vain; And the face that was as light to mine--it cannot come again!

“I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the offering for a crown; With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have purchased cold renown; How often will my weary heart midst the sounds of triumph die, When I think of thee, my brother! thou flower of chivalry!

“I am lonely--I am lonely! this rest is even as death! Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the battle-trumpet’s breath; Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal banner wave-- But where art thou, my brother? where? In thy low and early grave!”

And louder swell’d the songs of joy through that victorious night, And faster flow’d the red wine forth, by the stars’ and torches’ light: But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard the conqueror’s moan-- “My brother! O my brother! best and bravest! thou art gone!”

[371] The grief of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, for the loss of his brother, Don Pedro, who was killed during the siege of Naples, is affectingly described by the historian Mariana. It is also the subject of one of the old Spanish Ballads in Lockhart’s beautiful collection.

THE RETURN.

“Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood back; The free, the pure, the kind?” --So murmur’d the trees in my homeward track, As they play’d to the mountain wind.

“Hath thy soul been true to its early love” Whisper’d my native streams; “Hath the spirit nursed amidst hill and grove Still revered its first high dreams?”

“Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer Of the child in his parent-halls?” Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air, From the old ancestral walls.

“Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, Whose place of rest is nigh? With the father’s blessing o’er thee shed, With the mother’s trusting eye?”

Then my tears gush’d forth in sudden rain, As I answer’d--“O ye shades! I bring not my childhood’s heart again To the freedom of your glades.

“I have turn’d from my first pure love aside, O bright and happy streams! Light after light, in my soul have died The day-spring’s glorious dreams.

“And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass’d-- The prayer at my mother’s knee; Darken’d and troubled I come at last, Home of my boyish glee!

“But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, To soften and atone; And oh! ye scenes of those bless’d years, They shall make me again your own.”

THE VAUDOIS WIFE.[372]

“Clasp me a little longer, on the brink Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress; And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh! think-- And let it mitigate thy woe’s excess-- That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend, to more than human friendship just. Oh! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in dust.” Gertrude of Wyoming.

Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved! Thy look is in my heart, Thy bosom is my resting-place, And yet I must depart. Earth on my soul is strong--too strong-- Too precious is its chain, All woven of thy love, dear friend, Yet vain--though mighty--vain!

Thou see’st mine eye grow dim, beloved! Thou see’st my life-blood flow-- Bow to the Chastener silently, And calmly let me go! A little while between our hearts The shadowy gulf must lie, Yet have we for their communing Still, still Eternity!

Alas! thy tears are on my cheek, My spirit they detain; I know that from thine agony Is wrung that burning rain. Best! kindest! weep not--make the pang, The bitter conflict less-- Oh! sad it is, and yet a joy, To feel thy love’s excess!

But calm thee! let the thought of death A solemn peace restore! The voice that must be silent soon Would speak to thee once more, That thou may’st bear its blessing on Through years of after life-- A token of consoling love, Even from this hour of strife.

I bless thee for the noble heart, The tender and the true, Where mine hath found the happiest rest That e’er fond woman’s knew;

I bless thee, faithful friend and guide! For my own, my treasured share In the mournful secrets of thy soul, In thy sorrow, in thy prayer.

I bless thee for kind looks and words Shower’d on my path like dew, For all the love in those deep eyes, A gladness ever new! For the voice which ne’er to mine replied But in kindly tones of cheer; For every spring of happiness My soul hath tasted here!

I bless thee for the last rich boon Won from affection tried-- The right to gaze on death with thee, To perish by thy side! And yet more for the glorious hope Even to _these_ moments given-- Did not _thy_ spirit ever lift The trust of _mine_ to heaven?

Now be _thou_ strong! Oh, knew we not Our path must lead to this? A shadow and a trembling still Were mingled with our bliss! We plighted our young hearts when storms Were dark upon the sky, In full, deep knowledge of their task To suffer and to die!

Be strong! I leave the living voice Of this, my martyr’d blood, With the thousand echoes of the hills, With the torrent’s foaming flood,-- A spirit midst the caves to dwell, A token on the air, To rouse the valiant from repose, The fainting from despair.

Hear it, and bear thou on, my love! Ay, joyously endure! Our mountains must be altars yet, Inviolate and pure; There must our God be worshipp’d still With the worship of the free: Farewell!--there’s but _one_ pang in death, One only,--leaving thee!

[372] The wife of a Vaudois leader, in one of the attacks made on the Protestant hamlets, received a mortal wound, and died in her husband’s arms, exhorting him to courage and endurance.

THE GUERILLA LEADER’S VOW.

“All my pretty ones! Did you say all? ... Let us make medicine of this great revenge, To cure this deadly grief!” Macbeth.

My battle-vow!--no minster walls Gave back the burning word, Nor cross nor shrine the low deep tone Of smother’d vengeance heard: But the ashes of a ruin’d home Thrill’d as it sternly rose, With the mingling voice of blood that shook The midnight’s dark repose.

I breathed it not o’er kingly tombs, But where my children lay, And the startled vulture at my step Soar’d from their precious clay. I stood amidst my dead alone-- I kiss’d their lips--I pour’d, In the strong silence of that hour, My spirit on my sword.

The roof-tree fallen, the smouldering floor, The blacken’d threshold-stone, The bright hair torn, and soil’d with blood, Whose fountain was my own-- These, and the everlasting hills, Bore witness that wild night; Before them rose th’ avenger’s soul In crush’d affection’s might.

The stars, the searching stars of heaven, With keen looks would upbraid If from my heart the fiery vow, Sear’d on it then, could fade. They have no cause! Go, ask the streams That by my paths have swept, The red waves that unstain’d were born-- How hath my faith been kept?

And other eyes are on my soul, That never, never close, The sad, sweet glances of the lost-- They leave me no repose. Haunting my night-watch midst the rocks, And by the torrent’s foam, Through the dark-rolling mists they shine, Full, full of love and home!

Alas! the mountain eagle’s heart, When wrong’d, may yet find rest; Scorning the place made desolate, He seeks another nest. But I--your soft looks wake the thirst That wins no quenching rain; Ye drive me back, my beautiful! To the stormy fight again.

THEKLA AT HER LOVER’S GRAVE.

“Thither where he lies buried! That single spot is the whole world to me.” Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

Thy voice was in my soul! it call’d me on; O my lost friend! thy voice was in my soul. From the cold, faded world whence thou art gone, To hear no more life’s troubled billows roll, I come! I come!

Now speak to me again! we loved so well-- We _loved_!--oh! still, I know that still we love! I have left all things with thy dust to dwell, Through these dim aisles in dreams of _thee_ to rove: This is my home!

Speak to me in the thrilling minster’s gloom! Speak! thou hast died, and sent me no farewell! I will not shrink--oh! mighty is the tomb, But one thing mightier, which it cannot quell-- This woman’s heart!

This lone, full, fragile heart!--the strong alone In love and grief--of both the burning shrine! Thou, my soul’s friend! with grief hast surely done, But with the love which made thy spirit mine, Say, couldst thou part?

I hear the rustling banners; and I hear The wind’s low singing through the fretted stone. I hear not _thee_; and yet I feel thee near-- What is this bound that keeps thee from thine own? Breathe it away.

I wait thee--I adjure thee! Hast thou known How I have loved thee? couldst thou dream it all? Am I not here, with night and death alone, And fearing not? And hath my spirit’s call O’er thine no sway?

Thou _canst_ not come! or thus I should not weep! Thy love is deathless--but no longer free! Soon would its wing triumphantly o’ersweep The viewless barrier, if such power might be, Soon, soon, and fast!

But I shall come to thee! our souls’ deep dreams, Our young affections, have not gush’d in vain; Soon in one tide shall blend the sever’d streams, The worn heart break its bonds--and death and pain Be with the past!

THE SISTERS OF SCIO.

“As are our hearts, our way is one, And cannot be divided. Strong affection Contends with all things, and o’ercometh all things. Will I not live with thee? will I not cheer thee? Wouldst thou be lonely then? wouldst thou be sad?” Joanna Baillie.

“Sister, sweet sister! let me weep awhile! Bear with me--give the sudden passion way! Thoughts of our own lost home, our sunny isle, Come as a wind that o’er a reed hath sway; Till my heart dies with yearnings and sick fears-- Oh! could my life melt from me in these tears!

“Our father’s voice, our mother’s gentle eye, Our brother’s bounding step--where are they, where? Desolate, desolate our chambers lie! --How hast _thou_ won thy spirit from despair? O’er _mine_ swift shadows, gusts of terror, sweep: I sink away--bear with me--let me weep!”

“Yes! weep my sister! weep, till from thy heart The weight flow forth in tears; yet sink thou not. I bind my sorrow to a lofty part, For thee, my gentle one! our orphan lot To meet in quenchless trust. My soul is strong: Thou, too, wilt rise in holy might ere long.

“A breath of our free heavens and noble sires, A memory of our old victorious dead-- These mantle me with power; and though their fires In a frail censer briefly may be shed, Yet shall they light us onward, side by side-- Have the wild birds, and have not _we_, a guide?

“Cheer, then, beloved! on whose meek brow is set Our mother’s image--in whose voice a tone, A faint, sweet sound of hers is lingering yet, An echo of our childhood’s music gone. Cheer thee! thy sister’s heart and faith are high: Our path is one--with thee I live and die!”

[“But who are they that sit, mourning in their loveliness, beneath the shadow of a rock on the surf-beaten shore? The Sisters of Scio ... by Felicia Dorothea Hemans sung. Die--rather let them die in famine amongst sea-sand shells, than ere their virgin charms be polluted in the harem of the barbarian who has desolated their native isle. Bowed down and half dead, beneath what a load of anguish hangs the orphan’s dishevelled head on the knee of a sister, in pensive resignation, and holy faith triumphant over despair, as Felicia happily singeth!”--Professor Wilson, _Blackwood’s Magazine_. Dec. 1829.]

BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.

[The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio, having made many ineffectual efforts to procure the release of his father, the Count Saldana, who had been imprisoned by King Alfonso of Asturias, almost from the time of Bernardo’s birth, at last took up arms in despair. The war which he maintained proved so destructive, that the men of the land gathered round the King, and united in demanding Saldana’s liberty. Alfonso, accordingly, offered Bernardo immediate possession of his father’s person in exchange for his castle of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesitation, gave up his stronghold, with all his captives; and being assured that his father was then on his way from prison, rode forth with the King to meet him. “And when he saw his father approaching, he exclaimed,” says the ancient chronicle, “‘Oh, God! is the Count of Saldana indeed coming?’--‘Look where he is,’ replied the cruel King; ‘and now go and greet him whom you have so long desired to see.’” The remainder of the story will be found related in the ballad. The chronicles and romances leave us nearly in the dark as to Bernardo’s history after this event.]

The warrior bow’d his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprison’d sire: “I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!--oh, break my father’s chain!”

“Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransom’d man this day: Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way.” Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger’s foamy speed.

And lo! from far, as on they press’d, there came a glittering band, With one that midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land; “Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn’d so long to see.”

His dark eye flash’d, his proud breast heaved, his cheek’s blood came and went; He reach’d that gray-hair’d chieftain’s side, and there, dismounting, bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father’s hand he took,-- What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold--a frozen thing--it dropp’d from his like lead: He look’d up to the face above--the face was of the dead! A plume waved o’er the noble brow--the brow was fix’d and white; He met at last his father’s eyes--but in them was no sight!

Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? They hush’d their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze; They might have chain’d him, as before that stony form he stood, For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.

“Father!” at length he murmur’d low, and wept like childhood then-- Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!-- He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown,-- He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow, “No more, there is no more,” he said, “to lift the sword for now.-- My king is false, my hope betray’d, my father--oh! the worth, The glory and the loveliness, are pass’d away from earth!

“I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire! beside thee yet-- I would that _there_ our kindred blood on Spain’s free soil had met! Thou wouldst have known my spirit then--for thee my fields were won,-- And thou hast perish’d in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!”

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch’s rein, Amidst the pale and wilder’d looks of all the courtier train; And with a fierce, o’ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face--the king before the dead!--

“Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father’s hand to kiss?-- Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this! The voice, the glance, the heart I sought--give answer, where are they?-- If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!

“Into these glassy eyes put light----Be still! keep down thine ire,-- Bid these white lips a blessing speak--this earth is _not_ my sire! Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed,-- Thou canst not--and a king! His dust be mountains on thy head!”

He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell--upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look--then turn’d from that sad place: His hope was crush’d, his after-fate untold in martial strain,-- His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain.

THE TOMB OF MADAME LANGHANS.

“To a mysteriously consorted pair This place is consecrate; to death and life, And to the best affections that proceed From this conjunction.” Wordsworth.

[At Hindlebank, near Berne, she is represented as bursting from the sepulchre, with her infant in her arms, at the sound of the last trumpet. An inscription on the tomb concludes thus:--“Here am I, O God! with the child whom thou hast given me.”]

How many hopes were borne upon thy bier, O bride of stricken love! in anguish hither! Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year, Pluck’d on the bosom of the dead to wither; Hopes from their source all holy, though of earth, All brightly gathering round affection’s hearth. Of mingled prayer they told; of Sabbath hours; Of morn’s farewell, and evening’s blessed meeting; Of childhood’s voice, amidst the household bowers; And bounding step, and smile of joyous greeting;-- But thou, young mother! to thy gentle heart Did’st take thy babe, and meekly so depart.

How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence! Their trace yet lights the dust where thou art sleeping! A solemn joy comes o’er me, and a sense Of triumph, blent with nature’s gush of weeping, As, kindling up the silent stone, I see The glorious vision, caught by faith, of thee.

Slumberer! love calls thee, for the night is past; Put on the immortal beauty of thy waking! Captive! and hear’st thou not the trumpet’s blast, The long, victorious note, thy bondage breaking? Thou hear’st, thou answer’st, “God of earth and heaven! Here am I, with the child whom thou hast given!”

THE EXILE’S DIRGE.

“Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone and ta’en thy wages.” Cymbeline.

[“I attended a funeral where there were a number of the German settlers present. After I had performed such service as is usual on similar occasions, a most venerable-looking old man came forward, and asked me if I were willing that they should perform some of their peculiar rites. He opened a very ancient version of Luther’s Hymns, and they all began to sing, in German, so loud that the woods echoed the strain. There was something affecting in the singing of these ancient people, carrying one of their brethren to his last home, and using the language and rites which they had brought with them over the sea from the _Vaterland_, a word which often occurred in this hymn. It was a long, slow, and mournful air, which they sung as they bore the body along: the words ‘_mein Gott_,’ ‘_mein Bruder_,’ and ‘_Vaterland_,’ died away in distant echoes amongst the woods. I shall long remember that funeral hymn.”--Flint’s _Recollections of the Valley of the Mississippi_.]

There went a dirge through the forest’s gloom. --An exile was borne to a lonely tomb.

“Brother!” (so the chant was sung In the slumberer’s native tongue,) “Friend and brother! not for thee Shall the sound of weeping be: Long the exile’s woe hath lain On thy life a withering chain; Music from thine own blue streams Wander’d through thy fever-dreams; Voices from thy country’s vines Met thee midst the alien pines; And thy time heart died away, And thy spirit would not stay.”

So swell’d the chant; and the deep wind’s moan, Seem’d through the cedars to murmur--“_Gone!_”

“Brother! by the rolling Rhine Stands the home that once was thine; Brother! now thy dwelling lies Where the Indian arrow flies! He that bless’d thine infant head Fills a distant greensward bed; She that heard thy lisping prayer Slumbers low beside him there; They that earliest with thee play’d Rest beneath their own oak-shade, Far, far hence!--yet sea nor shore Haply, brother! part ye more; God hath call’d thee to that band In the immortal Fatherland!”

“The _Fatherland_!”--with that sweet word A burst of tears midst the strain was heard.

“Brother! were we there with thee Rich would many a meeting be! Many a broken garland bound, Many a mourn’d and lost one found! But our task is still to bear, Still to breathe in changeful air; Loved and bright things to resign, As even now this dust of thine; Yet to hope!--to hope in heaven, Though flowers fall, and ties be riven-- Yet to pray! and wait the hand Beckoning to the Fatherland!”

And the requiem died in the forest’s gloom; They had reach’d the exile’s lonely tomb.

THE DREAMING CHILD.

“Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know? Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be When no breath troubles them.” Beaumont and Fletcher.

And is there sadness in _thy_ dreams, my boy? What should the cloud be made of? Blessed child! Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy, All day hath ranged through sunshine clear, yet mild:

And now thou tremblest!--wherefore?--in _thy_ soul There lies no past, no future. Thou hast heard No sound of presage from the distance roll, Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word.

From thee no love hath gone; thy mind’s young eye Hath look’d not into death’s, and thence become A questioner of mute eternity, A weary searcher for a viewless home:

Nor hath thy sense been quicken’d unto pain By feverish watching for some step beloved: Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train, Glancing like dewdrops, and as lightly moved.

Yet now, on billows of strange passion toss’d, How art thou wilder’d in the cave of sleep! My gentle child! midst what dim phantoms lost, Thus in mysterious anguish dost thou weep?

Awake! they sadden me--those early tears, First gushings of the strong, dark river’s flow, That must o’ersweep thy soul with coming years, Th’ unfathomable flood of human woe!

Awful to watch, even rolling through a dream, Forcing wild spray-drops but from childhood’s eyes! Wake, wake! as yet _thy_ life’s transparent stream Should wear the tinge of none but summer skies.

Come from the shadow of those realms unknown, Where now thy thoughts dismay’d and darkling rove; Come to the kindly region all thine own, The home still bright for thee with guardian love.

Happy, fair child! that yet a mother’s voice Can win thee back from visionary strife!-- Oh, shall _my_ soul, thus waken’d to rejoice, Start from the dreamlike wilderness of life?

THE CHARMED PICTURE.

“Oh! that those lips had language! Life hath pass’d With me but roughly since I saw thee last.” Cowper.

Thine eyes are charm’d--thine earnest eyes-- Thou image of the dead! A spell within their sweetness lies, A virtue thence is shed.

Oft in their meek blue light enshrined A blessing seems to be, And sometimes there my wayward mind A still reproach can see:

And sometimes pity--soft and deep, And quivering through a tear; Even as if love in heaven could weep For grief left drooping here.

And oh, my spirit needs that balm! Needs it midst fitful mirth! And in the night-hour’s haunted calm, And by the lonely hearth.

Look on me _thus_, when hollow praise Hath made the weary pine For one true tone of other days, One glance of love like thine!

Look on me _thus_, when sudden glee Bears my quick heart along, On wings that struggle to be free, As bursts of skylark song.

In vain, in vain!--too soon are felt The wounds they cannot flee: Better in childlike tears to melt, Pouring my soul on thee!

Sweet face, that o’er my childhood shone! Whence is thy power of change, Thus ever shadowing back my own, The rapid and the strange?

Whence are they charm’d--those earnest eyes? --I know the mystery well! In mine own trembling bosom lies The spirit of the spell!

Of Memory, Conscience, Love, ’tis born-- Oh! change no longer, thou! For ever be the blessing worn On thy pure thoughtful brow!

## PARTING WORDS.

“One struggle more, and I am free.”--Byron.

Leave me! oh, leave me! Unto all below Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell; Thou makest those mortal regions, whence I go, Too mighty in their loveliness. Farewell, That I may part in peace!

Leave me!--thy footstep, with its lightest sound, The very shadow of thy waving hair, Wakes in my soul a feeling too profound, Too strong for aught that loves and dies, to bear-- Oh! bid the conflict cease!

I hear thy whisper--and the warm tears gush Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart; Thou bid’st the peace, the reverential hush, The still submission, from my thoughts depart: Dear one! this must not be.

The past looks on me from thy mournful eye, The beauty of our free and vernal days; Our communings with sea, and hill, and sky-- Oh! take that bright world from my spirit’s gaze! Thou art all earth to me!

Shut out the sunshine from my dying room, The jasmine’s breath, the murmur of the bee; Let not the joy of bird-notes pierce the gloom! They speak of love, of summer, and of thee, Too much--and death is here!

Doth our own spring make happy music now, From the old beech-roots flashing into day? Are the pure lilies imaged in its flow? Alas! vain thoughts! that fondly thus can stray From the dread hour so near!

If I could but draw courage from the light Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless! --Not now! ’twill not be now!--my aching sight, Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness, Bearing all strength away!

Leave me!--thou com’st between my heart and Heaven; I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die!-- Why must our souls thus love, and then be riven? Return! thy parting wakes mine agony! Oh, yet awhile delay!

THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD.

Thou’rt passing hence, my brother! O my earliest friend, farewell! Thou’rt leaving me, without thy voice, In a lonely home to dwell; And from the hills, and from the hearth, And from the household tree, With thee departs the lingering mirth, The brightness goes with thee.[373]

But thou, my friend, my brother! Thou’rt speeding to the shore Where the dirge-like tone of parting words Shall smite the soul no more! And thou wilt see our holy dead, The lost on earth and main: Into the sheaf of kindred hearts, Thou wilt be bound again!

Tell, then, our friend of boyhood That yet his name is heard On the blue mountains, whence his youth Pass’d like a swift, bright bird. The light of his exulting brow, The vision of his glee, Are on me still--oh! still I trust That smile again to see.

And tell our fair young sister, The rose cut down in spring, That yet my gushing soul is fill’d With lays she loved to sing. Her soft deep eyes look through my dreams, Tender and sadly sweet;-- Tell her my heart within me burns Once more that gaze to meet.

And tell our white-hair’d father, That in the paths be trode, The child he loved, the last on earth, Yet walks and worships God. Say, that his last fond blessing yet Rests on my soul like dew, And by its hallowing might I trust Once more his face to view.

And tell our gentle mother, That on her grave I pour The sorrows of my spirit forth, As on her breast of yore. Happy thou art that soon, how soon, Our good and bright will see!-- O brother, brother! may I dwell, Ere long, with them and thee!

[373] “Messages from the living to the dead are not uncommon in the Highlands. The Gaels have such a ceaseless consciousness of immortality, that their departed friends are considered as merely absent for a time, and permitted to relieve the hours of separation by occasional intercourse with the objects of their earliest affections.”--See the Notes to Mrs Brunton’s Works.

THE TWO HOMES.

“Oh, if the soul immortal be, Is not its love immortal too?”

See’st thou my home? ’Tis where yon woods are waving, In their dark richness, to the summer air, Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks laving, Leads down the hills a vein of light,--’tis there!

Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies gleaming, Fringed with the violet, colour’d with the skies! My boyhood’s haunt, through days of summer dreaming, Under young leaves that shook with melodies.

My home! The spirit of its love is breathing In every wind that blows across my track; From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing, Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back.

There am I loved--there pray’d for--there my mother Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye; There my young sisters watch to greet their brother-- Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly.

There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending, All the home-voices meet at day’s decline; One are those tones, as from one heart ascending, There laughs _my_ home--sad stranger! where is thine?

Ask’st thou of mine? In solemn peace ’tis lying, Far o’er the deserts and the tombs away; ’Tis where _I_, too, am loved with love undying, And fond hearts wait my step--But where are they?

Ask where the earth’s departed have their dwelling; Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air! I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling My lonely heart that love unchanged is there.

And what is home, and where, but with the loving Happy _thou_ art, that so canst gaze on thine! My spirit feels but, in its weary roving, That with the dead, where’er they be, is mine,

Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother! Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene! For me, too, watch the sister and the mother, I well believe--but dark seas roll between.

THE SOLDIER’S DEATH-BED.

“Wie herrlich die Sonne dort untergeht! da ich noch ein Bube war--war’s mein Lieblingsgedanke, wie sie zu leben, wie sie zu sterben!”

Die Rauber.

_Like thee to die, thou sun!_--My boyhood’s dream Was this; and now my spirit, with thy beam, Ebbs from a field of victory!--yet the hour Bears back upon me, with a torrent’s power, Nature’s deep longings. Oh! for some kind eye Wherein to meet love’s fervent farewell gaze; Some breast to pillow life’s last agony, Some voice, to speak of home and better days, Beyond the pass of shadows! But I go, I that have been so loved, go hence alone; And ye, now gathering round my own hearth’s glow, Sweet friends! it may be that a softer tone, Ev’n in this moment, with your laughing glee, Mingles its cadence while you speak of me-- Of me, your soldier, midst the mountains lying, On the red banner of his battles dying, Far, far away! And oh! your parting prayer-- Will not his name be fondly murmur’d there? It will!--A blessing on that holy hearth! Though clouds are darkening to o’ercast its mirth. Mother! I may not hear thy voice again; Sisters! ye watch to greet my step in vain; Young brother, fare thee well!--on each dear head Blessing and love a thousandfold be shed, My soul’s last earthly breathings! May your home Smile for you ever!--May no winter come, No _world_, between your hearts! May ev’n your tears, For my sake, full of long-remember’d years, Quicken the true affections that entwine Your lives in one bright bond! I may not sleep Amidst our fathers, where those tears might shine Over my slumbers; yet your love will keep My memory living in th’ ancestral halls, Where shame hath never trod. The dark night falls, And I depart. The brave are gone to rest, The brothers of my combats, on the breast Of the red field they reap’d:--their work is done-- _Thou_, too, art set!--farewell, farewell, thou sun! The last lone watcher of the bloody sod Offers a trusting spirit up to God.

THE IMAGE IN THE HEART.

TO * * *

“True, indeed, it is, That they whom death has hidden from our sight, Are worthiest of the mind’s regard; with them The future cannot contradict the past-- Mortality’s last exercise and proof Is undergone.” Wordsworth.

“The love where death hath set his seal, Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, Nor falsehood disavow.” Byron.

I call thee bless’d!--though now the voice be fled Which to thy soul brought dayspring with its tone, And o’er the gentle eyes though dust be spread, Eyes that ne’er look’d on thine but light was thrown Far through thy breast:

And though the music of thy life be broken, Or changed in every chord since he is gone-- Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token, O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone! I call thee bless’d!

For in thy heart there is a holy spot, As mid the waste an isle of fount and palm, For ever green!--the world’s breath enters not, The passion-tempests may not break its calm: ’Tis thine, all thine!

Thither, in trust unbaffled, may’st thou turn From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes, Quenching thy soul’s thirst at the hidden urn That, fill’d with waters of sweet memory, lies In its own shrine.

Thou hast thy _home_!--there is no power in change To reach that temple of the past; no sway, In all time brings of sudden, dark, or strange, To sweep the still transparent peace away From its hush’d air!

And oh! that glorious image of the dead! Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest, And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed Its high gifts fearlessly! I call thee bless’d, If only _there_.

Bless’d, for the beautiful within thee dwelling Never to fade!--a refuge from distrust, A spring of purer life, still freshly welling, To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust With flowers divine.

And thou hast been beloved!--it is no dream, No false mirage for _thee_, the fervent love, The rainbow still unreach’d, the ideal gleam, That ever seems before, beyond, above, Far off to shine.

But thou, from all the daughters of the earth Singled and mark’d, hast _known_ its home and place; And the high memory of its holy worth To this our life a glory and a grace For thee hath given.

And art thou not _still_ fondly, truly loved? Thou art!--the love his spirit bore away Was not for death!--a treasure but removed, A bright bird parted for a clearer day,-- Thine still in heaven!

THE LAND OF DREAMS.

“And dreams, in their development, have breath, And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They make us what we were not--what they will, And shake us with the vision that’s gone by.”

Byron.

O spirit-land! thou land of dreams! A world thou art of mysterious gleams, Of startling voices, and sounds at strife-- A world of the dead in the hues of life.

Like a wizard’s magic glass thou art, When the wavy shadows float by, and part: Visions of aspects, now loved, now strange, Glimmering and mingling in ceaseless change.

Thou art like a city of the past, With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast, Amidst whose ruins there glide and play Familiar forms of the world’s to-day.

Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth, Rich with the wealth that is lost from earth,-- All the sere flowers of our days gone by, And the buried gems in thy bosom lie.

Yes! thou art like those dim sea-caves, A realm of treasures, a realm of graves! And the shapes through thy mysteries that come and go, Are of beauty and terror, of power and woe.

But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep! Thou art all one world of affections deep,-- And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye That sweeps o’er thy chambers of imagery.

And thy bowers are fair--even as Eden fair: All the beloved of my soul are there! The forms my spirit most pines to see, The eyes whose love hath been life to me:

They are there--and each blessed voice I hear, Kindly, and joyous, and silvery clear; But under-tones are in each, that say,-- “It is but a dream; it will melt away!”

I walk with sweet friends in the sunset’s glow; I listen to music of long ago; But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint through the lay,-- “It is but a dream; it will melt away!”

I sit by the hearth of my early days; All the home-faces are met by the blaze,-- And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say, “It is but a dream; it will melt away!”

And away, like a flower’s passing breath, ’tis gone, And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone! Oh! a haunted heart is a weight to bear,-- Bright faces, kind voices! where are ye, where?

Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams, The past, as it fled by my own blue streams! Make not my spirit within me burn For the scenes and the hours that may ne’er return!

Call out from the _future_ thy visions bright, From the world o’er the grave, take thy solemn light, And oh! with the loved whom no more I see, Show me my home, as it yet may be!

As it yet may be in some purer sphere, No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear; So my soul may bear on through the long, long day Till I go where the beautiful melts not away!

WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

“Where hath not woman stood Strong in affection’s might? a reed, upborne By an o’ermastering current!”

Gentle and lovely form! What didst thou here, When the fierce battle-storm Bore down the spear?

Banner and shiver’d crest, Beside thee strown, Tell that amidst the best Thy work was done!

Yet strangely, sadly fair, O’er the wild scene, Gleams, through its golden hair, That brow serene.

Low lies the stately head,-- Earth-bound the free; How gave those haughty dead A place to thee?

Slumberer! _thine_ early bier Friends should have crown’d, Many a flower and tear Shedding around;--

Soft voices, clear and young, Mingling their swell, Should o’er thy dust have sung Earth’s last farewell;--

Sisters, above the grave Of thy repose, Should have bid violets wave With the white rose.

Now must the trumpet’s note, Savage and shrill, For requiem o’er thee float, Thou fair and still!

And the swift charger sweep In full career, Trampling thy place of sleep-- Why cam’st thou here?

Why? Ask the true heart why Woman hath been Ever where brave men die, Unshrinking seen?

Unto this harvest ground Proud reapers came,-- Some, for that stirring sound, A warrior’s name;

Some for the stormy play And joy of strife; And some to fling away A weary life;--

But thou, pale sleeper! thou With the slight frame, And the rich locks, whose glow Death cannot tame;

Only one thought, one power, _Thee_ could have led, So, through the tempest’s hour, To lift thy head!

Only the true, the strong, The love, whose trust Woman’s deep soul too long Pours on the dust!

THE DESERTED HOUSE.

Gloom is upon thy lonely hearth, O silent house! once fill’d with mirth; Sorrow is in the breezy sound Of thy tall poplars whispering round.

The shadow of departed hours Hangs dim upon thine early flowers; Ev’n in thy sunshine seems to brood Something more deep than solitude.

Fair art thou, fair to a stranger’s gaze, Mine own sweet home of other days! My children’s birthplace!--yet for me It is too much to look on thee.

Too much! for all about thee spread, I feel the memory of the dead, And almost linger for the feet That never more my step shall meet.

The looks, the smiles, all vanish’d now, Follow me where thy roses blow; The echoes of kind household-words Are with me midst thy singing-birds.

Till my heart dies, it dies away In yearnings for what might not stay; For love which ne’er deceived my trust, For all which went with “dust to dust!”

What now is left me, but to raise From thee, lorn spot! my spirit’s gaze, To lift through tears my straining eye Up to my Father’s house on high?

Oh! many are the mansions there,[374] But not in one hath grief a share! No haunting shade from things gone by May there o’ersweep th’ unchanging sky.

And _they_ are there, whose long-loved mien In earthly home no more is seen; Whose places, where they smiling sate, Are left unto us desolate.

We miss them when the board is spread; We miss them when the prayer is said; Upon our dreams their dying eyes In still and mournful fondness rise.

But they are where these longings vain Trouble no more the heart and brain; The sadness of this aching love Dims not our Father’s house above.

Ye are at rest, and I in tears,[375] Ye dwellers of immortal spheres! Under the poplar boughs I stand, And mourn the broken household band.

But, by your life of lowly faith, And by your joyful hope in death, Guide me, till on some brighter shore The sever’d wreath is bound once more!

Holy ye were, and good, and true! No change can cloud my thoughts of you; Guide me, like you to live and die, And reach my Father’s house on high!

[374] “In my father’s house there are many mansions.”--_John_, chap. xiv.

[375] From an ancient Hebrew dirge:

“Mourn for the mourner, and not for the dead. For he is at rest, and we in tears!”

THE STRANGER’S HEART.

The stranger’s heart! Oh, wound it not! A yearning anguish is its lot; In the green shadow of thy tree, The stranger finds no rest with thee.

Thou think’st the vine’s low rustling leaves Glad music round thy household eaves; To him that sound hath sorrow’s tone-- The stranger’s heart is with his own.

Thou think’st thy children’s laughing play A lovely sight at fall of day; Then are the stranger’s thoughts oppress’d-- His mother’s voice comes o’er his breast.

Thou think’st it sweet when friend with friend Beneath one roof in prayer may blend; Then doth the stranger’s eye grow dim-- Far, far are those who pray’d with him.

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage-land, The voices of thy kindred band-- Oh! midst them all when bless’d thou art, Deal gently with the stranger’s heart!

TO A REMEMBERED PICTURE.

[She was singularly impressed by the picture at Holyrood House, shown as that of Rizzio. The authenticity of this designation is more than doubtful; but hers was not a mind for question or cavil on points of this nature. The “local habitation and the name” were in themselves sufficient to awaken her fancy, and to satisfy her faith. As Rizzio’s portrait, it took its place in her imagination; and the train of deep and mournful thoughts it suggested, imbued, as was her wont, with the colouring of her own individual feelings, was embodied in the lines “To a Remembered Picture.”--_Memoir_, p. 197-8.]

They haunt me still--those calm, pure, holy eyes! Their piercing sweetness wanders through my dreams; The soul of music that within them lies Comes o’er _my_ soul in soft and sudden gleams: Life--spirit-life--immortal and divine-- Is there; and yet how dark a death was thine!

Could it--oh! _could_ it be--meek child of song? The might of gentleness on that fair brow-- Was the celestial gift no shield from wrong? Bore it no talisman to ward the blow? Ask if a flower, upon the billows cast, Might brave their strife--a flute-note hush the blast!

Are there not deep, sad oracles to read In the clear stillness of that radiant face? Yes! even like thee must gifted spirits bleed, Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no place! Bright, exiled birds that visit alien skies, Pouring on storms their suppliant melodies.

And seeking ever some true, gentle breast, Whereon their trembling plumage might repose, And their free song-notes, from that happy nest, Gush as a fount that forth from sunlight flows: Vain dream!--the love whose precious balms might save Still, still denied--they struggle to the grave.

Yet my heart shall not sink!--another doom, Victim! hath set its promise in thine eye: A light is there, too quenchless for the tomb, Bright earnest of a nobler destiny; Telling of answers, in some far-off sphere, To the deep souls that find no echo here.

COME HOME!

Come home! There is a sorrowing breath In music since ye went, And the early flower-scents wander by With mournful memories blent. The tones in every household voice Are grown more sad and deep; And the sweet word--_brother_--wakes a wish To turn aside and weep.

O ye beloved! come home! The hour Of many a greeting tone, The time of hearth-light and of song Returns--and ye are gone! And darkly, heavily it falls On the forsaken room, Burdening the heart with tenderness, That deepens midst the gloom.

Where finds it _you_, ye wandering ones! With all your boyhood’s glee Untamed? Beneath the desert’s palm, Or on the lone mid-sea? By stormy hills of battles old? Or where dark rivers foam?-- Oh! life is dim where ye are not-- Back, ye beloved, come home!

Come with the leaves and winds of spring, And swift birds, o’er the main! Our love is grown too sorrowful-- Bring us its youth again! Bring the glad tones to music back! Still, still your home is fair, The spirit of your sunny life Alone is wanting there!

THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.

“Implora pace!”[376]

One draught, kind fairy! from that fountain deep, To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast; And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest; And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave-- One draught of that sweet wave!

Yet, mortal! pause! Within thy mind is laid Wealth, gather’d long and slowly; thoughts divine Heap that full treasure-house; and thou hast made The gems of many a spirit’s ocean thine;-- Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear A pyramid so fair?

Pour from the fount! and let the draught efface All the vain lore by memory’s pride amass’d, So it but sweep along the torrent’s trace, And fill the hollow channels of the past; And from the bosom’s inmost folded leaf, Rase the one master-grief!

Yet pause once more! All, _all_ thy soul hath known, Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade! Is there no voice whose kind, awakening tone A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made? No eye whose glance thy daydreams would recall? --Think--wouldst thou part with all?

Fill with forgetfulness! There are, there _are_ Voices whose music I have loved too well-- Eyes of deep gentleness; but they are far-- Never! oh never, in my home to dwell! Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul-- Fill high th’ oblivious bowl!

Yet pause again! With memory wilt thou cast The undying hope away, of memory born? Hope of reunion, heart to heart at last, No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn? Wouldst thou erase all records of delight That make such visions bright?

Fill with forgetfulness, fill high!----Yet stay-- Tis from the past we shadow forth the land Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, And the soul’s friends be wreath’d in one bright band. Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill-- I _must_ remember still.

For their sake, for the dead--whose image naught May dim within the temple of my breast-- For their love’s sake, which now no earthly thought May shake or trouble with its own unrest, Though the past haunt me as a spirit--yet I ask not to forget.

[376] Quoted from a letter of Lord Byron’s. He describes the impression produced upon him by some tombs at Bologna, bearing this simple inscription, and adds, “When I die, I could wish that some friend would see these words, and no other, placed above my grave,--‘_Implora pace!_’”

[“The ‘Songs of the Affections’ were published in the summer of 1830. This collection of lyrics has been, perhaps, less popular than other of Mrs Hemans’s later works. It was hardly, indeed, to be expected that the principal poem, ‘A Spirit’s Return,’ the origin and subject of which we have already described, should appeal to the feelings of so large a circle as had borne witness to the truth of the tales of actual life and sacrifice and suffering contained in the ‘Records of Woman.’ But there are parts of the poem solemnly and impressively powerful. The passages in which the speaker describes her youth--the disposition born with her to take pleasure in spiritual contemplations, and to listen to that voice in nature which speaks of another state of being beyond this visible world--prepare us most naturally for the agony of her desire--when he, in whom she had devotedly embarked all her earthly hopes and affections--

‘----till the world held naught Save the one being to my centred thought,’

was taken away from her for ever--to see him, if but for a moment--to speak with him only once again!

* * * * *

As the crisis of interest approaches, the variety given by alternate rhymes to the heroic measure in which the tale was written, is wisely laid aside, and it proceeds with a resistless energy--

‘Hast thou been told, that from the viewless bourne The dark way never hath allow’d return?’ etc.

“The conclusion of this fine poem is far from fulfilling the promise of its commencement; but it was impossible to imagine any events, or give utterance to any feelings, succeeding those so awful and exciting, which should not appear feeble, and vague, and exhausted. Mrs Hemans would sometimes regret that she had not bestowed more labour upon the close of her work: this, it is true, might have been more carefully elaborated, but, from the nature of her subject, I doubt the possibility of its having been substantially improved.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 101-5.]

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE BRIDAL-DAY.

[On a monument in a Venetian church is an epitaph, recording that the remains beneath are those of a noble lady, who expired suddenly while standing as a bride at the altar.]

“We bear her home! we bear her home! Over the murmuring salt sea’s foam; One who has fled from the war of life, From sorrow, pain, and the fever strife.” Barry Cornwall.

Bride! upon thy marriage-day, When thy gems in rich array Made the glistening mirror seem As a star-reflecting stream; When the clustering pearls lay fair Midst thy braids of sunny hair, And the white veil o’er thee streaming, Like a silvery halo gleaming, Mellow’d all that pomp and light Into something meekly bright; Did the fluttering of thy breath Speak of joy or woe beneath? And the hue that went and came O’er thy cheek, like wavering flame, Flow’d that crimson from th’ unrest Or the gladness of thy breast? --Who shall tell us? From thy bower, Brightly didst thou pass that hour; With the many-glancing oar, And the cheer along the shore, And the wealth of summer flowers On thy fair head cast in showers, And the breath of song and flute, And the clarion’s glad salute, Swiftly o’er the Adrian tide Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride! Mirth and music, sun and sky, Welcomed thee triumphantly! Yet, perchance, a chastening thought In some deeper spirit wrought, Whispering, as untold it blent With the sounds of merriment-- “From the home of childhood’s glee, From the days of laughter free, From the love of many years, Thou art gone to cares and fears; To another path and guide, To a bosom yet untried! Bright one! oh, there well may be Trembling midst our joy for thee!”

Bride! when through the stately fane, Circled with thy nuptial train, Midst the banners hung on high By thy warrior-ancestry, Midst those mighty fathers dead, In soft beauty thou wast led; When before the shrine thy form Quiver’d to some bosom-storm, When, like harp-strings with a sigh Breaking in mid-harmony, On thy lip the murmurs low Died with love’s unfinish’d vow; When, like scatter’d rose-leaves, fled From thy cheek each tint of red, And the light forsook thine eye, And thy head sunk heavily; Was that drooping but th’ excess Of thy spirit’s blessedness? Or did some deep feeling’s might, Folded in thy heart from sight, With a sudden tempest-shower Earthward bear thy life’s young flower? --Who shall tell us? On _thy_ tongue Silence, and for ever, hung! Never to thy lip and cheek Rush’d again the crimson streak; Never to thine eye return’d That which there had beam’d and burn’d! With the secret none might know, With thy rapture or thy woe, With thy marriage robe and wreath, Thou wert fled, young bride of death! One, one lightning moment there Struck down triumph to despair; Beauty, splendour, hope, and trust, Into darkness--terror--dust!

There were sounds of weeping o’er thee, Bride! as forth thy kindred bore thee, Shrouded in thy gleaming veil, Deaf to that wild funeral wail. Yet perchance a chastening thought In some deeper spirit wrought, Whispering, while the stern, sad knell On the air’s bright stillness fell-- “From the power of chill and change Souls to sever and estrange; From love’s wane--a death in life, But to watch--a mortal strife; From the secret fevers known To the burning heart alone, Thou art fled--afar, away-- Where these blights no more have sway! Bright one! oh, there well may be Comfort midst our tears for thee!”

THE ANCESTRAL SONG.

“A long war disturb’d your mind-- Here your perfect peace is sign’d; ’Tis now full tide ’twixt night and day-- End your moan, and come away!” Webster, “Duchess of Malfy.”

There were faint sounds of weeping; fear and gloom And midnight vigil in a stately room Of Lusignan’s old halls. Rich odours there Fill’d the proud chamber as with Indian air, And soft light fell from lamps of silver, thrown On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone Over a gorgeous couch: there emeralds gleam’d, And deeper crimson from the ruby stream’d Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set, Hiding from sunshine. Many a carcanet Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain, And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death, Hung drooping solemnly,--for there one lay. Passing from all earth’s glories fast away, Amidst those queenly treasures. They had been Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands; And for _his_ sake, upon their orient sheen She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands Had press’d them to her languid heart once more, Melting in childlike tears. But this was o’er-- Love’s last, vain clinging unto life; and now A mist of dreams was hovering o’er her brow; Her eye was fix’d, her spirit seem’d removed, Though not from earth, from all it knew or loved, Far, far away! Her handmaids watch’d around, In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound A might, a mystery; and the quivering light Of wind-sway’d lamps made spectral in their sight The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair, Gleaming along the walls with braided hair, Long in the dust grown dim; and she, too, saw, But with the spirit’s eye of raptured awe, Those pictured shapes!--a bright, yet solemn train Beckoning, they floated o’er her dreamy brain, Clothed in diviner hues; while on her ear Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear, --Sweet, yet profoundly mournful, as the sigh Of winds o’er harp-strings through a midnight sky; And thus it seem’d, in that low, thrilling tone, Th’ ancestral shadows call’d away their own.

Come, come, come! Long thy fainting soul hath yearn’d For the step that ne’er return’d; Long thine anxious ear hath listen’d, And thy watchful eye hath glisten’d With the hope, whose parting strife Shook the flower-leaves from thy life. Now the heavy day is done: Home awaits thee, wearied one! Come, come, come!

From the quenchless thoughts that burn In the seal’d heart’s lonely urn; From the coil of memory’s chain Wound about the throbbing brain; From the veins of sorrow deep, Winding through the world of sleep; From the haunted halls and bowers, Throng’d with ghosts of happier hours! Come, come, come!

On our dim and distant shore Aching love is felt no more! _We_ have loved with earth’s excess-- Past is now that weariness! _We_ have wept, that weep not now-- Calm is each once-beating brow! We have known the dreamer’s woes-- All is now one bright repose! Come, come, come!

Weary heart that long hast bled, Languid spirit, drooping head, Restless memory, vain regret, Pining love whose light is set, Come away!--’tis hush’d, ’tis well, Where by shadowy founts we dwell, All the fever-thirst is still’d, All the air with peace is fill’d,-- Come, come, come!

And with her spirit wrapt in that wild lay. She pass’d, as twilight melts to night, away!

THE MAGIC GLASS.

“How lived, how loved, how died they?”--Byron.

“The dead! the glorious dead!--and shall they rise? Shall they look on thee with their proud bright eyes? Thou ask’st a fearful spell! Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall, What kingly vision shall obey my call? The deep grave knows it well!

“Wouldst thou behold earth’s conquerors? shall they pass Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass With triumph’s long array? Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn, Robed for the feast of victory, shall return, As on their proudest day.

“Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song? O’er the dark mirror that immortal throng Shall waft a solemn gleam! Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows, Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs, But silent as a dream.”

“Not these, O mighty master!--though their lays Be unto man’s free heart, and tears, and praise, Hallow’d for evermore! And not the buried conquerors--let them sleep, And let the flowery earth her sabbaths keep In joy, from shore to shore!

“But, if the narrow house may so be moved, Call the bright shadows of the most beloved Back from their couch of rest! That I may learn if _their_ meek eyes be fill’d With peace, if human love hath ever still’d The yearning human breast.”

“Away, fond youth!--an idle quest is thine: _These_ have no trophy, no memorial shrine; I know not of their place! Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow, Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low, Have pass’d, and left no trace.

“Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills, And the wild sounds of melancholy rills, Their covering turf may bloom; But ne’er hath fame made relics of its flowers-- Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers, Or poet hail’d their tomb.”

“Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell! Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may tell That which I pine to know! I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep, Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep, Records of joy and woe.”

CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.

“Les femmes doivent penser qu’il est dans cette carriere bien peu de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie d’une femme aimee et d’une mere heureuse.” Madame de Stael.

Daughter of th’ Italian heaven! Thou to whom its fires are given, Joyously thy car hath roll’d Where the conqueror’s pass’d of old; And the festal sun that shone O’er three hundred triumphs gone,[377] Makes thy day of glory bright With a shower of golden light.

Now thou tread’st th’ ascending road Freedom’s foot so proudly trode; While, from tombs of heroes borne, From the dust of empire shorn, Flowers upon thy graceful head, Chaplets of all hues, are shed, In a soft and rosy rain, Touch’d with many a gem-like stain.

Thou hast gain’d the summit now! Music hails thee from below; Music, whose rich notes might stir Ashes of the sepulchre; Shaking with victorious notes All the bright air as it floats. Well may woman’s heart beat high Unto that proud harmony!

Now afar it rolls--it dies-- And thy voice is heard to rise With a low and lovely tone, In its thrilling power alone; And thy lyre’s deep silvery string, Touch’d as by a breeze’s wing, Murmurs tremblingly at first, Ere the tide of rapture burst.

All the spirit of thy sky Now hath lit thy large dark eye, And thy cheek a flush hath caught From the joy of kindled thought; And the burning words of song From thy lip flow fast and strong, With a rushing stream’s delight In the freedom of its might. Radiant daughter of the sun! Now thy living wreath is won. Crown’d of Rome!--oh! art thou not Happy in that glorious lot?-- Happier, happier far than thou, With the laurel on thy brow, She that makes the humblest hearth Lovely but to one on earth!

[377] “The trebly hundred triumphs.”--Byron.

THE RUIN.

“Oh! ’tis the heart that magnifies this life, Making a truth and beauty of its own.” Wordsworth.

“Birth has gladden’d it: death has sanctified it.” Guesses at Truth.

No dower of storied song is thine, O desolate abode! Forth from thy gates no glittering line Of lance and spear hath flow’d. Banners of knighthood have not flung Proud drapery o’er thy walls, Nor bugle-notes to battle rung Through thy resounding halls.

Nor have rich bowers of _pleasaunce_ here By courtly hands been dress’d, For princes, from the chase of deer, Under green leaves to rest: Only some rose, yet lingering bright Beside thy casements lone, Tells where the spirit of delight Hath dwelt, and now is gone.

Yet minstrel-tale of harp and sword, And sovereign beauty’s lot, House of quench’d light and silent board! For me thou needest not. It is enough to know that _here_, Where thoughtfully I stand, Sorrow and love, and hope and fear, Have link’d one kindred band.

Thou bindest me with mighty spells! --A solemnising breath, A presence all around thee dwells Of human life and death. I need but pluck yon garden flower From where the wild weeds rise, To wake, with strange and sudden power, A thousand sympathies.

Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth! Deserted now by all! Voices at eve here met in mirth Which eve may ne’er recall. Youth’s buoyant step, and woman’s tone, And childhood’s laughing glee, And song and prayer, have all been known, Hearth of the dead! to thee.

Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour’d Upon the infant head, As if in every fervent word The living soul were shed; Thou hast seen partings, such as bear The bloom from life away-- Alas! for love in changeful air, Where naught beloved can stay!

Here, by the restless bed of pain, The vigil hath been kept, Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain, Burst forth on eyes that wept; Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom, The breathless influence, shed Through the dim dwelling, from the room Wherein reposed the dead.

The seat left void, the missing face, Have here been mark’d and mourn’d, And time hath fill’d the vacant place, And gladness hath return’d; Till from the narrowing household chain The links dropp’d one by one! And homewards hither, o’er the main, Came the spring-birds alone.

Is there not cause, then--cause for thought, Fix’d eye and lingering tread, Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught, Even lowliest hearts have bled? Where, in its ever-haunting thirst For draughts of purer day, Man’s soul, with fitful strength, hath burst The clouds that wrapt its way?

Holy to human nature seems The long-forsaken spot-- To deep affections, tender dreams, Hopes of a brighter lot! Therefore in silent reverence here, Hearth of the dead! I stand, Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear, Have link’d one household band.

THE MINSTER.

Speak low! The place is holy to the breath Of awful harmonies, of whisper’d prayer: Tread lightly!--for the sanctity of death Broods with a voiceless influence on the air, Stern, yet serene!--a reconciling spell, Each troubled billow of the soul to quell.

Leave me to linger silently awhile! --Not for the light that pours its fervid streams Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, Kindling old banners into haughty gleams, Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior’s tomb Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom:

Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing, Mighty as forest-sounds when winds are high; Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry,-- Though o’er the spirit each hath charm and power, Yet not for _these_ I ask one lingering hour.

But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound; Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have pour’d Their anguish forth, are with me and around; I look back on the pangs, the burning tears, Known to these altars of a thousand years.

Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse! That here hast bow’d with ashes on thy head; And thou, still battling with the tempest’s force-- Thou, whose bright spirit through all time has bled-- Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer, Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair?

No voice, no breath!--of conflicts past, no trace! --Doth not this hush give answer to my quest? Surely the dread religion of the place By every grief hath made its might confest!-- Oh! that within my heart I could but keep Holy to heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and deep!

THE SONG OF NIGHT.[378]

“O night, And storm, and darkness! ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength!” Byron.

I come to thee, O Earth! With all my gifts!--for every flower sweet dew In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew The glory of its birth.

Not one which glimmering lies Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves, But, through its veins of beauty, so receives A spirit of fresh dyes.

I come with every star; Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track, Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back, Mirrors of worlds afar.

I come with peace,--I shed Sleep through thy wood-walks, o’er the honey-bee, The lark’s triumphant voice, the fawn’s young glee, The hyacinth’s meek head.

On my own heart I lay The weary babe; and sealing with a breath Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath The shadowing lids to play.

I come with mightier things! Who calls me silent? I have many tones-- The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans, Borne on my sweeping wings.

I waft them not alone From the deep organ of the forest shades, Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades Till the bright day is done;

But in the human breast A thousand still small voices I awake, Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past: From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, From crush’d affections, which, though long o’erborne, Make their tones heard at last.

I bring them from the tomb: O’er the sad couch of late repentant love They pass--though low as murmurs of a dove-- Like trumpets through the gloom.

I come with all my train: Who calls me lonely? Hosts around me tread, The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead-- Phantoms of heart and brain!

Looks from departed eyes, These are my lightnings!--fill’d with anguish vain, Or tenderness too piercing to sustain, They smite with agonies.

I, that with soft control, Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, I am the avenging one!--the arm’d, the strong-- The searcher of the soul!

I, that shower dewy light Through slumbering leaves, bring storms--the tempest birth Of memory, thought, remorse! Be holy, Earth! I am the solemn Night![379]

[The howling of the wind at night had a very peculiar effect on her nerves--nothing in the least approaching to the sensation of fear, as few were more exempt from that class of alarms usually called nervous; but working upon her imagination to a degree which was always succeeded by a reaction of fatigue and exhaustion. The solemn influences thus mysteriously exercised are alluded to in many of her poems, particularly “The Song of the Night,” and “The Voice of the Wind.”--_Memoir_, p. 84.]

[378] Suggested by Thorwaldsen’s bas-relief of Night, represented under the form of a winged female figure, with two infants asleep in her arms.

[379] Pietro Mulier, called Il Tempesta, from his surprising pictures of storms. “His compositions,” says Lanzi, “inspire a real horror, presenting to our eyes death-devoted ships overtaken by tempests and darkness--fired by lightning--now rising on the mountain-wave, and again submerged in the abyss of ocean.” During an imprisonment of five years in Genoa, the pictures which he painted in his dungeon were marked by additional power and gloom.--See Lanzi’s _History of Painting_, translated by Roscoe.

THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON.

“Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal? Are ye like those that shake the human breast? Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?” Childe Harold.

Midnight, and silence deep! --The air is fill’d with sleep, With the stream’s whisper, and the citron’s breath; The fix’d and solemn stars Gleam through my dungeon-bars-- Wake, rushing winds! this breezeless calm is death!

Ye watch-fires of the skies! The stillness of your eyes Looks too intensely through my troubled soul; I feel this weight of rest An earth-load on my breast-- Wake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll!

I am your own, _your_ child, O ye, the fierce, and wild, And kingly tempests!--will ye not arise? Hear the bold spirit’s voice, That knows not to rejoice But in the peal of your strong harmonies.

By sounding ocean-waves, And dim Calabrian caves, And flashing torrents, I have been your mate; And with the rocking pines Of the olden Apennines, In your dark path stood fearless and elate.

Your lightnings were as rods, That smote the deep abodes Of thought and vision--and the stream gush’d free; Come! that my soul again May swell to burst its chain-- Bring me the music of the sweeping sea!

Within me dwells a flame, An eagle caged and tame, Till call’d forth by the harping of the blast; _Then_ is its triumph’s hour, It springs to sudden power, As mounts the billow o’er the quivering mast.

Then, then, the canvass o’er, With hurried hand I pour The lava-waves and gusts of my own soul! Kindling to fiery life Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife-- Wake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll!

Wake, rise! the reed may bend, The shivering leaf descend, The forest branch give way before your might; But I, your strong compeer, Call, summon, wait you here-- Answer, my spirit!--answer, storm and night!

THE TWO VOICES.

Two solemn Voices, in a funeral strain, Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain Meet in the sky: “Thou art gone hence!” one sang; “our light is flown, Our beautiful, that seem’d too much our own Ever to die!

“Thou art gone hence!--our joyous hills among Never again to pour thy soul in song, When spring-flowers rise! Never the friend’s familiar step to meet With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet Of thy glad eyes.”

“Thou art gone home, gone _home_!” then, high and clear, Warbled that other Voice. “Thou hast no tear Again to shed; Never to fold the robe o’er secret pain; Never, weigh’d down by memory’s clouds, again To bow thy head.

“Thou art gone home! O early crown’d and blest! Where could the love of that deep heart find rest With aught below? Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay, All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away-- Thrice bless’d to go!”

Yet sigh’d again that breeze-like Voice of grief-- “Thou art gone hence! Alas, that aught so brief So loved should be! Thou takest our summer hence!--the flower, the tone, The music of our being, all in one, Depart with thee!

“Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled! Canst _thou_ be of the dead, the awful dead-- The dark unknown? Yes! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall, Never again to light up hearth or hall, Thy smile is gone!”

“Home, _home_!” once more the exulting Voice arose: “Thou art gone home!--from that divine repose Never to roam! Never to say farewell, to weep in vain, To read of change, in eyes beloved, again-- Thou art gone home!

“By the bright waters now thy lot is cast-- Joy for thee, happy friend! thy bark hath past The rough sea’s foam! Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still’d, Home! home!--thy peace is won, thy heart is fill’d: Thou art gone home!”

THE PARTING SHIP.

“A glittering ship, that hath the plain Of ocean for her own domain.” Wordsworth.

Go, in thy glory, o’er the ancient sea, Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell; Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be, Fare thee well, bark! farewell!

Proudly the flashing billow thou hast cleft, The breeze yet follows thee with cheer and song; Who now of storms hath dream or memory left? And yet the deep is strong!

But go thou triumphing, while still the smiles Of summer tremble on the water’s breast! Thou shalt be greeted by a thousand isles, In lone, wild beauty drest.

To thee a welcome breathing o’er the tide, The genii groves of Araby shall pour; Waves that enfold the pearl shall bathe thy side, On the old Indian shore.

Oft shall the shadow of the palm-tree lie O’er glassy bays wherein thy sails are furl’d, And its leaves whisper, as the winds sweep by, Tales of the elder world.

Oft shall the burning stars of southern skies, On the mid-ocean see thee chain’d in sleep, A lonely home for human thoughts and ties, Between the heavens and deep.

Blue seas that roll on gorgeous coasts renown’d, By night shall sparkle where thy prow makes way; Strange creatures of the abyss that none may sound, In thy broad wake shall play.

From hills unknown, in mingled joy and fear, Free dusky tribes shall pour, thy flag to mark;-- Blessings go with thee on thy lone career! Hail, and farewell, thou bark!

A long farewell! Thou wilt not bring us back All whom thou bearest far from home and hearth: Many are thine, whose steps no more shall track Their own sweet native earth!

Some wilt thou leave beneath the plantain’s shade, Where through the foliage Indian suns look bright; Some in the snows of wintry regions laid, By the cold northern light.

And some, far down below the sounding wave. Still shall they lie, though tempests o’er them sweep; Never may flower be strewn above their grave, Never may sister weep!

And thou, the billow’s queen--even thy proud form On our glad sight no more perchance may swell; Yet God alike is in the calm and storm-- Fare thee well, bark! farewell!

THE LAST TREE OF THE FOREST.

Whisper, thou Tree, thou lonely Tree, One, where a thousand stood! Well might proud tales be told by thee, Last of the solemn wood!

Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs, With leaves yet darkly green? Stillness is round, and noontide glows-- Tell us what thou hast seen.

“I have seen the forest-shadows lie Where men now reap the corn; I have seen the kingly chase rush by Through the deep glades at morn.

“With the glance of many a gallant spear, And the wave of many a plume, And the bounding of a hundred deer, It has lit the woodland’s gloom.

“I have seen the knight and his train ride past, With his banner borne on high; O’er all my leaves there was brightness cast From his gleaming panoply.

“The pilgrim at my feet hath laid His palm-branch midst the flowers, And told his beads, and meekly pray’d, Kneeling, at vesper hours.

“And the merry men of wild and glen, In the green array they wore, Have feasted here, with the red wine’s cheer, And the hunter’s song of yore.

“And the minstrel, resting in my shade, Hath made the forest ring With the lordly tales of the high Crusade, Once loved by chief and king.

“But now the noble forms are gone That walk’d the earth of old; The soft wind has a mournful tone, The sunny light looks cold.

“There is no glory left us now Like the glory with the dead; I would that, where they slumber low, My latest leaves were shed!”

O thou dark tree, thou lonely tree, That mournest for the past! A peasant’s home in thy shades I see, Embower’d from ever blast.

A lovely and a mirthful sound Of laughter meets mine ear; For the poor man’s children sport around On the turf, with naught to fear.

And roses lend that cabin’s wall A happy summer-glow: And the open door stands free to all, For it recks not of a foe.

And the village bells are on the breeze That stirs thy leaf, dark tree! How can I mourn, midst things like these, For the stormy past, with thee?

THE STREAMS.

“The power, the beauty, and the majesty, That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain, Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, Or chasms and watery depths; all those have vanish’d! They live no longer in the faith of heaven, But still the heart doth need a language!”

Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

Ye have been holy, O founts and floods! Ye of the ancient and solemn woods, Ye that are born of the valleys deep, With the water-flowers on your breast asleep, And ye that gush from the sounding caves-- Hallow’d have been your waves.

Hallow’d by man, in his dreams of old, Unto beings not of this mortal mould-- Viewless and deathless, and wondrous powers, Whose voice he heard in his lonely hours, And sought with its fancied sound to still The heart earth could not fill.

Therefore the flowers of bright summers gone, O’er your sweet waters, ye streams! were thrown Thousands of gifts to the sunny sea Have ye swept along, in your wanderings free, And thrill’d to the murmur of many a vow-- Where all is silent now!

Nor seems it strange that the heart hath been So link’d in love to your margins green; That still, though ruin’d, your early shrines In beauty gleam through the southern vines, And the ivied chapels of colder skies On your wild banks arise.

For the loveliest scenes of the glowing earth Are those, bright streams! where your springs have birth; Whether their cavern’d murmur fills, With a tone of plaint, the hollow hills, Or the glad sweet laugh of their healthful flow Is heard midst the hamlets low.

Or whether ye gladden the desert sands With a joyous music to pilgrim bands, And a flash from under some ancient rock, Where a shepherd king might have watch’d his flock, Where a few lone palm-trees lift their heads, And a green acacia spreads.

Or whether, in bright old lands renown’d, The laurels thrill to your first-born sound, And the shadow, flung from the Grecian pine, Sweeps with the breeze o’er your gleaming line, And the tall reeds whisper to your waves, Beside heroic graves.

Voices and lights of the lonely place! By the freshest fern your path we trace; By the brightest cups on the emerald moss, Whose fairy goblets the turf emboss; By the rainbow-glancing of insect wings, In a thousand mazy rings.

There sucks the bee, for the richest flowers Are all your own through the summer hours; There the proud stag his fair image knows, Traced on your glass beneath alder-boughs; And the halcyon’s breast, like the skies array’d, Gleams through the willow shade.

But the wild sweet tales that with elves and fays Peopled your banks in the olden days, And the memory left by departed love To your antique founts in glen and grove, And the glory born of the poet’s dreams-- _These_ are your charms, bright streams!

Now is the time of your flowery rites Gone by with its dances and young delights: From your marble urns ye have burst away, From your chapel-cells to the laughing day; Low lie your altars with moss o’ergrown, And the woods again are lone.

Yet holy still be your living springs, Haunts of all gentle and gladsome things! Holy, to converse with nature’s lore, That gives the worn spirit its youth once more, And to silent thoughts of the love divine, Making the heart a shrine!

THE VOICE OF THE WIND.

“There is nothing in the wide world so like the voice of a spirit.”

Gray’s “Letters.”

Oh! many a voice is thine, thou Wind! full many a voice is thine! From every scene thy wing o’ersweeps thou bear’st a sound and sign; A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mastery all thine own, And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind! that gives the answering tone.

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where shiver’d helmets lie, And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a clarion in the sky; A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy drums,-- All these are in thy music met, as when a leader comes.

Thou hast been o’er solitary seas, and from their wastes brought back Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery of thy track-- The chime of low, soft, southern waves on some green palmy shore, The hollow roll of distant surge, the gather’d billows’ roar.

Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou mighty rushing Wind! And thou bearest all their unisons in one full swell combined; The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hidden things and free, Of the dim, old, sounding wilderness, have lent their soul to thee.

Thou art come from cities lighted up for the conqueror passing by, Thou art wafting from their streets a sound of haughty revelry; The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings in the hall, The far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise and fall.

Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, from ancient minsters vast, Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy lonely wing hath pass’d; Thou hast caught the anthem’s billowy swell, the stately dirge’s tone, For a chief, with sword, and shield, and helm, to his place of slumber gone.

Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, wherein our young days flew, Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the loved, the kind, the true; Thou callest back those melodies, though now all changed and fled-- Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music from the dead! Are all these notes in _thee_, wild wind? these many notes in _thee_? Far in our own unfathom’d souls their fount must surely be; Yes! buried, but unsleeping, _there_ thought watches, memory lies, From whose deep urn the tones are pour’d through all earth’s harmonies.

THE VIGIL OF ARMS.[380]

A sounding step was heard by night In a church where the mighty slept, As a mail-clad youth, till morning’s light, Midst the tombs his vigil kept. He walk’d in dreams of power and fame, He lifted a proud bright eye, For the hours were few that withheld his name From the roll of chivalry.

Down the moonlit aisles he paced alone, With a free and stately tread; And the floor gave back a muffled tone From the couches of the dead: The silent many that round him lay, The crown’d and helm’d that were, The haughty chiefs of the war array-- Each in his sepulchre!

But no dim warning of time or fate That youth’s flush’d hopes could chill; He moved through the trophies of buried state With each proud pulse throbbing still. He heard, as the wind through the chancel sung, A swell of the trumpet’s breath; He look’d to the banners on high that hung, And not to the dust beneath.

And a royal masque of splendour seem’d Before him to unfold; Through the solemn arches on it stream’d, With many a gleam of gold: There were crested knight, and gorgeous dame, Glittering athwart the gloom; And he follow’d, till his bold step came To his warrior-father’s tomb.

But there the still and shadowy might Of the monumental stone, And the holy sleep of the soft lamp’s light That over its quiet shone, And the image of that sire, who died In his noonday of renown-- _These_ had a power unto which the pride Of fiery life bow’d down.

And a spirit from his early years Came back o’er his thoughts to move, Till his eye was fill’d with memory’s tears, And his heart with childhood’s love! And he look’d, with a change in his softening glance, To the armour o’er the grave-- For there they hung, the shield and lance, And the gauntlet of the brave.

And the sword of many a field was there, With its cross for the hour of need, When the knight’s bold war-cry hath sunk in prayer, And the spear is a broken reed! --Hush! did a breeze through the armour sigh? Did the folds of the banner shake? Not so!--from the tomb’s dark mystery There seem’d a voice to break!

He had heard that voice bid clarions blow, He had caught its last blessing’s breath-- ’Twas the same--but its awful sweetness now Had an under-tone of death! And it said--“The sword hath conquer’d kings, And the spear through realms hath pass’d; But the cross, alone, of all these things, Might aid me at the last.”

[380] The candidate for knighthood was under the necessity of keeping watch, the night before his inauguration, in a church, and completely armed. This was called “the Vigil of Arms.”

THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE ABBEY.

Heart! that didst press forward still,[381] Where the trumpet’s note rang shrill, Where the knightly swords were crossing, And the plumes like sea-foam tossing, Leader of the charging spear, Fiery heart!--and liest thou _here_? May this narrow spot inurn Aught that so could beat and burn? Heart! that lovedst the clarion’s blast, Silent is thy place at last; Silent--save when early bird Sings where once the mass was heard; Silent--save when breeze’s moan Comes through flowers or fretted stone; And the wild-rose waves around thee, And the long dark grass hath bound thee, --Sleep’st thou, as the swain might sleep, In his nameless valley deep?

No! brave heart! though cold and lone, Kingly power is yet thine own! Feel I not thy spirit brood O’er the whispering solitude? Lo! at one high thought of thee, Fast they rise, the bold, the free, Sweeping past thy lowly bed, With a mute, yet stately tread. Shedding their pale armour’s light Forth upon the breathless night, Bending every warlike plume In the prayer o’er saintly tomb.

Is the noble Douglas nigh, Arm’d to follow thee, or die? Now, true heart! as thou wert wont Pass thou to the peril’s front! Where the banner-spear is gleaming, And the battle’s red wine streaming, Till the Paynim quail before thee, Till the cross wave proudly o’er thee. --Dreams! the falling of a leaf Wins me from their splendours brief; Dreams, yet bright ones! scorn them not, Thou that seek’st the holy spot; Nor, amidst its lone domain, Call the faith in relics vain!

[381] “Now pass thou forward, as thou wert wont, and Douglas will follow thee or die!”--with these words Douglas threw from him the heart of Bruce into mid-battle against the Moors of Spain.

NATURE’S FAREWELL.

“The beautiful is vanish’d, and returns not.”

Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

A youth rode forth from his childhood’s home, Through the crowded paths of the world to roam; And the green leaves whisper’d, as he pass’d, “Wherefore, thou dreamer! away so fast?

“Knew’st thou with what thou art parting here, Long wouldst thou linger in doubt and fear; Thy heart’s light laughter, thy sunny hours, Thou hast left in our shades with the spring’s wild flowers.

“Under the arch by our mingling made, Thou and thy brother have gaily play’d; Ye may meet again where ye roved of yore, But as ye _have_ met there--oh! never more!”

On rode the youth--and the boughs among, Thus the free birds o’er his pathway sung: “Wherefore so fast unto life away? Thou art leaving for ever thy joy in our lay!

“Thou may’st come to the summer woods again, And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain; Afar from the foliage its love will dwell-- A change must pass o’er thee. Farewell, farewell!”

On rode the youth--and the founts and streams Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams: “We have been thy playmates through many a day, Wherefore thus leave us?--oh! yet delay!

“Listen but once to the sound of our mirth! For thee ’tis a melody passing from earth; Never again wilt thou find in its flow The peace it could once on thy heart bestow.

“Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood’s glee, With the breath of the world on thy spirit free; Passion and sorrow its depths will have stirr’d, And the singing of waters be vainly heard.

“Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part-- What should it do for a burning heart? Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill, Thirst which no fountain on earth may still.

“Farewell!--when thou comest again to thine own, Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone; Mournfully true is the tale we tell-- Yet on, fiery dreamer! farewell, farewell!”

And a something of gloom on his spirit weigh’d As he caught the last sounds of his native shade; But he knew not, till may a bright spell broke, How deep were the oracles Nature spoke!

THE BEINGS OF THE MIND.

“The beings of the mind are not of clay; Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray, And more beloved existence; that which Fate Prohibits to dull life, in this our state Of mortal bondage.” Byron.

Come to me with your triumphs and your woes, Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought! I sit alone with flowers, and vernal boughs, In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought; Midst the glad music of the spring alone, And sorrowful for visions that are gone!

Come to me! make your thrilling whispers heard, Ye, by those masters of the soul endow’d With life, and love, and many a burning word, That bursts from grief like lightning from a cloud, And smites the heart, till all its chords reply, As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by.

Come to me! visit my dim haunt!--the sound Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath; The stock-dove’s note above; and all around, The poesy that with the violet’s breath Floats through the air, in rich and sudden streams, Mingling, like music, with the soul’s deep dreams.

Friends, friends!--for such to my lone heart ye are-- Unchanging ones! from whose immortal eyes The glory melts not as a waning star, And the sweet kindness never, never dies; Bright children of the bard! o’er this green dell Pass once again, and light it with your spell!

Imogen! fair Fidele! meekly blending, In patient grief, “a smiling with a sigh;”[382] And thou, Cordelia! faithful daughter, tending That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky; Thou of the soft low voice!--thou art not gone! Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone.

And come to me!--sing me thy willow-strain, Sweet Desdemona! with the sad surprise In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain, Undimm’d, unquenchable affection lies; Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and scorn, As a frail hyacinth by showers o’erborne.

And thou, too, fair Ophelia! flowers are here, That well might win thy footstep to the spot-- Pale cowslips, meet for maiden’s early bier, And pansies for sad thoughts,[383]--but needed not! Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light In that wild eye still tremulously bright.

And Juliet, vision of the south! enshrining All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong; The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining, The soul its nightingales pour forth in song, Thou, making death deep joy!--but _could’st_ thou die? No!--thy young love hath immortality!

From earth’s bright faces fades the light of morn, From earth’s glad voices drops the joyous tone; But ye, the children of the soul, were born Deathless, and for undying love alone; And, O ye beautiful! ’tis well, how well, In the soul’s world, with you, where change is not, to dwell!

[382]

“Nobly he yokes A smiling with a sigh.”--Cymbeline.

[383]

“Here’s pansies for you--that’s for thoughts.” Hamlet.

THE LYRE’S LAMENT.

“A large lyre hung in an opening of the rock, and gave forth its melancholy music to the wind--but no human being was to be seen.”

Salathiel.

A deep-toned lyre hung murmuring To the wild wind of the sea; “O melancholy wind,” it sigh’d, “What would thy breath with me?

“Thou canst not wake the spirit That in me slumbering lies, Thou strikest not forth th’ electric fire Of buried melodies.

“Wind of the dark sea-waters! Thou dost but sweep my strings Into wild gusts of mournfulness, With the rushing of thy wings.

“But the spell--the gift--the lightning-- Within my frame conceal’d, Must I moulder on the rock away With their triumphs unreveal’d?

“I have power, high power, for freedom To wake the burning soul! I have sounds that through the ancient hills Like a torrent’s voice might roll.

“I have pealing notes of victory That might welcome kings from war; I have rich, deep tones to send the wail For a hero’s death afar.

“I have chords to lift the pæan From the temple to the sky, Full as the forest-unisons When sweeping winds are high.

“And love--for love’s lone sorrow I have accents that might swell Through the summer air with the rose’s breath, Or the violet’s faint farewell:

“Soft--spiritual--mournful-- Sighs in each note enshrined-- But who shall call that sweetness forth? _Thou_ can’st not, ocean-wind!

“I pass without my glory, Forgotten I decay-- Where is the touch to give me life? --Wild, fitful wind, away!”

So sigh’d the broken music That in gladness had no part-- How like art thou, neglected Lyre! To many a human heart!

TASSO’S CORONATION.[384]

A crown of victory! a triumphal song! Oh! call some friend, upon whose pitying heart The weary one may calmly sink to rest; Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch, Pour the last prayer for mortal agony!

A trumpet’s note is in the sky, in the glorious Roman sky, Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice of victory; There is crowding to the Capitol, the imperial streets along, For again a conqueror must be crown’d--a kingly child of song:

Yet his chariot lingers, Yet around his home Broods a shadow silently, Midst the joy of Rome.

A thousand, thousand laurel boughs are waving wide and far, To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car; A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their wealth of flowers, To scatter o’er his path of fame bright hues in gem-like showers.

Peace! Within his chamber Low the mighty lies-- With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow, And a wandering in his eyes.

Sing, sing for him, the lord of song--for him, whose rushing strain In mastery o’er the spirit sweeps, like a strong wind o’er the main! Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for ever there to dwell, As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple’s holiest cell.

Yes! for him, the victor, Sing--but low, sing low! A soft, sad _miserere_ chant For a soul about to go!

The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o’er his way, Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of golden day; Streaming through every haughty arch of the Cæsars’ past renown-- Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror for his crown!

Shut the proud, bright sunshine From the fading sight! There needs no ray by the bed of death, Save the holy taper’s light.

The wreath is twined--the way is strewn--the lordly train are met-- The streets are hung with coronals--why stays the minstrel yet? Shout! as an army shouts in joy around a royal chief-- Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love and grief!

Silence! forth we bring him, In his last array; From love and grief the freed, the flown-- Way for the bier!--make way!

[384] Tasso died at Rome on the day before that appointed for his coronation in the Capitol.

THE BETTER LAND.

“I hear thee speak of the better land, Thou call’st its children a happy band; Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?” --“Not there, not there, my child!”

“Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds on their starry wings Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?” --“Not there, not there, my child!”

“Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o’er sands of gold?-- Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?-- Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?” --“Not there, not there, my child!

“Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-- Sorrow and death may not enter there: Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, It is there, it is there, my child!”

THE WOUNDED EAGLE.

Eagle! this is not thy sphere! Warrior-bird! what seek’st thou here? Wherefore by the fountain’s brink Doth thy royal pinion sink? Wherefore on the violet’s bed Lay’st thou thus thy drooping head? Thou, that hold’st the blast in scorn, Thou, that wear’st the wings of morn!

Eagle! wilt thou not arise? Look upon thine own bright skies! Lift thy glance! the fiery sun There his pride of place hath won! And the mountain lark is there, And sweet sound hath fill’d the air; Hast thou left that realm on high? --Oh! it can be but to die!

Eagle! eagle! thou hast bow’d From thine empire o’er the cloud! Thou, that hadst etherial birth, Thou hast stoop’d too near the earth, And the hunter’s shaft hath found thee, And the toils of death have bound thee! --Wherefore didst thou leave thy place, Creature of a kingly race?

Wert thou weary of thy throne? Was thy sky’s dominion lone? Chill and lone it well might be, Yet that mighty wing was free! Now the chain is o’er it cast, From thy heart the blood flows fast, --Woe for gifted souls and high! Is not such _their_ destiny?

SADNESS AND MIRTH.

“Nay, these wild fits of uncurb’d laughter Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind, As it has lower’d of late, so keenly cast, Unsuited seem, and strange. Oh, nothing strange! Did’st thou ne’er see the swallow’s veering breast, Winging the air beneath some murky cloud, In the sunn’d glimpses of a troubled day, Shiver in silvery brightness? Or boatman’s oar, as vivid lightning, flash In the faint gleam, that, like a spirit’s path, Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake? O gentle friend! Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad, And may be so to-morrow!” Joanna Baillie.

Ye met at the stately feasts of old, Where the bright wine foam’d over sculptured gold; Sadness and Mirth! ye were mingled there With the sound of the lyre in the scented air; As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high, Ye mix’d in the gorgeous revelry.

For there hung o’er those banquets of yore a gloom, A thought and a shadow of the tomb; It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone, To the rose a colouring not its own, To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power-- Sadness and Mirth! ye had each your dower!

Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by, With the Roman eagles through the sky! I know that even then, in his hour of pride, The soul of the mighty within him died; That a void in his bosom lay darkly still, Which the music of victory might never fill!

Thou wert there, O Mirth! swelling on the shout, Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out; Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine-- All the rich voices in air were thine, The incense, the sunshine--but, Sadness, _thy_ part, Deepest of all, was the victor’s heart!

Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear; Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier! As the gleam from a sea-bird’s white wing shed Crosses the storm in its path of dread; As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky-- Sadness and Mirth! so ye come and fly!

Ye meet in the poet’s haunted breast, Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest! When the breath of the violet is out in spring, When the woods with the wakening of music ring, O’er his dreamy spirit your currents pass, Like shadow and sunlight o’er mountain grass.

When will your parting be, Sadness and Mirth? Bright stream and dark one! Oh, never on earth! Never while triumphs and tombs are so near, While death and love walk the same dim sphere, While flowers unfold where the storm may sweep, While the heart of man is a soundless deep!

But there smiles a land, O ye troubled pair! Where ye have no part in the summer air: Far from the breathings of changeful skies, Over the seas and the graves it lies; Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done, And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun!

THE NIGHTINGALE’S DEATH-SONG.

“Willst du nach den Nachtigallen fragen, Die mit seelenvollen melodie Dich entzuckten in des Lenzes Tagen? --Nur so lang sie liebten, waren sie.” Schiller.

Mournfully, sing mournfully, And die away, my heart! The rose, the glorious rose is gone, And I, too, will depart.

The skies have lost their splendour, The waters changed their tone, And, wherefore, in the faded world, Should music linger on?

Where is the golden sunshine, And where the flower-cup’s glow? And where the joy of the dancing leaves, And the fountain’s laughing flow?

A voice, in every whisper Of the wave, the bough, the air, Comes asking for the beautiful, And moaning, “Where, oh! where?”

Tell of the brightness parted, Thou bee, thou lamb at play! Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth! --Are ye, too, pass’d away?

Mournfully, sing mournfully! The royal rose is gone: Melt from the woods, my spirit! melt In one deep farewell tone!

Not so!--swell forth triumphantly The full, rich, fervent strain! Hence with young love and life I go, In the summer’s joyous train.

With sunshine, with sweet odour, With every precious thing, Upon the last warm southern breeze My soul its flight shall wing.

Alone I shall not linger, When the days of hope are past, To watch the fall of leaf by leaf, To wait the rushing blast.

Triumphantly, triumphantly! Sing to the woods, I go! For me, perchance, in other lands, The glorious rose may blow.

The sky’s transparent azure, And the greensward’s violet breath, And the dance of light leaves in the wind, May there know naught of death.

No more, no more sing mournfully! Swell high, then break, my heart! With love, the spirit of the woods, With summer I depart!

THE DIVER.

“They learn in suffering what they teach in song.”--Shelley.

Thou hast been where the rocks of coral grow, Thou hast fought with eddying waves;-- Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low, Thou searcher of ocean’s caves!

Thou hast look’d on the gleaming wealth of old, And wrecks where the brave have striven: The deep is a strong and a fearful hold, But thou its bar hast riven!

A wild and weary life is thine-- A wasting task and lone, Though treasure-grots for thee may shine, To all besides unknown!

A weary life! but a swift decay Soon, soon shall set thee free; Thou’rt passing fast from thy toils away, Thou wrestler with the sea!

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek, Well are the death-signs read-- Go! for the pearl in its cavern seek, Ere hope and power be fled!

And bright in beauty’s coronal That glistening gem shall be; A star to all in the festive hall-- But who will think on _thee_?

None!--as it gleams from the queen-like head, Not one midst throngs will say, “A life hath been, like a raindrop, shed For that pale, quivering ray!”

Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought! --And are not those like thee, Who win for earth the gems of thought? O wrestler with the sea!

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go, Where the passion-fountains burn, Gathering the jewels far below From many a buried urn:

Wringing from lava-veins the fire, That o’er bright words is pour’d; Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre A spirit in each chord.

But, oh! the price of bitter tears Paid for the lonely power That throws at last, o’er desert years, A darkly glorious dower!

Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread, So radiant thoughts are strew’d; --The soul whence those high gifts are shed May faint in solitude!

And who will think, when the strain is sung Till a thousand hearts are stirr’d, What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung, Have gush’d with every word?

None, none!--his treasures live like thine, _He_ strives and dies like thee; --Thou, that hast been to the pearl’s dark shrine, O wrestler with the sea!

THE REQUIEM OF GENIUS.

“Les poetes, dont l’imagination tient la puissance d’aimer et de souffrir, ne sont-ils pas les bannis d’une autre region?” Madame de Stael--“De L’Allemagne.”

No tears for thee!--though light be from us gone With thy soul’s radiance, bright, yet restless one! No tears for thee! They that have loved an exile, must not mourn To see him parting for his native bourne O’er the dark sea.

All the high music of thy spirit here Breathed but the language of another sphere, Unecho’d round; And strange, though sweet, as midst our weeping skies Some half-remember’d strain of Paradise Might sadly sound.

Hast thou been answer’d?--thou, that from the night, And from the voices of the tempest’s might, And from the past, Wert seeking still some oracle’s reply, To pour the secrets of man’s destiny Forth on the blast!

Hast thou been answer’d?--thou, that through the gloom, And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb, A cry didst send, So passionate and deep?--to pierce, to move, To win back token of unburied love From buried friend!

And hast thou found where living waters burst? Thou that didst pine amidst us in the thirst Of fever-dreams! Are the true fountains thine for evermore? O lured so long by shining mists that wore The light of streams!

Speak! is it well with thee? We call, as _thou_, With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow, Wert wont to call On the departed! Art thou bless’d and free? --Alas! the lips earth covers, even to _thee_ Were silent all!

Yet shall our hope rise fann’d by quenchless faith, As a flame, foster’d by some warm wind’s breath, In light upsprings: Freed soul of song! yes, thou hast found the sought; Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought, On morning’s wings.

And we will dream it is _thy_ joy we hear, When life’s young music, ringing far and clear, O’erflows the sky. No tears for _thee_! the lingering gloom is ours-- Thou art for converse with all glorious powers, Never to die!

TRIUMPHANT MUSIC.

“Tacete, tacete, O suoni trionfanti Risvegliate in vano ’l cor che non puo liberarsi.”

Wherefore and whither bear’st thou up my spirit, On eagle wings, through every plume that thrill? It hath no crown of victory to inherit-- Be still, triumphant harmony! be still!

Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly swelling Into rich floods of joy. It is but pain To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling, To sink so fast, so heavily again!

No sounds for earth? Yes, to young chieftain dying On his own battle-field, at set of sun, With his freed country’s banner o’er him flying, Well mightst thou speak of fame’s high guerdon won.

No sounds for earth? Yes, for the martyr, leading Unto victorious death serenely on; For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding, Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone.

But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating Against life’s narrow bound, in conflict vain! For power, for joy, high hope, and rapturous greeting, Thou wakest lone thirst--be hush’d, exulting strain!

Be hush’d, or breathe of grief!--of exile yearnings Under the willows of the stranger-shore; Breathe of the soul’s untold and restless burnings For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more.

Breathe of deep love--a lonely vigil keeping Through the night-hours, o’er wasted wealth to pine; Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves, heaping In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine.

Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky; Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, th’ undying-- Of joy no more--bewildering harmony!

SECOND-SIGHT.

“Ne’er err’d the prophet-heart that grief inspired, Though joy’s illusions mock their votarist.”--Maturin.

A mournful gift is mine, O friends! A mournful gift is mine! A murmur of the soul which blends With the flow of song and wine.

An eye that through the triumph’s hour Beholds the coming woe, And dwells upon the faded flower Midst the rich summer’s glow.

Ye smile to view fair faces bloom Where the father’s board is spread; I see the stillness and the gloom Of a home whence all are fled.

I see the wither’d garlands lie Forsaken on the earth, While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly Through the ringing hall of mirth.

I see the blood-red future stain On the warrior’s gorgeous crest; And the bier amidst the bridal train When they come with roses drest.

I hear the still small moan of time Through the ivy branches made, Where the palace, in its glory’s prime, With the sunshine stands array’d.

The thunder of the seas I hear, The shriek along the wave, When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer Salute the parting brave.

With every breeze a spirit sends To me some warning sign,-- A mournful gift is mine, O friends! A mournful gift is mine!

O prophet-heart! thy grief, thy power, To all deep souls belong-- The shadow in the sunny hour, The wail in the mirthful song.

Their sight is all too sadly clear-- For them a veil is riven; Their piercing thoughts repose not here, Their home is but in heaven.

THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND.

“Thy path is not as mine;--where thou art blest My spirit would but wither; mine own grief Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing, Than all thy happiness.”

Hath the summer’s breath on the south-wind borne, Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn? Hath it lured thee, bird! from their sounding caves To the river shores where the osier waves?

Or art thou come on the hills to dwell, Where the sweet-voiced echoes have many a cell? Where the moss bears print of the wild-deer’s tread, And the heath like a royal robe is spread?

Thou hast done well, O thou bright sea-bird! There is joy where the song of the lark is heard, With the dancing of waters through copse and dell, And the bee’s low tune in the fox-glove’s bell.

Thou hast done well: oh! the seas are lone, And the voice they send up hath a mournful tone; A mingling of dirges and wild farewells, Fitfully breathed through its anthem swells.

The proud bird rose as the words were said-- The rush of his pinion swept o’er my head, And the glance of his eye, in its bright disdain, Spoke him a child of the haughty main.

He hath flown from the woods to the ocean’s breast, To his throne of pride on the billow’s crest. Oh! who shall say to a spirit free-- “_There_ lies the pathway of bliss for thee?”

THE SLEEPER.

Oh! lightly, lightly tread! A holy thing is sleep, On the worn spirit shed, And eyes that wake to weep.

A holy thing from heaven, A gracious dewy cloud, A covering mantle given The weary to enshroud.

Oh! lightly, lightly tread! Revere the pale still brow, The meekly drooping head, The long hair’s willowy flow.

Ye know not what ye do, That call the slumberer back From the world unseen by you Unto life’s dim, faded track.

Her soul is far away, In her childhood’s land perchance, Where her young sisters play, Where shines her mother’s glance.

Some old sweet native sound Her spirit haply weaves; A harmony profound Of woods with all their leaves;

A murmur of the sea, A laughing tone of streams:-- Long may her sojourn be In the music-land of dreams!

Each voice of love is there, Each gleam of beauty fled, Each lost one still more fair-- Oh! lightly, lightly tread!

THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL.

O dim, forsaken mirror! How many a stately throng Hath o’er thee gleam’d, in vanish’d hours Of the wine-cup and the song!

The song hath left no echo; The bright wine hath been quaff’d; And hush’d is every silvery voice That lightly here hath laugh’d.

O mirror--lonely mirror! Thou of the silent hall! Thou hast been flush’d with beauty’s bloom-- Is this, too, vanish’d all?

It is, with the scatter’d garlands Of triumphs long ago, With the melodies of buried lyres, With the faded rainbow’s glow.

And for all the gorgeous pageants-- For the glance of gem and plume, For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath, And vase of rich perfume--

Now, dim, forsaken mirror! Thou givest but faintly back The quiet stars, and the sailing moon, On her solitary track.

And thus with man’s proud spirit Thou tellest me ’twill be, When the forms and hues of this world fade From his memory, as from thee:

And his heart’s long-troubled waters At last in stillness lie, Reflecting but the images Of the solemn world on high.

TO THE DAUGHTER OF BERNARD BARTON, THE QUAKER POET.

Happy thou art, the child of one Who in each lowly flower, Each leaf that glances to the sun, Or trembles with the shower;

In each soft shadow of the sky, Or sparkle of the stream, Will guide thy kindling spirit’s eye To trace the Love Supreme.

So shall deep quiet fill thy breast, A joy in wood and wild; And e’en for this I call thee blest, The gentle poet’s child!

THE STAR OF THE MINE.

From the deep chambers of a mine, With heavy gloom o’erspread, I saw a star at noontide shine Serenely o’er my head.

I had not seen it midst the glow Of the rich upper day; But in that shadowy world below, How my heart bless’d its ray!

And still, the farther from my sight Torches and lamps were borne, The purer, lovelier, seem’d the light That wore its beams unshorn.

Oh! what is like that heavenly spark? --A friend’s kind, steadfast eye; Where, brightest when the world grows dark, Hope, cheer, and comfort lie!

WASHINGTON’S STATUE.

SENT FROM ENGLAND TO AMERICA.

Yes! rear thy guardian hero’s form On thy proud soil, thou western world! A watcher through each sign of storm, O’er freedom’s flag unfurl’d.

There, as before a shrine, to bow, Bid thy true sons their children lead: The language of that noble brow For all things good shall plead.

The spirit rear’d in patriot fight, The virtue born of home and hearth, There calmly throned, a holy light Shall pour o’er chainless earth.

And let that work of England’s hand, Sent through the blast and surge’s roar, So girt with tranquil glory stand For ages on thy shore!

Such, through all time, the greetings be, That with the Atlantic billow sweep! Telling the mighty and the free Of brothers o’er the deep.

A THOUGHT OF HOME AT SEA.

WRITTEN FOR MUSIC.

’Tis lone on the waters When eve’s mournful bell Sends forth to the sunset A note of farewell;

When, borne with the shadows And winds as they sweep, There comes a fond memory Of home o’er the deep;

When the wing of the sea-bird Is turn’d to her nest, And the thought of the sailor To all he loves best!

’Tis lone on the waters-- That hour hath a spell To bring back sweet voices, With words of farewell!

TO THE MEMORY OF A SISTER-IN-LAW.

We miss thy voice while early flowers are blowing, And the first flush of blossom clothes each bough, And the spring sunshine round our home is glowing Soft as thy smile: thou shouldst be with us now.

With _us_? We wrong thee by the earthly thought: Could our fond gaze but follow where thou art, Well might the glories of this world seem naught To the one promise given the pure in heart.

Yet wert thou blest e’en here--oh! ever blest In thine own sunny thoughts and tranquil faith! The silent joy that still o’erflow’d thy breast Needed but guarding from all change, by death.

So is it seal’d to peace! On thy clear brow Never was care one fleeting shade to cast; And thy calm days in brightness were to flow A holy stream, untroubled to the last.

Farewell! thy life hath left surviving love A wealth of records, and sweet “feelings given,” From sorrow’s heart the faintness to remove By whispers breathing “less of earth than heaven.”[385]

Thus rests thy spirit still on those with whom Thy step the path of joyous duty trode, Bidding them make an altar of thy tomb, Where chasten’d thought may offer praise to God.

[385] Alluding to the lines she herself quoted but an hour before her death:--

“Some feelings are to mortals given With less of earth in them than heaven.”

TO AN ORPHAN.

Thou hast been rear’d too tenderly, Beloved too well and long, Watch’d by too many a gentle eye: Now look on life--be strong!

Too quiet seem’d thy joys for change, Too holy and too deep; Bright clouds, through summer skies that range Seem ofttimes thus to sleep,--

To sleep in silvery stillness bound, As things that ne’er may melt; Yet gaze again--no trace is found To show thee where they dwelt.

This world hath no more love to give Like that which thou hast known; Yet the heart breaks not--we survive Our treasures--and bear on.

But oh! too beautiful and blest Thy home of youth hath been! Where shall thy wing, poor bird! find rest, Shut out from that sweet scene?

Kind voices from departed years Must haunt thee many a day; Looks that will smite the source of tears Across thy soul must play.

Friends--now the alter’d or the dead, And music that is gone, A gladness o’er thy dreams will shed, And thou shalt wake--alone.

Alone! it is in that deep word That all thy sorrow lies; How is the heart to courage stirr’d By smiles from kindred eyes!

And are these lost?--and have I said To aught like _thee_--be strong? --So bid the willow lift its head, And brave the tempest’s wrong!

Thou reed! o’er which the storm hath pass’d-- Thou shaken with the wind! On one, _one_ friend thy weakness cast-- There is but One to bind!

HYMN BY THE SICKBED OF A MOTHER.

Father! that in the olive-shade, When the dark hour came on, Didst, with a breath of heavenly aid, Strengthen thy Son;

Oh! by the anguish of that night, Send us down bless’d relief; Or to the chasten’d, let thy might Hallow this grief!

And Thou, that when the starry sky Saw the dread strife begun, Didst teach adoring faith to cry, “Thy will be done;”

By thy meek spirit, Thou, of all That e’er have mourn’d, the chief-- Thou Saviour! if the stroke _must_ fall, Hallow this grief!

WHERE IS THE SEA?

SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE.

[A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beauty, only replied--“_The sea--where is it?_”]

Where is the sea?--I languish here-- Where is my own blue sea? With all its barks in fleet career, And flags, and breezes free?

I miss that voice of waves which first Awoke my childhood’s glee; The measured chime--the thundering burst-- Where is my own blue sea?

Oh! rich your myrtle’s breath may rise, Soft, soft your winds may be; Yet my sick heart within me dies-- Where is my own blue sea?

I hear the shepherd’s mountain flute, I hear the whispering tree; The echoes of my soul are mute, --Where is my own blue sea?

[All this time, her imagination was at work more busily than ever; new thoughts and fresh fancies seemed to spring up “as willows by the water-courses:” and the facility with which her lyrics were poured forth, approached, in many instances, to actual improvisation. When confined to her bed, and unable to use a pen, she would often employ the services of those about her, to write down what she had composed. “Felicia has just sent for me,” wrote her amanuensis on one of these occasions, “with pencil and paper, to put down a little song, (‘Where is the Sea?’) which, she said, had come to her like a strain of music, whilst lying in the twilight under the infliction of a blister; and as I really think ‘a scrap’ (as our late eccentric visitor would call it) composed under such circumstances, is, to use the words of Coleridge, a ‘psychological curiosity,’ I cannot resist copying it for you. It was suggested by a story she somewhere read lately, of a Greek islander, carried off to the Vale of Tempe, and pining amidst all its beauties for the sight and sound of his native sea.”--_Memoir_, p. 134.]

TO MY OWN PORTRAIT.

How is it that before mine eyes, While gazing on thy mien, All my past years of life arise, As in a mirror seen? What spell within thee hath been shrined To image back my own deep mind?

Even as a song of other times Can trouble memory’s springs; Even as a sound of vesper-chimes Can wake departed things; Even as a scent of vernal flowers Hath records fraught with vanish’d hours,--

Such power is thine! They come, the dead, From the grave’s bondage free, And smiling back the changed are led To look in love on thee; And voices that are music flown Speak to me in the heart’s full tone:

Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress-- The thoughts of happier years-- And a vain gush of tenderness O’erflows in child-like tears; A passion which I may not stay, A sudden fount that must have way.

But thou, the while--oh! almost strange, Mine imaged self! it seems That on _thy_ brow of peace no change Reflects my own swift dreams; Almost I marvel not to trace Those lights and shadows in _thy_ face.

To see _thee_ calm, while powers thus deep-- Affection, Memory, Grief-- Pass o’er my soul as winds that sweep O’er a frail aspen leaf! Oh, that the quiet of thine eye Might sink there when the storm goes by!

Yet look thou still serenely on, And if sweet friends there be That when my song and soul are gone Shall seek my form in thee,-- Tell them of one for whom ’twas best To flee away and be at rest!

[In the autumn of 1827, at the urgent request of Mr Alaric Watts, who was then forming a gallery of portraits of the living authors of Great Britain, Mrs Hemans was prevailed upon to sit for her picture. The artist selected on this occasion was Mr W. E. West, an American by birth, who had passed some time in Italy, and painted the last likeness ever taken of Lord Byron, and also one of Madame Guiccioli, which was engraved in one of the annuals. During his stay at Rhyllon, where he remained for some weeks, he finished three several portraits of Mrs Hemans--one for Mr Alaric Watts, one which is now in the possession of Professor Norton, and a third, which he most courteously presented to Mrs Hemans’ sister, to whom it was even then a treasure, and is now become one of inestimable value. This likeness, considered by her family as the best ever taken of her, is the one which suggested Mrs Hemans’s affecting lines, “To my own Portrait.” ... It is, however, only fair to repeat the remark already made, and in which all those who were accustomed to study the play of her features must concur--that there never was a countenance more difficult to transfer to canvass; so varying were its expressions, and so impossible is it to be satisfied with the _one_ which can alone be perpetuated by the artist. The great charm of Mr West’s picture is its perfect freedom from any thing set or constrained in the air; and the sweet, serious expression, so accordant with her maternal character, which recalls her own lines--

“Mother! with thine earnest eye Ever following silently;”

and which made one of her children remark, in glancing from it to the bust, executed some years after by Mr Angus Fletcher[386]--“The bust is the poetess, but the picture is _all mother_.”--_Memoir_, p. 129-130.]

[386] An engraving from Mr Fletcher’s admirable bust forms the frontispiece to the present volume.

NO MORE.

_No more!_ A harp-string’s deep and breaking tone, A last, low, summer breeze, a far-off swell, A dying echo of rich music gone, Breathe through those words--those murmurs of farewell-- No more!

To dwell in peace, with home-affections bound, To know the sweetness of a mother’s voice, To feel the spirit of her love around, And in the blessing of her eye rejoice-- No more!

A dirge-like sound! To greet the early friend Unto the hearth, his place of many days; In the glad song with kindred lips to blend, Or join the household laughter by the blaze-- No more!

Through woods that shadow’d our first years to rove With all our native music in the air; To watch the sunset with the eyes we love, And turn, and read our own heart’s answer _there_-- No more!

Words of despair!--yet earth’s, all earth’s the woe Their passion breathes--the desolately deep! That sound in heaven--oh! image then the flow Of gladness in its tones--to part, to weep-- No more!

To watch, in dying hope, affection’s wane, To see the beautiful from life depart, To wear impatiently a secret chain, To waste the untold riches of the heart-- No more!

Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn For human love[387]--and never quench that thirst; To pour the soul out, winning no return, O’er fragile idols, by delusion nursed-- No more!

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean, To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead; To send our troubled spirits through the unseen, Intensely questioning for treasures fled-- No more!

Words of triumphant music! Bear we on The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air; Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done, To learn in joy,--to struggle, to despair-- No more!

[387] “_Jamais, jamais, je ne serai aimé comme j’aime_!” was a mournful expression of Madame de Staël’s.

THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN POET.

Where shall I find, in all this fleeting earth, This world of changes and farewells, a friend That will not fail me in his love and worth, Tender and firm, and faithful to the end?

Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest-- Long on vain idols its devotion shed; Some have forsaken, whom I loved the best, And some deceived, and some are with the dead.

But _thou_, my Saviour! thou, my hope and trust, Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart; Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust, And fix on thee, th’ Unchanging One, my heart!

PASSING AWAY.

“‘Passing away’ is written on the world, and all the world contains.”

It is written on the rose, In its glory’s full array; Read what those buds disclose-- “Passing away.”

It is written on the skies Of the soft blue summer day; It is traced in sunset’s dyes-- “Passing away.”

It is written on the trees, As their young leaves glistening play, And on brighter things than these-- “Passing away.”

It is written on the brow Where the spirit’s ardent ray Lives, burns, and triumphs now-- “Passing away.”

It is written on the _heart_; Alas! that _there_ Decay Should claim from Love a part-- “Passing away.”

Friends, friends!--oh! shall we meet In a land of purer day, Where lovely things and sweet Pass not away?

Shall we know each other’s eyes, And the thoughts that in them lay When we mingled sympathies “Passing away?”

Oh! if this may be so, Speed, speed, thou closing day! How blest from earth’s vain show To pass away!

THE ANGLER.[388]

“I in these flowery meads would be; These crystal streams should solace me; To whose harmonious bubbling noise I with my angle would rejoice; ... And angle on, and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave.” Isaac Walton.

Thou that hast loved so long and well The vale’s deep, quiet streams, Where the pure water-lilies dwell, Shedding forth tender gleams; And o’er the pool the May-fly’s wing Glances in golden eves of spring!

Oh, lone and lovely haunts are thine! Soft, soft the river flows, Wearing the shadow of thy line, The gloom of alder-boughs; And in the midst a richer hue, One gliding vein of heaven’s own blue.

And there but low sweet sounds are heard-- The whisper of the reed, The plashing trout, the rustling bird, The scythe upon the mead; Yet, through the murmuring osiers near, There steals a step which mortals fear.

’Tis not the stag, that comes to lave At noon his panting breast; ’Tis not the bittern, by the wave Seeking her sedgy nest; The air is fill’d with summer’s breath, The young flowers laugh--yet look! ’tis Death!

But if, where silvery currents rove, Thy heart, grown still and sage, Hath learn’d to read the words of love That shine o’er nature’s page; If holy thoughts thy guests have been Under the shade of willows green;

Then, lover of the silent hour By deep lone waters pass’d! Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power, To cheer thee through the last; And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell, May’st calmly bid thy streams farewell.

[388] This, and the following poem, were originally written for a work entitled _Death’s Doings_, edited by Mr Alaric Watts.

DEATH AND THE WARRIOR.

“Ay, warrior, arm! and wear thy plume On a proud and fearless brow! I am the lord of the lonely tomb, And a mightier one than thou!

“Bid thy soul’s love farewell, young chief-- Bid her a long farewell! Like the morning’s dew shall pass that grief: Thou comest with me to dwell!

“Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep, Thy steed o’er the breezy hill; But they bear thee on to a place of sleep, Narrow, and cold, and chill!”

“Was the voice I heard _thy_ voice, O Death! And is thy day so near? Then on the field shall my life’s last breath Mingle with victory’s cheer!

“Banners shall float, with the trumpet’s note, Above me as I die! And the palm-tree wave o’er my noble grave, Under the Syrian sky.

“High hearts shall burn in the royal hall, When the minstrel names that spot; And the eyes I love shall weep my fall.-- Death, Death, I fear thee not!”

“Warrior! thou bear’st a haughty heart, But I can bend its pride! How shouldst thou know that thy soul will part In the hour of victory’s tide?

“It may be far from thy steel-clad bands That I shall make thee mine; It may be lone on the desert sands, Where men for fountains pine!

“It may be deep amidst heavy chains, In some deep Paynim hold; I have slow, dull steps and lingering pains Wherewith to tame the bold!”

“Death, Death! I go to a doom unblest, If this indeed must be; But the Cross is bound upon my breast, And I may not shrink for thee!

“Sound, clarion! sound!--for my vows are given To the cause of the holy shrine; I bow my soul to the will of heaven, O Death!--and not to thine!”

SONG FOR AN AIR BY HUMMEL.

Oh! if thou wilt not give thine heart, Give back my own to me; For if in thine I have no part, Why should mine dwell with thee?[389]

Yet no! this mournful love of mine I will not from me cast; Let me but dream ’twill win me thine By its deep truth at last!

Can aught so fond, so faithful, live Through years without reply? --Oh! if thy heart thou wilt not give, Give me a thought, a sigh!

[389] The first verse of this song is a literal translation from the German.

TO THE

MEMORY OF LORD CHARLES MURRAY,

SON OF THE DUKE OF ATHOLL, WHO DIED IN THE CAUSE AND LAMENTED BY THE PEOPLE OF GREECE.

“Time cannot teach forgetfulness, When grief’s full heart is fed by fame.”--Byron.

Thou shouldst have slept beneath the stately pines, And with th’ ancestral trophies of thy race; Thou that hast found, where alien tombs and shrines Speak of the past, a lonely dwelling-place! Far from thy brethren hath thy couch been spread, Thou bright young stranger midst the mighty dead!

Yet to thy name a noble rite was given, Banner and dirge met proudly o’er thy grave, Under that old and glorious Grecian heaven, Which unto death so oft hath lit the brave: And thy dust blends with mould heroic there, With all that sanctifies the inspiring air.

Vain voice of fame! sad sound for those that weep! For her, the mother, in whose bosom lone Thy childhood dwells--whose thoughts a record keep Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone; Of all thine early grace and gentle worth-- A vernal promise, faded now from earth!

But a bright memory claims a proud regret-- A lofty sorrow finds its own deep springs Of healing balm; and she hath treasures yet Whose soul can number with love’s holy things, A name like thine! Now, past all cloud or spot, A gem is hers, laid up where change is not.

THE BROKEN CHAIN.

I am free!--I have burst through my galling chain, The life of young eagles is mine again; I may cleave with my bark the glad sounding sea, I may rove where the wind roves--my path is free!

The streams dash in joy down the summer hill, The birds pierce the depths of the sky at will, The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze,-- And is not my spirit as one of these?

Oh! the green earth with its wealth of flowers, And the voices that ring through its forest bowers, And the laughing glance of the founts that shine, Lighting the valleys--all, all are mine!

I may urge through the desert my foaming steed, The wings of the morning shall lend him speed; I may meet the storm in its rushing glee-- Its blasts and its lightnings are not more free!

Captive! and hast thou then rent thy chain? Art thou free in the wilderness, free on the main? Yes! there thy spirit may proudly soar, But must thou not mingle with throngs the more?

The bird when he pineth, may hush his song, Till the hour when his heart shall again be strong; But thou--canst thou turn in thy woe aside, And weep, midst thy brethren? No, not for pride.

May the fiery word from thy lip find way, When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring to day? May the care that sits in thy weary breast Look forth from thine aspect, the revel’s guest?

No! with the shaft in thy bosom borne, Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn; Thou must fold thy mantle that none may see, And mask thee with laughter, and say thou art free.

No! thou art chain’d till thy race is run, By the power of all in the soul of one; On thy heart, on thy lip, must the fetter be-- Dreamer! fond dreamer! oh, who is free?

THE SHADOW OF A FLOWER.

“La voila telle que la mort nous l’a faite.”--Bossuet.

[“Never was a philosophical imagination more beautiful than that exquisite one of Kircher, Digby, and others, who discovered in the ashes of plants their primitive forms, which were again raised up by the power of heat. The ashes of roses, say they, will again revive in roses, unsubstantial and unodoriferous; they are not roses which grow on rose-trees, but their delicate apparitions, and, like apparitions, they are seen but for a moment.”--_Curiosities of Literature._]

’Twas a dream of olden days That Art, by some strange power, The visionary form could raise From the ashes of a flower.

That a shadow of the rose, By its own meek beauty bow’d, Might slowly, leaf by leaf, unclose, Like pictures in a cloud.

Or the hyacinth, to grace, As a second rainbow, spring; Of summer’s path a dreary trace, A fair, yet mournful thing!

For the glory of the bloom That a flush around it shed, And the soul within, the rich perfume, Where were they? Fled, all fled!

Naught but the dim, faint line To speak of vanish’d hours.-- Memory! what are joys of thine? --Shadows of buried flowers!

LINES TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL.

Creature of air and light! Emblem of that which will not fade or die! Wilt thou not speed thy flight, To chase the south wind through the glowing sky? What lures thee thus to stay With silence and decay, Fix’d on the wreck of cold mortality?

The thoughts once chamber’d there, Have gather’d up their treasures and are gone;-- Will the dust tell thee where That which hath burst the prison-house is flown? Rise, nursling of the day! If thou wouldst trace its way-- Earth has no voice to make the secret known.

Who seeks the vanish’d bird Near the deserted nest and broken shell? Far thence, by us unheard, He sings, rejoicing in the woods to dwell: Thou of the sunshine born, Take the bright wings of morn! _Thy_ hope springs heavenward from yon ruin’d cell.

THE BELL AT SEA.

[The dangerous islet called the Bell Rock, on the coast of Forfarshire, used formerly to be marked only by a bell, which was so placed as to be swung by the motion of the waves, when the tide rose above the rock. A lighthouse has since been erected there.]

When the tide’s billowy swell Had reach’d its height, Then toll’d the rock’s lone bell Sternly by night.

Far over cliff and surge Swept the deep sound, Making each wild wind’s dirge Still more profound.

Yet that funereal tone The sailor bless’d, Steering through darkness on With fearless breast.

E’en so may we, that float On life’s wide sea, Welcome each warning note, Stern though it be![390]

[390] It may be scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that the stealing of this bell by a Pirate forms the subject of Southey’s spirited ballad, “The Inchcape Rock.”

THE SUBTERRANEAN STREAM.

“Thou stream, Whose source is inaccessibly profound, Whither do thy mysterious waters tend? --Thou imagest my life.”

Darkly thou glidest onward, Thou deep and hidden wave! The laughing sunshine hath not look’d Into thy secret cave.

Thy current makes no music-- A hollow sound we hear, A muffled voice of mystery, And know that thou art near.

No brighter line of verdure Follows thy lonely way; No fairy moss, or lily’s cup Is freshen’d by thy play.

The halcyon doth not seek thee, Her glorious wings to lave; Thou know’st no tint of the summer sky, Thou dark and hidden wave!

Yet once will day behold thee, When to the mighty sea, Fresh bursting from their cavern’d veins, Leap thy lone waters free.

There wilt thou greet the sunshine For a moment, and be lost, With all thy melancholy sounds, In the ocean’s billowy host.

Oh! art thou not, dark river! Like the fearful thoughts untold Which haply, in the hush of night, O’er many a soul have roll’d?

Those earth-born strange misgivings-- Who hath not felt their power? Yet who hath breathed them to his friend, E’en in his fondest hour?

They hold no heart-communion, They find no voice in song, They dimly follow far from earth The grave’s departed throng.

Wild is their course and lonely, And fruitless in man’s breast; They come and go, and leave no trace Of their mysterious guest.

Yet surely must their wanderings At length be like thy way; Their shadows, as thy waters, lost In one bright flood of day!

THE SILENT MULTITUDE.

“For we are many in our solitudes.”--Lament of Tasso.

A mighty and a mingled throng Were gather’d in one spot; The dwellers of a thousand homes-- Yet midst them voice was not.

The soldier and his chief were there-- The mother and her child: The friends, the sisters of one hearth-- None spoke--none moved--none smiled.

There lovers met, between whose lives Years had swept darkly by; After that heart-sick hope deferr’d, They met--but silently.

You might have heard the rustling leaf, The breeze’s faintest sound, The shiver of an insect’s wing, On that thick-peopled ground.

Your voice to whispers would have died For the deep quiet’s sake; Your tread the softest moss have sought, Such stillness not to break.

What held the countless multitude Bound in that spell of peace? How could the ever-sounding life Amid so many cease?

Was it some pageant of the air-- Some glory high above, That link’d and hush’d those human souls In reverential love?

Or did some burdening passion’s weight Hang on their indrawn breath? Awe--the pale awe that freezes words? Fear--the strong fear of death?

A mightier thing--Death, Death himself Lay on each lonely heart! Kindred were there--yet hermits all, Thousands--but each apart.

THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE.[391]

[“Les sarcophages même chez les anciens, ne rapellent que des idées guerrières ou riantes: on voit des jeux, des danses, représentés en bas-relief sur les tombeaux.”--_Corinne._

O ever-joyous band Of revellers amidst the southern vines! On the pale marble, by some gifted hand, Fix’d in undying lines!

Thou, with the sculptured bowl, And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath, And thou, from whose young lip and flute the soul Of music seems to breathe;

And ye, luxuriant flowers! Linking the dancers with your graceful ties, And cluster’d fruitage, born of sunny hours, Under Italian skies:

Ye, that a thousand springs, And leafy summers with their odorous breath, May yet outlast,--what do ye there, bright things! Mantling the place of death?

Of sunlight and soft air, And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green, Unto the heart a glowing thought ye bear;-- Why thus, where dust hath been?

Is it to show how slight The bound that severs festivals and tombs, Music and silence, roses and the blight, Crowns and sepulchral glooms?

Or, when the father laid Haply his child’s pale ashes here to sleep, When the friend visited the cypress shade Flowers o’er the dead to heap;

Say if the mourners sought, In these rich images of summer mirth, These wine-cups and gay wreaths, to lose the thought Of our last hour on earth?

Ye have no voice, no sound, Ye flutes and lyres! to tell me what I seek: Silent ye are, light forms with vine-leaves crown’d, Yet to my soul ye speak.

Alas! for those that lay Down in the dust without their hope of old! Backward they look’d on life’s rich banquet-day, But all beyond was cold.

Every sweet wood-note then, And through the plane-trees every sunbeam’s glow, And each glad murmur from the homes of men, Made it more hard to go.

But we, when life grows dim, When its last melodies float o’er our way, Its changeful hues before us faintly swim, Its flitting lights decay;--

E’en though we bid farewell Unto the spring’s blue skies and budding trees, Yet may we lift our hearts in hope to dwell Midst brighter things than these;

And think of deathless flowers, And of bright streams to glorious valleys given, And know the while, how little dream of ours Can shadow forth of heaven.

[391] Transcriber’s Note: Footnote not found on original page 493 footnote 1.

EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.[392]

Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman’s axe lies free, And the reaper’s work is done.

The twilight star to heaven, And the summer dew to flowers, And rest to us, is given By the cool, soft evening hours.

Sweet is the hour of rest! Pleasant the wind’s low sigh, And the gleaming of the west, And the turf whereon we lie;

When the burden and the heat Of labour’s task are o’er, And kindly voices greet The tired one at his door.

Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman’s axe lies free, And the reaper’s work is done.

Yes! tuneful is the sound That dwells in whispering boughs; Welcome the freshness round, And the gale that fans our brows!

But rest more sweet and still Than ever nightfall gave, Our yearning hearts shall fill In the world beyond the grave.

There shall no tempest blow, No scorching noontide heat; There shall be no more snow,[393] No weary, wandering feet.

So we lift our trusting eyes From the hills our fathers trode, To the quiet of the skies, To the Sabbath of our God.

Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman’s axe lies free, And the reaper’s work is done.

[392] “The loved hour of repose is striking. Let us come to the sunset tree.”--See Captain Sherer’s interesting _Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany_.

[393]

“Wohl ihm, er ist hingegangen Wo _kein Schnee_ mehr ist.” Schiller’s _Nadowessiche Todtenklage_.

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

Forget them not!--though now their name Be but a mournful sound, Though by the hearth its utterance claim A stillness round.

Though for their sake this earth no more As it hath been may be, And shadows, never mark’d before, Brood o’er each tree;

And though their image dim the sky, Yet, yet forget them not! Nor, where their love and life went by, Forsake the spot!

They have a breathing influence there, A charm, not elsewhere found; Sad--yet it sanctifies the air, The stream, the ground.

Then, though the wind an alter’d tone Through the young foliage bear, Though every flower, of something gone A tinge may wear;

Oh! fly it not! No _fruitless_ grief, Thus in their presence felt, A record links to every leaf There, where they dwelt.

Still trace the path which knew their tread, Still tend their garden-bower, Still commune with the holy dead In each lone hour!

The _holy_ dead!--oh! bless’d we are, That we may call them so, And to their image look afar Through all our woe!

Bless’d, that the things they loved on earth As relics we may hold, That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth By springs untold!

Bless’d, that a deep and chastening power Thus o’er our souls is given, If but to bird, or song, or flower, Yet all for heaven!

HE WALKED WITH GOD.

GENESIS, V. XXIV.

[“These two little pieces,” (“He walked with God,” and “The Rod of Aaron,”) says the author in one of her letters, “are part of a collection I think of forming, to be called Sacred Lyrics. They are all to be on scriptural subjects, and to go through the most striking events of the Old Testament, to those far more deeply affecting ones of the New.” Two others (“The Voice of God” and “The Fountain of Marah”) are subjoined, as having been probably intended to form a part of the same series.]

He walk’d with God, in holy joy, While yet his days were few; The deep, glad spirit of the boy To love and reverence grew. Whether, each nightly star to count, The ancient hills he trode, Or sought the flowers by stream and fount-- Alike he walk’d with God.

The graver noon of manhood came, The full of cares and fears; One voice was in his heart--the same It heard through childhood’s years. Amidst fair tents, and flocks, and swains, O’er his green pasture-sod, A shepherd-king on Eastern plains-- The patriarch walk’d with God.

And calmly, brightly, that pure life Melted from earth away; No cloud it knew, no parting strife, No sorrowful decay: He bow’d him not, like all beside, Unto the spoiler’s rod, But join’d at once the glorified, Where angels walk with God!

So let _us_ walk! The night must come To us that comes to all; We through the darkness must go home, Hearing the trumpet’s call. Closed is the path for ever more Which without death he trode; Not so that way, wherein of yore His footsteps walk’d with God!

THE ROD OF AARON.

NUMBERS, XVII. VIII.

Was it the sigh of the southern gale That flush’d the almond bough? Brightest and first the young spring to hail, Still its red blossoms glow.

Was it the sunshine that woke its flowers With a kindling look of love? Oh! far and deep, and through hidden bowers, That smile of heaven can rove!

No! from the breeze and the living light Shut was the sapless rod; But it felt in the stillness a secret might, And thrill’d to the breath of God.

E’en so may that breath, like the vernal air, O’er our glad spirits move; And all such things as are good and fair Be the blossoms, its track that prove!

THE VOICE OF GOD.

“I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid.”--Gen. iii. 10.

Amidst the thrilling leaves, Thy voice At evening’s fall drew near; Father! and did not man rejoice That blessed sound to hear?

Did not his heart within him burn, Touch’d by the solemn tone? Not so!--for, never to return, Its purity was gone.

Therefore, midst holy stream and bower, His spirit shook with dread, And call’d the cedars, in that hour, To veil his conscious head.

Oh! in each wind, each fountain-flow, Each whisper of the shade, Grant me, my God! thy voice to know, And not to be afraid!

THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH.

“And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter.

“And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall we drink?

“And he cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree, which when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet.”--Exodus, xv. 23-25.

Where is the tree the prophet threw Into the bitter wave? Left it no scion where it grew, The thirsting soul to save?

Hath nature lost the hidden power Its precious foliage shed? Is there no distant Eastern bower With such sweet leaves o’erspread?

Nay, wherefore ask?--since gifts are ours Which yet may well imbue Earth’s many troubled founts with showers Of heaven’s own balmy dew.

Oh! mingled with the cup of grief Let faith’s deep spirit be! And every prayer shall win a leaf From that bless’d healing tree!

THE PENITENT’S OFFERING.

ST LUKE, VII. XXXVII.-IX.

Thou that with pallid cheek, And eyes in sadness meek, And faded locks that humbly swept the ground, From thy long wanderings won, Before the all-healing Son, Did’st bow thee to the earth--O lost and found!

When thou wouldst bathe his feet With odours richly sweet, And many a shower of woman’s burning tear, And dry them with that hair, Brought low the dust to wear, From the crown’d beauty of its festal year.

Did He reject thee then, While the sharp scorn of men On thy once bright and stately head was cast? No! from the Saviour’s mien, A solemn light serene Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last.

For thee, their smiles no more Familiar faces wore; Voices, once kind, had learn’d the stranger’s tone: Who raised thee up, and bound Thy silent spirit’s wound?-- He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone!

But which, O erring child, From home so long beguiled!-- Which of thine offerings won those words of heaven, That o’er the bruisèd reed, Condemn’d of earth to bleed, In music pass’d, “Thy sins are all forgiven?”

Was it that perfume, fraught With balm and incense, brought From the sweet woods of Araby the Blest? Or that fast-flowing rain Of tears, which not in vain, To Him who scorn’d not tears, thy woes confess’d?

No! not by these restored Unto thy Father’s board, Thy peace, that kindled joy in heaven, was made; But, costlier in his eyes, By that bless’d sacrifice, Thy heart, thy full deep heart, before Him laid.

THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN.

ON CHANTREY’S MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL.

[“The monument by Chantrey in Lichfield Cathedral, to the memory of the two children of Mrs Robinson, is one of the most affecting works of art ever executed. He has given a pathos to marble which one who trusts to his natural feelings, and admires and is touched only at their bidding, might have thought, from any previous experience, that it was out of the power of statuary to attain. The monument is executed with all his beautiful simplicity and truth. The two children, two little girls, are represented as lying in each other’s arms, and, at first glance, appear to be sleeping:--

‘But something lies Too deep and still on those soft-sealed eyes.’

It is while lying in the helplessness of innocent sleep that infancy and childhood are viewed with the most touching interest; and this, and the loveliness of the children, the uncertainty of the expression at first view, the dim shadowing forth of that sleep from which they cannot be awakened--their hovering, as it were, upon the confines of life, as if they might still be recalled--all conspire to render the last feeling, that death is indeed before us, most deeply affecting. They were the only children of their mother, and she was a widow. A tablet commemorative of their father hangs over the monument. This stands at the end of one of the side-aisles of the choir, where there is nothing to distract the attention from it, or weaken its effect. It may be contemplated in silence and alone. The inscription, in that subdued tone of strong feeling which seeks no relief in words, harmonizes with the character of the whole. It is as follows:--

‘Sacred to the Memory of Ellen Jane and Marianne, only children Of the late Rev. William Robinson, and Ellen Jane, his wife, Their affectionate Mother, In fond remembrance of their heaven-loved innocence, Consigns their resemblance to this sanctuary, In humble gratitude for the glorious assurance That ‘of such is the kingdom of God.’[394] A. N.”]

Fair images of sleep, Hallow’d, and soft, and deep, On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies, Like moonlight on shut bells Of flowers in mossy dells, Fill’d with the hush of night and summer skies!

How many hearts have felt Your silent beauty melt Their strength to gushing tenderness away! How many sudden tears, From depths of buried years All freshly bursting, having confess’d your sway!

How many eyes will shed Still, o’er your marble bed, Such drops from memory’s troubled fountains wrung! While hope hath blights to bear, While love breathes mortal air, While roses perish ere to glory sprung!

Yet from a voiceless home, If some sad mother come Fondly to linger o’er your lovely rest, As o’er the cheek’s warm glow, And the sweet breathings low, Of babes that grew and faded on her breast;

If then the dove-like tone Of those faint murmurs gone, O’er her sick sense too piercingly return; If for the soft bright hair, And brow and bosom fair, And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn;

O gentle forms, entwined Like tendrils, which the wind May wave, so clasp’d, but never can unlink! Send from your calm profound A still, small voice--a sound Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink!

By all the pure, meek mind In your pale beauty shrined, By childhood’s love--too bright a bloom to die O’er her worn spirit shed, O fairest, holiest dead! The faith, trust, joy, of immortality!

[394] From _The Offering_, an American annual.

WOMAN AND FAME.

Thou hast a charmèd cup, O Fame! A draught that mantles high, And seems to lift this earthly frame Above mortality. Away! to me--a woman--bring Sweet waters from affection’s spring!

Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine Into so proud a wreath, For that resplendent gift of thine Heroes have smiled in death: Give _me_ from some kind hand a flower, The record of one happy hour!

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone Can bid each life-pulse beat, As when a trumpet’s note hath blown, Calling the brave to meet: But mine, let mine--a woman’s breast, By words of home-born love be bless’d.

A hollow sound is in thy song, A mockery in thine eye, To the sick heart that doth but long For aid, for sympathy-- For kindly looks to cheer it on, For tender accents that are gone.

Fame! Fame! thou canst not be the stay Unto the drooping reed, The cool, fresh fountain in the day Of the soul’s feverish need: Where must the lone one turn or flee!-- Not unto thee--oh! not to thee!

A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE.

Dreamer! and wouldst thou know If love goes with us to the viewless bourne? Wouldst thou bear hence th’ unfathom’d source of woe In thy heart’s lonely urn?

What hath it been to thee, That power, the dweller of thy secret breast? A dove sent forth across a stormy sea, Finding no place of rest:

A precious odour cast On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by; A voice of music utter’d to the blast, And winning no reply.

Even were such answer thine, Wouldst thou be bless’d? Too sleepless, too profound, Are the soul’s hidden springs; there is no line Their depth of love to sound.

Do not words faint and fail When thou wouldst fill them with that ocean’s power? As thine own cheek, before high thoughts grows pale In some o’erwhelming hour.

Doth not thy frail form sink Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot, When thy heart strives, held down by many a link, Where thy beloved are not?

Is not thy very soul Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed, Till a vain tenderness, beyond control, Bows down thy weary head?

And wouldst thou bear all _this_-- The burden and the shadow of thy life-- To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss With earthly feelings’ strife?

Not thus, not thus--oh, no! Not veil’d and mantled with dim clouds of care, That spirit of my soul should with me go To breathe celestial air.

But as the skylark springs To its own sphere, where night afar is driven, As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings, So must love mount to heaven!

Vainly it shall not strive There on weak words to pour a stream of fire; Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give, As light might wake a lyre.

And oh! its blessings _there_, Shower’d like rich balsam forth on some dear head, Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear, A joy of sunlight shed.

Let me, then--let me dream That love goes with us to the shore unknown; So o’er its burning tears a heavenly gleam In mercy shall be thrown!

THE VOICE OF MUSIC.

“Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.” Childe Harold.

Whence is the might of thy master-spell? Speak to me, voice of sweet sound! and tell: How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath, Passionate visions of love and death?

How call’st thou back, with a note, a sigh, Words and low tones from the days gone by-- A sunny glance, or a fond farewell?-- Speak to me, voice of sweet sound! and tell.

What is thy power, from the soul’s deep spring In sudden gushes the tears to bring? Even midst the swells of thy festal glee, Fountains of sorrow are stirr’d by thee!

Vain are those tears!--vain and fruitless all-- Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall; For a purer bliss while the full heart burns, For a brighter home while the spirit yearns!

Something of mystery there surely dwells, Waiting thy touch, in our bosom-cells; Something that finds not its answer here-- A chain to be clasp’d in another sphere.

Therefore a current of sadness deep Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep, Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky-- Like a name of the dead when the wind foams high!

Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught With vain remembrance and troubled thought; Speak! for thou tellest my soul that its birth Links it with regions more bright than earth.

THE ANGEL’S GREETING.

“Hark!--they whisper!--Angels say, Sister spirit! come away.” Pope.

Come to the land of peace! Come where the tempest hath no longer sway, The shadow passes from the soul away, The sounds of weeping cease.

Fear hath no dwelling there! Come to the mingling of repose and love, Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove Through the celestial air.

Come to the bright, and blest, And crown’d for ever! Midst that shining band, Gather’d to heaven’s own wreath from every land, Thy spirit shall find rest!

Thou hast been long alone: Come to thy mother! On the Sabbath shore, The heart that rock’d thy childhood, back once more Shall take its wearied one.

In silence wert thou left: Come to thy sisters! Joyously again All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain, Shall greet their long bereft.

Over thine orphan head The storm hath swept, as o’er a willow’s bough: Come to thy father! It is finish’d now; Thy tears have all been shed.

In thy divine abode, Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace, And, oh! bright victory--death by love no place. Come, spirit! to thy God.

A FAREWELL TO WALES,

FOR THE MELODY CALLED “THE ASH GROVE,” ON LEAVING THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDREN.

The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear-- Farewell, and a blessing be with thee, green land! On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air, On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel’s free hand, From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed, As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead!

I bless thee!--yet not for the beauty which dwells In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy shore; And not for the memory set deep in thy dells, Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore; And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled-- Green land, poet-land of my home and my dead!

I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat Where’er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies; For thy cottage-hearths burning the stranger to greet, For the soul that shines forth from thy children’s kind eyes! May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be spread, Green land of my childhood, my home, and my dead!

[“It was about this time (1828) that ‘The Farewell to Wales’ was written.

‘I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat Where’er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies; For thy cottage-hearths burning the stranger to greet, For the soul that shines forth from thy children’s kind eyes.’

Mrs Hemans always spoke of this ‘land of her childhood, her home, and her dead,’ with interest and affection. When she sailed from its shore, she covered her face in her cloak, desiring her boys to tell her when the hills were out of sight, that she might then look up. She would often, too, refer to the pain she had suffered--in addition to the sorrow of parting from her kindred and friends, for the first time since her birth, to make actual acquaintance with the daily cares of life--upon taking leave of the simple and homely peasantry of the neighbourhood, by whom she was beloved with that old-fashioned heartiness which yet lingers in some of the nooks and remote places of England. Many of them rushed forward to touch the posts of the gate through which the poetess had passed; and when, three years afterwards, she paid a visit to St Asaph, came and wept over her, and entreated her to return and make her home among them again.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 206-7.]

IMPROMPTU LINES,

ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVING FROM HER SOME FLOWERS WHEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS.

Ye tell me not of birds and bees, Not of the summer’s murmuring trees, Not of the streams and woodland bowers-- A sweeter tale is yours, fair flowers! Glad tidings to my couch ye bring, Of one still bright, still flowing spring-- A fount of kindness ever new, In a friend’s heart, the good and true.

A PARTING SONG.

“O mes amis! rapellez-vous quelquefois mes vers! mon ame y est empreinte.”--Corinne.

When will ye think of me, my friends? When will ye think of me?-- When the last red light, the farewell of day, From the rock and the river is passing away-- When the air with a deepening hush is fraught, And the heart grows burden’d with tender thought, Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, kind friends? When will ye think of me?-- When the rose of the rich midsummer-time Is fill’d with the hues of its glorious prime-- When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled, From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread-- Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, sweet friends? When will ye think of me?-- When the sudden tears o’erflow your eye At the sound of some olden melody-- When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, When ye feel the charm of a poet’s dream-- Then let it be!

Thus let my memory be with you, friends! Thus ever think of me! Kindly and gently, but as of one For whom ’tis well to be fled and gone-- As of a bird from a chain unbound, As of a wanderer whose home is found-- So let it be.

[“The description of her feelings, when the actual parting took place, proves that there was no exaggeration in the affectionate sadness of her ‘Farewell to Wales,’ and the blessing she thus fondly left with it:--

‘The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear-- Farewell! and a blessing be with thee, green land! On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air, On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel’s free hand, From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed, As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead!

‘Oh! that Tuesday morning!’ (thus she wrote in her first letter to St Asaph.) ‘I literally covered my face all the way from Bronwylfa, until the boys told me we had passed the Clwyd range of hills. Then something of the bitterness was over.

‘Miss P. met me at Bagillt, and on board the packet we found Mr D., who was kinder to me than I can possibly tell you. He really watched over me all the way with a care I shall not soon forget; and notwithstanding all you may say of _female_ protection, I felt that of a gentleman to be a great comfort, for we had a difficult and disagreeable landing. As we entered the port, a vessel, coming out, struck against ours, and caused a great concussion: there was no danger, I imagine, but it gave one a faint notion of what the meeting must have been between the Comet and the Aire. We had a pretty sight on the water; another packet, loaded, clustered all over with blue-coat boys, sailed past. It was their annual holiday, on which they have a water excursion; and as they went by, all the little fellows waved their hats, and sent forth three cheers, which made our vessel ring again. Only imagine a ship-load of happiness! That word reminds me of my own boys, who are enjoying themselves greatly. Of myself, what can I say to you?... When I look back on the short time that has elapsed since I left this place, I am astonished; I seem in it to have lived an age of deep, strong, vain feeling.” --_Memoir_, p. 151-3.]

WE RETURN NO MORE![395]

“When I stood beneath the fresh green tree, And saw around me the wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise; and the Spring Come forth, her work of gladness to contrive, With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turn’d from all she brought to all she could not bring.” Childe Harold.

“We return!--we return!--we return no more!” So comes the song to the mountain shore, From those that are leaving their Highland home For a world far over the blue sea’s foam: “We return no more!” and through cave and dell Mournfully wanders that wild farewell.

“We return!--we return!--we return no more!” So breathe sad voices our spirits o’er; Murmuring up from the depths of the heart, Where lovely things with their light depart: And the inborn sound hath a prophet’s tone, And we feel that a joy is for ever gone.

“We return!--we return!--we return no more!” Is it heard when the days of flowers are o’er? When the passionate soul of the night-bird’s lay Hath died from the summer woods away? When the glory from sunset’s robe hath pass’d, Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast?

No! It is not the rose that returns no more;-- A breath of spring shall its bloom restore; And it is not the voice that o’erflows the bowers With a stream of love through the starry hours; Nor is it the crimson of sunset hues, Nor the frail flush’d leaves which the wild wind strews.

“We return!--we return!--we return no more!” Doth the bird sing thus from a brighter shore? Those wings that follow the southern breeze, Float they not homeward o’er vernal seas? Yes! from the lands of the vine and palm They come, with the sunshine, when waves grow calm.

“But we!--we return!--we return no more!” The heart’s young dreams, when their spring is o’er; The love it hath pour’d so freely forth-- The boundless trust in ideal worth; The faith in affection--deep, fond, yet vain-- _These_ are the lost that return not again!

[395] _Ha til!--ha til!--ha til mi tulidle!_--“we return!--we return!--we return no more!”--the burden of the Highland song of emigration.

TO A WANDERING FEMALE SINGER.

Thou hast loved and thou hast suffer’d! Unto feeling deep and strong, Thou hast trembled like a harp’s frail string-- I know it by thy song!

Thou hast loved--it may be vainly-- But well--oh, but too well! Thou hast suffer’d all that woman’s breast May bear--but must not tell.

Thou hast wept, and thou hast parted, Thou hast been forsaken long, Thou hast watch’d for steps that came not back-- I know it by thy song!

By the low, clear silvery gushing Of its music from thy breast; By the quivering of its flute-like swell-- A sound of the heart’s unrest;

By its fond and plaintive lingering On each word of grief so long. Oh! thou hast loved and suffer’d much-- I know it by thy song!

LIGHTS AND SHADES.

The gloomiest day hath gleams of light; The darkest wave hath light foam near it; And twinkles through the cloudiest night Some solitary star to cheer it.

The gloomiest soul is not all gloom; The saddest heart is not all sadness; And sweetly o’er the darkest doom There shines some lingering beam of gladness.

Despair is never _quite_ despair; Nor life nor death the future closes; And round the shadowy brow of Care Will Hope and Fancy twine their roses.

[These spirited and graceful stanzas appeared in the “For-get-me-Not” for 1829, and are here for the first time admitted into the general collection of the author’s works. In all probability, they are an early effusion, and poured forth when the poetry of Moore was fresh in her mind.]

THE PALMER.

“The faded palm-branch in his hand Show’d pilgrim from the Holy Land.” Scott.

Art thou come from the far-off land at last? Thou that hast wander’d long! Thou art come to a home whence the smile hath pass’d With the merry voice of song.

For the sunny glance and the bounding heart Thou wilt seek--but all are gone; They are parted, e’en as waters part, To meet in the deep alone!

And thou--from thy lip is fled the glow, From thine eye the light of morn; And the shades of thought o’erhang thy brow, And thy cheek with life is worn.

Say what hast thou brought from the distant shore For thy wasted youth to pay? Hast thou treasure to win thee joys once more? Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way?

“I have brought but the palm-branch in my hand, Yet I call not my bright youth lost! I have won but high thought in the Holy Land, Yet I count not too dear the cost!

“I look on the leaves of the deathless tree-- These records of my track; And better than youth in its flush of glee, Are the memories they give me back!

“They speak of toil, and of high emprise, As in words of solemn cheer; They speak of lonely victories O’er pain, and doubt, and fear.

“They speak of scenes which have now become Bright pictures in my breast; Where my spirit finds a glorious home, And the love of my heart can rest.

“The colours pass not from _these_ away, Like tints of shower or sun; Oh! beyond all treasures that know decay, Is the wealth my soul hath won!

“A rich light thence o’er my life’s decline, An inborn light is cast; For the sake of the palm from the holy shrine, I bewail not my bright days past!”

THE CHILD’S FIRST GRIEF.

Oh! call my brother back to me! I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flower and bee-- Where is my brother gone?

“The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam’s track; I care not now to chase its flight-- Oh! call my brother back!

“The flowers run wild--the flowers we sow’d Around our garden tree; Our vine is drooping with its load-- Oh! call him back to me!”

“He would not hear thy voice, fair child! He may not come to thee; The face that once like spring-time smiled, On earth no more thou’lt see.

“A rose’s brief, bright life of joy, Such unto him was given: Go--thou must play alone, my boy! Thy brother is in heaven.”

“And has he left his birds and flowers; And must I call in vain? And through the long, long summer hours, Will he not come again?

“And by the brook and in the glade Are all our wanderings o’er? Oh! while my brother with me play’d, _Would I had loved him more_!”

TO THE NEW-BORN.[396]

A blessing on thy head, thou child of many hopes and fears! A rainbow-welcome thine hath been, of mingled smiles and tears. Thy father greets thee unto life with a full and chasten’d heart, For a solemn gift from God thou comest, all precious as thou art!

I see thee not asleep, fair boy! upon thy mother’s breast, Yet well I know how guarded there shall be thy rosy rest; And how her soul with love, and prayer, and gladness, will o’erflow, While bending o’er thy soft-seal’d eyes, thou dear one! well I know.

A blessing on thy gentle head! and bless’d thou _art_ in truth, For a home where God is felt awaits thy childhood and thy youth: Around thee pure and holy thoughts shall dwell as light and air, And steal unto thine heart, and wake the germs now folded there.

Smile on thy mother! while she feels that unto her is given, In that young day-spring glance, the pledge of a soul to rear for heaven! Smile! and sweet peace be o’er thy sleep, joy o’er thy wakening shed! Blessings and blessings evermore, fair boy! upon thy head!

[396] Addressed to the child of her eldest brother.

THE DEATH-SONG OF ALCESTIS.

She came forth in her bridal robes array’d, And midst the graceful statues, round the hall Shedding the calm of their celestial mien, Stood pale yet proudly beautiful as they: Flowers in her bosom, and the star-like gleam Of jewels trembling from her braided hair, And _death_ upon her brow!--but glorious death! Her own heart’s choice, the token and the seal Of love, o’ermastering love; which, till that hour, Almost an anguish in the brooding weight Of its unutterable tenderness, Had burden’d her full soul. But now, oh! now, Its time was come--and from the spirit’s depths, The passion and the mighty melody Of its immortal voice in triumph broke, Like a strong rushing wind!

The soft pure air Came floating through that hall--the Grecian air, Laden with music--flute-notes from the vales, Echoes of song--the last sweet sounds of life And the glad sunshine of the golden clime Stream’d, as a royal mantle, round her form-- The glorified of love! But she--she look’d Only on _him_ for whom ’twas joy to die, Deep--deepest, holiest joy! Or if a thought Of the warm sunlight, and the scented breeze, And the sweet Dorian songs, o’erswept the tide Of her unswerving soul--’twas but a thought That own’d the summer loveliness of life For _him_ a worthy offering! So she stood, Wrapt in bright silence, as entranced awhile; Till her eye kindled, and her quivering frame With the swift breeze of inspiration shook, As the pale priestess trembles to the breath Of inborn oracles! Then flush’d her cheek, And all the triumph, all the agony, Borne on the battling waves of love and death, All from her woman’s heart, in sudden song, Burst like a fount of fire.

“I go, I go! Thou sun! thou golden sun! I go Far from thy light to dwell: Thou shalt not find my place below, Dim is that world--bright sun of Greece, farewell!

“The laurel and the glorious rose Thy glad beam yet may see; But where no purple summer glows, O’er the dark wave _I_ haste from them and thee.

“Yet doth my spirit faint to part? --I mourn thee not, O sun! Joy, solemn joy, o’erflows my heart: Sing me triumphal songs!--my crown is won!

“Let not a voice of weeping rise-- My heart is girt with power! Let the green earth and festal skies Laugh, as to grace a conqueror’s closing hour!

“For thee, for _thee_, my bosom’s lord! Thee, my soul’s loved! I die; Thine is the torch of life restored, Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory!

“Now may the boundless love, that lay Unfathom’d still before, In one consuming burst find way-- In one bright flood all, all its riches pour!

“Thou know’st, thou know’st what love is _now_! Its glory and its might-- Are they not written on my brow? And will that image ever quit thy sight?

“No! deathless in thy faithful breast, There shall my memory keep Its own bright altar-place of rest, While o’er my grave the cypress branches weep.

“Oh, the glad light!--the light is fair, The soft breeze warm and free; And rich notes fill the scented air, And all are gifts--_my_ love’s last gifts to thee!

“Take me to thy warm heart once more! Night falls--my pulse beats low: Seek not to quicken, to restore-- Joy is in every pang. I go, I go!

“I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath, I meet thy fond look still; Keen is the strife of love and death; Faint and yet fainter grows my bosom’s thrill.

“Yet swells the tide of rapture strong, Though mists o’ershade mine eye! --Sing, Pæan! sing a conqueror’s song! For thee, for _thee_, my spirit’s lord, I die!”

THE HOME OF LOVE.

Thou mov’st in visions, Love! Around thy way, E’en through this world’s rough path and changeful day, For ever floats a gleam-- Not from the realms of moonlight or the morn, But thine own soul’s illumined chambers born-- The colouring of a dream!

Love! shall I read thy dream? Oh! is it not All of some sheltering wood-embosom’d spot-- A bower for thee and thine? Yes! lone and lowly is that home; yet there Something of heaven in the transparent air Makes every flower divine.

Something that mellows and that glorifies, Breathes o’er it ever from the tender skies, As o’er some blessed isle; E’en like the soft and spiritual glow Kindling rich woods, whereon th’ ethereal bow Sleeps lovingly awhile.

The very whispers of the wind have there A flute-like harmony, that seems to bear Greeting from some bright shore, Where none have said _farewell_!--where no decay Lends the faint crimson to the dying day; Where the storm’s might is o’er.

And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest, In the deep sanctuary of one true breast Hidden from earthly ill: There wouldst thou watch the homeward step, whose sound Wakening all nature to sweet echoes round, Thine inmost soul can thrill.

There by the hearth should many a glorious page, From mind to mind the immortal heritage, For thee its treasures pour; Or music’s voice at vesper hours be heard, Or dearer interchange of playful word, Affection’s household lore.

And the rich unison of mingled prayer, The melody of hearts in heavenly air, Thence duly should arise; Lifting th’ eternal hope, th’ adoring breath, Of spirits, not to be disjoin’d by death, Up to the starry skies.

There, dost thou well believe, no storm should come To mar the stillness of that angel-home; There should thy slumbers be Weigh’d down with honey-dew, serenely bless’d, Like theirs who first in Eden’s grove took rest Under some balmy tree.

Love! Love! thou passionate in joy and woe! And canst _thou_ hope for cloudless peace below-- _Here_, where bright things must die? O thou! that, wildly worshipping, dost shed On the frail altar of a mortal head Gifts of infinity!

Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love! Danger seems gathering from beneath, above, Still round thy precious things; Thy stately pine-tree, or thy gracious rose, In their sweet shade can yield thee no repose, Here, where the blight hath wings.

And as a flower, with some fine sense imbued, To shrink before the wind’s vicissitude, So in thy prescient breast Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill To the low footstep of each coming ill: Oh! canst _thou_ dream of rest?

Bear up thy dream! thou mighty and thou weak! Heart, strong as death, yet as a reed to break-- As a flame, tempest-sway’d! He that sits calm on high is yet the source Whence thy soul’s current hath its troubled course, He that great deep hath made!

Will He not pity?--He whose searching eye Reads all the secrets of thine agony?-- Oh! pray to be forgiven Thy fond idolatry, thy blind excess, And seek with _Him_ that bower of blessedness. Love! _thy_ sole home is heaven!

BOOKS AND FLOWERS.

“La vue d’une fleur caresse mon imagination, et flatte mes sens a un point inexprimable. Sous le tranquille abri du toit paternel j’etais nourrie des l’enfance avec des fleurs et des livres; dans l’etroite enceinte d’une prison, au milieu des fers imposies par la tyrannie, j’oublie l’injustice des hommes, leurs sottises et mes maux, avec des livres et des fleurs.”

Come! let me make a sunny realm around thee Of thought and beauty! Here are books and flowers, With spells to loose the fetter which hath bound thee The ravel’d coil of this world’s feverish hours.

The soul of song is in these deathless pages, Even as the odour in the flower enshrined; Here the crown’d spirits of departed ages Have left the silent melodies of mind.

Their thoughts, that strove with time, and change, and anguish, For some high place where faith her wing might rest, Are burning here--a flame that may not languish-- Still pointing upward to that bright hill’s crest!

Their grief, the veil’d infinity exploring For treasures lost, is here;--their boundless love, Its mighty streams of gentleness outpouring On all things round, and clasping all above.

And the bright beings, their own heart’s creations, Bright, yet all human, here are breathing still; Conflicts, and agonies, and exultations Are here, and victories of prevailing will!

Listen! oh, listen! let their high words cheer thee! Their swan-like music ringing through all woes; Let my voice bring their holy influence near thee-- The Elysian air of their divine repose!

Or would’st thou turn to earth? _Not_ earth all furrow’d By the old traces of man’s toil and care, But the green peaceful world that never sorrow’d, The world of leaves, and dews, and summer air!

Look on these flowers! as o’er an altar shedding, O’er Milton’s page, soft light from colour’d urns! They are the links, man’s heart to nature wedding, When to her breast the prodigal returns.

They are from lone wild places, forest dingles, Fresh banks of many a low-voiced hidden stream, Where the sweet star of eve looks down and mingles Faint lustre with the water-lily’s gleam.

They are from where the soft winds play in gladness, Covering the turf with flowery blossom-showers; --Too richly dower’d, O friend! are we for sadness-- Look on an empire--mind and nature--ours!

[“The ‘brightly associated hours’ she passed with Mrs Lawrence, have been alluded to by Mrs Hemans, in the dedication to the ‘National Lyrics,’ and recorded by ‘her friend, and the sister of her friend, Colonel D’Aguilar,’ in her own affectionate ‘Recollections.’ The ‘Books and Flowers’ of Wavertree Hall were ever fondly identified with their dear mistress; and, years after the enjoyment of them had passed away from all senses but memory, she who was then herself, too, ‘passing away,’ thus tenderly alluded to them from her sick couch at Redesdale:--‘When I write to you, my imagination always brightens, and pleasant thoughts of lovely flowers, and dear old books, and strains of antique Italian melody, come floating over me, as Bacon says the rich scents go ‘to and fro like music in the air.’”]

FOR A PICTURE OF ST CECILIA ATTENDED BY ANGELS.

“How rich that forehead’s calm expanse! How bright that heaven-directed glance! --Waft her to glory, winged powers! Ere sorrow be renew’d, And intercourse with mortal hours Bring back a humbler mood!” Wordsworth.

How can that eye, with inspiration beaming, Wear yet so deep a calm? O child of song! Is not the music-land a world of dreaming, Where forms of sad, bewildering beauty throng?

Hath it not sounds from voices long departed? Echoes of tones that rung in childhood’s ear? Low haunting whispers, which the weary-hearted, Stealing midst crowds away, have wept to hear?

No, not to thee! _Thy_ spirit, meek, yet queenly, On its own starry height, beyond all this, Floating triumphantly and yet serenely, Breathes no faint under-tone through songs of bliss.

Say by what strain, through cloudless ether swelling, Thou hast drawn down those wanderers from the skies? Bright guests! even such as left of yore their dwelling For the deep cedar-shades of Paradise!

What strain? Oh! not the nightingale’s, when, showering Her own heart’s life-drops on the burning lay, She stirs the young woods in the days of flowering, And pours her strength, but not her grief, away:

And not the exile’s--when, midst lonely billows, He wakes the Alpine notes his mother sung, Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows, Where, murmuring to the wind, his harp is hung:

And not the pilgrim’s--though his thoughts be holy, And sweet his avè-song when day grows dim; Yet, as he journeys, pensively and slowly, Something of sadness floats through that low hymn.

But thou!--the spirit which at eve is filling All the hush’d air and reverential sky-- Founts, leaves, and flowers, with solemn rapture thrilling-- This is the soul of _thy_ rich harmony.

This bears up high those breathings of devotion Wherein the currents of thy heart gush free; Therefore no world of sad and vain emotion Is the dream-haunted music-land for _thee_.

THE BRIGAND LEADER AND HIS WIFE.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF EASTLAKE’S.

Dark chieftain of the heath and height! Wild feaster on the hills by night! See’st thou the stormy sunset’s glow Flung back by glancing spears below? Now for one strife of stern despair! The foe hath track’d thee to thy lair.

Thou, against whom the voice of blood Hath risen from rock and lonely wood; And in whose dreams a moan should be, Not of the water, nor the tree; Haply thine own last hour is nigh,-- Yet shalt thou not forsaken die.

There’s one that pale beside thee stands, More true than all thy mountain-bands! She will not shrink in doubt and dread When the balls whistle round thy head: Nor leave thee, though thy closing eye No longer may to hers reply.

Oh! many a soft and quiet grace Hath faded from her form and face; And many a thought, the fitting guest Of woman’s meek, religious breast, Hath perish’d in her wanderings wide, Through the deep forests by thy side.

Yet, mournfully surviving all, A flower upon a ruin’s wall-- A friendless thing, whose lot is cast Of lovely ones to be the last-- Sad, but unchanged through good and ill, Thine is her lone devotion still.

And oh! not wholly lost the heart Where that undying love hath part; Not worthless all, though far and long From home estranged, and guided wrong; Yet may its depths by heaven be stirr’d, Its prayer for thee be pour’d and heard!

THE CHILD’S RETURN FROM THE WOODLANDS.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE’S.

“All good and guiltless as thou art, Some transient griefs will touch thy heart-- Griefs that along thy alter’d face Will breathe a more subduing grace, Than even those looks of joy that lie On the soft cheek of infancy.” Wilson.

Hast thou been in the woods with the honey-bee? Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free? With the hare through the copses and dingles wild? With the butterfly over the heath, fair child? Yes! the light fall of thy bounding feet Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat: Yet hast thou ranged the green forest-dells, And brought back a treasure of buds and bells.

Thou know’st not the sweetness, by antique song Breathed o’er the names of that flowery throng: The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim, The lily that gleams by the fountain’s brim; These are old words, that have made each grove A dreaming haunt for romance and love-- Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie, A place for the gushings of poesy.

Thou know’st not the light wherewith fairy lore Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o’er: Enough for thee are the dews that sleep Like hidden gems in the flower-urns deep; Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell Midst the gold of the cowslip’s perfumed cell; And the scent by the blossoming sweetbriers shed, And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth’s head.

O happy child! in thy fawn-like glee, What is remembrance or thought to thee? Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring, O’er thy green pathway their colours fling; Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon-- What if to droop and to perish soon? Nature hath mines of such wealth--and thou Never will prize its delights as now!

For a day is coming to quell the tone That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one! And to dim thy brow with a touch of care, Under the gloss of its clustering hair; And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes Into the stillness of autumn skies; And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part Midst the hidden things of each human heart.

Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this? Life hath enough of yet holier bliss! Such be thy portion!--the bliss to look, With a reverent spirit, through nature’s book; By fount, by forest, by river’s line, To track the paths of a love divine; To read its deep meanings--to see and hear God in earth’s garden--and not to fear!

THE FAITH OF LOVE.

Thou hast watch’d beside the bed of death, O fearless human Love! Thy lip received the last, faint breath, Ere the spirit fled above.

Thy prayer was heard by the parting bier, In a low and farewell tone; Thou hast given the grave both flower and tear-- --O Love! thy task is done.

Then turn thee from each pleasant spot Where thou wert wont to rove; For there the friend of thy soul is not, Nor the joy of thy youth, O Love!

Thou wilt meet but mournful Memory there; Her dreams in the grove she weaves, With echoes filling the summer air, With sighs the trembling leaves.

Then turn thee to the world again, From those dim, haunted bowers, And shut thine ear to the wild, sweet strain That tells of vanish’d hours.

And wear not on thine aching heart The image of the dead; For the tie is rent that gave thee part In the gladness its beauty shed.

And gaze on the pictured smile no more That thus can life outlast: All between parted souls is o’er.-- Love! Love! forget the past!

“Voice of vain boding! away, be still! Strive not against the faith That yet my bosom with light can fill, Unquench’d, and undim’d by death.

“From the pictured smile I will not turn, Though sadly now it shine; Nor quit the shades that in whispers mourn For the step once link’d with mine;

“Nor shut mine ear to the song of old, Though its notes the pang renew. --Such memories deep in my heart I hold, To keep it pure and true.

“By the holy instinct of my heart, By the hope that bears me on, I have still my own undying part In the deep affection gone.

“By the presence that about me seems Through night and day to dwell, Voice of vain bodings and fearful dreams! --I have breathed no _last_ farewell!”

THE SISTER’S DREAM.

[Suggested by a picture in which a young girl is represented as sleeping, and visited during her slumbers by the spirits of her departed sisters.]

She sleeps!--but not the free and sunny sleep That lightly on the brow of childhood lies: Though happy be her rest, and soft, and deep, Yet, ere it sank upon her shadow’d eyes, Thoughts of past scenes and kindred graves o’erswept Her soul’s meek stillness--she had pray’d and wept.

And now in visions to her couch they come, The early lost--the beautiful--the dead! That unto her bequeath’d a mournful home, Whence with their voices all sweet laughter fled They rise--the sisters of her youth arise, As from the world where no frail blossom dies.

And well the sleeper knows them not of earth-- Not as they were when binding up the flowers, Telling wild legends round the winter-hearth, Braiding their long, fair hair for festal hours: These things are past--a spiritual gleam, A solemn glory, robes them in that dream.

Yet, if the glee of life’s fresh budding years In those pure aspects may no more be read, Thence, too, hath sorrow melted--and the tears Which o’er their mother’s holy dust they shed, Are all effaced. There earth hath left no sign Save its deep love, still touching every line.

But oh! more soft, more tender--breathing more A thought of pity, than in vanish’d days! While, hovering silently and brightly o’er The lone one’s head, they meet her spirit’s gaze With their immortal eyes, that seem to say, “Yet, sister! yet we love thee--come away!”

’Twill fade, the radiant dream! And will she not Wake with more painful yearning at her heart? Will not her home seem yet a lonelier spot, Her task more sad, when those bright shadows part? And the green summer after them look dim, And sorrow’s tone be in the bird’s wild hymn?

But let her hope be strong, and let the dead Visit her soul in heaven’s calm beauty still; Be their names utter’d, be their memory spread Yet round the place they never more may fill! All is not over with earth’s broken tie-- Where, where should sisters love, if not on high?

A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD.

[These lines were given to Sir Walter Scott, at the gate of Abbotsford, in the summer of 1829. He was then apparently in the vigour of an existence whose energies promised long continuance; and the glance of his quick, smiling eye, and the very sound of his kindly voice, seemed to kindle the gladness of his own sunny and benignant spirit in all who had the happiness of approaching him.]

Home of the gifted! fare thee well, And a blessing on thee rest! While the heather waves its purple bell O’er moor and mountain-crest; While stream to stream around thee calls, And braes with broom are drest, Glad be the harping in thy halls-- A blessing on thee rest!

While the high voice from thee sent forth Bids rock and cairn reply, Wakening the spirits of the North Like a chieftain’s gathering-cry; While its deep master-tones hold sway As a king’s o’er every breast, Home of the Legend and the Lay! A blessing on thee rest!

Joy to thy hearth, and board, and bower! Long honours to thy line! And hearts of proof, and hands of power, And bright names worthy thine! By the merry step of childhood, still May thy free sward be prest! --While one proud pulse in the land can thrill, A blessing on thee rest!

O’CONNOR’S CHILD.

[This piece was suggested by a picture in the possession of Mrs Lawrence of Wavertree Hall. It represents the “Hero’s Child” of Campbell’s Poem, seated beside a solitary tomb of rock, marked with a cross, in a wild and desert place. A tempest seems gathering in the angry skies above her, but the attitude of the drooping figure expresses the utter carelessness of desolation, and the countenance speaks of entire abstraction from all external objects. A bow and quiver lie beside her, amongst the weeds and wild-flowers of the desert.]

“I fled the home of grief At Connocht Moran’s tomb to fall, I found the helmet of my chief, His bow still hanging on our wall; And took it down, and vow’d to rove This desert place a huntress bold; Nor would I change my buried love For any heart of living mould.” Campbell.

The sleep of storms is dark upon the skies, The weight of omens heavy in the cloud:-- Bid the lorn huntress of the desert rise, And gird the form whose beauty grief hath bow’d, And leave the tomb, as tombs are left--alone, To the star’s vigil, and the wind’s wild moan.

Tell her of revelries in bower and hall, Where gems are glittering, and bright wine is pour’d; Where to glad measures chiming footsteps fall, And soul seems gushing from the harp’s full chord; And richer flowers amid fair tresses wave, Than the sad _Love-lies-bleeding_ of the grave.

Oh! little know’st thou of th’ o’ermastering spell Wherewith love binds the spirit, strong in pain, To the spot hallow’d by a wild farewell, A parting agony,--intense, yet vain, A look--and darkness when its gleam hath flown, A voice--and silence when its words are gone!

She hears thee not: her full, deep, fervent heart Is set in her dark eyes;--and _they_ are bound Unto that cross, that shrine, that world apart, Where faithful blood hath sanctified the ground; And love with death striven long by tear and prayer, And anguish frozen into still despair.

Yet on her spirit hath arisen at last A light, a joy, of its own wanderings born; Around her path a vision’s glow is cast, Back, back her lost one comes in hues of morn![397] For her the gulf is fill’d--the dark night fled, Whose mystery parts the living and the dead.

And she can pour forth in such converse high All her soul’s tide of love, the deep, the strong. Oh! lonelier far, perchance, _thy_ destiny, And more forlorn, amidst the world’s gay throng, Than hers--the queen of that majestic gloom, The tempest, and the desert, and the tomb!

[397] “A son of light, a lovely form, He comes, and makes her glad.”--Campbell.

THE PRAYER FOR LIFE.

O sunshine and fair earth! Sweet is your kindly mirth; Angel of death! yet, yet awhile delay! Too sad it is to part, Thus in my spring of heart, With all the light and laughter of the day.

For me the falling leaf Touches no chord of grief, No dark void in the rose’s bosom lies: Not one triumphal tone, One hue of hope, is gone From song or bloom beneath the summer skies.

Death, Death! ere yet decay, Call me not hence away! Over the golden hours no shade is thrown: The poesy that dwells Deep in green woods and dells Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone.

Yet not for this, O Death! Not for the vernal breath Of winds that shake forth music from the trees: Not for the splendour given To night’s dark, regal heaven, Spoiler! I ask thee not reprieve for these.

But for the happy love Whose light, where’er I rove, Kindles all nature to a sudden smile, Shedding on branch and flower A rainbow-tinted shower Of richer life--spare, spare me yet awhile.

Too soon, too fast thou’rt come! Too beautiful is home-- A home of gentle voices and kind eyes! And I the loved of all, On whom fond blessings fall From every lip. Oh! wilt thou rend such ties?

Sweet sisters! weave a chain My spirit to detain: Hold me to earth with strong affection back; Bind me with mighty love Unto the stream, the grove, Our daily paths--our life’s familiar track.

Stay with me! gird me round! Your voices bear a sound Of hope--a light comes with you and departs; Hush my soul’s boding swell, That murmurs of farewell. How can I leave this ring of kindest hearts?

Death! grave!--and are there those That woo your dark repose Midst the rich beauty of the glowing earth? Surely about them lies No world of loving eyes. Leave me, oh! leave me unto home and hearth!

THE WELCOME TO DEATH.

Thou art welcome, O thou warning voice! My soul hath pined for thee; Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from shore To wanderer on the sea. I hear thee in the rustling woods, In the sighing vernal airs; Thou call’st me from the lonely earth With a deeper tone than theirs.

The lonely earth! Since kindred steps From its green paths are fled, A dimness and a hush have lain O’er all its beauty spread. The silence of th’ unanswering soul Is on me and around; My heart hath echoes but for _thee_, Thou still, small, warning sound!

Voice after voice hath died away, Once in my dwelling heard; Sweet household name by name hath changed To grief’s forbidden word! From dreams of night on each I call, Each of the far removed; And waken to my own wild cry-- “Where are ye, my beloved?”

Ye left me! and earth’s flowers were dim With records of the past; And stars pour’d down another light Than o’er my youth they cast. Birds will not sing as once they sung, When ye were at my side, And mournful tones are in the wind Which I heard not till ye died!

Thou art welcome, O thou summoner! Why should the last remain? What eye can reach my heart of hearts, Bearing in light again? E’en could this be, too much of fear O’er love would now be thrown.-- Away! away! from time, from change, Once more to meet my own!

THE VICTOR.

“De tout ce qui t’aimoit n’est-il plus rien qui t’aime?” Lamartine.

Mighty ones, Love and Death! Ye are the strong in this world of ours; Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell midst the flowers, --Which hath the conqueror’s wreath?

_Thou_ art the victor, Love! _Thou_ art the fearless, the crown’d, the free, The strength of the battle is given to thee-- The spirit from above!

Thou hast look’d on Death, and smiled! Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form Through the waves of the fight, through the rush of the storm, On field, and flood, and wild!

No!--_Thou_ art the victor, Death! Thou comest, and where is that which spoke, From the depths of the eye, when the spirit woke? --Gone with the fleeting breath!

Thou comest--and what is left Of all that loved us, to say if aught _Yet loves_--yet answers the burning thought Of the spirit lone and reft?

Silence is where thou art! Silently there must kindred meet, No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet, No bounding of heart to heart!

Boast not thy victory, Death! It is but as the cloud’s o’er the sunbeam’s power, It is but as the winter’s o’er leaf and flower, That slumber the snow beneath.

It is but as a tyrant’s reign O’er the voice and the lip which he bids be still; But the fiery thought and the lofty will Are not for him to chain!

They shall soar his might above! And thus with the root whence affection springs, Though buried, it is not of mortal things-- _Thou_ art the victor, Love!

LINES WRITTEN FOR THE ALBUM AT ROSANNA.[398]

Oh! lightly tread through these deep chestnut-bowers, Where a sweet spirit once in beauty moved! And touch with reverent hand these leaves and flowers-- Fair things, which well a gentle heart hath loved! A gentle heart, of love and grief th’ abode, Whence the bright stream of song in tear-drops flow’d.

And bid its memory sanctify the scene! And let th’ ideal presence of the dead Float round, and touch the woods with softer green, And o’er the streams a charm, like moonlight, shed, Through the soul’s depths in holy silence felt-- A spell to raise, to chasten, and to melt!

[398] A beautiful place in the county of Wicklow, formerly the abode of the authoress of “Psyche.”

THE VOICE OF THE WAVES.

WRITTEN NEAR THE SCENE OF A RECENT SHIPWRECK.

“How perfect was the calm! It seem’d no sleep, No mood which season takes away or brings; I could have fancied that the mighty deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. ... But welcome fortitude and patient cheer, And frequent sights of what is to be borne.” Wordsworth.

Answer, ye chiming waves That now in sunshine sweep! Speak to me from thy hidden caves, Voice of the solemn deep!

Hath man’s lone spirit here With storms in battle striven? Where all is now so calmly clear, Hath anguish cried to heaven?

--Then the sea’s voice arose Like an earthquake’s under-tone: “Mortal! the strife of human woes _Where_ hath _not_ nature known?

“Here to the quivering mast Despair hath wildly clung; The shriek upon the wind hath pass’d, The midnight sky hath rung.

“And the youthful and the brave, With their beauty and renown, To the hollow chambers of the wave In darkness have gone down.

“They are vanish’d from their place-- Let their homes and hearths make moan! But the rolling waters keep no trace Of pang or conflict gone.”

--Alas! thou haughty deep! The strong, the sounding far! My heart before thee dies,--I weep To think on what we are!

To think that so we pass-- High hope, and thought, and mind-- Even as the breath-stain from the glass, Leaving no sign behind!

Saw’st thou naught else, thou main? Thou and the midnight sky? Naught save the struggle, brief and vain, The parting agony!

--And the sea’s voice replied: “Here nobler things have been! Power, with the valiant when they died, To sanctify the scene:

“Courage, in fragile form, Faith, trusting to the last, Prayer, breathing heavenwards thro’ the storm: But all alike have pass’d.”

Sound on, thou haughty sea! _These_ have not pass’d in vain; My soul awakes, my hope springs free On victor wings again.

_Thou_, from thine empire driven, May’st vanish with thy powers; But, by the hearts that here have striven, A loftier doom is ours!

THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

“I seem like one who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead, And all but me departed.” Moore.

See’st thou yon gray, gleaming hall, Where the deep elm-shadows fall? Voices that have left the earth Long ago, Still are murmuring round its hearth, Soft and low: Ever there;--yet one alone Hath the gift to hear their tone. Guests come thither, and depart, Free of step, and light of heart; Children, with sweet visions bless’d, In the haunted chambers rest; One alone unslumbering lies When the night hath seal’d all eyes, One quick heart and watchful ear, Listening for those whispers clear.

See’st thou where the woodbine-flowers O’er yon low porch hang in showers? Startling faces of the dead, Pale, yet sweet, One lone woman’s entering tread There still meet! Some with young, smooth foreheads fair, Faintly shining through bright hair; Some with reverend locks of snow-- All, all buried long ago! All, from under deep sea-waves, Or the flowers of foreign graves, Or the old and banner’d aisle, Where their high tombs gleam the while; Rising, wandering, floating by, Suddenly and silently, Through their earthly home and place, But amidst another race.

Wherefore, unto one alone, Are those sounds and visions known? Wherefore hath that spell of power Dark and dread, On _her_ soul, a baleful dower, Thus been shed? Oh! in those deep-seeing eyes, No strange gift of mystery lies! She is lone where once she moved Fair, and happy, and beloved! Sunny smiles were glancing round her, Tendrils of kind hearts had bound her. Now those silver chords are broken, Those bright looks have left no token-- Not one trace on all the earth, Save her memory of their mirth. She is lone and lingering now, Dreams have gather’d o’er her brow, Midst gay songs and children’s play, She is dwelling far away, Seeing what none else may see-- Haunted still her place must be!

[“Mrs Hemans resided in the immediate vicinity of this old house (in the village of Wavertree) for nearly three years’: it (Wavertree Hall) suggested her beautiful poem, ‘Books and Flowers;’ and one of her most exquisite lyrics, ‘The Haunted House,’ describes its local scenery, and gives ‘a brief abstract’ of the sufferings and feelings of one of its inhabitants.”--_Recollections of Mrs Hemans_, by Mrs Lawrence.

The same subject has been treated by the late lamented Thomas Hood in a poem under a similar title.--_Vide Poems_, vol. i. p. 48. It is worth referring to, if for nothing else than observing how it has been dealt with by two ingenious and original minds. Mrs Hemans’s lyric was first published.]

THE SHEPHERD-POET OF THE ALPS.

“God gave him reverence of laws, Yet stirring blood in freedom’s cause-- A spirit to his rocks akin, The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein!” Coleridge.

Singing of the free blue sky, And the wild-flower glens that lie Far amidst the ancient hills, Which the fountain-music fills; Singing of the snow-peaks bright, And the royal eagle’s flight, And the courage and the grace Foster’d by the chamois-chase; In his fetters, day by day, So the Shepherd-poet lay. Wherefore, from a dungeon-cell Did those notes of freedom swell, Breathing sadness not their own Forth with every Alpine tone? Wherefore!--can a tyrant’s ear Brook the mountain-winds to hear, When each blast goes pealing by With a song of liberty? Darkly hung th’ oppressor’s hand O’er the Shepherd-poet’s land; Sounding there the waters gush’d, While the lip of man was hush’d; There the falcon pierced the cloud, While the fiery heart was bow’d. But this might not long endure, Where the mountain-homes were pure; And a valiant voice arose, Thrilling all the silent snows; _His_--now singing far and lone, Where the young breeze ne’er was known; Singing of the glad blue sky, Wildly--and how mournfully!

Are none but the Wind and the Lammer-Geyer To be free where the hills unto heaven aspire? Is the soul of song from the deep glens past, Now that their poet is chain’d at last?-- Think of the mountains, and deem not so! Soon shall each blast like a clarion blow! Yes! though forbidden be every word Wherewith that spirit the Alps hath stirr’d, Yet even as a buried stream through earth Rolls on to another and brighter birth, So shall the voice that hath seem’d to die Burst forth with the anthem of liberty!

And another power is moving In a bosom fondly loving: Oh! a sister’s heart is deep, And her spirit strong to keep Each light link of early hours, All sweet scents of childhood’s flowers! Thus each lay by Erni sung, Rocks and crystal caves among, Or beneath the linden-leaves, Or the cabin’s vine-hung eaves, Rapid though as bird-notes gushing, Transient as a wan cheek’s flushing, Each in young Teresa’s breast Left its fiery words impress’d; Treasured there lay every line, As a rich book on a hidden shrine. Fair was that lone girl, and meek, With a pale, transparent cheek, And a deep-fringed violet eye Seeking in sweet shade to lie, Or, if raised to glance above, Dim with its own dews of love; And a pure Madonna brow, And a silvery voice and low, Like the echo of a flute, Even the last, ere all be mute. But a loftier soul was seen In the orphan sister’s mien, From that hour when chains defiled Him, the high Alps’ noble child. Tones in her quivering voice awoke, As if a harp of battle spoke; Light, that seem’d born of an eagle’s nest, Flash’d from her soft eyes unrepress’d; And her form, like a spreading water-flower, When its frail cup swells with a sudden shower, Seem’d all dilated with love and pride, And grief for that brother, her young heart’s guide. Well might they love!--those two had grown Orphans together and alone: The silence of the Alpine sky Had hush’d their hearts to piety; The turf, o’er their dead mother laid, Had been their altar when they pray’d; There, more in tenderness than woe, The stars had seen their young tears flow; The clouds, in spirit-like descent, Their deep thoughts by one touch had blent, And the wild storms link’d them to each other-- How dear can peril make a brother!

Now is their hearth a forsaken spot, The vine waves unpruned o’er their mountain cot: Away, in that holy affection’s might, The maiden is gone, like a breeze of the night. She is gone forth alone, but her lighted face, Filling with soul every secret place, Hath a dower from heaven, and a gift of sway, To arouse brave hearts in its hidden way, Like the sudden flinging forth on high Of a banner, that startleth silently! She hath wander’d through many a hamlet-vale, Telling its children her brother’s tale; And the strains by his spirit pour’d away Freely as fountains might shower their spray, From her fervent lip a new life have caught, And a power to kindle yet bolder thought; While sometimes a melody, all her own, Like a gush of tears in its plaintive tone, May be heard midst the lonely rocks to flow, Clear through the water-chimes--clear, yet low

“Thou’rt not where wild-flowers wave O’er crag and sparry cave; Thou’rt not where pines are sounding, Or joyous torrents bounding-- Alas, my brother!

“Thou’rt not where green, on high, The brighter pastures lie; Ev’n those, thine own wild places, Bear of our chain dark traces: Alas, my brother!

“Far hath the sunbeam spread, Nor found thy lonely bed; Long hath the fresh wind sought thee, Nor one sweet whisper brought thee-- Alas, my brother!

“Thou, that for joy wert born, Free as the wings of morn! Will aught thy young life cherish, Where the Alpine rose would perish?-- Alas, my brother!

“Canst thou be singing still, As once on every hill? Is not thy soul forsaken, And the bright gift from thee taken?-- Alas, alas, my brother!”

And _was_ the bright gift from the captive fled? Like the fire on his hearth, was his spirit dead? Not so!--but as rooted in stillness deep, The pure stream-lily its place will keep, Though its tearful urns to the blast may quiver, While the red waves rush down the foaming river; So freedom’s faith in his bosom lay, Trembling, yet not to be borne away! He thought of the Alps and their breezy air, And felt that his country no chains might bear; He thought of the hunter’s haughty life, And knew there must yet be noble strife. But, oh! when he thought of that orphan maid, His high heart melted--he wept and pray’d! For he saw her not as she moved e’en then, A wakener of heroes in every glen, With a glance inspired which no grief could tame, Bearing on hope like a torch’s flame; While the strengthening voice of mighty wrongs Gave echoes back to her thrilling songs. But his dreams were fill’d by a haunting tone, Sad as a sleeping infant’s moan; And his soul was pierced by a mournful eye, Which look’d on it--oh! how beseechingly! And there floated past him a fragile form, With a willowy droop, as beneath the storm; Till wakening in anguish, his faint heart strove In vain with its burden of helpless love! Thus woke the dreamer one weary night-- There flash’d through his dungeon a swift strong light; He sprang up--he climb’d to the grating-bars. --It was not the rising of moon or stars, But a signal-flame from a peak of snow, Rock’d through the dark skies to and fro! There shot forth another--another still-- A hundred answers of hill to hill! Tossing like pines in the tempest’s way, Joyously, wildly, the bright spires play, And each is hail’d with a pealing shout, For the high Alps waving their banners out! Erni! young Erni! the land hath risen!-- Alas! to be lone in thy narrow prison! Those free streamers glancing, and thou not there! --Is the moment of rapture, or fierce despair? --Hark! there’s a tumult that shakes his cell, At the gates of the mountain citadel! Hark! a clear voice through the rude sounds ringing! Doth he know the strain, and the wild, sweet singing?

“There may not long be fetters, Where the cloud is earth’s array, And the bright floods leap from cave and steep, Like a hunter on the prey!

“There may not long be fetters, Where the white Alps have their towers; Unto Eagle-homes, if the arrow comes, The chain is not for ours!”

It is she! She is come like a dayspring beam, She that so mournfully shadow’d his dream! With her shining eyes and her buoyant form, She is come! her tears on his cheek are warm; And oh! the thrill in that weeping voice! “My brother! my brother! come forth, rejoice!”

Poet! the land of thy love is free,-- Sister! thy brother is won by thee!

TO THE MOUNTAIN WINDS.

----“How divine The liberty, for frail, for mortal man, To roam at large among unpeopled glens, And mountainous retirements, only trod By devious footsteps!--Regions consecrate To oldest time! And reckless of the storm That keeps the raven quiet in his nest, Be as a presence or a motion--One Among the many there.” Wordsworth.

Mountain winds! oh, whither do ye call me? Vainly, vainly would my steps pursue! Chains of care to lower earth enthrall me, Wherefore thus my weary spirit woo?

Oh! the strife of this divided being! Is there peace where ye are born on high? Could we soar to your proud eyries fleeing, In our hearts would haunting memories die?

Those wild places are not as a dwelling Whence the footsteps of the loved are gone! Never from those rocky halls came swelling Voice of kindness in familiar tone!

Surely music of oblivion sweepeth In the pathway of your wanderings free; And the torrent, wildly as it leapeth, Sings of no lost home amidst its glee.

There the rushing of the falcon’s pinion Is not from some hidden pang to fly; All things breathe of power and stern dominion-- Not of hearts that in vain yearnings die.

Mountain winds! oh! is it, is it only Where man’s trace hath been that so we pine! Bear me up, to grow in thought less lonely, Even at nature’s deepest, loneliest shrine!

Wild, and mighty, and mysterious singers! At whose tone my heart within me burns; Bear me where the last red sunbeam lingers, Where the waters have their secret urns!

There to commune with a loftier spirit Than the troubling shadows of regret; There the wings of freedom to inherit, Where the enduring and the wing’d are met.

Hush, proud voices! gentle be your falling! Woman’s lot thus chainless may not be; Hush! the heart your trumpet-sounds are calling, Darkly still may grow--but never free!

THE PROCESSION.

“‘The peace which passeth all understanding,’ disclosed itself in her looks and movements. It lay on her countenance like a steady unshadowed moonlight.”--Coleridge.

There were trampling sounds of many feet, And music rush’d through the crowded street: Proud music, such as tells the sky Of a chief return’d from victory.

There were banners to the winds unroll’d, With haughty words on each blazon’d fold; High battle-names, which had rung of yore When lances clash’d on the Syrian shore.

Borne from their dwellings, green and lone, There were flowers of the woods on the pathway strown; And wheels that crush’d as they swept along;-- Oh! what doth the violet amidst the throng?

I saw where a bright procession pass’d The gates of a minster old and vast; And a king to his crowning-place was led, Through a sculptured line of the warrior-dead.

I saw, far gleaming, the long array Of trophies, on those high tombs that lay, And the colour’d light, that wrapp’d them all, Rich, deep, and sad, as a royal pall.

But a lowlier grave soon won mine eye Away from th’ ancestral pageantry-- A grave by the lordly minster’s gate, Unhonour’d, and yet not desolate.

It was a dewy greensward bed, Meet for the rest of a peasant head; But Love--oh, lovelier than all beside!-- That lone place guarded and glorified.

For a gentle form stood watching there, Young--but how sorrowfully fair! Keeping the flowers of the holy spot, That reckless feet might profane them not.

Clear, pale and clear, was the tender cheek, And her eye, though tearful, serenely meek; And I deem’d, by its lifted gaze of love, That her sad heart’s treasure was all above.

For alone she seem’d midst the throng to be, Like a bird of the waves far away at sea; Alone, in a mourner’s vest array’d, And with folded hands, e’en as if she pray’d.

It faded before me, that mask of pride, The haughty swell of the music died; Banner, and armour, and tossing plume, All melted away in the twilight’s gloom.

But that orphan form, with its willowy grace, And the speaking prayer in that pale, calm face, Still, still o’er my thoughts in the night-hour glide-- --Oh! Love is lovelier than all beside!

THE BROKEN LUTE.

“When the lamp is shatter’d, The light in the dust lies dead; When the cloud is scatter’d, The rainbow’s glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet sounds are remember’d not; When the words are spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and lute, The heart’s echoes render No song when the spirit is mute.” Shelley.

She dwelt in proud Venetian halls, Midst forms that breathed from the pictured walls But a glow of beauty like her own, There had no dream of the painter thrown. Lit from within was her noble brow, As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow; Her young, clear cheek, had a changeful hue, As if ye might see how the soul wrought through, And every flash of her fervent eye Seem’d the bright wakening of Poesy.

Even thus it was! From her childhood’s years A being of sudden smiles and tears-- Passionate visions, quick light and shade-- Such was that high-born Italian maid! And the spirit of song in her bosom-cell Dwelt, as the odours in violets dwell, Or as the sounds in Æolian strings, Or in aspen-leaves the quiverings; There, ever there, with the life enshrined, Waiting the call of the faintest wind.

Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea, In the city’s hour of moonlight glee-- Oft would that gift of the southern sky O’erflow from her lips in melody; Oft amid festal halls it came, Like the springing forth of a sudden flame-- Till the dance was hush’d, and the silvery tone Of her inspiration was heard alone. And fame went with her, the bright, the crown’d, And music floated her steps around; And every lay of her soul was borne Through the sunny land, as on wings of morn.

And was the daughter of Venice blest, With a power so deep in her youthful breast? Could she be happy, o’er whose dark eye So many changes and dreams went by? And in whose cheek the swift crimson wrought As if but born from the rush of thought? Yes! in the brightness of joy awhile She moved as a bark in the sunbeam’s smile; For her spirit, as over her lyre’s full chord, All, all on a happy love was pour’d! How loves a heart whence the stream of song Flows, like the life-blood, quick, bright, and strong? How loves a heart, which hath never proved One breath of the world? Even so she loved; Bless’d, though the lord of her soul, afar, Was charging the foremost in Moslem war, Bearing the flag of St Mark’s on high, As a ruling star in the Grecian sky. Proud music breathed in her song, when fame Gave a tone more thrilling to his name; And her trust in his love was a woman’s faith-- Perfect, and fearing no change but death.

But the fields are won from the Othman host, In the land that quell’d the Persian’s boast, And a thousand hearts in Venice burn For the day of triumph and return! The day is come! the flashing deep Foams where the galleys of victory sweep; And the sceptred city of the wave With her festal splendour greets the brave; Cymbal, and clarion, and voice, around, Make the air one stream of exulting sound; While the beautiful, with their sunny smiles, Look from each hall of the hundred isles.

But happiest and brightest that day of all, Robed for her warrior’s festival, Moving a queen midst the radiant throng, Was she, th’ inspired one, the maid of song! The lute he loved on her arm she bore, As she rush’d in her joy to the crowded shore; With a hue on her cheek like the damask glow By the sunset given unto mountain snow, And her eye all fill’d with the spirit’s play, Like the flash of a gem to the changeful day, And her long hair waving in ringlets bright-- So came that being of hope and light! One moment, Erminia! one moment more, And life, all the beauty of life, is o’er! The bark of her lover hath touch’d the strand-- Whom leads he forth with a gentle hand? --A young fair form, whose nymph-like grace Accorded well with the Grecian face, And the eye, in its clear, soft darkness meek, And the lashes that droop’d o’er a pale rose cheek, And he look’d on that beauty with tender pride-- The warrior hath brought back an Eastern bride!

But how stood she, the forsaken, there, Struck by the lightning of swift despair? Still, as amazed with grief, she stood, And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood; And there came from her quivering lip no word, Only the fall of her lute was heard, As it dropp’d from her hand at her rival’s feet, Into fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet!

What more remaineth? Her day was done; Her fate and the Broken Lute’s were one! The light, the vision, the gift of power, Pass’d from her soul in that mortal hour, Like the rich sound from the shatter’d string Whence the gush of sweetness no more might spring! As an eagle struck in his upward flight. So was her hope from its radiant height; And her song went with it for evermore, A gladness taken from sea and shore! She had moved to the echoing sound of fame-- Silently, silently, died her name! Silently melted her life away, As ye have seen a young flower decay, Or a lamp that hath swiftly burn’d expire, Or a bright stream shrink from the summer’s fire, Leaving its channel all dry and mute-- Woe for the Broken Heart and Lute!

THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT.

“How weeps yon gallant band O’er him their valour could not save! For the bayonet is red with gore, And he, the beautiful and brave, Now sleeps in Egypt’s sand.” Wilson.

In the shadow of the Pyramid Our brother’s grave we made, When the battle-day was done, And the desert’s parting sun A field of death survey’d.

The blood-red sky above us Was darkening into night, And the Arab watching silently Our sad and hurried rite;

The voice of Egypt’s river Came hollow and profound; And one lone palm-tree, where we stood, Rock’d with a shivery sound:

While the shadow of the Pyramid Hung o’er the grave we made, When the battle-day was done, And the desert’s parting sun A field of death survey’d.

The fathers of our brother Were borne to knightly tombs, With torch-light and with anthem-note, And many waving plumes:

But he, the last and noblest Of that high Norman race, With a few brief words of soldier-love Was gather’d to his place;

In the shadow of the Pyramid, Where his youthful form we laid, When the battle-day was done, And the desert’s parting sun A field of death survey’d.

But let him, let him slumber By the old Egyptian wave! It is well with those who bear their fame Unsullied to the grave!

When brightest names are breathed on, When loftiest fall so fast, We would not call our brother back On dark days to be cast,--

From the shadow of the Pyramid, Where his noble heart we laid, When the battle-day was done, And the desert’s parting sun A field of death survey’d.

[“Mrs Hemans’ funeral poems are among her most impressive works: the music of her verse, through which an under-current of sadness may always be traced, was never more happily employed than in lamenting the beloved and early called, or in bidding

‘Hope to the world to look beyond the tombs.’

I need only mention a few lyrics, ‘The Farewell to the Dead,’ (in the Lays of Many Lands;) ‘The Exile’s Dirge,’ (in the Songs of the Affections;) ‘The Burial of an Emigrant’s Child in the Forest,’ (in the Scenes and Hymns of Life;) and the ‘Burial in the Desert,’ a noble poem, published among her poetical remains. The introduction of the two following stanzas of a more concise and monumental character,[399] though they have already appeared in print, will not, I am sure, be objected to as illustrating the above remark.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 26-7.]

[399] Vide “Monumental Inscription,” p. 356.

TO A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA.

“Ave Maria! May our spirits dare Look up to thine, and to thy Son’s above?” Byron.

Fair vision! thou’rt from sunny skies, Born where the rose hath richest dyes; To thee a southern heart hath given That glow of love, that calm of heaven, And round thee cast th’ ideal gleam, The light that is but of a dream.

Far hence, where wandering music fills The haunted air of Roman hills, Or where Venetian waves of yore Heard melodies, they hear no more, Some proud old minster’s gorgeous aisle Hath known the sweetness of thy smile.

Or haply, from a lone, dim shrine Mid forests of the Apennine, Whose breezy sounds of cave and dell Pass like a floating anthem-swell, Thy soft eyes o’er the pilgrim’s way Shed blessings with their gentle ray.

Or gleaming through a chestnut wood, Perchance thine island-chapel stood, Where from the blue Sicilian sea The sailor’s hymn hath risen to thee, And bless’d thy power to guide, to save, Madonna! watcher of the wave!

Oh! might a voice, a whisper low, Forth from those lips of beauty flow! Couldst thou but speak of all the tears, The conflicts, and the pangs of years, Which, at thy secret shrine reveal’d, Have gush’d from human hearts unseal’d!

Surely to thee hath woman come, As a tired wanderer back to home! Unveiling many a timid guest And treasured sorrow of her breast, A buried love--a wasting care-- Oh! did those griefs win peace from prayer?

And did the poet’s fervid soul To thee lay bare its inmost scroll? Those thoughts, which pour’d their quenchless fire And passion o’er th’ Italian lyre, Did they to still submission die Beneath thy calm, religious eye?

And hath the crested helmet bow’d Before thee, midst the incense-cloud? Hath the crown’d leader’s bosom lone To thee its haughty griefs made known? Did thy glance break their frozen sleep, And win th’ unconquer’d one to weep?

Hush’d is the anthem, closed the vow, The votive garland wither’d now; Yet holy still to me thou art, Thou that hath soothed so many a heart! And still must blessed influence flow From the meek glory of thy brow.

Still speak to suffering woman’s love, Of rest for gentle hearts above; Of hope, that hath its treasure there, Of home, that knows no changeful air. Bright form! lit up with thoughts divine, Ave! such power be ever thine!

A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE.

How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom, Rose! ever wearing beauty for thy dower! The bridal-day--the festival--the tomb-- Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower!

Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by A thousand images of love and grief, Dreams, fill’d with tokens of mortality, Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief.

Not such thy spells o’er those that hail’d thee first, In the clear light of Eden’s golden day! There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst, Link’d with no dim remembrance of decay. Rose! for the banquet gather’d, and the bier; Rose! colour’d now by human hope and pain Surely where death is not--nor change, nor fear, Yet may we meet thee, joy’s own flower again!

DREAMS OF HEAVEN.

“We colour heaven with our own human thoughts, Our vain aspirings, fond remembrances, Our passionate love, that seems unto itself An Immortality.”

Dream’st _thou_ of heaven? What dreams are thine? Fair child, fair gladsome child? With eyes that like the dewdrop shine, And bounding footsteps wild!

Tell me what hues th’ immortal shore Can wear, my bird! to thee? Ere yet one shadow hath pass’d o’er Thy glance and spirit free?

“Oh! beautiful is heaven, and bright With long, long summer days; I see its lilies gleam in light Where many a fountain plays.

“And there uncheck’d, methinks, I rove, And seek where young flowers lie, In vale and golden-fruited grove-- Flowers that are not to die!”

Thou poet of the lonely thought, Sad heir of gifts divine! Say with what solemn glory fraught Is heaven in dreams of thine?

“Oh! where the living waters flow Along that radiant shore, My soul, a wanderer here, shall know The exile-thirst no more.

“The burden of the stranger’s heart Which here alone I bear, Like the night-shadow shall depart, With my first wakening _there_.

“And borne on eagle wings afar, Free thought shall claim its dower, From every realm, from every star, Of glory and of power.”

O woman! with the soft sad eye, Of spiritual gleam, Tell me of those bright worlds on high, How doth _thy_ fond heart dream?

By the sweet mournful voice I know, On thy pale brow I see, That thou hast loved, in fear, and woe-- Say what is heaven to thee?

“Oh! heaven is where no secret dread May haunt love’s meeting hour, Where from the past no gloom is shed O’er the heart’s chosen bower:

“Where every sever’d wreath is bound-- Where none have heard the knell That smites the heart with that deep sound-- _Farewell, beloved!--farewell!_”

THE WISH.

Come to me, when my soul Hath but a few dim hours to linger here; When earthly chains are as a shrivel’d scroll, Oh! let me feel thy presence! be but near!

That I may look once more Into thine eyes, which never changed for me; That I may speak to thee of that bright shore Where, with our treasure, we have long’d to be.

Thou friend of many days! Of sadness and of joy, of home and hearth! Will not thy spirit aid me then to raise The trembling pinions of my hope from earth?

By every solemn thought Which on our hearts hath sunk in days gone by, From the deep voices of the mountains caught, O’er all th’ adoring silence of the sky;

By every lofty theme Whereon, in low-toned reverence we have spoken; By our communion in each fervent dream That sought from realms beyond the grave a token;

And by our tears for those Whose loss hath touch’d our world with hues of death; And by the hopes that with their dust repose, As flowers await the south-wind’s vernal breath;

Come to me in that day-- The one--the sever’d from all days--O friend! Even then, if human thought may then have sway My soul with thine shall yet rejoice to blend.

Nor then, nor _there_ alone: I ask my heart if all indeed must die-- All that of holiest feelings it hath known? And my heart’s voice replies--Eternity?

WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB,

NEAR WOODSTOCK, IN THE COUNTY OF KILKENNY.[400]

“Yes! hide beneath the mouldering heap, The undelighted, slighted thing; There in the cold earth, buried deep, In silence let it wait the Spring.” Mrs Tighe’s “Poem on the Lily.”

I stood where the lip of song lay low, Where the dust had gather’d on Beauty’s brow; Where stillness hung on the heart of Love, And a marble weeper kept watch above.

I stood in the silence of lonely thought, Of deep affections that inly wrought, Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear-- They knew themselves exiled spirits here!

Then didst _thou_ pass me in radiance by, Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly! Thou that dost bear, on thy fairy wings, No burden of mortal sufferings.

Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb, Over a bright world of joy and bloom; And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine, The all that sever’d _thy_ life and _mine_.

_Mine_, with its inborn mysterious things, Of love and grief its unfathom’d springs; And quick thoughts wandering o’er earth and sky, With voices to question eternity!

_Thine_, in its reckless and joyous way, Like an embodied breeze at play! Child of the sunlight!--thou wing’d and free! One moment, _one_ moment, I envied thee!

Thou art not lonely, though born to roam, Thou hast no longings that pine for home; Thou seek’st not the haunts of the bee and bird, To fly from the sickness of hope deferr’d:

In thy brief being no strife of mind, No boundless passion, is deeply shrined; While I, as I gazed on thy swift flight by, One hour of my soul seem’d infinity!

And she, that voiceless below me slept, Flow’d not her song from a heart that wept? --O Love and Song! though of heaven your powers, Dark is your fate in this world of ours.

Yet, ere I turn’d from that silent place, Or ceased from watching thy sunny race, Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings, Didst waft me visions of brighter things!

Thou that dost image the freed soul’s birth, And its flight away o’er the mists of earth, Oh! fitly thy path is through flowers that rise Round the dark chamber where Genius lies!

[400] See the “Grave of a Poetess,” p. 411, on the same subject, and written several years previously to visiting the scene.

EPITAPH.

Farewell, beloved and mourn’d! We miss awhile Thy tender gentleness of voice and smile, And that bless’d gift of heaven, to cheer us lent-- That thrilling touch, divinely eloquent, Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent, high, Through thy rich strains of sacred harmony. Yet from those very memories there is born A soft light, pointing to celestial morn: Oh! bid it guide us where _thy_ footsteps trode, To meet at last “the pure in heart” with God!

PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF FIESCO,

AS TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER, BY COLONEL D’AGUILAR, AND PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, DUBLIN, DECEMBER 1832.

Too long apart, a bright but sever’d band, The mighty minstrels of the Rhine’s fair land Majestic strains, but not for us, had sung-- Moulding to melody a stranger tongue. Brave hearts leap’d proudly to their words of power, As a true sword bounds forth in battle’s hour; Fair eyes rain’d homage o’er th’ impassion’d lays, In loving tears, more eloquent than praise; While we, far distant, knew not, dream’d not aught Of the high marvels by that magic wrought.

But let the barriers of the sea give way, When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror’s sway! And let the Rhine divide high souls no more From mingling on its old heroic shore, Which, e’en like ours, brave deeds through many an age Have made the poet’s own free heritage! To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone Of the far minstrelsy at last be known; Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear, Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here. And if by one, more used on march and heath To the shrill bugle than the muse’s breath, With a warm heart the offering hath been brought, And in a trusting loyalty of thought, So let it be received!--a soldier’s hand Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land A seed of foreign shores. O’er this fair clime, Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time, Hath song held empire; then, if not with _fame_, Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim, The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread, Where once that harp “the soul of music shed!”

TO GIULIO REGONDI,

THE BOY GUITARIST.

Blessing and love be round thee still, fair boy! Never may suffering wake a deeper tone Than genius now, in its first fearless joy, Calls forth exulting from the chords which own Thy fairy touch! Oh! may’st thou ne’er be taught The power whose fountain is in troubled thought!

For in the light of those confiding eyes, And on th’ ingenuous calm of that clear brow, A dower, more precious e’en than genius lies, A pure mind’s worth, a warm heart’s vernal glow! God, who hath graced thee thus, O gentle child! Keep midst the world thy brightness undefiled!

O YE HOURS!

O ye hours! ye sunny hours! Floating lightly by, Are ye come with birds and flowers, Odours and blue sky?

“Yes! we come, again we come, Through the wood-paths free: Bringing many a wanderer home, With the bird and bee.”

O ye hours! ye sunny hours! Are ye wafting song? Doth wild music stream in showers All the groves among?

“Yes! the nightingale is there While the starlight reigns, Making young leaves and sweet air Tremble with her strains.”

O ye hours! ye sunny hours! In your silent flow, Ye are mighty, mighty powers! Bring ye bliss or woe?

“Ask not this--oh! seek not this! Yield your hearts awhile To the soft wind’s balmy kiss, And the heavens’ bright smile.

“Throw not shades of anxious thought O’er the glowing flowers! We are come with sunshine fraught, Question not the hours!”

THE FREED BIRD.

Return, return, my bird! I have dress’d thy cage with flowers; ’Tis lovely as a violet bank In the heart of forest bowers.

“I am free, I am free--I return no more! The weary time of the cage is o’er; Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high, The sky is around me--the blue, bright sky! The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear, With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding deer; I see the waves flash on the sunny shore-- I am free, I am free--I return no more!”

Alas, alas! my bird! Why seek’st thou to be free? Wert thou not bless’d in thy little bower, When thy song breathed naught but glee?

“Did my song of the summer breathe naught but glee? Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee? --Oh! hadst thou known its deep meaning well, It had tales of a burning heart to tell! From a dream of the forest that music sprang, Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang; And its dying fall, when it sooth’d thee best, Sigh’d for wild-flowers and a leafy nest.”

Was it with thee thus, my bird? Yet thine eye flash’d clear and bright; I have seen the glance of sudden joy In its quick and dewy light.

“It flash’d with the fire of a tameless race, With the soul of the wild-wood, my native place! With the spirit that panted through heaven to soar: Woo me not back--I return no more! My home is high, amidst rocking trees, My kindred things are the star and the breeze, And the fount uncheck’d in its lonely play, And the odours that wander afar away!”

Farewell--farewell, then, bird! I have call’d on spirits gone, And it may be they joy’d, like _thee_, to part-- Like thee, that wert all my own!

“If they were captives, and pined like me, Though love may guard them, they joy’d to be free; They sprang from the earth with a burst of power, To the strength of their wings, to their triumph’s hour! Call them not back when the chain is riven, When the way of the pinion is all through heaven! Farewell!--with my song through the clouds I soar, I pierce the blue skies--I am earth’s no more!”

MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.[401]

“Thou falcon-hearted dove!”--Coleridge.

The Moslem spears were gleaming Round Damietta’s towers, Though a Christian banner from her wall Waved free its lily-flowers. Ay, proudly did the banner wave, As queen of earth and air; But faint hearts throb’d beneath its folds In anguish and despair.

Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon Their kingly chieftain lay, And low on many an Eastern field Their knighthood’s best array. ’Twas mournful, when at feasts they met, The wine-cup round to send; For each that touch’d it silently Then miss’d a gallant friend!

And mournful was their vigil On the beleaguer’d wall, And dark their slumber, dark with dreams Of slow defeat and fall. Yet a few hearts of chivalry Rose high to breast the storm, And one--of all the loftiest there-- Thrill’d in a woman’s form.

A woman, meekly bending O’er the slumber of her child, With her soft, sad eyes of weeping love, As the Virgin Mother’s mild. Oh! roughly cradled was thy babe, Midst the clash of spear and lance, And a strange, wild bower was thine, young queen! Fair Marguerite of France!

A dark and vaulted chamber, Like a scene for wizard-spell, Deep in the Saracenic gloom Of the warrior citadel; And there midst arms the couch was spread, And with banners curtain’d o’er, For the daughter of the minstrel-land, The gay Provençal shore!

For the bright queen of St Louis, The star of court and hall! But the deep strength of the gentle heart Wakes to the tempest’s call! Her lord was in the Paynim’s hold, His soul with grief oppress’d, Yet calmly lay the desolate, With her young babe on her breast!

There were voices in the city, Voices of wrath and fear-- “The walls grow weak, the strife is vain-- We will not perish here! Yield! yield! and let the Crescent gleam O’er tower and bastion high! Our distant homes are beautiful-- We stay not here to die!”

They bore those fearful tidings To the sad queen where she lay-- They told a tale of wavering hearts, Of treason and dismay: The blood rush’d through her pearly cheek, The sparkle to her eye-- “Now call me hither those recreant knights From the bands of Italy!”[402]

Then through the vaulted chambers Stern iron footsteps rang; And heavily the sounding floor Gave back the sabre’s clang. They stood around her--steel-clad men, Moulded for storm and fight, But they quail’d before the loftier soul In that pale aspect bright.

Yes! as before the falcon shrinks The bird of meaner wing, So shrank they from th’ imperial glance Of her--that fragile thing! And her flute-like voice rose clear and high Through the din of arms around-- Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul, As a silver clarion’s sound.

“The honour of the Lily Is in your hands to keep, And the banner of the Cross, for Him Who died on Calvary’s steep; And the city which for Christian prayer Hath heard the holy bell-- And is it _these_ your hearts would yield To the godless infidel?

“Then bring me here a breastplate And a helm, before ye fly, And I will gird my woman’s form, And on the ramparts die! And the boy whom I have borne for woe, But never for disgrace, Shall go within mine arms to death Meet for his royal race.

“Look on him as he slumbers In the shadow of the lance! _Then_ go, and with the Cross forsake The princely babe of France! But tell your homes ye left _one_ heart To perish undefiled; A woman, and a queen, to guard Her honour and her child!”

Before her words they thrill’d, like leaves When winds are in the wood; And a deepening murmur told of men Roused to a loftier mood. And her babe awoke to flashing swords, Unsheath’d in many a hand, As they gather’d round the helpless One, Again a noble band!

“We are thy warriors, lady! True to the Cross and thee; The spirit of thy kindling words On every sword shall be! Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast! Rest--we will guard thee well! St Denis for the Lily-flower And the Christian citadel!”

[401] Queen of St Louis. Whilst besieged by the Turks in Damietta, during the captivity of the king her husband, she there gave birth to a son, whom she named Tristan, in commemoration of her misfortunes. Information being conveyed to her, that the knights intrusted with the defence of the city had resolved on capitulation, she had them summoned to her apartment; and, by her heroic words, so wrought upon their spirits, that they vowed to defend her and the Cross to the last extremity.

[402] The proposal to capitulate is attributed by the French historian to the Knights of Pisa.

THE WANDERER.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHMIDT VON LUBECK.

I come down from the hills alone; Mist wraps the vale, the billows moan! I wander on in thoughtful care, For ever asking, sighing--_where?_

The sunshine round seems dim and cold, And flowers are pale, and life is old, And words fall soulless on my ear-- Oh, I am still a stranger here!

Where art thou, land, sweet land, mine own! Still sought for, long’d for, never known? The land, the land of hope, of light, Where glow my roses freshly bright,

And where my friends the green paths tread, And where in beauty rise my dead; The land that speaks my native speech, The blessed land I may not reach!

I wander on in thoughtful care, For ever asking, sighing--_where?_ And spirit-sounds come answering this-- “_There, where thou art not, there is bliss!_”

THE LAST WORDS OF THE LAST WASP OF SCOTLAND,

--A _jeu-d’esprit_ produced at this time, which owed its origin to a simple remark on the unseasonableness of the weather, made by Mrs Hemans to Mr Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, whom she was in the habit of seeing at Sir David Wedderburn’s. “It is so little like summer,” she said, “that I have not even seen a butterfly.” “A butterfly!” retorted Mr Sharpe, “I have not even seen a wasp!” The next morning, as if in confutation of this calumny, a wasp made its appearance at Lady Wedderburn’s breakfast table. Mrs Hemans immediately proposed that it should be made a prisoner, inclosed in a bottle, and sent to Mr Sharpe: this was accordingly done, and the piquant missive was acknowledged by him as follows:--

“SONNET TO A WASP, IN THE MANNER OF MILTON, &c., BUT MUCH SUPERIOR.

Poor insect! rash as rare!--Thy sovereign,[403] sure, Hath driven thee to Siberia in disgrace-- Else what delusion could thy sense allure To buzz and sting in this unwholesome place, Where e’en the hornet’s hoarser, and the race Of filmy wing are feeble? Honey here (Scarce as its rhyme) thou find’st not. Ah, beware Thy golden mail, to starved Arachne dear![404] Though fingers famed, that thrill the immortal lyre, Have pent thee up, a second Asmodeus, I wail thy doom--I warm thee by the fire, And blab our secrets--do not thou betray us! I give thee liberty, I give thee breath, To fly from Athens, Eurus, Doctors, Death!!”

To this Mrs Hemans returned the following rejoinder:--

Sooth’d by the strain, the Wasp thus made reply-- (The first, last time he spoke not waspishly)-- “Too late, kind Poet! comes thine aid, thy song, To aught first starved, then bottled up so long. Yet, for the warmth of this thy genial fire, Take a Wasp’s blessing ere his race expire:-- Never may provost’s foot find entrance here! Never may bailie’s voice invade thine ear! Never may housemaid wipe the verd antique From coin of thine--Assyrian, Celt, or Greek! Never may Eurus cross thy path!--to thee May winds and wynds[405] alike propitious be! And when thou diest--(live a thousand years!)-- May friends fill classic bottles[406] with their tears! I can no more--receive my parting gasp!-- Bid Scotland mourn the last, last lingering Wasp!”

[403] Beelzebub is the king of flies.

[404] A beautiful allusion to our starving weavers.

[405] Alluding to antiquarian visits to these renowned closes.

[406] Referring to certain precious lachrymatories in the possession of Mr Sharpe.

TO CAROLINE.

When thy bounding step I hear, And thy soft voice, low and clear; When thy glancing eyes I meet, In their sudden laughter sweet-- _Thou_, I dream, wert surely born For a path by care unworn! Thou must be a shelter’d flower, With but sunshine for thy dower.

Ah, fair child! not e’en for thee May this lot of brightness be; Yet, if grief must add a tone To thine accents now unknown; If within that cloudless eye Sadder thought must one day lie, Still I trust the signs which tell On thy life a light shall dwell, Light--thy gentle spirit’s own, From _within_ around thee thrown.

THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT.

“Who does not recollect the exultation of Valiant over a flower in the torrid wastes of Africa? The affecting mention of the influence of a flower upon the mind, by Mungo Park, in a time of suffering and despondency, in the heart of the same savage country, is familiar to every one.”--Howitt’s “Book of the Seasons.”

Why art thou thus in thy beauty cast, O lonely, loneliest flower! Where the sound of song hath never pass’d From human hearth or bower?

I pity thee, for thy heart of love, For that glowing heart, that fain Would breathe out joy with each wind to rove-- In vain, lost thing! in vain!

I pity thee, for thy wasted bloom, For thy glory’s fleeting hour, For the desert place, thy living tomb-- O lonely, loneliest flower!

I said--but a low voice made reply, “Lament not for the flower! Though its blossoms all unmark’d must die, They have had a glorious dower.

“Though it bloom afar from the minstrel’s way, And the paths where lovers tread; Yet strength and hope, like an inborn day, By its odours have been shed.

“Yes! dews more sweet than ever fell O’er island of the blest, Were shaken forth, from its purple bell, On a suffering human breast.

“A wanderer came, as a stricken deer, O’er the waste of burning sand, He bore the wound of an Arab spear, He fled from a ruthless band.

“And dreams of home in a troubled tide Swept o’er his darkening eye, As he lay down by the fountain-side, In his mute despair to die.

“But his glance was caught by the desert’s flower, The precious boon of heaven; And sudden hope, like a vernal shower, To his fainting heart was given.

“For the bright flower spoke of One above-- Of the presence felt to brood, With a spirit of pervading love, O’er the wildest solitude.

“Oh! the seed was thrown those wastes among In a bless’d and gracious hour, For the lorn one rose in heart made strong By the lonely, loneliest flower!”

CRITIQUE BY PROFESSOR NORTON.

“The [American] collection of Mrs Hemans’ Miscellaneous Poems opens with verses in honour of the Pilgrim Fathers. She has celebrated with solemnity and truth the circumstances which gave sublimity to the glorious scene of their landing; and their descendants cannot be but pleased to see the devotedness displayed by them introduced into poetry, and incorporated among the bright examples held up by the inventive as well as the historic muse for the admiration of mankind.

“Freedom, not licentiousness--religious freedom, not the absence of religious rites--was the object for which the fathers came. An air of earnestness was thus originally imparted to the character of the country, and succeeding ages have not worn it away. Though it may suit the humour of moralisers to declaim against the degeneracy of the times, we believe that the country has of late years made advances in moral worth. We infer this from the more general diffusion of intelligence, and the higher standard of learning; from the spirit of healthy action pervading all classes; from the diminished number of crimes; from the general security of property; from the rapid multiplication of Sabbath schools, than which no discovery of our age has been more important for the moral education of the people; from the philanthropy which seeks for the sources of vice, and restrains it by removing its causes; from the active and compassionate benevolence, which does not allow itself to consider any class so vicious or so degraded as to have forfeited its claim to humane attention--which seeks and relieves misery wherever it is concealed, and, embracing every continent in its regard, has its messengers in the remotest regions of the world. Religious freedom is the last right which, even in our days, the inhabitants of this country would surrender. It would be easier to drive them from their houses and their lands, than to take from them the liberty of worshipping God according to the dictates of conscience. There is no general assertion of this right, and no energetic display of zeal in maintaining it, solely because it is menaced by no alarming danger.

“In a state of society like ours, there may be little room for the exercise of those arts of which it is the chief aim to amuse and delight; and yet attention is by no means confined to those objects which are directly connected with the advancement of personal or public wealth. For the costly luxuries of life, and even for its elegant pleasures, there may as yet be little room; and still the morality of the nation be far from forming itself on the new system of morals devised by our political economists. There has been no age--we assert it with confidence--there has been no people, where the efforts of mind, directly connected with the preservation of elevated feeling and religious earnestness, are more valued than they are by the better part of our own community. We can no support, or we hold it not best to support, an expensive religious establishment; but every where the voice of religious homage and instruction is heard: we cannot set apart large estates to give splendour to literary distinction; but you will hardly find a retired nook, where only a few families seek their shelter near each other, so destitute, that the elements of knowledge are not freely taught: we cannot establish galleries for the various works of the arts of design; but the eye that can see the beauties of nature is common with us, and the recital of deeds of high worth meets with ready listeners. The luxuries, which are for display, are exceedingly little known; but the highest value is set on every effort of mind connected with the investigation of truth, or the nurture of generous and elevated sentiments.

“Where the public mind had been thus formed, the poetry of Mrs Hemans was sure to find admirers. The exercise of genius, if connected with no respect for virtue, might have remained unnoticed; the theory, which treats of beauty as of something independent of moral effect, is still without advocates among us. It has thus far been an undisputed axiom that, if a production is indecent or immoral, it for that very reason cannot claim to be considered beautiful.

“We do not go so far as to assert, that there can be no merit in works of which the general tendency is immoral; but the merit, if there is any, does not lie in the immoral part, in the charm that is thrown round vice, but rather in an occasional gleam of better principles, in nature occasionally making her voice heard above the din of the dissolute, in the pictures of loveliness and moral truth that shine out through the darkness. Amidst all the horrors and depravity of superstition, the strange and the abominable vagaries of the human imagination, exercised on religion in heathenish ignorance, the observing mind may yet recognise the spirit that connects man with a better world. And so it is with poetry: amidst all the confusion which is manifest where the heavenly gift is under the control of a corrupted judgment, something of its native lustre will still appear. When we see the poet of transcendent genius delineating any thing but the higher part of our nature; when we observe how, after borrowing fiendish colours, he describes states of mind with which devils only should have sympathy, rails at human nature in a style which spiteful misanthropy alone can approve, or gives descriptions of sensuality fit only for the revels of Comus; when we see him ‘hurried down the adulterate age, adding pollutions of his own,’ we can have little to say to excuse or to justify an admiration of poetic talent, till we are reconciled to human nature and the muse by the pure lustre of better-guided minds.

“In what view of the subject can it be held a proper design of poetry to render man hateful to himself? How can it delight or instruct us to see our fellow-men ranged under the two classes of designing villains and weak dupes? Or what sources of poetic inspiration are left, if all the relations of social life are held up to derision, and every generous impulse scorned as the result of deluded confidence?

“To demand that what is called _poetical justice_ should be found in every performance may be unreasonable, since the events of life do not warrant us in expecting it; but we may demand what is of much more importance, _moral justice_--a consistency of character, a conformity of the mind to its career of action. It may not be inconsistent with reality, though it is with probability, that an unprincipled miscreant, governing himself in his gratifications by the narrowest selfishness, should be successful in his pursuits; but it is unnatural and false to give to such a nature any of the attributes of goodness. Vice is essentially mean and low; it has no dignity, no courage, no beauty; and while the poet can never impart to a production, tending to promote vice, the power and interest which belong to the worthy delineation of honourable actions, he can never invest a false heart with the noble qualities of a generous one. Observe in this respect the manner of the dramatic poet, who is acknowledged to have delineated the passions with the greatest fidelity. Shakspeare describes the mind as gradually sinking under the influence of the master-passion. It stamps itself on the whole soul, and obliterates all the finer traces in which humanity had written a witness of gentler qualities. Macbeth is a moral picture of terrific sublimity, and an illustration of that _moral_ justice which we contend should never be wanting. The one strong passion moulds the character, and blasts every tender sentiment. When once Othello is jealous, his judgment is gone; the selfishness of Richard leads to wanton cruelty. In one of Shakspeare’s tragedies, not a crime, but a fault is the foundation of the moral interest. Here, too, he is consistent; and the irresolution of Hamlet leaves his mind without energy, and his contending passions without terror. We might explain our views by examples from the comedies of the great dramatist, but Macbeth and Richard furnish the clearest illustration of them. And it is in such exhibitions of the power of vice to degrade, that ‘gorgeous tragedy’ performs her severest office; lifting up the pall which hides the ghastliness of unprincipled depravity, and showing us, where vice gains control, the features, that before may have been resplendent with loveliness, marred and despoiled of all their sweet expression.

“There can, then, be no more hideous fault in a literary work than profligacy. Levity is next in order. The disposition to trifle with topics of the highest moment--to apply the levelling principle to the emotions of the human mind, to hold up to ridicule the exalted thoughts and kindling aspirations of which human nature is capable--can at best charm those only who have failed to enter the true avenues to happiness. Such works may be popular, because the character of the public mind may for a season be corrupt. A literature, consisting of such works, is the greatest evil with which a nation can be cursed. National poverty is nothing in comparison, for poverty is remedied by prudent enterprise; but such works poison the life-blood of the people, the moral vigour, which alone can strive for liberty and honour. The apologists for this class of compositions, in which Voltaire and La Fontaine are the greatest masters, defend it on the ground that it is well adapted to give pleasure to minds which have been accustomed to it, and that foreigners need only a different moral education to be able to enjoy it. Now, without wasting a word on the enormity of defending what is intrinsically sensual, we reply merely on the score of effect. He who adapts his inventions to a particular state of society, can please no further; he depends on circumstances for his popularity; he does not appeal to man, but to accidental habits, a fleeting state of the public mind; he is the poet, not of nature, but of a transient fashion. The attraction which comes from the strangeness or novelty of the manner is of very little value. On the most brilliant night a meteor would be followed by all eyes for a while; and why? Because it is as evanescent as bright; we must gaze at once, or it will be too late. Yet the mind soon returns to the contemplation of the eternal stars which light up the heavens with enduring lustre. Any popularity, obtained by gratifying a perverse taste, is essentially transitory; while all that is benevolent and social, all that favours truth and goodness, is of universal and perpetual interest.

“These are but plain inferences from facts in the history of literature. The plays of Dryden were written to please an audience of a vicious taste; they may have been received with boisterous applause, but nobody likes them now, though in their form not unsuited to the stage; and as for the grossest scenes, any merit in the invention is never spoken of as compensating for their abominable coarseness. On the other hand, Milton’s Comus, though in its form entirely antiquated, has the beautiful freshness of everlasting youth, delights the ardent admirer of good poetry, and is always showing new attractions to the careful critic. And where lies this immense difference in the lasting effect of these two writers? Dryden, it is true, fell far short of Milton in poetic genius; but the true cause lies in this,--virtue, which is the soul of song, is wanting in the plays of Dryden, while the poetry of Milton bears the impress of his own magnanimity.

“We are contending for no sickly morality: we would shut out the poet from the haunts of libertinism, not from the haunts of men; we would have him associate with his fellows, hold intercourse with the great minds that light up the gloom of ages, and share in the best impulses of human nature, and not, under the influence of a too delicate sensibility, treat only of the harmless flowers, and the innocent birds, and the exhilarating charm of agreeable scenery; and still less, in the spirit of a sullen misanthropy, delight in obscure abstractions, find comfort only in solitude, and rejoice, or pretend to rejoice, chiefly in the mountains, and the ocean, and the low places of the earth. Their pursuit of moral beauty does not lead to an affected admiration, or an improper idolatry of the visible creation. The genius of the poet can impart a portion of its eloquence to the external world, and elevate creation by connecting it with moral associations. But descriptions, except of scenes where moral beings are to move, possess little interest. If landscape-painting is an inferior branch of that art, though the splendid works of Claude demand praise without measure, landscape poetry is a kind of affectation, an unnatural result of excessive refinement. Description is important, but subordinate. The external world, with all its gorgeousness and varied forms of beauty; the cataract, ‘with its glory of reflected light;’ the forests, as they wave in the brilliancy of early summer; the flowers, that are crowded in gardens, or waste their sweetness on the desert air; ‘the noise of the hidden brook, that all night long in the leafy months sings its quiet tune to the sleeping woods;’ the ocean, whether reposing in tranquil majesty or tossed by the tempest; night, when the heavens are glittering with the splendour of the constellations; morning, when one perfect splendour beams in the sky, and is reflected in a thousand colours from the guttering earth--these are not the sublimest themes that awaken the energies of the muse. It is mind, and mind only, which can exhibit the highest beauty. The hymn of martyrdom, the strength by which the patriot girds himself to die, ‘God’s breath in the soul of man,’ the unconquerable power of generous passion, the hopes and sorrows of humanity--love, devotion, and all the deep and bright springs of affection--these are higher themes of permanent interest and exalted character.

“Here, too, we find an analogy between poetic and religious feeling. The image of God is to be sought for, not so much in the outward world as in the mind. No combination of inanimate matter can equal the sublimity and wonderful power of life. To impart organic life, with the power of reproduction, is a brighter display of Omnipotence than any arrangement of the inanimate, material world. A swarm of flies, as through their short existence they buzz and wheel in the summer’s sun, offer as clear, and, to some minds, a clearer demonstration of Omnipotence, than the everlasting, but silent, courses of the planets. But moral life is the highest creation of divine power. We, at least, know and can conceive of none higher. We are, therefore, not to look for God among the rivers and the forests, nor yet among the planets and the stars, but in the hearts of men; he is not the God of the dead, but of the living.

“Those who accord with the general views which we have here maintained, will be prepared to express unqualified approbation of the literary career of Mrs Hemans. Had her writings been merely harmless, we should not have entered into an analysis of them; but the moral charm which is spread over them is so peculiar, so full of nature, and truth, and deep feeling, that her productions claim at once the praise of exquisite purity and poetic excellence. She adds the dignity of her sex to a high sense of the duties of a poet; she writes with buoyancy, yet with earnestness; her poems bear the impress of a character worthy of admiration. In the pursuit of literary renown, she never forgets what is due to feminine reserve. We perceive a mind endowed with powers to aspire, and are still further pleased to find no unsatisfied cravings, no passionate pursuit of remote objects, but high endowments, graced by contentment. There is plainly the consciousness of the various sorrow to which life is exposed, and with it the spirit of resignation. She sets before herself a clear and exalted idea of what a female writer should be, and is on the way to realise her own idea of excellence. Living in domestic retirement, in a beautiful part of Wales, it is her own feelings and her own experience which she communicates to us. We cannot illustrate our meaning better, than by introducing our readers at once to Mrs Hemans herself, as she describes to us the occupations of a day.

AN 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,’ etc. etc.

“The poetry is here as beautiful as the scene described is quiet and pleasing. It forms an amiable picture of the occupations of a contemplative mind. The language, versification, and imagery, are of great merit, the beauties of nature described by a careful observer; the English scene is placed in happy contrast with the Eastern, and the dream of romance pleasantly disturbed by the cheerfulness of life. But we make but sorry work at commenting on what the reader must feel.

* * * * *

“It has been said that religion can never be made a subject of interest in poetry. The position is a false one, refuted by the close alliance between poetic inspiration and sacred enthusiasm. Irreligion has certainly no place in poetry. There may have been Atheist philosophers; an Atheist poet is an impossibility. The poet may doubt and reason like Hamlet, but the moment he acquiesces in unbelief, there is an end to the magic of poetry. Imagination can no longer throw lively hues over the creation: the forests cease to be haunted; the sea, and the air, and the heavens, to teem with life. The highest interest, we think, attaches to Mrs Hemans’s writings, from the spirit of Christianity which pervades them.

“The poetry of our author is tranquillising in its character, calm and serene. We beg pardon of the lovers of excitement, but we are seriously led to take notice of this quality as of a high merit. A great deal has been said of the sublimity of directing the passions; we hold it a much more difficult and a much more elevated task, to restrain them. It may be sublime to ride on the whirlwind, and direct the storm; but it seems to us still more sublime to appease the storm, and still the whirlwind. Virgil, no mean authority, was of this opinion. The French are reported to be particularly fond of effect and display; but we remember to have read that, even in the splendid days of Napoleon, the simplicity of vocal music surpassed in effect the magnificence of a numerous band. It was when Napoleon was crowned Emperor in the Cathedral of Notre Dame. The Parisians, wishing to distinguish the occasion by some novel exhibition, and to produce a great effect, filled the orchestra with eighty harps, which were all struck together with unequalled skill. The fashionable world was in raptures. Presently the Pope entered, and some thirty of his singers, who came with him from Rome, received him with the powerful _Tu es Petrus_ of the old-fashioned Scarlatti; and the simple majesty of the air, assisted by no instruments, annihilated in a moment the whole effect of the preceding fanfaronade. And in literature the public taste seems to us already weary of those productions which aim at astonishing and producing a great effect, and there is now an opportunity of pleasing by the serenity of contemplative excellence.

“It is the high praise of Mrs Hemans’s poetry that it is feminine. The sex may well be pleased with her productions, for they could hardly have a better representative in the career of letters. All her works seem to come from the heart, to be natural and true. The poet can give us nothing but the form under which the objects he describes present themselves to his own mind. That form must be noble, or it is not worthy of our consideration; it must be consistent, or it will fail to be true. Now, in the writings of Mrs Hemans, we are shown how life and its concerns appear to woman, and hear a mother intrusting to verse her experience and observation. So, in ‘The Hebrew Mother,’ ‘the spring-tide of nature’ swells high as she parts from her son, on devoting him to the service of the Temple:--

‘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?

‘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?

‘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!’

“The same high feeling of maternal duty and love inspires the little poem, ‘The Wreck,’ which every one has read. ‘The Lady of the Castle,’ ‘The Grave of Körner,’ ‘The Graves of a Household,’ are all on domestic subjects. But why do we allude to poems which are in every one’s hands? The mother’s voice breaks out again in the piece entitled ‘Elysium.’ Children, according to the heathen mythology, were banished to the infernal regions, and religious faith had no consolation for a mourning parent.

‘Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay, Too roselike still, too beautiful, too dear, The child at rest before its mother lay; E’en so to pass away, With its bright smile! Elysium! what wert thou To her who wept o’er that young slumberer’s brow?

‘Thou hadst no home, green land! For the fair creature from her bosom gone, With life’s fresh flowers just opening in its hand, And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, Which in its clear eye shone Like spring’s first wakening! But that light was past-- --Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast?

‘Not where thy soft winds play’d, Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!-- Fade with thy bowers, thou land of visions! fade! From thee no voice came o’er the gloomy deep, And bade man cease to weep! Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love!

‘For the most loved are they Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice In regal halls! The shades o’erhang their way; The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, And gentle hearts rejoice Around their steps; till silently they die, As a stream shrinks from summer’s burning eye.

‘And the world knows not then-- Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled! Yet these are they, who on the souls of men Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread, The long-remember’d dead! But not with thee might aught save glory dwell-- Fade, fade away, thou shore of asphodel!’

“And the same feelings of a woman and mother dictated ‘The Evening Prayer at a Girls’ School,’--a poem which merits to be considered in connexion with Gray’s ‘Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College.’

‘O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest, Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,” etc.

“Of other spirited, and lively, and pathetic short poems of Mrs Hemans, which form some of the brightest ornaments of the lyric poetry of the language, we take no particular notice--for in what part of the United States are they not known? So general has been the attention to those of her pieces adapted to the purposes of a newspaper, we hardly fear to assert that, throughout a great part of this country, there is not a family of the middling class in which some of them have not been read. The praise which was not sparingly bestowed upon her, when her shorter first productions became generally known among us, has been often repeated on a careful examination of her works; and could we hope that our remarks might one day fall under her eye, we should hope she would not be indifferent to the good wishes which are offered her from America, but feel herself cheered and encouraged in her efforts, by the prospect of an enlarged and almost unlimited field of useful influence, opened to her among the descendants of her country in an independent land. The ocean divides us from the fashions as well as the commotions of Europe. The voice of America, deciding on the literature of England, resembles the voice of posterity more nearly than any thing else, that is contemporaneous, can do. We believe that the general attention which has been given to Mrs Hemans’s works among us, may be regarded as a pledge that they will not be received with indifference by posterity.”--_North American Review._

* * * * *

[At the conclusion of “The Records” we gave the opinions of one of our most celebrated Cisatlantic critics regarding the poetry of Mrs Hemans, and we think it but right to show now (as has just been done) the general estimate in which her genius is held in America, as evidenced by the _North American Review_, the best-known and most widely-circulated of the Transatlantic periodicals.

Judging from the state of feeling in America--from the ideas of practical philosophy entertained there--and from the pervading utilitarian bias of its prose literature, we must confess that, had we been asked to name any votary of the British muse more likely than another to be appreciated in that country, we should have had very little hesitation in fixing upon Crabbe. And why? Because his poetry is characterised by a stern adherence to the realities of life, as contradistinguished from romance, and because his characters and situations are taken from existing aspects of society, appreciable by all. In this theory it appears we are wrong; and Professor Norton has here done his best to account for it. We are most given to admire what is least attainable; and therefore it is that the spiritual glow which Mrs Hemans has blent with human sentiment--the imaginative beauty with which she has clothed “the shows of earth and heaven,”--and the leaven of romance which she has infused into the communications of daily life, have, as _lucus a non lucendo_, been elements of, and not the impediments to, her American popularity.]

HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD.

[We are quite aware that the _Hymns for Childhood_ were written at a much earlier period than that which we have here chronologically assigned them. They had been sent to Professor Norton for the use of his children, and were printed under his auspices at Boston, New England, so early as 1827. Not, however, having had an opportunity of seeing the original American edition, we are in the dark as to whether the hymns in it were the same in number as those published in Dublin under the eye of the author, or whether she afterwards revised and altered them. It has been therefore judged best to place them here in the order of publication, and as they appeared in this country under the supervision of Mrs Hemans herself. The hymns (as they deserved to be) were very favourably received by the public, and it is only to be regretted that Mrs Hemans did not from time to time add to their number. She thus wrote to Mrs Lawrence with a presentation copy of her little book:--“I send you the fairy volume of hymns. You will immediately see how unpretending a little book it is; but it will give you pleasure to know that it has been received in the most gratifying manner, having seemed (as a playful child might have done) to win criticism into a benignant smile.”--_Vide_ Letter to Mrs Lawrence, _Recollections_, p. 354.]

INTRODUCTORY VERSES.

Oh! blest art thou whose steps may rove Through the green paths of vale and grove, Or, leaving all their charms below, Climb the wild mountain’s airy brow;

And gaze afar o’er cultured plains, And cities with their stately fanes, And forests, that beneath thee lie, And ocean mingling with the sky.

For man can show thee naught so fair As Nature’s varied marvels there; And if thy pure and artless breast Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest!

For thee the stream in beauty flows, For thee the gale of summer blows; And, in deep glen and wood-walk free, Voices of joy still breathe for thee.

But happier far, if then thy soul Can soar to Him who made the whole. If to thine eye the simplest flower Portray His bounty and His power!

If, in whate’er is bright or grand, Thy mind can trace His viewless hand; If Nature’s music bid thee raise _Thy_ song of gratitude and praise;

If heaven and earth, with beauty fraught, Lead to His throne thy raptured thought; If there thou lovest _His_ love to read-- Then, wanderer! thou art blest indeed.

THE RAINBOW.

“I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.”--Genesis, ix. 13.

Soft falls the mild, reviving shower From April’s changeful skies, And rain-drops bend each trembling flower They tinge with richer dyes.

Soon shall their genial influence call A thousand buds to day, Which, waiting but that balmy fall, In hidden beauty lay.

E’en now full many a blossom’s bell With fragrance fills the shade; And verdure clothes each grassy dell, In brighter tints array’d.

But mark! what arch of varied hue From heaven to earth is bow’d? Haste, ere it vanish!--haste to view The rainbow in the cloud!

How bright its glory! there behold The emerald’s verdant rays, The topaz blends its hue of gold With the deep ruby’s blaze.

Yet not alone to charm thy sight Was given the vision fair-- Gaze on that arch of colour’d light, And read God’s mercy there.

It tells us that the mighty deep, Fast by the Eternal chain’d, No more o’er earth’s domain shall sweep, Awful and unrestrain’d.

It tells that seasons, heat and cold, Fix’d by his sovereign will, Shall, in their course, bid man behold Seed-time and harvest still;

That still the flower shall deck the field, When vernal zephyrs blow, That still the vine its fruit shall yield, When autumn sunbeams glow.

Then, child of that fair earth! which yet Smiles with each charm endow’d, Bless thou His name, whose mercy set The rainbow in the cloud!

THE SUN.

The Sun comes forth: each mountain-height Glows with a tinge of rosy light, And flowers that slumber’d through the night Their dewy leaves unfold; A flood of splendour bursts on high, And ocean’s breast gives back a sky All steep’d in molten gold.

Oh! thou art glorious, orb of day! Exulting nations hail thy ray, Creation swells a choral lay To welcome thy return; From thee all nature draws her hues, Thy beams the insect’s wing suffuse, And in the diamond burn.

Yet must thou fade! When earth and heaven By fire and tempest shall be riven, Thou, from thy sphere of radiance driven, O Sun! must fall at last; Another heaven, another earth, New power, new glory shall have birth, When all we see is past.

But He who gave the word of might, “Let there be light,”--and there was light, Who bade thee chase the gloom of night, And beam the world to bless; For ever bright, for ever pure, Alone unchanging shall endure, The Sun of Righteousness!

THE RIVERS.

Go! trace th’ unnumber’d streams, o’er earth That wind their devious course, That draw from Alpine heights their birth, Deep vale, or cavern-source.

Some by majestic cities glide, Proud scenes of man’s renown; Some lead their solitary tide Where pathless forests frown.

Some calmly roll o’er golden sands, Where Afric’s deserts lie; Or spread, to clothe rejoicing lands With rich fertility.

These bear the bark, whose stately sail Exulting seems to swell; While these, scarce rippled by a gale, Sleep in the lonely dell.

Yet on, alike, though swift or slow Their various waves may sweep, Through cities or through shades, they flow To the same boundless deep.

Oh! thus, whate’er our path of life, Through sunshine or through gloom, Through scenes of quiet or of strife, Its end is still the tomb.

The chief whose mighty deeds we hail, The monarch throned on high, The peasant in his native vale-- All journey on to die!

But if _Thy_ guardian care, my God! The pilgrim’s course attend, I will not fear the dark abode To which my footsteps bend.

For thence thine all-redeeming Son, Who died the world to save, In light, in triumph, rose, and won The victory from the grave!

THE STARS.

“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth his handy-work.”--Psalm xix. 1.

No cloud obscures the summer sky, The moon in brightness walks on high; And, set in azure, every star Shines, a pure gem of heaven, afar!

Child of the earth! oh, lift thy glance To yon bright firmament’s expanse; The glories of its realm explore, And gaze, and wonder, and adore!

Doth it not speak to every sense The marvels of Omnipotence? Seest thou not there the Almighty name Inscribed in characters of flame?

Count o’er these lamps of quenchless light, That sparkle through the shades of night: Behold them! can a mortal boast To number that celestial host?

Mark well each little star, whose rays In distant splendour meet thy gaze: Each is a world, by Him sustain’d Who from eternity hath reign’d.

Each, kindled not for earth alone, Hath circling planets of its own, And beings, whose existence springs From Him, the all-powerful King of kings.

Haply, those glorious beings know No stain of guilt, or tear of woe; But, raising still the adoring voice, For ever in their God rejoice.

What then art _thou_, O child of clay! Amid creation’s grandeur, say? E’en as an insect on the breeze, E’en as a dew-drop, lost in seas!

Yet fear thou not! The sovereign hand Which spread the ocean and the land, And hung the rolling spheres in air, Hath, e’en for thee, a Father’s care!

Be thou at peace! The all-seeing Eye, Pervading earth, and air, and sky-- The searching glance which none may flee, Is still in mercy turn’d on thee.

THE OCEAN.

“They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.”--Psalm cvii. 23, 24.

He that in venturous barks hath been A wanderer on the deep, Can tell of many an awful scene, Where storms for ever sweep.

For many a fair, majestic sight Hath met his wandering eye, Beneath the streaming northern light, Or blaze of Indian sky.

Go! ask him of the whirlpool’s roar, Whose echoing thunder peals Loud, as if rush’d along the shore An army’s chariot-wheels;

Of icebergs, floating o’er the main, Or fix’d upon the coast, Like glittering citadel or fane, Mid the bright realms of frost;

Of coral rocks from waves below In steep ascent that tower, And, fraught with peril, daily grow, Form’d by an insect’s power;

Of sea-fires, which at dead of night Shine o’er the tides afar, And make the expanse of ocean bright, As heaven with many a star.

O God! thy name _they_ well may praise Who to the deep go down, And trace the wonders of thy ways Where rocks and billows frown!

If glorious be that awful deep No human power can bind, What then art _Thou_, who bid’st it keep Within its bounds confined!

Let heaven and earth in praise unite! Eternal praise to Thee, Whose word can rouse the tempest’s might, Or still the raging sea!

THE THUNDER-STORM.

Deep, fiery clouds o’ercast the sky, Dead stillness reigns in air; There is not e’en a breeze, on high The gossamer to bear.

The woods are hush’d, the waves at rest, The lake is dark and still, Reflecting on its shadowy breast Each form of rock and hill.

The lime-leaf waves not in the grove, The rose-tree in the bower; The birds have ceased their songs of love, Awed by the threatening hour.

’Tis noon;--yet nature’s calm profound Seems as at midnight deep: But hark! what peal of awful sound Breaks on creation’s sleep?

The thunder-burst!--its rolling might Seems the firm hills to shake; And in terrific splendour bright The gather’d lightnings break.

Yet fear not, shrink not thou, my child! Though by the bolt’s descent Were the tall cliffs in ruins piled, And the wide forests rent.

Doth not thy God behold thee still, With all-surveying eye? Doth not his power all nature fill, Around, beneath, on high?

Know, hadst thou eagle-pinions free, To track the realms of air, Thou couldst not reach a spot, where He Would not be with thee there!

In the wide city’s peopled towers, On the vast ocean’s plains, Midst the deep woodland’s loneliest bowers, Alike the Almighty reigns!

Then fear not, though the angry sky A thousand darts should cast; Why should we tremble, e’en to die, And be with _Him_ at last?

THE BIRDS.

“Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings; and not one of them is forgotten before God?”--St Luke, xii. 6.

Tribes of the air! whose favour’d race May wander through the realms of space, Free guests of earth and sky; In form, in plumage, and in song, What gifts of nature mark your throng With bright variety!

Nor differ less your forms, your flight, Your dwellings hid from hostile sight, And the wild haunts ye love; Birds of the gentle beak![407] how dear Your wood-note to the wanderer’s ear, In shadowy vale or grove!

Far other scenes, remote, sublime, Where swain or hunter may not climb The mountain-eagle seeks; Alone he reigns a monarch there, Scarce will the chamois’ footstep dare Ascend his Alpine peaks.

Others there are that make their home Where the white billows roar and foam Around the o’erhanging rock; Fearless they skim the angry wave, Or, shelter’d in their sea-beat cave, The tempest’s fury mock.

Where Afric’s burning realm expands, The ostrich haunts the desert-sands, Parch’d by the blaze of day; The swan, where northern rivers glide, Through the tall reeds that fringe their tide Floats graceful on her way.

The condor, where the Andes tower, Spreads his broad wing of pride and power, And many a storm defies; Bright in the Orient realms of morn, All beauty’s richest hues adorn The bird of paradise.

Some, amidst India’s groves of palm, And spicy forests breathing balm, Weave soft their pendant nest; Some, deep in Western wilds, display Their fairy form and plumage gay, In rainbow colours drest.

Others no varied song may pour, May boast no eagle-plume to soar, No tints of light may wear; Yet know, our Heavenly Father guides The least of these, and well provides For each, with tenderest care.

Shall He not then _thy_ guardian be? Will not His aid extend to _thee_? Oh, safely may’st thou rest!-- Trust in His love; and e’en should pain, Should sorrow, tempt thee to complain, Know what He wills is best!

[407] The Italians call all singing-birds, _birds of the gentle beak_.

THE SKYLARK.

CHILD’S MORNING HYMN.

The skylark, when the dews of morn Hang tremulous on flower and thorn, And violets round his nest exhale Their fragrance on the early gale, To the first sunbeam spreads his wings, Buoyant with joy, and soars and sings.

He rests not on the leafy spray To warble his exulting lay; But high above the morning cloud Mounts in triumphant freedom proud, And swells, when nearest to the sky, His notes of sweetest ecstasy.

Thus, my Creator! thus the more My spirit’s wing to Thee can soar, The more she triumphs to behold Thy love in all thy works unfold, And bids her hymns of rapture be Most glad, when rising most to Thee!

THE NIGHTINGALE.

CHILD’S EVENING HYMN.

When twilight’s gray and pensive hour Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower, And bids the solitary star Shine in pale beauty from afar;

When gathering shades the landscape veil, And peasants seek their village-dale, And mists from river-wave arise, And dew in every blossom lies;

When evening’s primrose opes to shed Soft fragrance round her grassy bed; When glow-worms in the wood-walk light Their lamp to cheer the traveller’s sight;--

At that calm hour, so still, so pale, Awakes the lonely nightingale; And from a hermitage of shade Fills with her voice the forest glade.

And sweeter far that melting voice Than all which through the day rejoice; And still shall bard and wanderer love The twilight music of the grove.

Father in heaven! oh, thus when day With all its cares hath pass’d away, And silent hours waft peace on earth, And hush the louder strains of mirth;

Thus may sweet songs of praise and prayer To Thee my spirit’s offering bear-- Yon star, my signal, set on high, For vesper-hymns of piety.

So may Thy mercy and Thy power Protect me through the midnight hour, And balmy sleep and visions blest Smile on Thy servant’s bed of rest.

THE NORTHERN SPRING.

When the soft breath of Spring goes forth Far o’er the mountains of the North, How soon those wastes of dazzling snow With life, and bloom, and beauty glow!

Then bursts the verdure of the plains, Then break the streams from icy chains; And the glad reindeer seeks no more Amidst deep snows his mossy store.

Then the dark pine-wood’s boughs are seen Fringed tenderly with living green; And roses, in their brightest dyes, By Lapland’s founts and lakes arise.

Thus, in a moment, from the gloom And the cold fetters of the tomb, Thus shall the blest Redeemer’s voice Call forth his servants to rejoice.

For He, whose word is truth, hath said, His power to life shall wake the dead, And summon those he loves on high, To “put on immortality!”

Then, all its transient sufferings o’er, On wings of light the soul shall soar, Exulting, to that blest abode Where tears of sorrow never flow’d.

Early in the year 1834, the little volume of _Hymns for Childhood_ (which, though written many years before, had never been published in England) was brought out by Messrs Curry of Dublin, who were also the publishers of the _National Lyrics_, which appeared in a collected form about the same time. Of the latter, Mrs Hemans thus wrote to her friend Mrs Lawrence, in the note which accompanied the volume:--“I think you will love my little book, though it contains but the broken music of a troubled heart--for all the hours it will recall to you beam fresh and bright as ever in my memory, though I have passed through but too many of sad and deep excitement since that period.”--_Memoir_, p. 269.]

PARAPHRASE OF PSALM CXLVIII.

“Praise ye the Lord. Praise ye the Lord from the heavens: praise him in the heights.”

Praise ye the Lord! on every height Songs to his glory raise! Ye angel-hosts, ye stars of night, Join in immortal praise!

O heaven of heavens! let praise far-swelling From all thine orbs be sent! Join in the strain, ye waters, dwelling! Above the firmament!

For His the word which gave you birth, And majesty and might: Praise to the Highest from the earth, And let the deeps unite!

O fire and vapour, hail and snow! Ye servants of His will; O stormy winds! that only blow His mandates to fulfil;

Mountains and rocks, to heaven that rise! Fair cedars of the wood! Creatures of life that wing the skies, Or track the plains for food!

Judges of nations! kings, whose hand Waves the proud sceptre high! O youths and virgins of the land! O age and infancy!

Praise ye His name, to whom alone All homage should be given; Whose glory from the eternal throne Spreads wide o’er earth and heaven!

NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC.

TO

MRS LAWRENCE

OF WAVERTREE HALL, HER FRIEND, AND THE SISTER OF HER FRIEND COLONEL D’AGUILAR, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED IN REMEMBRANCE OF MANY BRIGHTLY ASSOCIATED HOURS, BY FELICIA HEMANS.

NATIONAL LYRICS.

THE THEMES OF SONG.

“Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope, And melancholy fear subdued by faith.” Wordsworth.

Where shall the minstrel find a theme? --Where’er, for freedom shed, Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream, Amidst the mountains, red.

Where’er a rock, a fount, a grove, Bears record to the faith Of love--deep, holy, fervent love, Victor o’er fear and death.

Where’er a chieftain’s crested brow Too soon hath been struck down, Or a bright virgin head laid low, Wearing its youth’s first crown.

Where’er a spire points up to heaven, Through storm and summer air, Telling, that all around have striven Man’s heart, and hope, and prayer.

Where’er a blessed home hath been, That now is home no more: A place of ivy, darkly green, Where laughter’s light is o’er.

Where’er by some forsaken grave, Some nameless greensward heap, A bird may sing, a wild-flower wave, A star its vigil keep.

Or where a yearning heart of old, A dream of shepherd men, With forms of more than earthly mould Hath peopled grot or glen.

_There_ may the bard’s high themes be found-- We die, we pass away; But faith, love, pity--these are bound To earth without decay.

The heart that burns, the cheek that glows, The tear from hidden springs, The thorn and glory of the rose-- _These_ are undying things.

Wave after wave of mighty stream To the deep sea hath gone: Yet not the less, like youth’s bright dream, The exhaustless flood rolls on.

RHINE SONG OF THE GERMAN SOLDIERS AFTER VICTORY.

TO THE AIR OF “AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN.”

SINGLE VOICE.

It is the Rhine! our mountain vineyards laving, I see the bright flood shine! (_bis._) Sing on the march with every banner waving-- Sing, brothers! ’tis the Rhine! (_bis._)

CHORUS.

The Rhine! the Rhine! our own imperial river! Be glory on thy track! We left thy shores, to die or to deliver-- We bear thee freedom back!

SINGLE VOICE.

Hail! hail! my childhood knew thy rush of water, Even as my mother’s song; That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, And heart and arm grew strong!

CHORUS.

Roll proudly on!--brave blood is with thee sweeping, Pour’d out by sons of thine, Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping, Like thee, victorious Rhine!

SINGLE VOICE.

Home! Home! Thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting, Thy path is by my home, Even now my children count the hours till meeting: O ransom’d ones! I come.

CHORUS.

Go tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee never! Sound on by hearth and shrine! Sing through the hills that thou art free for ever-- Lift up thy voice, O Rhine!

[“I wish you could have heard Sir Walter Scott describe a glorious sight, which had been witnessed by a friend of his!--the crossing of the Rhine, at Ehrenbreitstein, by the German army of Liberators on their victorious return from France. ‘At the first gleam of the river,’ he said, ‘they all burst forth into the national chant, _Am Rhein! Am Rhein!_’ They were two days passing over; and the rocks and the castle were ringing to the song the whole time--for each band renewed it while crossing; and even the Cossacks, with the clash and the clang, and the roll of their stormy war-music, catching the enthusiasm of the scene, swelled forth the chorus, ‘_Am Rhein! Am Rhein!_’”--_Manuscript letter._

This anecdote, (on which was founded Mrs Hemans’s own “Rhine Song,”) and the look and tone with which it was related, made an impression on her memory which nothing could efface. The very name of the “Father Rhine,” the “exulting and abounding river,” (how often would she quote that magnificent line of Lord Byron’s!) had always worked upon her like a spell, conjuring up a thousand visions of romance and beauty; and Haydn’s inspiring _Rheinweinlied_, with its fine, rich tide of flowing harmony, was one of the airs she most delighted in. “You are quite right,” she wrote to a friend who had echoed her enthusiasm, “it was the description of that noble Rhine scene which interested me more than any part of Sir Walter’s conversation; and I wished more that you could have heard it than all the high legends and solemn scenes of which we spoke that day.”]

A SONG OF DELOS.

[The Island of Delos was considered of such peculiar sanctity by the ancients, that they did not allow it to be desecrated by the events of birth or death. In the following poem, a young priestess of Apollo is supposed to be conveyed from its shores during the last hours of a mortal sickness, and to bid the scenes of her youth farewell in a sudden flow of unpremeditated song.]

“Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce nature, Je vous dois une larme aux bords de mon tombeau; L’air est si parfume! la lumiere est si pure! Aux regards d’un Mourant le soleil est si beau!” Lamartine.

A song was heard of old--a low, sweet song, On the blue seas by Delos. From that isle, The Sun-god’s own domain, a gentle girl-- Gentle, yet all inspired of soul, of mien, Lit with a life too perilously bright-- Was borne away to die. How beautiful Seems this world to the dying!--but for _her_, The child of beauty and of poesy, And of soft Grecian skies--oh! who may dream Of all that from _her_ changeful eye flash’d forth, Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears, As on her land’s rich vision, fane o’er fane Colour’d with loving light, she gazed her last, Her young life’s last, that hour! From her pale brow And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back, And bending forward, as the spirit sway’d The reed-like form still to the shore beloved, Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell O’er dancing waves:--“Oh, linger yet!” she cried,

“Oh, linger, linger on the oar! Oh, pause upon the deep! That I may gaze yet once, once more, Where floats the golden day o’er fane and steep! Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore-- Oh! linger, linger on the parting oar!

“I see the laurels fling back showers Of soft light still on many a shrine; I see the path to haunts of flowers Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line; I hear a sound of flutes--a swell of song-- _Mine_ is too low to reach that joyous throng!

“Oh! linger, linger on the oar Beneath my native sky! Let my life part from that bright shore With day’s last crimson--gazing let me die! Thou bark, glide slowly!--slowly should be borne The voyager that never shall return.

“A fatal gift hath been thy dower, Lord of the Lyre! to me; With song and wreath from bower to bower, Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free; While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart, Have lain and listen’d to my beating heart.

“Now, wasted by the inborn fire, I sink to early rest; The ray that lit the incense-pyre Leaves unto death its temple in my breast. --O sunshine, skies, rich flowers! too soon I go, While round me thus triumphantly ye glow!

“Bright isle! might but thine echoes keep A tone of my farewell, One tender accent, low and deep, Shrined midst thy founts and haunted rocks to dwell! Might my last breath send music to thy shore! --Oh, linger, seamen! linger on the oar!”

ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTORY.

“Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade.” Byron.

Io! they come, they come! Garlands for every shrine! Strike lyres to greet them home; Bring roses, pour ye wine!

Swell, swell the Dorian flute Through the blue triumphant sky! Let the cittern’s tone salute The sons of victory.

With the offering of bright blood They have ransom’d hearth and tomb, Vineyard, and field, and flood;-- Io! they come, they come!

Sing it where olives wave, And by the glittering sea, And o’er each hero’s grave-- Sing, sing, the land is free!

Mark ye the flashing oars, And the spears that light the deep? How the festal sunshine pours Where the lords of battle sweep!

Each hath brought back his shield;-- Maid, greet thy lover home! Mother, from that proud field, Io! thy son is come!

Who murmur’d of the dead? Hush, boding voice! We know That many a shining head Lies in its glory low.

Breathe not those names to-day! They shall have their praise ere long, And a power all hearts to sway, In ever-burning song.

But now shed flowers, pour wine, To hail the conquerors home! Bring wreaths for every shrine-- Io! they come, they come!

NAPLES.

A SONG OF THE SYREN.

“Then gentle winds arose, With many a mingled close Of wild Æolian sound and mountain-odour keen, Where the clear Baian ocean Welters with air-like motion Within, above, around its bowers of starry green.” Shelley.

Still is the Syren warbling on thy shore, Bright city of the waves! Her magic song Still, with a dreamy sense of ecstasy, Fills thy soft summer air:--and while my glance Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay Floats thus o’er fancy’s ear; and thus to thee, Daughter of sunshine! doth the Syren sing.

“Thine is the glad wave’s flashing play, Thine is the laugh of the golden day-- The golden day, and the glorious night, And the vine with its clusters all bathed in light! --Forget, forget, that thou art not free! Queen of the Summer sea.

“Favour’d and crown’d of the earth and sky! Thine are all voices of melody, Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower, Floating o’er fountain and myrtle bower; Hark! how they melt o’er thy glittering sea-- Forget that thou art not free!

“Let the wine flow in thy marble halls! Let the lute answer thy fountain-falls! And deck thy feasts with the myrtle bough, And cover with roses thy glowing brow! Queen of the day and the summer sea, Forget that thou art not free!”

So doth the Syren sing, while sparkling waves Dance to her chant. But sternly, mournfully, O city of the deep! from Sybil grots And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore Take up the cadence of her strain alone, Murmuring--“_Thou, art not free_!”

THE FALL OF D’ASSAS.

A BALLAD OF FRANCE.

[The Chevalier D’Assas, called the French Decius, fell nobly whilst reconnoitring a wood, near Closterkamp, by night. He had left his regiment, that of Auvergne, at a short distance, and was suddenly surrounded by an ambuscade of the enemy, who threatened him with instant death if he made the least sign of their vicinity. With their bayonets at his breast, he raised his voice, and calling aloud “A moi, Auvergne! ces sont les ennemis!” fell, pierced with mortal blows.]

Alone through gloomy forest-shades A soldier went by night; No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades, No star shed guiding light.

Yet on his vigil’s midnight round The youth all cheerly pass’d; Uncheck’d by aught of boding sound That mutter’d in the blast.

Where were his thoughts that lonely hour? --In his far home, perchance; His father’s hall, his mother’s bower, Midst the gay vines of France:

Wandering from battles lost and won, To hear and bless again The rolling of the wide Garonne, Or murmur of the Seine.

Hush! hark!--did stealing steps go by? Came not faint whispers near? No! the wild wind hath many a sigh, Amidst the foliage sere.

Hark, yet again!--and from his hand, What grasp hath wrench’d the blade? --Oh, single midst a hostile band, Young soldier! thou’rt betray’d!

“Silence!” in under-tones they cry-- “No whisper--not a breath! The sound that warns thy comrades nigh Shall sentence thee to death.”

Still, at the bayonet’s point he stood, And strong to meet the blow; And shouted, midst his rushing blood, “Arm, arm, Auvergne! the foe!”

The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call-- He heard their tumults grow; And sent his dying voice through all-- “_Auvergne, Auvergne! the foe!_”

THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR,

AT CAEN IN NORMANDY--1087.

[“At the day appointed for the king’s interment, Prince Henry, his third son, the Norman prelates, and a multitude of clergy and people, assembled in the church of St Stephen, which the Conqueror had founded. The mass had been performed, the corpse was placed on the bier, and the Bishop of Evreux had pronounced the panegyric on the deceased, when a voice from the crowd exclaimed,--‘He whom you have praised was a robber. The very land on which you stand is mine. By violence he took it from my father; and, in the name of God, I forbid you to bury him in it.’ The speaker was Asceline Fitz-Arthur, who had often, but fruitlessly, sought reparation from the justice of William. After some debate, the prelates called him to them, paid him sixty shillings for the grave, and promised that he should receive the full value of his land. The ceremony was then continued, and the body of the king deposited in a coffin of stone.”--Lingard, vol. ii. p. 98.]

Lowly upon his bier The royal conqueror lay; Baron and chief stood near, Silent in war-array.

Down the long minster’s aisle Crowds mutely gazing stream’d; Altar and tomb the while Through mists of incense gleam’d.

And, by the torches’ blaze, The stately priest had said High words of power and praise To the glory of the dead.

They lower’d him, with the sound Of requiems, to repose; When from the throngs around A solemn voice arose:--

“Forbear! forbear!” it cried; “In the holiest name, forbear! He hath conquer’d regions wide, But he shall not slumber _there_!

“By the violated hearth Which made way for yon proud shrine; By the harvests which this earth Hath borne for me and mine;

“By the house e’en here o’erthrown, On my brethren’s native spot; Hence! with his dark renown, Cumber our birthplace not!

“Will my sire’s unransom’d field, O’er which your censers wave, To the buried spoiler yield Soft slumbers in the grave!

“The tree before him fell Which we cherish’d many a year; But its deep root yet shall swell, And heave against his bier.

“The land that I have till’d Hath yet its brooding breast With my home’s white ashes fill’d, And it shall not give him rest!

“Each pillar’s massy bed Hath been wet by weeping eyes-- Away! bestow your dead Where no wrong against him cries.”

Shame glow’d on each dark face Of those proud and steel-girt men, And they bought with gold a place For their leader’s dust e’en then.

A little earth for him Whose banner flew so far! And a peasant’s tale could dim The name, a nation’s star!

_One_ deep voice thus arose From a heart which wrongs had riven: Oh! who shall number those That were but heard in heaven?

SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.

NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE![408]

Near thee, still near thee!--o’er thy pathway gliding, Unseen I pass thee with the wind’s low sigh; Life’s veil enfolds thee still, our eyes dividing, Yet viewless love floats round thee silently! Not midst the festal throng, In halls of mirth and song; But when thy thoughts are deepest, When holy tears thou weepest, Know then _that_ love is nigh!

When the night’s whisper o’er thy harp-strings creeping, Or the sea-music on the sounding shore, Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping, Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore; When every thought and prayer We loved to breathe and share, On thy full heart returning, Shall wake its voiceless yearning; Then feel me near once more!

Near thee, still near thee!--trust thy soul’s deep dreaming! Oh! love is not an earthly rose to die! Even when I soar where fiery stars are beaming, Thine image wanders with me through the sky. The fields of air are free, Yet lonely, wanting thee; But when thy chains are falling, When heaven its own is calling, Know then, thy guide is nigh!

[408] This piece has been set to music of most impressive beauty by John Lodge, Esq., for whose compositions several of the author’s songs were written.

OH! DROOP THOU NOT.

“They sin who tell us love can die! With life all other passions fly-- All others are but vanity. In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell; Earthly these passions, as of earth-- They perish where they drew their birth. But love is indestructible! Its holy flame for ever burneth-- From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.” Southey.

Oh! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love! Mine still to be! I bore through death, to brighter lands above, My thoughts of thee.

Yes! the deep memory of our holy tears, Our mingled prayer, Our suffering love, through long devoted years, Went with me there.

It was not vain, the hallow’d and the tried-- It was not vain! Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side, I watch again!

From our own paths, our love’s attesting bowers, I am not gone; In the deep calm of midnight’s whispering hours, Thou art not lone:

Not lone, when by the haunted stream thou weepest --That stream whose tone Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest, We two have known:

Not lone, when mournfully some strain awaking Of days long past, From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking, Silent and fast:

Not lone, when upwards in fond visions turning Thy dreamy glance, Thou seek’st my home, where solemn stars are burning O’er night’s expanse.

My home is near thee, loved one! and around thee, Where’er thou art; Though still mortality’s thick cloud hath bound thee, Doubt not thy heart!

Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken: Let faith be given To the still tones which oft our being waken-- They are of heaven.

SONGS OF SPAIN.

[Written for a set of airs, entitled _Peninsular Melodies_, selected by Colonel Hodges, and published by Messrs Goulding and D’Almaine, who have permitted the reappearance of the words in this volume.]

ANCIENT BATTLE-SONG.

Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again! Let the high word _Castile!_ go resounding through Spain! And thou, free Asturias! encamp’d on the height, Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight! Wake, wake! the old soil where thy children repose Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes!

The voices are mighty that swell from the past, With Arragon’s cry on the shrill mountain-blast; The ancient sierras give strength to our tread, Their pines murmur song where bright blood hath been shed. --Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again, And shout ye “Castile! to the rescue for Spain!”

THE ZEGRI MAID.

[The Zegris were one of the most illustrious Moorish tribes. Their exploits and feuds with their celebrated rivals, the Abencerrages, form the subject of many ancient Spanish romances.]

The summer leaves were sighing Around the Zegri maid, To her low, sad song replying As it fill’d the olive shade. “Alas! for her that loveth Her land’s, her kindred’s foe! Where a Christian Spaniard roveth, Should a Zegri’s spirit go?

“From thy glance, my gentle mother! I sink, with shame oppress’d, And the dark eye of my brother Is an arrow to my breast.”-- Where summer leaves were sighing Thus sang the Zegri maid, While the crimson day was dying In the whispery olive shade.

“And for all this heart’s wealth wasted, This woe in secret borne, This flower of young life blasted, Should I win back aught but scorn? By aught but daily dying Would my lone truth be repaid?”-- Where the olive leaves were sighing, Thus sang the Zegri maid.

THE RIO VERDE SONG.

[The Rio Verde, a small river of Spain, is celebrated in the old ballad romances of that country for the frequent combats on its banks between Moor and Christian. The ballad referring to this stream in _Percy’s Reliques_ will be remembered by many readers.

“Gentle river, gentle river! Lo! thy streams are stain’d with gore.”]

Flow, Rio Verde! In melody flow; Win her that weepeth To slumber from woe; Bid thy wave’s music Roll through her dreams-- Grief ever loveth The kind voice of streams.

Bear her lone spirit Afar on the sound Back to her childhood, Her life’s fairy ground; Pass like the whisper Of love that is gone-- Flow, Rio Verde! Softly flow on!

Dark glassy water So crimson’d of yore! Love, death, and sorrow Know thy green shore. Thou shouldst have echoes For grief’s deepest tone-- Flow, Rio Verde! Softly flow on!

SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO.

Seek by the silvery Darro, Where jasmine flowers have blown: There hath she left no footsteps? --Weep, weep! the maid is gone!

Seek where Our Lady’s image Smiles o’er the pine-hung steep: Hear ye not there her vespers? --Weep for the parted, weep!

Seek in the porch where vine-leaves O’ershade her father’s head: Are _his_ gray hairs left lonely? --Weep! her bright soul is fled.

SPANISH EVENING HYMN.

Ave! now let prayer and music Meet in love on earth and sea! Now, sweet Mother! may the weary Turn from this cold world to thee!

From the wide and restless waters Hear the sailor’s hymn arise? From his watch-fire midst the mountains, Lo! to thee the shepherd cries!

Yet, when thus full hearts find voices, If o’erburden’d souls there be, Dark and silent in their anguish, Aid those captives! set them free!

Touch them, every fount unsealing Where the frozen tears lie deep; Thou, the Mother of all sorrows, Aid! oh, aid to pray and weep!

BIRD THAT ART SINGING ON EBRO’S SIDE!

Bird that art singing on Ebro’s side! Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide, Doth sorrow dwell midst the leaves with thee? Doth song avail thy full heart to free? --Bird of the midnight’s purple sky! Teach me the spell of thy melody.

Bird! is it blighted affection’s pain Whence the sad sweetness flows through thy strain? And is the wound of that arrow still’d When thy lone music the leaves hath fill’d? --Bird of the midnight’s purple sky! Teach me the spell of thy melody.

MOORISH GATHERING-SONG.

ZORZICO.[409]

Chains on the cities! gloom in the air! Come to the hills! fresh breezes are there. Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers! Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers.

Come from the Darro!--changed is its tone; Come where the streams no bondage have known; Wildly and proudly foaming they leap, Singing of freedom from steep to steep.

Come from Alhambra!--garden and grove Now may not shelter beauty or love. Blood on the waters! death midst the flowers! --Only the spear and the rock are ours.

[409] The Zorzico is an extremely wild and singularly antique Moorish melody.

THE SONG OF MINA’S SOLDIERS.

We heard thy name, O Mina! Far through our hills it rang; A sound more strong than tempests, More keen than armour’s clang.

The peasant left his vintage, The shepherd grasp’d the spear-- We heard thy name, O Mina! --The mountain-bands are here.

As eagles to the dayspring, As torrents to the sea, From every dark sierra So rush’d our hearts to thee.

Thy spirit is our banner, Thine eye our beacon-sign, Thy name our trumpet, Mina! --The mountain-bands are thine.

MOTHER! OH, SING ME TO REST.

A CANCION.

Mother! oh, sing me to rest As in my bright days departed: Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted, Songs for a spirit oppress’d.

Lay this tired head on thy breast! Flowers from the night-dew are closing, Pilgrims and mourners reposing: Mother! oh, sing me to rest!

Take back thy bird to its nest! Weary is young life when blighted, Heavy this love unrequited; --Mother, oh! sing me to rest!

THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK RONCESVALLES.

There are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, There are echoes on Biscay’s wild shore; There are murmurs--but not of the torrent, Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest’s roar.

’Tis a day of the spear and the banner, Of armings and hurried farewells; Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards! Or start from your old battle-dells.

There are streams of unconquer’d Asturias That have roll’d with your father’s free blood: Oh! leave on the graves of the mighty Proud marks where their children have stood!

SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.

AND I TOO IN ARCADIA.

[A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band of shepherd-youths and maidens suddenly checked in their wanderings, and affected with various emotions, by the sight of a tomb which bears this inscription--“_Et in Arcadia ego_.”]

They have wander’d in their glee With the butterfly and bee; They have climb’d o’er heathery swells, They have wound through forest dells; Mountain-moss hath felt their tread, Woodland streams their way have led; Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks, Nurslings of the loneliest brooks, Unto them have yielded up Fragrant bell and starry cup: Chaplets are on every brow-- What hath staid the wanderers now? Lo! a gray and rustic tomb, Bower’d amidst the rich wood-gloom; Whence these words their stricken spirits melt, --“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

There is many a summer sound That pale sepulchre around; Through the shade young birds are glancing, Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing; Glimpses of blue festal skies Pouring in when soft winds rise; Violets o’er the turf below Shedding out their warmest glow; Yet a spirit not its own O’er the greenwood now is thrown! Something of an under-note Through its music seems to float, Something of a stillness gray Creeps across the laughing day: Something dimly from those old words felt, --“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

Was some gentle kindred maid In that grave with dirges laid? Some fair creature, with the tone Of whose voice a joy is gone, Leaving melody and mirth Poorer on this alter’d earth? Is it thus? that so they stand, Dropping flowers from every hand-- Flowers, and lyres, and gather’d store Of red wild-fruit prized no more? --No! from that bright band of morn Not one link hath yet been torn: ’Tis the shadow of the tomb Falling o’er the summer-bloom-- O’er the flush of love and life Passing with a sudden strife; ’Tis the low prophetic breath Murmuring from that house of death, Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt, --“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

THE WANDERING WIND.

The Wind, the wandering Wind Of the golden summer eves-- Whence is the thrilling magic Of its tones among the leaves? Oh! is it from the waters, Or from the long tall grass? Or is it from the hollow rocks Through which its breathings pass?

Or is it from the voices Of all in one combined, That it wins the tone of mastery? The Wind, the wandering Wind! No, no! the strange, sweet accents That with it come and go, They are not from the osiers, Nor the fir-trees whispering low;

They are not of the waters, Nor of the cavern’d hill: ’Tis the human love within us That gives them power to thrill. They touch the links of memory Around our spirits twined, And we start, and weep, and tremble, To the Wind, the wandering Wind!

YE ARE NOT MISS’D, FAIR FLOWERS!

Ye are not miss’d, fair flowers, that late were spreading The summer’s glow by fount and breezy grot; There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding-- The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you not.

Still plays the sparkle o’er the rippling water, O lily! whence thy cup of pearl is gone; The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter, There is no sorrow in the wind’s low tone.

And thou, meek hyacinth! afar is roving The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss’d. Cradled ye were, fair flowers! ’midst all things loving, A joy to all--yet, yet, ye are not miss’d!

Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness, And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list, Oh! it were breathing words too deep in sadness, To say earth’s _human_ flowers not more are miss’d.

THE WILLOW SONG.

Willow! in thy breezy moan, I can hear a deeper tone; Through thy leaves come whispering low, Faint, sweet sounds of long ago. Willow, sighing willow!

Many a mournful tale of old Heart-sick love to thee hath told, Gathering from thy golden bough Leaves to cool his burning brow. Willow! sighing willow!

Many a swan-like song to thee Hath been sung, thou gentle tree! Many a lute its last lament Down thy moonlight stream hath sent. Willow! sighing willow!

Therefore, wave and murmur on! Sigh for sweet affections gone, And for tuneful voices fled, And for love, whose heart hath bled, Ever, willow! willow!

LEAVE ME NOT YET.

Leave me not yet! through rosy skies from far, But now the song-birds to their nests return; The quivering image of the first pale star On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn: Leave me not yet!

Not yet! oh, hark! low tones from hidden streams, Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise; Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams, They are of vesper’s hymns and harmonies: Leave me not yet!

My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love! By day shut up in their own still recess; They wait for dews on earth, for stars above, _Then_ to breathe out their soul of tenderness: Leave me not yet!

THE ORANGE BOUGH.

Oh! bring me one sweet orange-bough, To fan my cheek, to cool my brow; One bough, with pearly blossoms drest, And bind it, mother! on my breast!

Go, seek the grove along the shore, Whose odours I must breathe no more; The grove where every scented tree Thrills to the deep voice of the sea.

Oh! Love’s fond sighs, and fervent prayer, And wild farewell, are lingering there: Each leaf’s light whisper hath a tone My faint heart, even in death, would own.

Then bear me thence one bough, to shed Life’s parting sweetness round my head; And bind it, mother! on my breast When I am laid in lonely rest.

THE STREAM SET FREE.

Flow on, rejoice, make music, Bright living stream set free! The troubled haunts of care and strife Were not for thee!

The woodland is thy country, Thou art all its own again; The wild birds are thy kindred race, That fear no chain.

Flow on, rejoice, make music Unto the glistening leaves! Thou, the beloved of balmy winds And golden eaves!

Once more the holy starlight Sleeps calm upon thy breast, Whose brightness bears no token more Of man’s unrest.

Flow, and let freeborn music Flow with thy wavy line, While the stock-dove’s lingering, loving voice Comes blent with thine.

And the green reeds quivering o’er thee, Strings of the forest-lyre, All fill’d with answering spirit-sounds, In joy respire.

Yet, midst thy song’s glad changes, Oh! keep one pitying tone For gentle hearts, that bear to thee Their sadness lone.

One sound, of all the deepest, To bring, like healing dew, A sense that nature ne’er forsakes The meek and true.

Then, then, rejoice, make music, Thou stream, thou glad and free! The shadows of all glorious flowers Be set in thee!

THE SUMMER’S CALL.[410]

Come away! The sunny hours Woo thee far to founts and bowers! O’er the very waters now, In their play, Flowers are shedding beauty’s glow-- Come away! Where the lily’s tender gleam Quivers on the glancing stream, Come away!

All the air is fill’d with sound, Soft, and sultry, and profound; Murmurs through the shadowy grass Lightly stray; Faint winds whisper as they pass-- Come away! Where the bee’s deep music swells From the trembling foxglove bells, Come away!

In the skies the sapphire blue Now hath won its richest hue; In the woods the breath of song Night and day Floats with leafy scents along-- Come away! Where the boughs with dewy gloom Darken each thick bed of bloom, Come away!

In the deep heart of the rose Now the crimson love-hue glows; Now the glow-worm’s lamp by night Sheds a ray, Dreamy, starry, greenly bright-- Come away! Where the fairy cup-moss lies, With the wild-wood strawberries, Come away!

Now each tree by summer crown’d, Sheds its own rich twilight round; Glancing there from sun to shade, Bright wings play; There the deer its couch hath made-- Come away! Where the smooth leaves of the lime Glisten in their honey-time, Come away--away![411]

[410] “The Summer’s Call.”--This faculty for realising images of the distant and the beautiful, amidst outward circumstances of apparently the most adverse influence, is thus gracefully illustrated by Washington Irving in the “Royal Poet” of his _Sketch-Book_:--“Some minds corrode and grow inactive under the loss of personal liberty; others grow morbid and irritable; but it is the nature of the poet to become tender and imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody.

‘Have you not seen the nightingale, A pilgrim cooped into a cage, How doth she chant her wonted tale In that her lonely hermitage? Even there her charming melody doth prove, That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.’”

Roger L’Estrange.

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is irrepressible, unconfinable; and that, when the real world is shut out, it can create a world for itself, and with a necromantic power can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived ’round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid scenes of his _Jerusalem_; and we may consider _The King’s Quair_, composed by James of Scotland during his captivity at Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison-house.”

[411] “In my literary pursuits,” wrote Mrs Hemans at this time to a friend, “I fear I shall be obliged to look out for an amanuensis. I sometimes retain a piece of poetry several weeks in my memory, from actual dread of writing it down.... I was so glad you liked my little summer breathing strain, (‘The Summer’s Call.’) I assure you it quite consoled me for the want of natural objects of beauty around, to heap up their remembered images in one wild strain.”

OH! SKYLARK, FOR THY WING.

Oh! Skylark, for thy wing! Thou bird of joy and light, That I might soar and sing At heaven’s empyreal height! With the heathery hills beneath me, Whence the streams in glory spring, And the pearly clouds to wreathe me, O Skylark! on thy wing!

Free, free, from earth-born fear, I would range the blessed skies, Through the blue divinely clear, Where the low mists cannot rise! And a thousand joyous measures From my chainless heart should spring, Like the bright rain’s vernal treasures, As I wander’d on thy wing.

But oh! the silver cords That around the heart are spun, From gentle tones and words, And kind eyes that make our sun! To some low, sweet nest returning, How soon my love would bring There, _there_ the dews of morning, O Skylark! on thy wing!

SONGS OF CAPTIVITY.

[These songs (with the exception of the fifth) have all been set to music by the author’s sister, and are in the possession of Mr Willis, by whose permission they are here published.]

INTRODUCTION.

One hour for distant homes to weep Midst Afric’s burnings sands, One silent sunset hour was given To the slaves of many lands.

They sat beneath a lonely palm, In the gardens of their lord; And, mingling with the fountain’s tune, Their songs of exile pour’d.

And strangely, sadly did those lays Of Alp and ocean sound, With Afric’s wild, red skies above, And solemn wastes around.

Broken with tears were oft their tones, And most when most they tried To breathe of hope and liberty, From hearts that inly died.

So met the sons of many lands, Parted by mount and main; So did they sing in brotherhood, Made kindred by the chain.

THE BROTHER’S DIRGE.

In the proud old fanes of England My warrior-fathers lie, Banners hang drooping o’er their dust With gorgeous blazonry. But thou, but _thou_, my brother! O’er thee dark billows sweep-- The best and bravest heart of all Is shrouded by the deep.

In the old high wars of England My noble fathers bled; For her lion-kings of lance and spear, They went down to the dead. But thou, but thou, my brother! _Thy_ life-drops flow’d for me-- Would I were with thee in thy rest, Young sleeper of the sea!

In a shelter’d home of England Our sister dwells alone, With quick heart listening for the sound Of footsteps that are gone. She little dreams, my brother! Of the wild fate we have found; I, midst the Afric sands a slave, Thou, by the dark seas bound.

THE ALPINE HORN.

The Alpine horn! the Alpine horn! Oh! through my native sky, Might I but hear its deep notes borne Once more--but once--and die!

Yet, no! Midst breezy hills thy breath, So full of hope and morn, Would win me from the bed of death-- O joyous Alpine horn!

But _here_ the echo of that blast, To many a battle known, Seems mournfully to wander past, A wild, shrill, wailing tone!

Haunt me no more! for slavery’s air Thy proud notes were not born; The dream but deepens my despair-- Be hush’d, thou Alpine horn!

O YE VOICES!

O ye voices round my own hearth singing, As the winds of May to memory sweet! Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing, Would those vernal tones the wanderer greet, Once again?

Never, never! Spring hath smiled and parted Oft since then your fond farewell was said; O’er the green turf of the gentle-hearted Summer’s hand the rose-leaves may have shed, Oft again!

Or if still around my heart ye linger, Yet, sweet voices! there must change have come: Years have quell’d the free soul of the singer, Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home Ne’er again!

I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE.

I dream of all things free! Of a gallant, gallant bark That sweeps through storm and sea, Like an arrow to its mark! Of a stag that o’er the hills Goes bounding in his glee; Of a thousand flashing rills-- Of all things glad and free.

I dream of some proud bird, A bright-eyed mountain-king! In my visions I have heard The rushing of his wing. I follow some wild river, On whose breast no sail may be; Dark woods around it shiver-- I dream of all things free!

Of a happy forest child, With the fawns and flowers at play; Of an Indian midst the wild, With the stars to guide his way; Of a chief his warriors leading, Of an archer’s greenwood tree-- My heart in chains is bleeding, And I dream of all things free!

FAR O’ER THE SEA.

Where are the vintage songs Wandering in glee? Where dance the peasant bands Joyous and free? Under a kind blue sky, Where doth my birthplace lie? --Far o’er the sea.

Where floats the myrtle-scent O’er vale and lea, When evening calls the dove Homewards to flee! Where doth the orange gleam Soft on my native stream? --Far o’er the sea!

Where are sweet eyes of love Watching for me? Where o’er the cabin roof Waves the green tree? Where speaks the vesper-chime Still of a holy time? --Far o’er the sea.

Dance on, ye vintage bands! Fearless and free; Still fresh and greenly wave, My father’s tree! Still smile, ye kind, blue skies! Though your son pines and dies Far o’er the sea!

THE INVOCATION.

Oh! art thou still on earth, my love? My only love! Or smiling in a brighter home, Far, far above?

Oh! is thy sweet voice fled, my love? Thy light step gone? And art thou not, in earth or heaven, Still, still my own?

I see thee with thy gleaming hair, In midnight dreams! But cold, and clear, and spirit-like, Thy soft eye seems.

Peace in thy saddest hour, my love! Dwelt on thy brow; But something mournfully divine There shineth now!

And silent ever is thy lip, And pale thy cheek;-- Oh! art thou earth’s, or art thou heaven’s? Speak to me, speak!

THE SONG OF HOPE.

Droop not, my brothers! I hear a glad strain-- We shall burst forth like streams from the winter night’s chain; A flag is unfurl’d, a bright star of the sea, A ransom approaches--we yet shall be free! Where the pines wave, where the light chamois leaps, Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps; Where the snows glisten, the mountain-rills foam, Free as the falcon’s wing, yet shall we roam.

Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks are met, Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet! Crossing the desert, o’ersweeping the sea-- Droop not, my brothers! we yet shall be free!

MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS.

THE CALL TO BATTLE.

“Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking signs, Which ne’er might be repeated.” Byron.

The vesper-bell, from church and tower, Had sent its dying sound; And the household, in the hush of eve, Were met their porch around.

A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sudden trumpet’s power-- “We rise on all our hills! Come forth! ’tis thy country’s gathering-hour: There’s a gleam of spears by every stream in each old battle-dell. Come forth, young Juan! Bid thy home a brief and proud farewell!”

Then the father gave his son the sword Which a hundred fights had seen-- “Away! and bear it back, my boy! All that it still hath been!

“Haste, haste! The hunters of the foe are up: and who shall stand The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land? Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the clarion’s blast, With the flying footsteps of the Moor, in stormy ages past.”

Then the mother kiss’d her son with tears That o’er his dark locks fell: “I bless, I bless thee o’er and o’er, Yet I stay thee not--Farewell!”

“One moment! but one moment give to parting thought or word! It is no time for woman’s tears when manhood’s heart is stirr’d. Bear but the memory of my love about thee in the fight, To breathe upon th’ avenging sword a spell of keener might.

And a maiden’s fond adieu was heard, Though deep, yet brief and low: “In the vigil, in the conflict, love! My prayer shall with thee go!”

“Come forth! come as the torrent comes when the winter’s chain is burst! So rushes on the land’s revenge, in night and silence nursed. The night is pass’d, the silence o’er--on all our hills we rise: We wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of battle cries.”

There were sad hearts in a darken’d home, When the brave had left their bower; But the strength of prayer and sacrifice Was with them in that hour.

MIGNON’S SONG.

TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE.

[Mignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character in one of Goethe’s romances, from which Sir Walter Scott’s Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in early childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons, are perpetually haunting her, and at times break forth into the following song. The original has been set to exquisite music, by Zelter, the friend of Goethe.]

“Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhn?”

Know’st thou the land where bloom the citron bowers, Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove? High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers, And through a still blue heaven the sweet winds rove. Know’st thou it well? There, there, with thee, O friend! O loved one! fain my steps would flee.

Know’st thou the dwelling? There the pillars rise, Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow; And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes To say--“Poor child! what thus hath wrought thee woe?” Know’st thou it well? There, there with thee, O my protector! homewards might I flee!

Know’st thou the mountain? High its bridge is hung, Where the mule seeks through mist and cloud his way; There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among, O’er beetling rocks there foams the torrent-spray. Know’st thou it well? With thee, with thee, There lies my path, O father! let us flee!

THE SISTERS.[412]

A BALLAD.

“I go, sweet sister! yet, my heart would linger with thee fain, And unto every parting gift some deep remembrance chain: Take, then, the braid of Eastern pearls which once I loved to wear, And with it bind for festal scenes the dark waves of thy hair! Its pale, pure brightness will beseem those raven tresses well, And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone convent-cell.”

“Oh, speak not thus, my Leonor! why part from kindred love? Through festive scenes, when thou art gone, my steps no more shall move! How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless throng? I should but miss earth’s dearest voice in every tone of song. Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me proudly twine Its wreath once more around that brow, that queenly brow of thine.”

“Oh, wouldst thou strive a wounded bird from shelter to detain? Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed to weary life again? Sweet sister! take the golden cross that I have worn so long, And bathed with many a burning tear for secret woe and wrong. It could not still _my_ beating heart! but may it be a sign Of peace and hope, my gentle one! when meekly press’d to thine.”

“Take back, take back the cross of gold, our mother’s gift to thee-- It would but of this parting hour a bitter token be; With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but sadly shine, And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer mine. O sister! if thy heart be thus with buried grief oppress’d, Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well as on my faithful breast?”

“Urge me no more! A blight hath fallen upon my summer years! I should but darken _thy_ young life with fruitless pangs and fears. But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for my sake, And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone of memory wake! Sing to those chords by starlight’s gleam our own sweet vesper-hymn, And think that I too chant it then, far in my cloister dim.”

“Yes! I _will_ take the silvery lute--and I will sing to thee A song we heard in childhood’s days, even from our father’s knee. O sister! sister! are these notes amid forgotten things? Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar strings? Seems not our sainted mother’s voice to murmur in the strain? Kind sister! gentlest Leonor! say shall it plead in vain?”

[412] This ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recitative, relieved by music. It was thus performed by two graceful and highly accomplished sisters.

SONG.

“Leave us not, leave us not! Say not adieu! Have we not been to thee Tender and true?

“Take not thy sunny smile Far from our hearth! With that sweet light will fade Summer and mirth.

“Leave us not, leave us not! Can thy heart roam? Wilt thou not pine to hear Voices from home?

“Too sad our love would be If thou wert gone! Turn to us, leave us not! Thou art our own!”

“O sister! hush that thrilling lute!--oh, cease that haunting lay! Too deeply pierce those wild, sweet notes--yet, yet I cannot stay: For weary, weary is my heart! I hear a whisper’d call In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the blossom fall. I cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines to dwell Where the world’s voice can reach no more! Oh, calm thee!--Fare thee well!”

[“Mrs Hemans played very pleasingly, and was passionately fond of music. She has described in--perhaps the finest of her lyrics--the ‘Requiem of Mozart’ the manner in which she herself felt its thrilling influences.

“It was after having listened with great delight one evening to some sweet and loved voices (that are now but very seldom heard within these walls) singing those words of hers, composed from Sir Walter Scott’s dictation, for one of the old _Rhine songs_, that she brought with her, on the next, her lines on ‘Triumphant Music;’ and triumphant they really were, in the splendour of their effect, as she repeated them. She wrote, for these same voices, the little drama, or rather scena, ‘The Sisters,’ which formed, as it was represented[413] with extraordinary research and elegance, and with the advantage of Mr Lodge’s music, one of the most perfect private exhibitions of the kind that can be imagined. One could not help reverting to the times of Ludlow Castle, and the Bridgewater family, when the youthful performers in Milton’s exquisite masque were as pure, and as noble, and as beautiful, as the ideal personages they represented.”--_Recollections of Mrs Hemans_, by Mrs Lawrence of Wavertree Hall, p. 339-340.]

[413] At a beautiful residence in Needwood Forest.

THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

[Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the younger Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock above the sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There is a desolate grace about the whole figure, which seems penetrated with the feeling of utter abandonment.]

Sound on, thou dark, unslumbering sea! My dirge is in thy moan; My spirit finds response in thee To its own ceaseless cry--“Alone, alone!”

Yet send me back one other word, Ye tones that never cease! Oh! let your secret caves be stirr’d, And say, dark waters! will ye give me _peace_?

Away! my weary soul hath sought In vain one echoing sigh, One answer to consuming thought In human hearts--and will the _wave_ reply?

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea! Sound in thy scorn and pride! I ask not, alien world! from thee What my own kindred earth hath still denied.

And yet I loved that earth so well, With all its lovely things! Was it for this the death-wind fell On my rich lyre, and quench’d its living strings?

Let them lie silent at my feet! Since, broken even as they, The heart whose music made them sweet Hath pour’d on desert sands its wealth away.

Yet glory’s light hath touch’d my name, The laurel-wreath is mine-- With a lone heart, a weary frame-- O restless deep! I come to make them thine!

Give to that crown, that burning crown, Place in thy darkest hold! Bury my anguish, my renown, With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold.

Thou sea-bird on the billow’s crest! _Thou_ hast thy love, thy home; They wait thee in the quiet nest, And I, th’ unsought, unwatch’d-for--I too come!

I, with this wingèd nature fraught, These visions wildly free, This boundless love, this fiery thought-- _Alone_ I come--oh! give me peace, dark sea!

DIRGE.

Where shall we make her grave? Oh! where the wild-flowers wave In the free air! Where shower and singing-bird Midst the young leaves are heard-- There--lay her there!

Harsh was the world to her-- Now may sleep minister Balm for each ill: Low on sweet nature’s breast Let the meek heart find rest, Deep, deep and still!

Murmur, glad waters! by; Faint gales! with happy sigh, Come wandering o’er That green and mossy bed, Where, on a gentle head, Storms beat no more!

What though for her in vain Falls now the bright spring-rain, Plays the soft wind? Yet still, from where she lies, Should blessed breathings rise, Gracious and kind.

Therefore let song and dew Thence in the heart renew Life’s vernal glow! And o’er that holy earth Scents of the violet’s birth Still come and go!

Oh! then, where wild flowers wave Make ye her mossy grave, In the free air! Where shower and singing-bird Midst the young leaves are heard-- There--lay her there!

A SONG OF THE ROSE.

“Cosi fior diverrai che non soggiace All ’acqua, al gelo, al vento ed allo scherno D’ una stagion volubile e fugace; E a piu fido Cultor posto in governo, Unir potrai nella tranquilla pace, Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno.” Metastasio.

Rose! what dost thou here? Bridal, royal rose! How, midst grief and fear, Canst thou thus disclose That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf glows?

Rose! too much array’d For triumphal hours, Look’st thou through the shade Of these mortal bowers, Not to disturb my soul, thou crown’d one of all flowers!

As an eagle soaring Through a sunny sky, As a clarion pouring Notes of victory, So dost _thou_ kindle thoughts, for earthly life too high.

Thoughts of rapture, flushing Youthful poet’s cheek; Thoughts of glory, rushing Forth in song to break, But finding the spring-tide of rapid song too weak.

Yet, O festal rose! I have seen thee lying In thy bright repose Pillow’d with the dying, _Thy_ crimson by the lip whence life’s quick blood was flying.

Summer, hope, and love O’er that bed of pain, Met in thee, yet wove Too, too frail a chain In its embracing links the lovely to detain.

Smilest thou, gorgeous flower? Oh! within the spells Of thy beauty’s power, Something dimly dwells, At variance with a world of sorrows and farewells.

All the soul forth flowing In that rich perfume, All the proud life glowing In that radiant bloom-- Have they no place but _here_, beneath th’ o’ershadowing tomb?

Crown’st thou but the daughters Of our tearful race? Heaven’s own purest waters Well might wear the trace Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace.

Will that clime enfold thee With immortal air? Shall we not behold thee Bright and deathless there? In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendantly more fair!

Yes! my fancy sees thee In that light disclose, And its dream thus frees thee From the mist of woes, Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal royal rose!

NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.

Children of night! unfolding meekly, slowly, To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours, When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy, And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers; To solemn things and deep, To spirit-haunted sleep, To thoughts, all purified From earth, ye seem allied; O dedicated flowers!

Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling, Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined; Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing, Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind. --So doth love’s dreaming heart Dwell from the throng apart, And but to shades disclose The inmost thought, which glows With its pure life entwined.

Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices, To no triumphant song your petals thrill, But send forth odours with the faint, soft voices Rising from hidden streams, when all is still. --So doth lone prayer arise, Mingling with secret sighs, When grief unfolds, like you, Her breast, for heavenly dew In silent hours to fill.

THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS.

“Call back your odours, lovely flowers! From the night-winds call them back; And fold your leaves till the laughing hours Come forth in the sunbeam’s track!

“The lark lies couch’d in her grassy nest, And the honey-bee is gone, And all bright things are away to rest-- Why watch ye here alone?

“Is not your world a mournful one, When your sisters close their eyes, And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone Of song in the starry skies?

“Take ye no joy in the dayspring’s birth When it kindles the sparks of dew? And the thousand strains of the forest’s mirth, Shall they gladden all but you?

“Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out On the sunny turf to play, And the woodland child with a fairy shout Goes dancing on its way!”

“Nay! let our shadowy beauty bloom When the stars give quiet light, And let us offer our faint perfume On the silent shrine of night.

“Call it not wasted, the scent we lend To the breeze, when no step is nigh: Oh, thus for ever the earth should send Her grateful breath on high!

“And love us as emblems, night’s dewy flowers, Of hopes unto sorrow given, That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours Looking alone to heaven!”

ECHO-SONG.

In thy cavern-hall, Echo! art thou sleeping? By the fountain’s fall Dreamy silence keeping? Yet one soft note borne From the shepherd’s horn, Wakes thee, Echo! into music leaping! --Strange, sweet Echo! into music leaping.

Then the woods rejoice, Then glad sounds are swelling From each sister-voice Round thy rocky dwelling; And their sweetness fills All the hollow hills, With a thousand notes, of _one_ life telling! --Softly mingled notes, of one life telling.

Echo! in my heart Thus deep thoughts are lying, Silent and apart, Buried, yet undying; Till some gentle tone Wakening haply _one_, Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying! --Strange, sweet Echo! even like thee replying.[414]

[414] This song is in the possession of Mr Power.

THE MUFFLED DRUM.[415]

The muffled drum was heard In the Pyrenees by night, With a dull, deep rolling sound, Which told the hamlets round Of a soldier’s burial-rite.

But it told them not how dear, In a home beyond the main, Was the warrior-youth laid low that hour By a mountain-stream of Spain.

The oaks of England waved O’er the slumbers of his race, But a pine of the Ronceval made moan Above _his_ last, lone place;

When the muffled drum was heard In the Pyrenees by night, With a dull, deep rolling sound, Which call’d strange echoes round To the soldier’s burial-rite.

Brief was the sorrowing _there_, By the stream from battle red, And tossing on its wave the plumes Of many a stately head:

But a mother--soon to die, And a sister--long to weep, Even then were breathing prayers for him In that home beyond the deep;

While the muffled drum was heard In the Pyrenees by night, With a dull, deep rolling sound, And the dark pines mourn’d round, O’er the soldier’s burial-rite.

[415] Set to beautiful music by John Lodge, Esq.

THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK.

“Adieu, adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep In the next valley-glades.” Keats.

“Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.” Shelley.

Midst the long reeds that o’er a Grecian stream Unto the faint wind sigh’d melodiously, And where the sculpture of a broken shrine Sent out thro’ shadowy grass and thick wild-flowers Dim alabaster gleams--a lonely swan Warbled his death-chant; and a poet stood Listening to that strange music, as it shook The lilies on the wave; and made the pines And all the laurels of the haunted shore Thrill to its passion. Oh! the tones were sweet, Even painfully--as with the sweetness wrung From parting love; and to the poet’s thought _This_ was their language.

“Summer! I depart-- O light and laughing summer! fare thee well: No song the less through thy rich woods will swell, For one, one broken heart.

“And fare ye well, young flowers! Ye will not mourn! ye will shed odour still, And wave in glory, colouring every rill, Known to my youth’s fresh hours.

“And ye, bright founts! that lie Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep, My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep-- Sweet waters! I must die.

“Will ye not send one tone Of sorrow through the pines?--one murmur low? Shall not the green leaves from your voices know That I, your child, am gone?

“No! ever glad and free Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell: Waves, joyous waves! flow on, and fare ye well? Ye will not mourn for me.

“But thou, sweet boon! too late Pour’d on my parting breath, vain gift of song! Why com’st thou thus, o’ermastering, rich and strong, In the dark hour of fate?

“Only to wake the sighs Of echo-voices from their sparry cell; Only to say--O sunshine and blue skies! O life and love! farewell.”

Thus flow’d the death-chant on; while mournfully Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream-- Rocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy-- Woke to respond: and all the air was fill’d With that one sighing sound--_Farewell! farewell!_

Fill’d with that sound? High in the calm blue heav’n Even then a skylark hung; soft summer clouds Were floating round him, all transpierced with light, And midst that pearly radiance his dark wings Quiver’d with song: such free, triumphant song, As if tears were not,--as if breaking hearts Had not a place below; and _thus_ that strain Spoke to the poet’s ear exultingly:--

“The summer is come; she hath said _Rejoice!_ The wild-woods thrill to her merry voice; Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high: Sing, sing through the echoing sky!

“There is joy in the mountains! The bright waves leap Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep; Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along-- Let the heavens ring with song!

“There is joy in the forests! The bird of night Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight; But _mine_ is the glory to sunshine given-- Sing, sing through the echoing heaven!

“Mine are the wings of the soaring morn, Mine are the fresh gales with dayspring born: Only young rapture can mount so high-- Sing, sing through the echoing sky!”

So those two voices met; so Joy and Death Mingled their accents; and, amidst the rush Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,-- “Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful, Mysterious nature! Not in thy free range Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus The dirge-note and the song of festival; But in one _heart_, one changeful human heart-- Ay, and within one hour of that strange world-- Thou call’st their music forth, with all its tones, To startle and to pierce!--the dying swan’s, And the glad skylark’s--triumph and despair!”

THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.

Hark! from the dim church-tower, The deep, slow Curfew’s chime! --A heavy sound unto hall and bower In England’s olden time! Sadly ’twas heard by him who came From the fields of his toil at night, And who might not see his own hearth-flame In his children’s eyes make light.

Sternly and sadly heard, As it quench’d the wood-fire’s glow, Which had cheer’d the board with the mirthful word, And the red wine’s foaming flow! Until that sullen, boding knell, Flung out from every fane, On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell, With a weight and with a chain.

Woe for the pilgrim then In the wild-deer’s forest far! No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men, Might guide him, as a star. And woe for him whose wakeful soul, With lone aspirings fill’d, Would have lived o’er some immortal scroll, While the sounds of earth were still’d!

And yet a deeper woe For the watcher by the bed, Where the fondly-loved in pain lay low, In pain and sleepless dread! For the mother, doom’d unseen to keep By the dying babe, her place, And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep, Yet not behold its face!

Darkness in chieftain’s hall! Darkness in peasant’s cot! While freedom, under that shadowy pall, Sat mourning o’er her lot. Oh! the fireside’s peace we well may prize! For blood hath flow’d like rain, Pour’d forth to make sweet sanctuaries Of England’s homes again.

Heap the yule-faggots high Till the red light fills the room! It is home’s own hour when the stormy sky Grows thick with evening gloom. Gather ye round the holy hearth, And by its gladdening blaze, Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, With a thought of the olden days!

GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.

“That voice re-measures Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures The things of nature utter; birds or trees, Or where the tall grass mid the heath-plant waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.” Coleridge.

I heard a song upon the wandering wind, A song of many tones--though one full soul Breathed through them all imploringly; and made All nature as they pass’d, all quivering leaves And low responsive reeds and waters, thrill As with the consciousness of human prayer. --At times the passion-kindled melody Might seem to gush from Sappho’s fervent heart, Over the wild sea-wave;--at times the strain Flow’d with more plaintive sweetness, as if born Of Petrarch’s voice, beside the lone Vaucluse; And sometimes, with its melancholy swell, A graver sound was mingled, a deep note Of Tasso’s holy lyre. Yet still the tones Were of a suppliant--“_Leave me not!_” was still The burden of their music; and I knew The lay which Genius, in its loneliness, Its own still world, amidst th’ o’erpeopled world, Hath ever breathed to Love.

“They crown me with the glistening crown, Borne from a deathless tree; I hear the pealing music of renown-- O Love! forsake me not! Mine were a lone, dark lot, Bereft of thee! They tell me that my soul can throw A glory o’er the earth; From thee, from _thee_, is caught that golden glow! Shed by thy gentle eyes, It gives to flower and skies A bright, new birth!

“Thence gleams the path of morning Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone! Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning With lustre not its own! Thence every wood-recess Is fill’d with loveliness, Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known.

“I see all beauty by the ray That streameth from thy smile;= Oh! bear it, bear it not away! Can that sweet light beguile? Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems, To linger long by earthly streams; I clasp it with th’ alloy Of fear midst quivering joy. Yet must I perish if the gift depart-- Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!

“The music from my lyre With thy swift step would flee; The world’s cold breath would quench the starry fire In my deep soul--a temple fill’d with thee! Seal’d would the fountains lie, The waves of harmony, Which thou alone canst free!

“Like a shrine midst rocks forsaken, Whence the oracle hath fled; Like a harp which none might waken But a mighty master dead; Like the vase of a perfume scatter’d. Such would my spirit be-- So mute, so void, so shatter’d, Bereft of thee!

“Leave me not, Love! or if this earth Yield not for thee a home, If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth Send thee a silvery voice that whispers ‘_Come!_’ Then, with the glory from the rose, With the sparkle from the stream, With the light thy rainbow-presence throws Over the poet’s dream; With all th’ Elysian hues Thy pathway that suffuse, With joy, with music, from the fading grove, Take _me_, too, heavenward on thy wing, sweet Love!”

MUSIC AT A DEATHBED.

“Music! why thy power employ Only for the sons of joy? Only for the smiling guests At natal or at nuptial feasts? Rather thy lenient numbers pour On those whom secret griefs devour; And with some softly-whisper’d air Smooth the brow of dumb despair!” Warton from Euripides.

Bring music! stir the brooding air With an ethereal breath! Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear Up from the couch of death!

A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay, Such as the southern breeze Might waft, at golden fall of day, O’er blue, transparent seas!

Oh, no! not such! That lingering spell Would lure me back to life, When my wean’d heart hath said farewell, And pass’d the gates of strife.

Let not a sigh of human love Blend with the song its tone! Let no disturbing echo move One that must die alone!

But pour a solemn-breathing strain Fill’d with the soul of prayer! Let a life’s conflict, fear, and pain, And trembling hope be there.

Deeper, yet deeper! In my thought Lies more prevailing sound, A harmony intensely fraught With pleading more profound:

A passion unto music given, A sweet, yet piercing cry; A breaking heart’s appeal to Heaven, A bright faith’s victory!

Deeper! Oh! may no richer power Be in those notes enshrined? Can all which crowds on earth’s last hour No fuller language find?

Away! and hush the feeble song, And let the chord be still’d! Far in another land ere long My dream shall be fulfill’d.

MARSHAL SCHWERIN’S GRAVE.

[“I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin--a plain, quiet cenotaph, erected in the middle of a wide corn-field, on the very spot where he closed a long, faithful, and glorious career in arms. He fell here, at eighty years of age, at the head of his own regiment, the standard of it waving in his hand. His seat was in the leathern saddle--his foot in the iron stirrup--his fingers reined the young war-horse to the last.”--_Notes and Reflections during a Ramble into Germany._]

Thou didst fall in the field with thy silver hair, And a banner in thy hand; Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there, By a proudly mournful band.

In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle’s blast, Thy long bright years had sped; And a warrior’s bier was thine at last, When the snows had crown’d thy head.

Many had fallen by thy side, old chief! Brothers and friends, perchance; But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf, And light was in thy glance.

The soldier’s heart at thy step leapt high, And thy voice the war-horse knew; And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh, Wert thou, the bold and true.

Now may’st thou slumber--thy work is done-- Thou of the well-worn sword! From the stormy fight in thy fame thou’rt gone, But not to the festal board.

The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around, Where fiery blood hath flow’d: O lover of battle and trumpet-sound! Thou art couch’d in a still abode!

A quiet home from the noonday’s glare, And the breath of the wintry blast-- Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair To win thee but _this_ at last?

THE FALLEN LIME-TREE.

O joy of the peasant! O stately lime! Thou art fall’n in thy golden honey-time! Thou whose wavy shadows, Long and long ago, Screen’d our gray forefathers From the noontide’s glow; Thou, beneath whose branches, Touch’d with moonlight gleams, Lay our early poets Wrapt in fairy dreams. O tree of our fathers! O hallow’d tree! A glory is gone from our home with thee.

Where shall now the weary Rest through summer eves? Or the bee find honey, As on thy sweet leaves? Where shall now the ringdove Build again her nest? She so long the inmate Of thy fragrant breast! But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee Far more than the ringdove, far more than the bee!

These may yet find coverts Leafy and profound, Full of dewy dimness, Odour, and soft sound: But the gentle memories Clinging all to thee, When shall they be gather’d Round another tree? O pride of our fathers! O hallow’d tree! The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee!

THE BIRD AT SEA.

Bird of the greenwood! Oh, why art thou here? Leaves dance not o’er thee, Flowers bloom not near. All the sweet waters Far hence are at play-- Bird of the greenwood! Away, away!

Where the mast quivers Thy place will not be, As midst the waving Of wild-rose and tree. How shouldst thou battle With storm and with spray? Bird of the greenwood! Away, away!

Or art thou seeking Some brighter land, Where by the south wind Vine leaves are fann’d? ’Midst the wild billows Why then delay? Bird of the greenwood! Away, away!

“Chide not my lingering Where storms are dark; A hand that hath nursed me Is in the bark-- A heart that hath cherish’d Through winter’s long day: So I turn from the greenwood, Away, away!”

THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.

“I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children of earth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no more?--whether they have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which my future home is to be cast? or whether they have their images above, only wrought in a more wondrous and delightful mould.”--

“Conversations with an ambitious Student in ill health.”

Bear them not from grassy dells Where wild bees have honey-cells; Not from where sweet water-sounds Thrill the greenwood to its bounds; Not to waste their scented breath On the silent room of Death!

Kindred to the breeze they are, And the glow-worm’s emerald star, And the bird whose song is free, And the many-whispering tree: Oh! too deep a love, and vain, They would win to earth again.

Spread them not before the eyes Closing fast on summer skies! Woo thou not the spirit back From its lone and viewless track, With the bright things which have birth Wide o’er all the colour’d earth!

With the violet’s breath would rise Thoughts too sad for her who dies; From the lily’s pearl-cup shed, Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed; Dreams of youth--of spring-time’s eves-- Music--beauty--all she leaves!

Hush! ’tis thou that dreaming art, Calmer is _her_ gentle heart. Yes! o’er fountain, vale, and grove, Leaf and flower, hath gush’d her love; But that passion, deep and true, Knows not of a last adieu.

Types of lovelier forms than these In their fragile mould she sees; Shadows of yet richer things, Born beside immortal springs, Into fuller glory wrought, Kindled by surpassing thought!

Therefore, in the lily’s leaf, She can read no word of grief; O’er the woodbine she can dwell, Murmuring not--Farewell! farewell! And her dim, yet speaking eye Greets the violet solemnly.

Therefore once, and yet again, Strew them o’er her bed of pain; From her chamber take the gloom With a light and flush of bloom: So should one depart, who goes Where no death can touch the rose!

THE IVY-SONG.[416]

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? Ivy! _thy_ home is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o’er; Where song and beaker once went round, But now are known no more; Where long-fallen gods recline, There the place is thine.

The Roman, on his battle-plains, Where kings before his eagles bent, With thee, amidst exulting strains, Shadow’d the victor’s tent. Though, shining there in deathless green, Triumphantly thy boughs might wave, Better thou lovest the silent scene Around the victor’s grave-- Urn and sculpture half divine Yield their place to thine.

The cold halls of the regal dead, Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, Where hollow sounds the lightest tread-- Ivy! they know thee well! And far above the festal vine Thou wavest where once proud banners hung, Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine-- The Rhine, still fresh and young! Tower and rampart o’er the Rhine, Ivy! all are thine!

High from the fields of air look down Those eyries of a vanish’d race, Where harp, and battle, and renown, Have pass’d, and left no trace. But thou art there!--serenely bright, Meeting the mountain-storms with bloom, Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, Or crown the lowliest tomb! Ivy! Ivy! all are thine, Palace, hearth, and shrine.

’Tis still the same: our pilgrim-tread O’er classic plains, through deserts free, On the mute path of ages fled, Still meets decay and thee. And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, stern in power-- Days pass--thou Ivy never sere,[417] And thou shalt have thy dower. All are thine, or must be thine-- Temple, pillar, shrine!

[416] This song, as originally written, the reader will have met with in an earlier part of this publication, (p. 354.) Being afterwards completely remodelled by Mrs Hemans, perhaps no apology is requisite for its re-insertion here.

[417] “Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”--_Lycidas._

THE MUSIC OF ST PATRICK’S.

[The choral music of St Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, is almost unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific skill. The majestic harmony of effect thus produced is not a little deepened by the character of the church itself, which, though small, yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and old monumental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to recognise it as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old--a place to witness the solitary vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at the burial of some warlike king.]

“All the choir Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas.”--Milton.

Again! oh! send that anthem-peal again Through the arch’d roof in triumph to the sky! Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain, The banners thrill as if with victory!

Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might have heard, While arm’d for fields of chivalrous renown: Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirr’d, While throbbing still beneath the recent crown!

Those notes once more!--they bear my soul away, They lend the wings of morning to its flight; No earthly passion in th’ exulting lay Whispers one tone to win me from that height.

All is of Heaven! Yet wherefore to mine eye Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source, Even while the waves of that strong harmony Roll with my spirit on their sounding course?

Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal Thus by the burst of sorrow’s token shower! --Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel Our nature’s limit in its proudest hour?

[The mention of Neukomm’s magnificent organ-playing brings to remembrance one great enjoyment of Mrs Hemans’s residence in Dublin--the exquisite “Music of St Patrick’s,” of which she has recorded her impressions in the little poem so entitled. Its effect is, indeed, such as, once heard, can never be forgotten. If ever earthly music can be _satisfying_, it must surely be such as this, bringing home to our bosoms the solemn beauty of our own holy liturgy, with all its precious and endeared associations, in tones that make the heart swell with ecstasy, and the eyes overflow with unbidden tears. There was one anthem, frequently heard within those ancient walls, which Mrs Hemans used to speak of with peculiar enthusiasm--that from the 3d Psalm--“Lord, how are they increased that trouble me!” The consummate skill exhibited in the adaptation of sound to sense in this noble composition is, in truth, most admirable. The symphony to the 5th verse--“I laid me down and slept”--with its soft, dreamy vibrations, gentle as the hovering of an angel’s wing--the utter _abandon_, the melting into slumber, implied by the half-whispered words that came breathing as from a world of spirits--almost “steep the senses in forgetfulness,” when a sudden outbreak, as it were, of life and light, bursts forth with the glad announcement, “I awaked, for the Lord sustained me;” then the old sombre arches ring with an almost overpowering peal of triumph, bearing to Heaven’s gate the exulting chorus of the 6th and 8th verses.--_Memoir_, p. 260-1.]

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

[This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and deep pathos, and other characteristics analogous to those of the national music.]

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark!

There is blood upon the threshold Whence thy step went forth at morn Like a dancer’s in its fleetness, O my bright first-born!

At the glad sound of that footstep My heart within me smiled;-- Thou wert brought me back all silent On thy bier, my child!

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark!

I thought to see thy children Laugh on me with thine eyes; But my sorrow’s voice is lonely Where my life’s flower lies.

I shall go to sit beside thee, Thy kindred’s graves among; I shall hear the tall grass whisper-- I shall not hear it long.

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark!

And I, too, shall find slumber With my lost one in the earth;-- Let none light up the ashes Again on our hearth!

Let the roof go down!--let silence On the home for ever fall, Where my boy lay cold, and heard not His lone mother’s call!

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark!

FAR AWAY.[418]

Far away!--my home is far away, Where the blue sea laves a mountain-shore; In the woods I hear my brothers play, Midst the flowers my sister sings once more, Far away!

Far away!--my dreams are far away, When at midnight stars and shadows reign: “Gentle child!” my mother seems to say, “Follow me where home shall smile again, Far away!”

Far away!--my hope is far away, Where love’s voice young gladness may restore. --O thou dove! now soaring through the day, Lend me wings to reach that better shore, Far away!

[418] This, and the five following songs, have been set to music of great merit, by J. Zeugheer Herrmann and H. F. Chorley, Esq., and are published in a set by Mr Power, who has given permission for the appearance of the words in this volume.

THE LYRE AND FLOWER.

A lyre its plaintive sweetness pour’d Forth on the wild wind’s track; The stormy wanderer jarr’d the chord, But gave no music back.-- O child of song! Bear hence to heaven thy fire: What hopest thou from the reckless throng? Be not like that lost lyre! Not like that lyre!

A flower its leaves and odours cast On a swift-rolling wave; Th’ unheeding torrent darkly pass’d, And back no treasure gave.-- O heart of love! Waste not thy precious dower: Turn to thine only home above! Be not like that lost flower! Not like that flower!

SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST.

Sister! since I met thee last, O’er thy brow a change hath past. In the softness of thine eyes, Deep and still a shadow lies; From thy voice there thrills a tone Never to thy childhood known; Through thy soul a storm hath moved, --Gentle sister! thou hast loved!

Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught Hues too bright from troubled thought; Far along the wandering stream Thou art follow’d by a dream; In the woods and valleys lone Music haunts thee, not thine own: Wherefore fall thy tears like rain? --Sister! thou hast loved in vain!

Tell me not the tale, my flower! On my bosom pour that shower! Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted; Tell me not of young hopes blasted; Wring not forth one burning word, Let thy heart no more be stirr’d! Home alone can give thee rest. --Weep, sweet sister! on my breast!

THE LONELY BIRD.

From a ruin thou art singing, O lonely, lonely bird! The soft blue air is ringing, By thy summer music stirr’d. But all is dark and cold beneath, Where harps no more are heard: Whence win’st thou that exulting breath, O lonely, lonely bird?

Thy songs flow richly swelling To a triumph of glad sounds, As from its cavern-dwelling A stream in glory bounds! Though the castle-echoes catch no tone Of human step or word, Though the fires be quench’d and the feasting done, O lonely, lonely bird?

How can that flood of gladness Rush through thy fiery lay, From the haunted place of sadness, From the bosom of decay-- While the dirge-notes in the breeze’s moan, Through the ivy garlands heard, Come blent with thy rejoicing tone, O lonely, lonely bird?

There’s many a heart, wild singer! Like thy forsaken tower, Where joy no more may linger, Where Love hath left his bower: And there’s many a spirit e’en like thee, To mirth as lightly stirr’d, Though it soar from ruins in its glee, O lonely, lonely bird!

DIRGE AT SEA.

Sleep!--we give thee to the wave, Red with life-blood from the brave. Thou shalt find a noble grave. Fare thee well!

Sleep! thy billowy field is won: Proudly may the funeral gun, Midst the hush at set of sun, Boom thy knell!

Lonely, lonely is thy bed, Never there may flower be shed, Marble rear’d, or brother’s head Bow’d to weep.

Yet thy record on the sea, Borne through battle high and free, Long the red-cross flag shall be. Sleep! oh, sleep!

PILGRIM’S SONG TO THE EVENING STAR.

O soft star of the west! Gleaming far, Thou’rt guiding all things home, Gentle star! Thou bring’st from rock and wave The sea-bird to her nest, The hunter from the hills, The fisher back to rest. Light of a thousand streams, Gleaming far! O soft star of the west! Blessed star!

No bowery roof is mine, No hearth of love and rest, Yet guide me to my shrine, O soft star of the west! There, there my home shall be, Heaven’s dew shall cool my breast, When prayer and tear gush free, O soft star of the west!

O soft star of the west, Gleaming far! Thou’rt guiding all things home, Gentle star! Shine from thy rosy heaven, Pour joy on earth and sea! Shine on, though no sweet eyes Look forth to watch for me! Light of a thousand streams, Gleaming afar! O soft star of the west! Blessed star!

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

“We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short moments: and then days, months, years intervene, and we see and know nothing of each other.”--Washington Irving.

Two barks met on the deep mid-sea, When calms had still’d the tide; A few bright days of summer glee There found them side by side.

And voices of the fair and brave Rose mingling thence in mirth; And sweetly floated o’er the wave The melodies of earth.

Moonlight on that lone Indian main Cloudless and lovely slept; While dancing step, and festive strain Each deck in triumph swept.

And hands were link’d, and answering eyes With kindly meaning shone; Oh! brief and passing sympathies, Like leaves together blown!

A little while such joy was cast Over the deep’s repose, Till the loud singing winds at last Like trumpet-music rose.

And proudly, freely on their way The parting vessels bore; In calm or storm, by rock or bay, To meet--oh, never more!

Never to blend in victory’s cheer, To aid in hours of woe: And thus bright spirits mingle here, Such ties are form’d below!

COME AWAY.

Come away!--the child, where flowers are springing Round its footsteps on the mountain-slope, Hears a glad voice from the upland singing, Like the skylark’s with its tone of hope: Come away!

Bounding on, with sunny lands before him, All the wealth of glowing life outspread, Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o’er him, By that strain the youth in joy is led: Come away!

Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling O’er the sweetness of the voice within; Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling, Urge the hunter still to chase, to win: Come away!

Come away!--the heart at last forsaken, Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue; Yet a breath can still those words awaken, Though to other shores far hence they woo: Come away!

In the light leaves, in the reed’s faint sighing, In the low, sweet sounds of early spring, Still their music wanders--till the dying Hears them pass, as on a spirit’s wing: Come away!

FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL.

[“Fair Helen of Kirkconnel,” as she is called in the Scottish Minstrelsy, throwing herself between her betrothed lover and a rival by whom his life was assailed, received a mortal wound, and died in the arms of the former.]

Hold me upon thy faithful heart, Keep back my flitting breath; ’Tis early, early to depart, Beloved!--yet this is death!

Look on me still--let that kind eye Be the last light I see! Oh! sad it is in spring to die, But yet I die for thee!

For thee, my own!--thy stately head Was never thus to bow: Give tears when with me love hath fled, True love, thou know’st it now!

Oh, the free streams look’d bright, where’er We in our gladness roved; And the blue skies were very fair, O friend! because we loved.

Farewell!--I bless thee--live thou on When this young heart is low! Surely my blood thy life hath won-- Clasp me once more--I go!

MUSIC FROM SHORE.

A sound comes on the rising breeze, A sweet and lovely sound! Piercing the tumult of the seas That wildly dash around.

From land, from sunny land it comes, From hills with murmuring trees, From paths by still and happy homes-- That sweet sound on the breeze.

Why should its faint and passing sigh Thus bid my quick pulse leap? No part in earth’s glad melody Is mine upon the deep.

Yet blessing, blessing on the spot Whence those rich breathings flow! Kind hearts, although they know me not, Like mine there beat and glow.

And blessing, from the bark that roams O’er solitary seas, To those that far in happy homes Give sweet sounds to the breeze!

LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS EYES.

Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, Truth in their dark transparence lies; Their sweetness gives me back the tears And the free trust of early years, My gentle child!

The spirit of my infant prayer Shines in the depths of quiet there; And home and love once more are mine. Found in that dewy calm divine, My gentle child!

Oh! heaven is with thee in thy dreams, Its light by day around thee gleams-- Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies: Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, My gentle child!

IF THOU HAST CRUSH’D A FLOWER.

“Oh, cast thou not Affection from thee! In this bitter world Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast; Watch--guard it--suffer not a breath to dim The bright gem’s purity!”

If thou hast crush’d a flower, The root may not be blighted; If thou hast quench’d a lamp, Once more it may be lighted: But on thy harp, or on thy lute, The string which thou hast broken Shall never in sweet sound again Give to thy touch a token!

If thou hast loosed a bird Whose voice of song could cheer thee, Still, still he may be won From the skies to warble near thee: But if upon the troubled sea Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, Hope not that wind or wave will bring The treasure back when needed.

If thou hast bruised a vine, The summer’s breath is healing, And its clusters yet may glow Through the leaves their bloom revealing: But if thou hast a cup o’erthrown With a bright draught fill’d--oh! never Shall earth give back that lavish’d wealth To cool thy parch’d lip’s fever!

The heart is like that cup, If thou waste the love it bore thee; And like that jewel gone, Which the deep will not restore thee; And like that string of harp or lute Whence the sweet sound is scatter’d,-- Gently, oh! gently touch the chords, So soon for ever shatter’d!

BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED.

Brightly, brightly hast thou fled! Ere one grief had bow’d thy head! Brightly didst thou part! With thy young thoughts pure from spot, With thy fond love wasted not, With thy bounding heart.

Ne’er by sorrow to be wet, Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet, Ere with dust o’erspread: Lilies ne’er by tempest blown, White rose which no stain hath known, Be about thee shed!

So we give thee to the earth, And the primrose shall have birth O’er thy gentle head; Thou that, like a dewdrop borne On a sudden breeze of morn, Brightly thus hast fled!

THE BED OF HEATH.

“Soldier, awake! the night is past; Hear’st thou not the bugle’s blast? Feel’st thou not the dayspring’s breath? Rouse thee from thy bed of heath! Arm, thou bold and strong! Soldier! what deep spell hath bound thee? Fiery steeds are neighing round thee-- Banners to the fresh wind play: Rise, and arm--’tis day,’tis day! And thou hast slumber’d long.”

“Brother! on the heathery lea Longer yet my sleep must be; Though the morn of battle rise, Darkly night rolls o’er my eyes-- Brother, this is death! Call me not when bugles sound, Call me not when wine flows round; Name me but amidst the brave, Give me but a soldier’s grave-- But my bed of heath!”

FAIRY SONG.

Have ye left the greenwood lone, Are your steps for ever gone? Fairy King and Elfin Queen, Come ye to the sylvan scene, From your dim and distant shore, Never more?

Shall the pilgrim never hear With a thrill of joy and fear, In the hush of moonlight hours, Voices from the folded flowers, Faint, sweet flute-notes as of yore, Never more?

“Mortal! ne’er shall bowers of earth Hear again our midnight mirth: By our brooks and dingles green Since unhallow’d steps have been, Ours shall thread the forests hoar Never more.

“Ne’er on earth-born lily’s stem Will we hang the dewdrop’s gem; Ne’er shall reed or cowslip’s head Quiver to our dancing tread, By sweet fount or murmuring shore-- Never more!”

WHAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND.

What woke the buried sound that lay In Memnon’s harp of yore? What spirit on its viewless way Along the Nile’s green shore? Oh! not the night, and not the storm, And not the lightning’s fire; But sunlight’s torch, the kind, the warm-- This, this awoke the lyre.

What wins the heart’s deep chords to pour Thus music forth on life-- Like a sweet voice prevailing o’er The truant sounds of strife? Oh! not the conflict midst the throng, Not e’en the trumpet’s hour; Love is the gifted and the strong, To wake that music’s power!

SING TO ME, GONDOLIER!

Sing to me, Gondolier! Sing words from Tasso’s lay; While blue, and still, and clear, Night seems but softer day. The gale is gently falling, As if it paused to hear Some strain the past recalling-- Sing to me, Gondolier!

“Oh, ask me not to wake The memory of the brave; Bid no high numbers break The silence of the wave. Gone are the noble-hearted, Closed the bright pageants here; And the glad song is departed From the mournful Gondolier!”

LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE.

It is thy pity makes me weep, My soul was strong before; Silent, yet strong its griefs to keep From vainly gushing o’er. Turn from me, turn those gentle eyes! In this fond gaze my spirit dies: Look on me thus no more!

Too late that softness comes to bless, My heart’s glad life is o’er; It will but break with tenderness, Which cannot now restore! The lyre-strings have been jarr’d too long, Winter hath touch’d the source of song! Look on me thus no more!

O’ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS.

O’er the far blue mountains, O’er the white sea-foam, Come, thou long-parted one! Back to thine home.

When the bright fire shineth, Sad looks thy place, While the true heart pineth Missing thy face.

Music is sorrowful Since thou art gone; Sisters are mourning thee-- Come to thine own!

Hark! the home-voices call Back to thy rest; Come to thy father’s hall, Thy mother’s breast!

O’er the far blue mountains, O’er the white sea-foam, Come, thou long-parted one! Back to thine home.

O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING!

O thou breeze of spring, Gladdening sea and shore! Wake the woods to sing, Wake my heart no more! Streams have felt the sighing Of thy scented wing, Let each fount replying Hail thee, breeze of spring! Once more!

O’er long-buried flowers Passing not in vain, Odours in soft showers Thou hast brought again. Let the primrose greet thee, Let the violet pour Incense forth to meet thee-- Wake my heart no more! No more!

From a funeral urn Bower’d in leafy gloom, Even _thy_ soft return Calls not song or bloom. Leave my spirit sleeping Like that silent thing; Stir the founts of weeping _There_, O breeze of spring! No more!

COME TO ME, DREAMS OF HEAVEN!

Come to me, dreams of heaven! My fainting spirit bear On your bright wings, by morning given, Up to celestial air. Away--far, far away, From bowers by tempests riven, Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day, O blessed dreams of heaven!

Come but for one brief hour, Sweet dreams! and yet again O’er burning thought and memory shower Your soft effacing rain! Waft me where gales divine, With dark clouds ne’er have striven, Where living founts for ever shine-- O blessed dreams of heaven!

GOOD-NIGHT.

Day is past! Stars have set their watch at last; Founts that through the deep woods flow Make sweet sounds, unheard till now; Flowers have shut with fading light-- Good-night!

Go to rest! Sleep sit dove-like on thy breast! If within that secret cell One dark form of memory dwell, Be it mantled from thy sight-- Good-night!

Joy be thine! Kind looks o’er thy slumbers shine! Go, and in the spirit-land Meet thy home’s long-parted band; Be their eyes all love and light-- Good-night!

Peace to all! Dreams of heaven on mourners fall! Exile! o’er thy couch may gleams Pass from thine own mountain-streams; Bard! away to worlds more bright-- Good-night!

LET HER DEPART.

Her home is far, oh! far away! The clear light in her eyes Hath naught to do with earthly day-- ’Tis kindled from the skies. Let her depart!

She looks upon the things of earth, Even as some gentle star Seems gazing down on grief or mirth, How softly, yet how far! Let her depart!

Her spirit’s hope--her bosom’s love-- Oh! could they mount and fly! She never sees a wandering dove, But for its wings to sigh. Let her depart!

She never hears a soft wind bear Low music on its way, But deems it sent from heavenly air For her who cannot stay. Let her depart!

Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams, She breathes and moves alone, Pining for those bright bowers and streams Where her beloved is gone. Let her depart!

HOW CAN THAT LOVE SO DEEP, SO LONE.

How can that love so deep, so lone, So faithful unto death, Thus fitfully in laughing tone, In airy word, find breath?

Nay! ask how on the dark wave’s breast, The lily’s cup may gleam, Though many a mournful secret rest Low in the unfathom’d stream.

That stream is like my hidden love, In its deep current’s power; And like the play of words above, That lily’s trembling flower.

WATER-LILIES.

A FAIRY SONG.

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

THE BROKEN FLOWER.

Oh! wear it on thy heart, my love! Still, still a little while! Sweetness is lingering in its leaves, Though faded be their smile. Yet, for the sake of what hath been, Oh, cast it not away! ’Twas born to grace a summer scene, A long, bright, golden day, My love! A long, bright, golden day!

A little while around thee, love! Its fragrance yet shall cling, Telling, that on thy heart hath lain A fair, though faded thing. But not even that warm heart hath power To win it back from fate,-- Oh! _I_ am like thy broken flower, Cherish’d too late, too late, My love! Cherish’d alas! too late!

I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAIN.

I would we had not met again! I had a dream of thee, Lovely, though sad, on desert-plain-- Mournful on midnight sea.

What though it haunted me by night, And troubled through the day? It touch’d all earth with spirit-light, It glorified my way!

Oh! what shall now my faith restore In holy things and fair? We met--I saw thy soul once more-- The world’s breath had been there!

Yes! it was sad on desert-plain, Mournful on midnight sea; Yet would I buy with life again That one deep dream of thee!

FAIRIES’ RECALL.

While the blue is richest In the starry sky, While the softest shadows On the greensward lie, While the moonlight slumbers In the lily’s urn, Bright elves of the wild-wood! Oh! return, return!

Round the forest-fountain, On the river-shore, Let your silvery laughter Echo yet once more; While the joyous bounding Of your dewy feet Rings to that old chorus-- “The daisy is so sweet!”[419]

Oberon! Titania! Did your starlight mirth With the song of Avon Quit this work-day earth? Yet, while green leaves glisten, And while bright stars burn, By that magic memory, Oh! return, return!

[419] See the fairies’ chorus in Chaucer’s “Flower and the Leaf.”

THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA.

Oh! tell me not the woods are fair Now Spring is on her way! Well, well I know how brightly there In joy the young leaves play; How sweet on winds of morn or eve The violet’s breath may be;-- Yet ask me, woo me not to leave My lone rock by the sea.

The wild wave’s thunder on the shore, The curlew’s restless cries, Unto my watching heart are more Than all earth’s melodies. Come back, my ocean rover! come! There’s but one place for me, Till I can greet thy swift sail home-- My lone rock by the sea!

O YE VOICES GONE!

O ye voices gone! Sounds of other years! Hush that haunting tone, Melt me not to tears! All around forget, All who loved you well; Yet, sweet voices! yet O’er my soul ye swell. With the winds of spring, With the breath of flowers, Floating back, ye bring Thoughts of vanished hours. Hence your music take, O ye voices gone! This lonely heart ye make But more deeply lone.

BY A MOUNTAIN-STREAM AT REST.

By a mountain-stream at rest, We found the warrior lying, And around his noble breast A banner clasp’d in dying: Dark and still Was every hill, And the winds of night were sighing.

Last of his noble race To a lonely bed we bore him-- ’Twas a green, still, solemn place. Where the mountain-heath waves o’er him, Woods alone Seem to moan, Wild streams to deplore him.

Yet, from festive hall and lay Our sad thoughts oft are flying To those dark hills far away, Where in death we found him lying; On his breast A banner press’d, And the night-wind o’er him sighing.

IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING?

Is there some Spirit sighing With sorrow in the air? Can weary hearts be dying, Vain love repining _there_? If not, then how can that wild wail, O sad Æeolian lyre! Be drawn forth by the wandering gale From thy deep thrilling wire?

No, no!--thou dost not borrow That sadness from the wind, Nor are those tones of sorrow In thee, O harp! enshrined; But in our own hearts deeply set Lies the true quivering lyre, Whence love, and memory, and regret Wake answers from thy wire.

THE NAME OF ENGLAND.

The trumpet of the battle Hath a high and thrilling tone; And the first, deep gun of an ocean-fight Dread music all its own.

But a mightier power, my England! Is in that name of thine, To strike the fire from every heart Along the banner’d line.

Proudly it woke the spirits Of yore, the brave and true, When the bow was bent on Cressy’s field, And the yeoman’s arrow flew.

And proudly hath it floated Through the battles of the sea, When the red-cross flag o’er smoke-wreaths play’d Like the lightning in its glee.

On rock, on wave, on bastion, Its echoes have been known; By a thousand streams the hearts lie low That have answer’d to its tone.

A thousand ancient mountains Its pealing note hath stirr’d,-- Sound on, and on, for evermore, O thou victorious word!

OLD NORWAY.

A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG.

[“To a Norwegian, the words _Gamlé Norgé_ (Old Norway) have a spell in them immediate and powerful; they cannot be resisted. _Gamlé Norgé_ is heard, in an instant, repeated by every voice; the glasses are filled, raised, and drained--not a drop is left; and then bursts forth the simultaneous chorus ‘_For Norgé!_’ the national song of Norway. Here, (at Christiansand,) and in a hundred other instances in Norway, I have seen the character of a company entirely changed by the chance introduction of the expression _Gamlé Norgé_. The gravest discussion is instantly interrupted; and one might suppose for the moment that the party was a party of patriots, assembled to commemorate some national anniversary of freedom.”--Derwent Conway’s _Personal Narrative of a Journey through Norway and Sweden_.

The following words have been published, as arranged to the spirited national air of Norway, by Charles Graves, Esq.]

Arise! Old Norway sends the word Of battle on the blast; Her voice the forest pines hath stirr’d, As if a storm went past; Her thousand hills the call have heard, And forth their fire-flags cast.

Arm, arm, free hunters! for the chase, The kingly chase of foes! ’Tis not the bear or wild wolf’s race Whose trampling shakes the snows: Arm, arm! ’tis on a nobler trace The northern spearman goes.

Our hills have dark and strong defiles, With many an icy bed; Heap there the rocks for funeral piles Above the invader’s head! Or let the seas, that guard our isles, Give burial to his dead!

COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP!

[“Mrs Hemans writes for all tastes and for all ages, as well as for all nations, and therefore she may do well to write in all sorts of style and manner. And, at all events, she who pleases others so well, may be allowed at times to please herself. Such strains as the following might soothe the ear of Rhadamanthus, and charm Cerberus to slumber.”--_Eclectic Review_, 1834.]

Come to me, gentle Sleep! I pine, I pine for thee; Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep, And set my spirit free! Each lonely, burning thought In twilight languor steep-- Come to the full heart, long o’erwrought, O gentle, gentle Sleep!

Come with thine urn of dew, Sleep, gentle Sleep! yet bring No voice, love’s yearning to renew, No vision on thy wing! Come, as to folding flowers, To birds in forests deep-- Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours, O gentle, gentle Sleep!

SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE,

TO

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ.,

IN TOKEN OF DEEP RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND FERVENT GRATITUDE FOR MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL BENEFIT DERIVED FROM REVERENTIAL COMMUNION WITH THE SPIRIT OF HIS POETRY, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY FELICIA HEMANS.[420]

Preface.--I trust I shall not be accused of presumption for the endeavour which I have here made to enlarge, in some degree, the sphere of religious poetry, by associating with its themes more of the emotions, the affections, and even the purer imaginative enjoyments of daily life, than may have been hitherto admitted within the hallowed circle.

It has been my wish to portray the religious spirit, not alone in its meditative joys and solitary aspirations, (the poetic embodying of which seems to require from the reader a state of mind already separated and exalted,) but likewise in those active influences upon human life, so often called into victorious energy by trial and conflict, though too often also, like the upward-striving flame of a mountain watch-fire, borne down by tempest-showers, or swayed by the current of opposing winds.

I have sought to represent that spirit as penetrating the gloom of the prison and the deathbed, bearing “healing on its wings” to the agony of parting love--strengthening the heart of the wayfarer for “perils in the wilderness”--gladdening the domestic walk through field and woodland--and springing to life in the soul of childhood, along with its earliest rejoicing perceptions of natural beauty.

Circumstances not altogether under my own control have, for the present, interfered to prevent the fuller development of a plan which I yet hope more worthily to mature; and I lay this little volume before the public with that deep sense of deficiency which cannot be more impressively taught to human powers than by their reverential application to things divine.--Felicia Hemans.

1834.

[420] The long-contemplated collection of _Scenes and Hymns of Life_ was published soon after the two little volumes above alluded to. In her original dedication of this work to Mr Wordsworth, Mrs Hemans had given free scope to the expression of her sentiments, not only of veneration for the poet, but of deep and grateful regard for the friend. From a fear, however, that delicacy on Mr Wordsworth’s part might prevent his wishing to receive, in a public form, a testimonial of so much private feeling from a living individual, the intended letter was suppressed, and its substantial ideas conveyed in the brief inscription which was finally prefixed to the volume. It is now hoped that all such objections to its publication have vanished, and that the revered friend to whom it was addressed will receive it as the heart-tribute of one to whom flattery was unknown--as consecrated by the solemn truth of a voice from the grave.

_Intended Dedication of the “Scenes and Hymns of Life,” to William Wordsworth, Esq._

“My dear Sir,

“I earnestly wish that the little volume here inscribed to you, in token of affectionate veneration, were pervaded by more numerous traces of those strengthening and elevating influences which breathe from all your poetry ‘a power to virtue friendly.’ I wish, too, that such a token could more adequately convey my deep sense of gratitude for moral and intellectual benefit long derived from the study of that poetry--for the perpetual fountains of ‘serious faith and inward glee’ which I have never failed to discover amidst its pure and lofty regions--for the fresh green places of refuge which it has offered me in many an hour, when

‘The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart;’

and when I have found in your thoughts and images such relief as the vision of your ‘Sylvan Wye’ may, at similar times, have afforded to yourself.

“May I be permitted, on the present occasion, to record my unfading recollections of enjoyment from your society--of delight in having heard from your own lips, and amidst your own lovely mountain-land, many of those compositions, the remembrance of which will ever spread over its hills and waters a softer colouring of spiritual beauty? Let me also express to you, as to a dear and most honoured friend, my fervent wishes for your long enjoyment of a widely-extended influence, which cannot but be blessed--of a domestic life, encircling you with yet nearer and deeper sources of happiness; and of those eternal hopes, on whose foundation you have built, as a Christian poet, the noble structure of your works.

“I rely upon your kindness, my dear Sir, for an indulgent reception of my offering, however lowly, since you will feel assured of the sincerity with which it is presented by your ever grateful and affectionate Felicia Hemans.”

THE ENGLISH MARTYRS;

A SCENE OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY.

“Thy face Is all at once spread over with a calm More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy! I am no more disconsolate.” Wilson.

## Scene I.--_A Prison._

Edith _alone_.

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

Gomez, _a Spanish Priest, enters_.

_Gom._ Daughter, hail! I bring thee tidings.

_Ed._ Heaven will aid my soul Calmly to meet whate’er thy lips announce.

_Gom._ Nay, lift a song of thanksgiving to heaven, And bow thy knee down for deliverance won! Hast thou not pray’d for life? and wouldst thou not Once more be free!

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

_Gom._ Rejoice, rejoice! Our queen hath pity, maiden! on thy youth; She wills not thou shouldst perish. I am come To loose thy bonds.

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

_Gom._ His freedom lies In his own choice--a boon like thine.

_Ed._ Thy words Fall changed and cold upon my boding heart. Leave not this dim suspense o’ershadowing me; Let all be told.

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

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

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

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

_Gom._ Dost thou reject heaven’s mercy?

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

_Gom._ (_turning from her._) Then perish! lost In thine own blindness!

_Ed._ (_suddenly throwing herself at his feet._) Father! hear me yet! Oh! if the kindly touch of human love Hath ever warm’d thy breast----

_Gom._ Away--away! I know not love.

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

_Gom._ (_aside._) Her soul may yield, Beholding him in fetters; woman’s faith Will bend to woman’s love. Thy prayer is heard; Follow, and I will guide thee to his cell.

_Ed._ O stormy hour of agony and joy! But I shall see him--I shall hear his voice!

[_They go out._

## Scene II.--_Another part of the Prison._

Herbert, Edith.

_Ed._ Herbert! my Herbert! is it thus we meet?

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

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

_Her._ They _cannot_ slay One young, and meek, and beautiful as thou, My broken lily! Surely the long days Of the dark cell have been enough for _thee_! Oh! thou shalt live, and raise thy gracious head Yet in calm sunshine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Her._ Sweet Edith, no! my heart Will fail no more. God bears me up through thee, And by thy words, and by thy heavenly light Shining around thee, through thy very tears, Will yet sustain me! Let us call on Him! Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft, Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him, Th’ all-pitying One, to aid. [_They kneel._ Oh, look on us, Father above!--in tender mercy look On us, thy children!--through th’ o’ershadowing cloud Of sorrow and mortality, send aid-- Save, or we perish! We would pour our lives Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth; But we are weak--we, the bruised reeds of earth, Are sway’d by every gust. Forgive, O God! The blindness of our passionate desires, The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts Which cleave to dust! Forgive the strife; accept The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears, From mortal pangs wrung forth! And if our souls, In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess, Of their long-clasping love, have wander’d not, Holiest! from thee--oh! take them to thyself, After the fiery trial--take them home To dwell, in that imperishable bond Before thee link’d, for ever. Hear!--thro’ Him Who meekly drank the cup of agony, Who pass’d through death to victory, hear and save! Pity us, Father! we are girt with snares: Father in Heaven! we have no help but thee. [_They rise._ Is thy soul strengthen’d, my beloved one? O Edith! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice, And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn We loved in happier days--the strain which tells Of the dread conflict in the olive shade?

Edith _sings_.

He knelt, the Saviour knelt and pray’d, When but his Father’s eye Look’d through the lonely garden’s shade On that dread agony; The Lord of all above, beneath, Was bow’d with sorrow unto death.

The sun set in a fearful hour, The stars might well grow dim, When this mortality had power So to o’ershadow Him! That He who gave man’s breath, might know The very depths of human woe.

He proved them all!--the doubt, the strife, The faint perplexing dread, The mists that hang o’er parting life, All gather’d round his head; And the Deliverer knelt to pray-- Yet pass’d it not, that cup, away!

It pass’d not--though the stormy wave Had sunk beneath his tread; It pass’d not--though to Him the grave Had yielded up its dead. But there was sent him from on High A gift of strength for man to die.

And was the Sinless thus beset With anguish and dismay? How may _we_ meet our conflict yet, In the dark, narrow way? Through Him--through Him that path who trod. --Save, or we perish, Son of God!

Hark, hark! the parting signal.

[_Prison attendants enter._

Fare thee well! O thou unutterably loved, farewell! Let our hearts bow to God!

_Her._ One last embrace-- On earth the last! We have eternity For love’s communion yet! Farewell!--farewell!

[_She is led out._

’Tis o’er!--the bitterness of death is past!

FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.

“Once when I look’d along the laughing earth, Up the blue heavens and through the middle air, Joyfully ringing with the skylark’s song, I wept! and thought how sad for one so young To bid farewell to so much happiness. But Christ hath call’d me from this lower world, Delightful though it be.” Wilson.

_Apartment in an English country-house._--Lilian _reclining, as sleeping on a couch. Her mother watching beside her. Her sister enters with flowers._

_Mother._ Hush! lightly tread! Still tranquilly she sleeps, As when a babe I rock’d her on my heart. I’ve watch’d, suspending e’en my breath, in fear To break the heavenly spell. Move silently! And oh! those flowers! Dear Jessy! bear them hence-- Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears That shook her trembling frame, when last we brought The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know What sudden longings for the woods and hills, Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly, These leaves and odours with strange influence wake In her fast-kindled soul?

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

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

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

_Lilian._ Hope it not! Dream it no more, my mother!--there are things Known but to God, and to the parting soul, Which feels His thrilling summons. But my words Too much o’ershadow those kind, loving eyes. Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step, Well do I see, hath not alone explored The garden bowers, but freely visited Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet Is from the cool, green, shadowy river-nook, Where the stream chimes around th’ old mossy stones With sounds like childhood’s laughter. Is that spot Lovely as when our glad eyes hail’d it first? Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep The clear brown wave with every passing wind? And through the shallower waters, where they lie Dimpling in light, do the vein’d pebbles gleam Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies, From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still Among the poplar-boughs?

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

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

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

_Lilian._ Mother! I cannot. In my soul the thoughts Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire; Importunately to my lips they throng, And with their earthly kindred seek to blend Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone-- (For I _must_ go)--then the remember’d words Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth, Will to thy fond heart be as amulets Held there, with life and love. And weep not thus, Mother! dear sister!--kindest, gentlest ones! Be comforted that now _I_ weep no more For the glad earth and all the golden light Whence I depart. No! God hath purified my spirit’s eye, And in the folds of this consummate rose I read bright prophecies. I see not there, Dimly and mournfully, the word “_farewell_” On the rich petals traced. No--in soft veins And characters of beauty, I can read-- “_Look up, look heavenward!_” Blessed God of Love! I thank Thee for these gifts, the precious links Whereby my spirit unto Thee is drawn! I thank Thee that the loveliness of earth Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these But germs of things unperishing, that bloom Beside th’ immortal streams? Shall I not find The lily of the field, the Saviour’s flower, In the serene and never-moaning air, And the clear starry light of angel eyes, A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far Will not the violet’s dusky purple glow, When it hath ne’er been press’d to broken hearts, A record of lost love?

_Mother._ My Lilian! thou Surely in _thy_ bright life hast little known Of lost things or of changed!

_Lilian._ Oh! little yet, For _thou_ hast been my shield! But had it been My lot on this world’s billows to be thrown Without thy love, O mother! there are hearts So perilously fashion’d, that for them God’s touch alone hath gentleness enough To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!-- We will not speak of this! By what strange spell Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers, I dream of music? Something in their hues, All melting into colour’d harmonies, Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords, Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die In tenderest falls away. Oh, bring thy harp, Sister! A gentle heaviness at last Hath touch’d mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep Will come again.

_Jessy._ What wouldst thou hear?--the Italian peasant’s lay, Which makes the desolate Campagna ring With “_Roma! Roma!_” or the madrigal Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily? Or the old ditty left by troubadours To girls of Languedoc?

_Lilian._ Oh, no! not these.

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

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

Jessy _sings to the Harp_.

O Son of Man! In thy last mortal hour Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully! All that on us is laid, All the deep gloom, The desolation and the abandonment, The dark amaze of death-- All upon _thee_ too fell, Redeemer! Son of Man!

But the keen pang Wherewith the silver cord Of earth’s affection from the soul is wrung; The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown Into the quick, strong heart; This, _this_--the passion and the agony Of battling love and death, Surely was not for _thee_, Holy One! Son of God!

Yes, my Redeemer! E’en this cup was thine! Fond, wailing voices call’d thy spirit back: E’en midst the mighty thoughts Of that last crowning hour-- E’en on thine awful way to victory, Wildly they call’d thee back! And weeping eyes of love Unto thy heart’s deep core Pierced through the folds of death’s mysterious veil. Suffer! thou Son of Man!

Mother-tears were mingled With thy costly blood-drops, In the shadow of the atoning cross; And the friend, the faithful, He that on thy bosom Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain-- He, a pale sad watcher, Met with looks of anguish All the anguish in _thy_ last meek glance-- Dying Son of Man!

Oh! therefore unto thee, Thou that hast known all woes Bound in the girdle of mortality! Thou that wilt lift the reed Which storms have bruised, To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry, And, in that tempest-hour, when love and life Mysteriously must part, When tearful eyes Are passionately bent To drink earth’s last fond meaning from our gaze, Then, then forsake us not! Shed on our spirits then The faith and deep submissiveness of thine! Thou that didst love Thou that didst weep and die-- Thou that didst rise a victor glorified; Conqueror! thou Son of God!

CATHEDRAL HYMN.

“They dreamt not of a perishable home Who thus could build. Be mine in hours of fear Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here.” Wordsworth.

A dim and mighty minster of old time! A temple shadowy with remembrances Of the majestic past! The very light Streams with a colouring of heroic days In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back To other years!--and the rich fretted roof, And the wrought coronals of summer leaves, Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose-- The tenderest image of mortality-- Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves;--all these things Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly, On their heart’s worship pour’d a wealth of love! Honour be with the dead! The people kneel Under the helms of antique chivalry, And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, And midst the forms, in pale, proud slumber carved, Of warriors on their tombs. The people kneel Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell’d crowns On the flush’d brows of conquerors have been set; Where the high anthems of old victories Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain thoughts! Memories of power and pride, which long ago, Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk In twilight-depths away. Return, my soul! The Cross recalls thee. Lo! the blessed Cross! High o’er the banners and the crests of earth, Fix’d in its meek and still supremacy! And lo! the throng of beating human hearts, With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, All their full treasures of immortal hope, Gather’d before their God! Hark! how the flood Of the rich organ-harmony bears up Their voice on its high waves!--a mighty burst! A forest-sounding music! Every tone Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings From gulfs of tossing foliage, there is blent: And the old minster--forest-like itself-- With its long avenues of pillar’d shade, Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain O’erflows its dim recesses, leaving not One tomb unthrill’d by the strong sympathy Answering the electric notes. Join, join, my soul! In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness, And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.

Rise like an altar-fire! In solemn joy aspire, Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain! On thy strong rushing wind Bear up from humankind Thanks and implorings--be they not in vain!

Father, which art on high! Weak is the melody Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear, Unless the heart be there, Winging the words of prayer With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.

Let, then, thy Spirit brood Over the multitude-- Be thou amidst them, thro’ that heavenly Guest! So shall their cry have power To win from thee a shower Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.

What griefs that make no sign, That ask no aid but thine, Father of mercies! here before thee swell! As to the open sky, All their dark waters lie To thee reveal’d, in each close bosom-cell.

The sorrow for the dead, Mantling its lonely head From the world’s glare, is, in thy sight, set free; And the fond, aching love, Thy minister to move All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.

And doth not thy dread eye Behold the agony In that most hidden chamber of the heart, Where darkly sits remorse, Beside the secret source Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?

Yes! here before thy throne Many--yet each alone-- To thee that terrible unveiling make: And still, small whispers clear Are startling many an ear, As if a trumpet bade the dead awake.

How dreadful is this place! The glory of thy face Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight. Where shall the guilty flee? Over what far-off sea? What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light?

Not to the cedar-shade Let his vain flight be made; Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea; What, but the Cross, can yield The hope--the stay--the shield? _Thence_ may the Atoner lead him up to thee!

Be thou, be thou his aid! Oh, let thy love pervade The haunted caves of self-accusing thought! There let the living stone Be cleft--the seed be sown-- The song of fountains from the silence brought!

So shall thy breath once more Within the soul restore Thine own first image--Holiest and Most High! As a clear lake is fill’d With hues of heaven, instill’d Down to the depths of its calm purity.

And if, amidst the throng Link’d by the ascending song, There are whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar; Thanks, Father! that the power Of joy, man’s early dower, Thus, e’en midst tears, can fervently adore!

Thanks for each gift divine! Eternal praise be thine, Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer! Let the hymn pierce the sky, And let the tombs reply! For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there.

WOOD WALK AND HYMN.[421]

“Move along these shades In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods.”--Wordsworth.

Father--Child.

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

_Father._ Hast thou heard, my boy, The peasant’s legend of that quivering tree?

_Child._ No, father: doth he say the fairies dance Amidst the branches?

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

_Child._, (_after a pause._) Dost thou believe it, father?

_Father._ Nay, my child, _We_ walk in clearer light. But yet, even now, With something of a lingering love, I read The characters, by that mysterious hour, Stamp’d on the reverential soul of man In visionary days; and thence thrown back On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven, The woodman and the mountaineer can trace On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so! _They_ do not wisely that, with hurried hand, Would pluck these salutary fancies forth From their strong soil within the peasant’s breast, And scatter them--far, far too fast!--away As worthless weeds. Oh! little do we know _When_ they have soothed, when saved! But come, dear boy! My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee. Come--let us search for violets.

_Child._ Know you not More of the legends which the woodmen tell Amidst the trees and flowers?

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

_Child._ The Arum leaf?

_Father._ Yes. These deep inwrought marks, The villager will tell thee, (and with voice Lower’d in his true heart’s reverent earnestness,) Are the flower’s portion from th’ atoning blood On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew; And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf, Catching from that dread shower of agony A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains, A heritage, for storm or vernal wind Never to waft away! And hast thou seen The passion-flower? It grows not in the woods, But midst the bright things brought from other climes.

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

_Father._ Thou hast mark’d it well. Yes! a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower, As from a land of spirits! To mine eye Those faint, wan petals--colourless, and yet Not white, but shadowy--with the mystic lines (As letters of some wizard language gone) Into their vapour-like transparence wrought, Bear something of a strange solemnity, Awfully lovely!--and the Christian’s thought Loves, in their cloudy penciling, to find Dread symbols of his Lord’s last mortal pangs Set by God’s hand--the coronal of thorns-- The cross, the wounds--with other meanings deep Which I will teach thee when we meet again That flower, the chosen for the martyr’s wreath, The Saviour’s holy flower. But let us pause: Now have we reach’d the very inmost heart Of the old wood. How the green shadows close Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round, A luxury of gloom! Scarce doth one ray, Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal O’er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades; Or if it doth, ’tis with a mellow’d hue Of glow-worm colour’d light. Here, in the days Of pagan visions, would have been a place For worship of the wood-nymphs! Through these oaks A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown The quivering image of its Dorian shafts On the stream’s bosom, or a sculptured form, Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom, Have bow’d its head o’er that dark crystal down, Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops Under bright rain. But _we_, my child, are here With God, our God, a Spirit, who requires Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth; And this high knowledge--deep, rich, vast enough To fill and hallow all the solitude-- Makes consecrated earth where’er we move, Without the aid of shrines. What! dost thou feel The solemn whispering influence of the scene Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw More closely to my side, and clasp my hand Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child! ’Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here, Where brooding violets mantle this green slope With dark exuberance; and beneath these plumes Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds In its pure, crimson goblets, fresh and bright, The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile, And let me hear once more the woodland verse I taught thee late--’twas made for such a scene. _Child speaks._

[421] “It is not often we find the superstitions of dark and ignorant ages dealt with in so gentle and agreeable a manner as by Mrs Hemans. She seizes, in common with others, the poetic aspect these present, but diffuses over them, at the same time, a refinement of sentiment gathered entirely from her own feelings. A subject which, from another pencil, would have been disagreeable and offensive to us, is made by her graceful touches to win upon our imagination. Witness the poem called ‘The Wood Walk and Hymn;’ we will quote the commencement of it--

‘There are the aspens with their silvery leaves,’” etc. _Blackwood’s Magazine_, Dec. 1848.

WOOD HYMN.

Broods there some spirit here? The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud; And o’er the pools, all still and darkly clear, The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow’d; And something of a tender cloistral gloom Deepens the violet’s bloom.

The very light that streams Through the dim, dewy veil of foliage round Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams-- As if it knew the place were holy ground; And would not startle, with too bright a burst, Flowers, all divinely nursed.

_Wakes_ there some spirit here? A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by; And leaves and waters, in its wild career, Shed forth sweet voices--each a mystery! Surely some awful influence must pervade These depths of trembling shade!

Yes! lightly, softly move! There _is_ a power, a presence in the woods; A viewless being that, with life and love, Informs the reverential solitudes: The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod-- Thou--_thou_ art here, my God!

And if with awe we tread The minster-floor, beneath the storied pane, And, midst the mouldering banners of the dead, Shall the green, voiceful wild seem _less_ thy fane, Where thou alone hast built?--where arch and roof Are of thy living woof?

The silence and the sound, In the lone places, breathe alike of thee; The temple-twilight of the gloom profound, The dew-cup of the frail anemone, The reed by every wandering whisper thrill’d-- All, all with thee are fill’d!

Oh! purify mine eyes, More and yet more, by love and lowly thought, Thy presence, holiest One! to recognise In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought And, midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear Ever thy voice to hear!

And sanctify my heart To meet the awful sweetness of that tone With no faint thrill or self-accusing start, But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own-- Joy, such as dwelt in Eden’s glorious bowers Ere sin had dimm’d the flowers.

Let me not know the change O’er nature thrown by guilt!--the boding sky, The hollow leaf-sounds ominous and strange, The weight wherewith the dark tree-shadows lie! Father! oh! keep my footsteps pure and free, To walk the woods with thee!

PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT.

“Soul of our souls! and safeguard of the world! Sustain--Thou only canst--the sick at heart; Restore their languid spirits, and recall Their lost affections unto thee and thine.”--Wordsworth.

Night--holy night--the time For mind’s free breathings in a purer clime! Night!--when in happier hour the unveiling sky Woke all my kindled soul To meet its revelations, clear and high, With the strong joy of immortality! Now hath strange sadness wrapp’d me, strange and deep-- And my thoughts faint, and shadows o’er them roll, E’en when I deem’d them seraph-plumed, to sweep Far beyond earth’s control.

Wherefore is this? I see the stars returning, Fire after fire in heaven’s rich temple burning: Fast shine they forth--my spirit-friends, my guides, Bright rulers of my being’s inmost tides; They shine--but faintly, through a quivering haze: Oh! is the dimness _mine_ which clouds those rays? They from whose glance my childhood drank delight! A joy unquestioning--a love intense-- They that, unfolding to more thoughtful sight The harmony of their magnificence, Drew silently the worship of my youth To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth; Shall they shower blessing, with their beams divine, Down to the watcher on the stormy sea, And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine, And to the wanderer lone On wastes of Afric thrown, And not to _me_? Am I a thing forsaken? And is the gladness taken From the bright-pinion’d nature which hath soar’d Through realms by royal eagle ne’er explored, And, bathing there in streams of fiery light, Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite?

And now an alien! Wherefore must this be? How shall I rend the chain? How drink rich life again From those pure urns of radiance, welling free? --Father of Spirits! let me turn to thee!

Oh! if too much exulting in her dower, My soul, not yet to lowly thought subdued, Hath stood without thee on her hill of power-- A fearful and a dazzling solitude! And therefore from that haughty summit’s crown To dim desertion is by thee cast down; Behold! thy child submissively hath bow’d-- Shine on him through the cloud!

Let the now darken’d earth and curtain’d heaven Back to his vision with thy face be given! Bear him on high once more, But in thy strength to soar, And wrapt and still’d by that o’ershadowing might, Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chasten’d sight.

Or if it be that, like the ark’s lone dove, My thoughts go forth, and find no resting-place, No sheltering home of sympathy and love In the responsive bosoms of my race, And back return, a darkness and a weight, Till my unanswer’d heart grows desolate-- _Yet_, yet sustain me, Holiest!--I am vow’d To solemn service high; And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow’d, Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary, Fainting beneath the burden of the day, Because no human tone Unto the altar-stone Of that pure spousal fane inviolate, Where it should make eternal truth its mate, May cheer the sacred, solitary way?

Oh! be the whisper of thy voice within Enough to strengthen! Be the hope to win A more deep-seeing homage for thy name, Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame! Make me thine only!--Let me add but one To those refulgent steps all undefiled, Which glorious minds have piled Through bright self-offering, earnest, childlike, lone, For mounting to thy throne! And let my soul, upborne On wings of inner morn, Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense Of that bless’d work, its own high recompense.

The dimness melts away That on your glory lay, O ye majestic watchers of the skies! Through the dissolving veil, Which made each aspect pale, Your gladdening fires once more I recognise; And once again a shower Of hope, and joy, and power, Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes. And if that splendour to my sober’d sight Come tremulous, with more of pensive light-- Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught With more that pierces through each fold of thought Than I was wont to trace On heaven’s unshadow’d face-- Be it e’en so!--be mine, though set apart Unto a radiant ministry, yet still A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart, Bow’d before thee, O Mightiest! whose bless’d will All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil.[422]

[422] Written after hearing the introductory Lecture on Astronomy delivered in Trinity College, Dublin, by Sir William Hamilton, royal astronomer of Ireland, on the 8th November 1832.

THE TRAVELLER’S EVENING SONG.

Father! guide me! Day declines, Hollow winds are in the pines; Darkly waves each giant bough O’er the sky’s last crimson glow: Hush’d is now the convent’s bell, Which erewhile with breezy swell From the purple mountains bore Greeting to the sunset-shore. Now the sailor’s vesper-hymn Dies away. Father! in the forest dim, Be my stay!

In the low and shivering thrill Of the leaves that late hung still; In the dull and muffled tone Of the sea-wave’s distant moan; In the deep tints of the sky, There are signs of tempests nigh. Ominous, with sullen sound, Falls the closing dusk around. Father! through the storm and shade O’er the wild, Oh! be _Thou_ the lone one’s aid-- Save thy child!

Many a swift and sounding plume Homewards, through the boding gloom, O’er my way hath flitted fast Since the farewell sunbeam pass’d From the chestnut’s ruddy bark, And the pools, now lone and dark, Where the wakening night-winds sigh Through the long reeds mournfully. Homeward, homeward, all things haste-- God of might! Shield the homeless midst the waste! Be his light!

In his distant cradle-nest, Now my babe is laid to rest; Beautiful its slumber seems With a glow of heavenly dreams-- Beautiful, o’er that bright sleep. Hang soft eyes of fondness deep, Where his mother bends to pray For the loved and far away. Father! guard that household bower, Hear that prayer! Back, through thine all-guiding power, Lead me there!

Darker, wilder grows the night; Not a star sends quivering light Through the massy arch of shade By the stern, old forest made. Thou! to whose unslumbering eyes All my pathway open lies, By thy Son who knew distress In the lonely wilderness, Where no roof to that bless’d head Shelter gave-- Father! through the time of dread, Save--oh, save!

BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT’S CHILD IN THE FORESTS.

Scene.--_The banks of a solitary river in an American forest. A tent under pine-trees in the foreground._ Agnes _sitting before the tent, with a child in her arms apparently sleeping._

_Agnes._ Surely ’tis all a dream--a fever-dream! The desolation and the agony-- The strange, red sunrise, and the gloomy woods, So terrible with their dark giant boughs, And the broad, lonely river!--all a dream! And my boy’s voice will wake me, with its clear, Wild singing tones, as they were wont to come Through the wreath’d sweetbrier at my lattice-panes In happy, happy England! Speak to me! Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch’d All the dread night beside thee, till her brain Is darken’d by swift waves of fantasies, And her soul faint with longing for thy voice. Oh! I _must_ wake him with one gentle kiss On his fair brow! (_Shudderingly._) The strange, damp, thrilling touch! The marble chill! Now, now it rushes back-- Now I know all!--dead--_dead!_--a fearful word! My boy hath left me in the wilderness, To journey on without the blessed light In his deep, loving eyes. He’s gone!--he’s gone!

_Her_ Husband _enters_.

_Husband._ Agnes! my Agnes! hast thou look’d thy last On our sweet slumberer’s face? The hour is come-- The couch made ready for his last repose.

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

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

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

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

_Agnes._ Forgive! forgive! My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild-- Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount Of unknown bitterness! Thou art my home! Mine only and my blessed one! Where’er Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness, _There_ is my country! _there_ my head shall rest, And throb no more. Oh! still, by thy strong love, Bear up the feeble reed!

(_Kneeling with the child in her arms._)

And thou, my God! Hear my soul’s cry from this dread wilderness! Oh! hear, and pardon me! If I have made This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness, Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume, Oh, pardon me! If nature hath rebell’d, And from thy light turn’d wilfully away, Making a midnight of her agony, When the despairing passion of her clasp Was from its idol stricken at one touch Of thine Almighty hand--oh, pardon me! By thy Son’s anguish, pardon! In the soul The tempests and the waves will know thy voice-- Father! say, “Peace, be still!”

(_Giving the child to her husband._)

Farewell, my babe! Go from my bosom now to other rest! With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow, And on thy pale, calm cheek these contrite tears, I yield thee to thy Maker!

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

_Agnes._ My Edmund! where-- Where wilt thou lay him?

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

_Agnes._ My gentle son! The affectionate, the gifted! With what joy-- Edmund, rememberest thou?--with what bright joy His baby brother ever to his arms Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair In that kind, useful breast! Oh! now no more! But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart, Even to a well-spring of adoring tears, For many a blessing left. (_Bending over the child._) Once more, farewell! Oh, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look! How can it be sustain’d? Away, away!

(_After a short pause._)

Edmund! my woman’s nature still is weak-- I cannot see thee render dust to dust! Go thou, my husband! to thy solemn task; I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer Till thy return.

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

(_He goes out with the child._--Agnes, _kneels in prayer.--After a time, voices without are heard singing._)

FUNERAL HYMN.

Where the long reeds quiver, Where the pines make moan, By the forest-river, Sleeps our babe alone. England’s field-flowers may not deck his grave, Cypress shadows o’er him darkly wave.

Woods unknown receive him, Midst the mighty wild; Yet with God we leave him, Blessed, blessed child! And our tears gush o’er his lovely dust, Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust.

Though his eye hath brighten’d Oft our weary way, And his clear laugh lighten’d Half our hearts’ dismay; Still in hope we give back what was given, Yielding up the beautiful to heaven.

And to her who bore him, Her who long must weep, Yet shall heaven restore him From his pale, sweet sleep! Those blue eyes of love and peace again Through her soul will shine, undimm’d by pain.

Where the long reeds quiver, Where the pines make moan, Leave we by the river Earth to earth alone! God and Father! may our journeyings on Lead to where the blessed boy is gone!

From the exile’s sorrow, From the wanderer’s dread Of the night and morrow, Early, brightly fled; Thou hast call’d him to a sweeter home Than our lost one o’er the ocean’s foam.

Now let thought behold him, With his angel look, Where those arms enfold him, Which benignly took Israel’s babes to their Good Shepherd’s breast When his voice their tender meekness blest.

Turn thee now, fond mother! From thy dead, oh, turn! Linger not, young brother, Here to dream and mourn: Only kneel once more around the sod, Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God!

EASTER-DAY IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD.

There is a wakening on the mighty hills, A kindling with the spirit of the morn! Bright gleams are scatter’d from the thousand rills, And a soft visionary hue is born On the young foliage, worn By all the embosom’d woods--a silvery green, Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously serene.

And lo! where, floating through a glory, sings The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky! Lo! where the darkness of his buoyant wings, Against a soft and rosy cloud on high, Trembles with melody! While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice To the rich laugh of music in that voice.

But purer light than of the early sun Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth! And for your dwellers nobler joy is won Than the sweet echoes of the skylark’s mirth, By this glad morning’s birth! And gifts more precious by its breath are shed Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet’s head.

Gifts for the _soul_, from whose illumined eye O’er nature’s face the colouring glory flows; Gifts from the fount of immortality, Which, fill’d with balm, unknown to human woes, Lay hush’d in dark repose, Till thou, bright dayspring! madest its waves our own, By thine unsealing of the burial stone.

Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills! And let a full victorious tone be given, By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills Your urn-like depths with sound! The tomb is riven, The radiant gate of heaven Unfolded--and the stern, dark shadow cast By death’s o’ersweeping wing, from the earth’s bosom past.

And you, ye graves! upon whose turf I stand, Girt with the slumber of the hamlet’s dead, Time, with a soft and reconciling hand, The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread O’er every narrow bed: But not by time, and not by nature sown Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown.

Christ hath arisen! Oh, not one cherish’d head Hath, midst the flowery sods, been pillow’d here Without a hope, (howe’er the heart hath bled In its vain yearnings o’er the unconscious bier,) A hope, upspringing clear From those majestic tidings of the morn, Which lit the living way to all of woman born.

Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love! E’en on this greensward: night hath heard thy cry, Heart-stricken one! thy precious dust above-- Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply Unto thine agony! But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide, Christ hath arisen, O love! thy tears shall all be dried.

Dark must have been the gushing of those tears, Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb On thine impassion’d soul, in elder years, When, burden’d with the mystery of its doom, Mortality’s thick gloom Hung o’er the sunny world, and with the breath Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death.

By thee, sad Love! and by thy sister, Fear, Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought To vail that haunting shadow, still too near, Still ruling secretly the conqueror’s thought, And where the board was fraught With wine and myrtles in the summer bower, Felt, e’en when disavow’d, a presence and a power.

But that dark night is closed: and o’er the dead, _Here_, where the gleamy primrose-tufts have blown, And where the mountain-heath a couch has spread, And, settling oft on some gray, letter’d stone, The redbreast warbles lone; And the wild-bee’s deep drowsy murmurs pass, Like a low thrill of harp-strings, through the grass:

Here, midst the chambers of the Christian’s sleep, _We_ o’er death’s gulf may look with trusting eye; For Hope sits, dove-like, on the gloomy deep, And the green hills wherein these valleys lie Seem all one sanctuary Of holiest thought--nor needs their fresh, bright sod, Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God.

Christ hath arisen! O mountain-peaks! attest-- Witness, resounding glen and torrent-wave! The immortal courage in the human breast Sprung from that victory--tell how oft the brave To camp midst rock and cave, Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne, Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn!

The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day-- Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone Have thrill’d their pines, when those that knelt to pray Rose up to arm! The pure, high snows have known A colouring not their own, But from true hearts, which, by that crimson stain, Gave token of a trust that call’d no suffering vain.

Those days are past--the mountains wear no more The solemn splendour of the martyr’s blood; And may that awful record, as of yore, Never again be known to field or flood! E’en though the faithful stood, A noble army, in the exulting sight Of earth and heaven, which bless’d their battle for the right!

But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken Is yet home silently in homes obscure; And many a bitter cup is meekly taken; And, for the strength whereby the just and pure Thus steadfastly endure, Glory to Him whose victory won that dower! Him from whose rising stream’d that robe of spirit-power.

Glory to Him! Hope to the suffering breast! Light to the nations! He hath roll’d away The mists which, gathering into deathlike rest, Between the soul and heaven’s calm ether lay-- His love hath made it day With those that sat in darkness. Earth and sea! Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made free!

THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.

“A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, to waylay. ... A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death.” Wordsworth.

I saw him at his sport erewhile, The bright, exulting boy! Like summer’s lightning came the smile Of his young spirit’s joy-- A flash that, wheresoe’er it broke, To life undreamt-of beauty woke.

His fair locks waved in sunny play, By a clear fountain’s side, Where jewel-colour’d pebbles lay Beneath the shallow tide; And pearly spray at times would meet The glancing of his fairy feet.

He twined him wreaths of all spring-flowers, Which drank that streamlet’s dew; He flung them o’er the wave in showers, Till, gazing, scarce I knew Which seem’d more pure, or bright, or wild, The singing fount or laughing child.

To look on all that joy and bloom Made earth one festal scene, Where the dull shadow of the tomb Seem’d as it ne’er had been. How could one image of decay Steal o’er the dawn of such clear day?

I saw once more that aspect bright-- The boy’s meek head was bow’d In silence o’er the Book of Light, And, like a golden cloud-- The still cloud of a pictured sky-- His locks droop’d round it lovingly.

And if my heart had deem’d him fair, When, in the fountain-glade, A creature of the sky and air, Almost on wings he play’d; Oh! how much holier beauty now Lit the young human being’s brow!

The being born to toil, to die, To break forth from the tomb Unto far nobler destiny Than waits the skylark’s plume! I saw him, in that thoughtful hour, Win the first knowledge of his dower.

The _soul_, the awakening _soul_ I saw-- My watching eye could trace The shadows of its new-born awe Sweeping o’er that fair face: As o’er a flower might pass the shade By some dread angel’s pinion made!

The soul, the mother of deep fears, Of high hopes infinite, Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears, Of sleepless inner sight; Lovely, but solemn, it arose, Unfolding what no more might close.

The red-leaved tablets,[423] undefiled, As yet, by evil thought-- Oh! little dream’d the brooding child Of what within me wrought, While _his_ young heart first burn’d and stirr’d, And quiver’d to the eternal word.

And reverently my spirit caught The reverence of _his_ gaze-- A sight with dew of blessing fraught To hallow after-days; To make the proud heart meekly wise, By the sweet faith in those calm eyes.

It seem’d as if a temple rose Before me brightly there; And in the depths of its repose My soul o’erflow’d with prayer, Feeling a solemn presence nigh-- The power of infant sanctity!

O Father! mould my heart once more By thy prevailing breath! Teach me, oh! teach me to adore E’en with that pure one’s faith-- A faith, all made of love and light, Child-like, and therefore full of might!

[423] “All this, and more than this, is now engraved upon the _red-leaved tablets_ of my heart.”--Haywood.

A POET’S DYING HYMN.

“Be mute who will, who can, Yet I will praise thee with impassion’d voice! Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine In such a temple as we now behold, Rear’d for thy presence; therefore am I bound To worship, here and every where.”--Wordsworth.

The blue, deep, glorious heavens!--I lift mine eye, And bless thee, O my God! that I have met And own’d thine image in the majesty Of their calm temple still!--that, never yet, There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night: I bless thee, O my God!

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, I see the mercy of thine aspect shine, Touching death’s features with a lovely glance Of light, serenely, solemnly divine, And lending to each holy star a ray As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away: I bless thee, O my God!

That I have heard thy voice nor been afraid, In the earth’s garden--midst the mountains old, And the low thrillings of the forest-shade, And the wild sound of waters uncontroll’d-- And upon many a desert plain and shore-- No solitude--for there I felt _thee_ more: I bless thee, O my God!

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed The gift, the vision of the unseal’d eye, To pierce the mist o’er life’s deep meanings spread, To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie Far in man’s heart--if I have kept it free And pure, a consecration unto thee: I bless thee, O my God!

If my soul’s utterance hath by thee been fraught With an awakening power--if thou hast made Like the wing’d seed, the breathings of my thought, And by the swift winds bid them be convey’d To lands of other lays, and there become Native as early melodies of home: I bless thee, O my God!

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath, Not for a place midst kingly minstrels dead, But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, A still small whisper, in my song hath led One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne, Or but one hope, one prayer,--for this alone I bless thee, O my God!

That I have loved--that I have known the love Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs, Yet, with a colouring halo from above, Tinges and glorifies all earthly things, Whate’er its anguish or its woe may be, Still weaving links for intercourse with thee: I bless thee, O my God!

That by the passion of its deep distress, And by the o’erflowing of its mighty prayer, And by the yearning of its tenderness, Too full for words upon their stream to bear, I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine, Well-spring of love, the unfathom’d, the divine, I bless thee, O my God!

That hope hath ne’er my heart or song forsaken, High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread, Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed: That passing storms have only fann’d the fire Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire, I bless thee, O my God!

Now art thou calling me in every gale, Each sound and token of the dying day; Thou leav’st me not--though early life grows pale, I am not darkly sinking to decay; But, hour by hour, my soul’s dissolving shroud Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud. I bless thee, O my God!

And if this earth, with all its choral streams, And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies, And mountain sanctuaries for poet’s dreams, Be lovely still in my departing eyes-- ’Tis not that fondly I would linger here, But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear: I bless thee, O my God!

And that the tender shadowing I behold, The tracery veining every leaf and flower, Of glories cast in more consummate mould, No longer vassals to the changeful hour; That life’s last roses to my thoughts can bring Rich visions of imperishable spring: I bless thee, O my God!

Yes! the young, vernal voices in the skies Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear, Seem heralds of th’ eternal melodies, The spirit-music, imperturb’d and clear-- The full of soul, yet passionate no more: Let _me_, too, joining those pure strains, adore! I bless thee, O my God!

Now aid, sustain me still. To thee I come-- Make thou my dwelling where thy children are, And for the hope of that immortal home, And for thy Son, the bright and morning star, The sufferer and the victor-king of death, I bless thee with my glad song’s dying breath! I bless thee, O my God!

[“I have lately written what I consider one of my best pieces--‘A Poet’s Dying Hymn.’ It appeared in the last number of _Blackwood_,” (April 1832.)--_Letter from Mrs Hemans._

“It is impossible to read this affecting poem without feeling how distinctly it breathes the inward echoes of the soul to the frequent warnings of the Summoner; those presentiments which must have long silently possessed her, here for the first time finding utterance. Still more strongly does it evidence that subdued and serene frame of mind, into which her once vivacious temperament and painfully vibrating sensibilities were now so gently and happily subsiding.”--_Memoir_, p. 254.]

THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

“Many an eye May wail the dimming of our shining star.”--_Shakspeare._

A glorious voice hath ceased! Mournfully, reverently--the funeral chant Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound, A hollow murmur of the dying year, In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad! A more Æolian, melancholy tone Than ever wail’d o’er bright things perishing! For _that_ is passing from the darken’d land, Which the green summer will not bring us back-- Though all her songs return. The funeral chant Breathe reverently! They bear the mighty forth, The kingly ruler in the realms of mind; They bear him through the household paths, the groves, Where every tree had music of its own To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love-- And he is silent! Past the living stream They bear him now; the stream whose kindly voice, On alien shores, his true heart burn’d to hear-- And he is silent! O’er the heathery hills, Which his own soul had mantled with a light Richer than autumn’s purple, now they move-- And he is silent!--he, whose flexile lips Were but unseal’d, and lo! a thousand forms, From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height, In glowing life upsprang,--vassal and chief, Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal, Fast-rushing through the brightly troubled air, Like the Wild Huntsman’s band. And still they live, To those fair scenes imperishably bound, And, from the mountain-mist still flashing by, Startle the wanderer who hath listen’d there To the seer’s voice: phantoms of colour’d thought, Surviving him who raised. O eloquence! O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead! Who shall wake _thee_? lord of the buried past! And art thou _there_--to those dim nations join’d, Thy subject-host so long? The wand is dropp’d, The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand Touch’d, and the genii came! Sing reverently The funeral chant! The mighty is borne home, And who shall be his mourners? Youth and age, For each hath felt his magic--love and grief, For he hath communed with the heart of each: Yes--the free spirit of humanity May join the august procession, for to him Its mysteries have been tributary things, And all its accents known. From field or wave, Never was conqueror on his battle-bier, By the veil’d banner and the muffled drum, And the proud drooping of the crested head, More nobly follow’d home. The last abode, The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach’d: A still, majestic spot, girt solemnly With all th’ imploring beauty of decay; A stately couch midst ruins! meet for him With his bright fame to rest in, as a king Of other days, laid lonely with his sword Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant Over the honour’d grave! The _grave_!--oh, say Rather the shrine!--an altar for the love, The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths Of years unborn--a place where leaf and flower, By that which dies not of the sovereign dead, Shall be made holy things, where every weed Shall have its portion of th’ inspiring gift From buried glory breathed. And now what strain Making victorious melody ascend High above sorrow’s dirge, befits the tomb Where he that sway’d the nations thus is laid-- The crown’d of men? A lowly, lowly song.

Lowly and solemn be Thy children’s cry to thee, Father divine! A hymn of suppliant breath, Owning that life and death Alike are thine!

A spirit on its way, Sceptred the earth to sway, From thee was sent: Now call’st thou back thine own-- Hence is that radiance flown-- To earth but lent.

Watching in breathless awe, The bright head bow’d we saw, Beneath thy hand! Fill’d by one hope, one fear, Now o’er a brother’s bier Weeping we stand.

How hath he pass’d!--the lord Of each deep bosom-chord, To meet thy sight, Unmantled and alone, On thy bless’d mercy thrown, O Infinite!

So, from his harvest-home, Must the tired peasant come; So, in one trust, Leader and king must yield The naked soul reveal’d To thee, All Just!

The sword of many a fight-- What _then_ shall be its might? The lofty lay That rush’d on eagle wing-- What shall its memory bring? What hope, what stay?

O Father! in that hour, When earth all succouring power Shall disavow; When spear, and shield, and crown In faintness are cast down-- Sustain us, Thou!

By Him who bow’d to take The death-cup for our sake, The thorn, the rod; From whom the last dismay Was not to pass away-- Aid us, O God!

Tremblers beside the grave, We call on thee to save, Father divine! Hear, hear our suppliant breath! Keep us, in life and death, Thine, only thine!

THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGGIO’S.

In the deep wilderness unseen she pray’d, The daughter of Jerusalem; alone With all the still, small whispers of the night, And with the searching glances of the stars, And with her God, alone: she lifted up Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o’er her head, The dark leaves thrill’d with prayer--the tearful prayer Of woman’s quenchless, yet repentant love.

Father of Spirits, hear! Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal’d, Look on the fountain of the burning tear, Before thy sight in solitude unseal’d!

Hear, Father! hear, and aid! If I have loved too well, if I have shed, In my vain fondness, o’er a mortal head, Gifts on thy shrine, my God! more fitly laid;

If I have sought to live But in _one_ light, and made a human eye The lonely star of mine idolatry, Thou that art Love! oh, pity and forgive!

Chasten’d and school’d at last, No more, no more my struggling spirit burns, But, fix’d on thee, from that wild worship turns-- What have I said?--the deep dream is not past!

Yet hear!--if _still_ I love, Oh! still too fondly--if, for ever seen, An earthly image comes my heart between And thy calm glory, Father! throned above;

If still a voice is near, (E’en while I strive these wanderings to control,) An earthly voice disquieting my soul With its deep music, too intensely dear;

O Father! draw to thee My lost affections back!--the dreaming eyes Clear from their mist--sustain the heart that dies, Give the worn soul once more its pinions free!

I must love on, O God! This bosom must love on!--but let thy breath Touch and make pure the flame that knows not death, Bearing it up to heaven--love’s own abode!

Ages and ages past, the wilderness, With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night, With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds, That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers. How many such hath woman’s bursting heart _Since then_, in silence and in darkness breathed, Like the dim night-flower’s odour, up to God!

PRISONERS’ EVENING SERVICE.

A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.[424]

“From their spheres The stars of human glory are cast down. Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms Of all the mighty, wither’d and consumed! Nor is power given to lowliest innocence Long to protect her own.” Wordsworth.

Scene--_Prison of the Luxembourg in Paris, during the Reign of Terror._

D’Aubigné, _an aged Royalist_--Blanche, _his daughter, a young girl._

_Blanche._ What was your doom, my father? In thine arms I lay unconsciously through that dread hour. Tell me the sentence! Could our judges look, Without relenting, on thy silvery hair? Was there not mercy, father? Will they not Restore us to our home?

_D’Aubigné._ Yes, my poor child! They send us home.

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

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

_Blanche._ Thou dost not mean---- No, no! it cannot be! Didst thou not say They sent us _home_?

_D’Aubigné._ Where is the spirit’s home? Oh! most of all, in these dark, evil days, Where should it be--but in that world serene, Beyond the sword’s reach and the tempest’s power, --Where, but in heaven?

_Blanche._ My father!

_D’Aubigné._ _We must die._ We must look up to God, and calmly die. Come to my heart, and weep there! For awhile Give nature’s passion way; then brightly rise In the still courage of a woman’s heart. Do I not know thee? Do I ask too much From mine own noble Blanche?

_Blanche_, (_falling on his bosom._) Oh! clasp me fast! Thy trembling child! Hide, hide me in thine arms-- Father!

_D’Aubigné._ Alas! my flower, thou’rt young to go-- Young, and so fair! Yet were it worse, methinks, To leave thee where the gentle and the brave, The loyal-hearted and the chivalrous, And they that loved their God, have all been swept, Like the sere leaves, away. For them no hearth Through the wide land was left inviolate, No altar holy; therefore did they fall, Rejoicing to depart. The soil is steep’d In noble blood; the temples are gone down; The voice of prayer is hush’d, or fearfully Mutter’d, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would live Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee, To quit for ever the dishonour’d soil, The burden’d air! Our God upon the cross-- Our king upon the scaffold[425]--let us think Of _these_--and fold endurance to our hearts, And bravely die!

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

_D’Aubigné._ No, my Blanche; in death, We shall not be divided.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_They sing together._

[424] The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her _Letters from France_, gave rise to this little scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, which they sang together in a low and restrained voice every night.

[425] A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and hearing some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamentations, turned towards the sufferer, and thus addressed him:--“My friend, whoever you may be, remember that your God expired upon the cross--your king upon the scaffold--and he who now speaks to you has had his limbs shot from under him. Meet your fate as becomes a man.”

PRISONER’S EVENING SONG.

We see no more in thy pure skies, How soft, O God! the sunset dies; How every colour’d hill and wood Seems melting in the golden flood: Yet, by the precious memories won From bright hours now for ever gone, Father! o’er all thy works, we know, Thou still art shedding beauty’s glow; Still touching every cloud and tree With glory, eloquent of thee; Still feeding all thy flowers with light, Though man hath barr’d it from our sight. We know thou reign’st, the Unchanging One, the All-just! And bless thee still with free and boundless trust!

We read no more, O God! thy ways On earth, in these wild, evil days. The red sword in the oppressor’s hand Is ruler of the weeping land; Fallen are the faithful and the pure, No shrine is spared, no hearth secure. Yet, by the deep voice from the past, Which tells us these things cannot last-- And by the hope which finds no ark Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark-- We trust thee! As the sailor knows That in its place of bright repose His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud May veil it with a midnight shroud, We know thou reign’st, All-holy One, All-just! And bless thee still with love’s own boundless trust.

We feel no more that aid is nigh, When our faint hearts within us die. We suffer--and we know our doom Must be one suffering till the tomb. Yet, by the anguish of thy Son When his last hour came darkly on; By his dread cry, the air which rent In terror of abandonment; And by his parting word, which rose Through faith victorious o’er all woes-- We know that thou may’st wound, may’st break The spirit, but wilt ne’er forsake! Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn, In our deep need to thee we turn! To whom but thee? All-merciful, All-just! In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust!

HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION.

“Thanks be to God for the mountains!” Howitt’s “Book of the Seasons.”

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God! Thou hast made thy children mighty, By the touch of the mountain-sod. Thou hast fix’d our ark of refuge Where the spoiler’s foot ne’er trod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God!

We are watchers of a beacon Whose light must never die; We are guardians of an altar Midst the silence of the sky: The rocks yield founts of courage, Struck forth as by thy rod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God!

For the dark, resounding caverns, Where thy still, small voice is heard; For the strong pines of the forests, That by thy breath are stirr’d; For the storms, on whose free pinions Thy spirit walks abroad; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God!

The royal eagle darteth On his quarry from the heights, And the stag that knows no master, Seeks there his wild delights; But we, for _thy_ communion, Have sought the mountain-sod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God!

The banner of the chieftain Far, far below us waves; The war-horse of the spearman Cannot reach our lofty caves: Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold Of freedom’s last abode; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God!

For the shadow of thy presence, Round our camp of rock outspread; For the stern defiles of battle, Bearing record of our dead; For the snows and for the torrents, For the free heart’s burial-sod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God!

PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY.

“The land shall never rue, So England to herself do prove but true.”--Shakspeare.

Through evening’s bright repose A voice of prayer arose, When the sea-fight was done: The sons of England knelt, With hearts that now could melt, For on the wave her battle had been won.

Round their tall ship, the main Heaved with a dark red stain, Caught not from sunset’s cloud; While with the tide swept past Pennon and shiver’d mast, Which to the Ocean-Queen that day had bow’d.

But free and fair on high, A native of the sky, _Her_ streamer met the breeze; It flow’d o’er fearless men, Though, hush’d and child-like then, Before their God they gather’d on the seas.

Oh! did not thoughts of home O’er each bold spirit come, As from the land sweet gales? In every word of prayer Had not some hearth a share, Some bower, inviolate midst England’s vales?

Yes! bright, green spots that lay In beauty far away, Hearing no billow’s roar, Safer from touch of spoil, For that day’s fiery toil, Rose on high hearts, that now with love gush’d o’er.

A solemn scene and dread! The victors and the dead, The breathless burning sky! And, passing with the race Of waves that keep no trace, The wild, brief signs of human victory!

A stern, yet holy scene! Billows, where strife hath been, Sinking to awful sleep; And words, that breathe the sense Of God’s omnipotence, Making a minster of that silent deep.

Borne through such hours afar, Thy flag hath been a star, Where eagle’s wings ne’er flew: England! the unprofaned, Thou of the earth unstain’d, Oh! to the banner and the shrine be true!

THE INDIAN’S REVENGE.

## SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY.

[Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is founded are recorded in Carne’s Narrative of the Moravian Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch.]

“But by my wrongs and by my wrath, To-morrow Areouski’s breath That fires yon heaven with storms of death, Shall light me to the foe!” Indian Song in “Gertrude of Wyoming.”

Scene.--_The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and sycamore trees._ Herrmann, _the missionary, seated alone before the cabin. The hour is evening twilight._

_Herrmann._ Was that the light from some lone, swift canoe Shooting across the waters?--No, a flash From the night’s first, quick fire-fly, lost again In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze Comes through the forest. In this new, strange world, Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems The mighty melancholy of the woods! The desert’s own great spirit, infinite! Little they know, in mine own fatherland, Along the castled Rhine, or e’en amidst The wild Harz mountains, or the sylvan glades Deep in the Odenwald--they little know Of what is solitude! In hours like this, There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices, To guide the peasant, singing cheerily, On the home-path; while round his lowly porch, With eager eyes awaiting his return, The cluster’d faces of his children shine To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts! Melting my spirit’s grasp from heavenly hope By your vain, earthward yearnings. O my God! Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee, Till all the hollow of these deep desires May with thyself be fill’d! Be it enough At once to gladden and to solemnise My lonely life, if for thine altar here In this dread temple of the wilderness, By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win The offering of one heart, one human heart, Bleeding, repenting, loving! Hark! a step, An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound-- ’Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass Gliding so serpent-like.

(_He comes forward, and meets an Indian warrior armed._)

Enonio, is it thou? I see thy form Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine eye Discerns thy face.

_Enonio._ My father speaks my name.

_Herrmann._ Are not the hunters from the chase return’d? The night-fires lit? Why is my son abroad?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Enonio_, (_hurriedly._) Did he not say My arrow should avenge him?

_Herrmann._ His last words Were all forgiveness.

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

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

_Enonio._ My father speaks Of change, for man too mighty.

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

_Enonio_, (_hesitating._) Can I return Unto my tribe, and unavenged?

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

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

_Herrmann._ Oh, welcome back, Friend, rescued one! Yes, thou shalt be my guest, And we will pray beneath my sycamore Together, morn and eve; and I will spread Thy couch beside my fire, and sleep at last-- After the visiting of holy thoughts-- With dewy wings shall sink upon thine eyes! Enter my home, and welcome, welcome back To peace, to God, thou lost and found again!

(_They go into the cabin together._--Herrmann, _lingering for a moment on the threshold, looks up to the starry skies_.)

Father! that from amidst yon glorious worlds Now look’st on us, thy children! make this hour Blessed for ever! May it see the birth Of thine own image in the unfathom’d deep Of an immortal soul,--a thing to name With reverential thought, a solemn world! To thee more precious than those thousand stars Burning on high in thy majestic heaven!

EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY.

Father of heaven and earth! I bless thee for the night, The soft, still night! The holy pause of care and mirth, Of sound and light!

Now, far in glade and dell, Flower-cup, and bud, and bell, Have shut around the sleeping woodlark’s nest; The bee’s long murmuring toils are done, And I, the o’erwearied one, O’erwearied and o’erwrought, Bless thee, O God! O Father of the oppress’d! With my last waking thought, In the still night! Yes! e’er I sink to rest, By the fire’s dying light, Thou Lord of earth and heaven! I bless thee, who hast given, Unto life’s fainting travellers, the night-- The soft, still, holy night.

THE DAY OF FLOWERS.

A MOTHER’S WALK WITH HER CHILD.

“One spirit--His Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows. Rules universal nature. Not a flower But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain, Of his unrivall’d pencil. He inspires Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues. And bathes their eyes with nectar. Happy who walks with him!” Cowper.

Come to the woods, my boy! Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth, My happy child! The spirit of bright hours Woos us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents, From thickets, where the lonely stock-dove broods, Enter our lattice; fitful songs of joy Float in with each soft current of the air;-- And we will hear their summons; we will give One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad thoughts, And thou shalt revel midst free nature’s wealth, And for thy mother twine wild wreaths; while she, From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart The vernal ecstasy of childhood back. Come to the woods, my boy!

What! wouldst thou lead already to the path Along the copsewood brook? Come, then! in truth Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child, Is a glad, singing stream, heard or unheard, Singing its melody of happiness Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace To that sweet chime. With what a sparkling life It fills the shadowy dingle!--now the wing Of some low-skimming swallow shakes bright spray Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave; Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep, The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings Of mazy insects o’er the shallow tide Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light From burnish’d films! And mark yon silvery line Of gossamer, so tremulously hung Across the narrow current, from the tuft Of hazels to the hoary poplar’s bough! See, in the air’s transparence, how it waves, Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale, Yet breaking not--a bridge for fairy shapes, How delicate, how wondrous! Yes, my boy! Well may we make the stream’s bright, winding vein Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness, For ever deepening. Oh, forget him not, Dear child! That airy gladness which thou feel’st Wafting thee after bird and butterfly, As ’twere a breeze within thee, is not less _His_ gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours, Than this rich, outward sunshine, mantling all The leaves, and grass, and mossy-tinted stones With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step, My merry wanderer!--let us rest a while By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung From alder boughs and osiers o’er its breast, The soft red of the flowering willow-herb So vividly is pictured. Seems it not E’en melting to a more transparent glow In that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams! And, through all ages, human hearts have loved Their music, still accordant with each mood Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown Into vain worship, which hath left its trace On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still Beneath dim olive-boughs, by many a fount Of Italy and Greece. But we will take Our lesson e’en from erring hearts, which bless’d The river-deities or fountain-nymphs, For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade, And the sweet water’s tune. The One supreme, The all-sustaining, ever-present God, Who dower’d the soul with immortality, Gave also _these_ delights, to cheer on earth Its fleeting passage; therefore let us greet Each wandering flower-scent as a boon from Him, Each bird-note, quivering midst light summer leaves, And every rich celestial tint unnamed, Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of morn and eve, Kindle and melt away! And now, in love, In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers Around the ruin’d mansion. Thou, my boy! Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn But lovely spot, whose loveliness for _thee_ Will wear no shadow of subduing thought-- No colouring from the past. This way our path Winds through the hazels. Mark how brightly shoots The dragon-fly along the sunbeam’s line, Crossing the leafy gloom. How full of life, The life of song, and breezes, and free wings, Is all the murmuring shade! and thine, oh _thine_! Of all the brightest and the happiest here, My blessed child! _my_ gift of God! that makest My heart o’erflow with summer! Hast thou twined Thy wreath so soon! yet will we loiter not, Though here the blue-bell wave, and gorgeously Round the brown, twisted roots of yon scathed oak The heath-flower spread its purple. We must leave The copse, and through yon broken avenue, Shadow’d by drooping walnut-foliage, reach The ruin’s glade. And lo! before us, fair Yet desolate, amidst the golden day, It stands, that house of silence! wedded now To verdant Nature by the o’ermantling growth Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman’s hands Once loved to train. How the rich wallflower-scent From every niche and mossy cornice floats, Embalming its decay! The bee alone Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine, Watching some homeward footstep. See! unbound From the old fretted stone-work, what thick wreaths Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down, Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and load The air with mournful fragrance--for it speaks Of life gone hence; and the faint, southern breath Of myrtle-leaves, from yon forsaken porch, Startles the soul with sweetness! Yet rich knots Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sown Through all the sunny hollow, spread around A flush of youth and joy, free nature’s joy, Undimm’d by human change. How kindly here, With the low thyme and daisies, they have blent! And, under arches of wild eglantine, Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely seems The frail gum-cistus o’er the turf to snow Its pearly flower-leaves down! Go, happy boy! Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets; Whilst I, beside this fallen dial-stone, Under the tall moss-rose tree, long unpruned, Rest where thick clustering pansies weave around Their many-tinged mosaic, midst dark grass Bedded like jewels. He hath bounded on, Wild with delight!--the crimson on his cheek Purer and richer e’en than that which lies In this deep-hearted rose-cup! Bright moss-rose! Though now so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree! Once thou wert cherish’d! and, by human love, Through many a summer duly visited For thy bloom-offerings, which o’er festal board, And youthful brow, and e’en the shaded couch Of long-secluded sickness, may have shed A joy, now lost. Yet shall there still be joy, Where God hath pour’d forth beauty, and the voice Of human love shall still be heard in praise Over his glorious gifts! O Father! Lord! The All-beneficent! I bless thy name, That thou hast mantled the green earth with flow’rs, Linking our hearts to nature! By the love Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first Into her deep recesses are beguiled-- Her minster-cells--dark glen and forest bower, Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee, Amidst the low, religious whisperings And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude, The spirit wakes to worship, and is made Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers, Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares, Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain-streams, That sing of thee! back to free childhood’s heart, Fresh with the dews of tenderness! Thou bidd’st The lilies of the field with placid smile Reprove man’s feverish strivings, and infuse Through his worn soul a more unworldly life, With their soft, holy breath. Thou hast not left His purer nature, with its fine desires, Uncared for in this universe of thine! The glowing rose attests it, the beloved Of poet-hearts, touch’d by their fervent dreams With spiritual light, and made a source Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E’en to faint age Thou lend’st the vernal bliss: the old man’s eye Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul Remembers youth and love, and hopefully Turns unto thee, who call’st earth’s buried germs From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up To put on glory, to be girt with power, And fill’d with immortality. Receive Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons, And, most of all, their heavenward influences, O Thou that gavest us flowers! Return, my boy!-- With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return! See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch’d And glorified the ruin!--glow-worm light Will twinkle on the dewdrops, ere we reach Our home again. Come! with thy last sweet prayer At thy bless’d mother’s knee, to-night shall thanks Unto our Father in his heaven arise, For all the gladness, all the beauty shed O’er one rich day of flowers.

HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER’S HOUSEHOLD ON HIS RETURN,

IN THE OLDEN TIME.

Joy! the lost one is restored! Sunshine comes to hearth and board. From the far-off countries old Of the diamond and red gold; From the dusky archer-bands, Roamers of the fiery sands; From the desert winds, whose breath Smites with sudden, silent death; He hath reach’d his home again, Where we sing In thy praise a fervent strain, God our King!

Mightiest! unto thee he turn’d When the noon-day fiercest burn’d: When the fountain-springs were far, And the sounds of Arab war Swell’d upon the sultry blast, And the sandy columns past, Unto thee he cried; and thou, Merciful! didst hear his vow! Therefore unto thee again Joy shall sing Many a sweet and thankful strain, God our King!

Thou wert with him on the main, And the snowy mountain-chain, And the rivers, dark and wide, Which through Indian forests glide: Thou didst guard him from the wrath Of the lion in his path, And the arrows on the breeze, And the dropping poison-trees. Therefore from our household train Oft shall spring Unto thee a blessing strain, God our King!

Thou to his lone, watching wife Hast brought back the light of life! Thou hast spared his loving child Home to greet him from the wild. Though the suns of Eastern skies On his cheek have set their dyes, Though long toils and sleepless cares On his brow have blanch’d the hairs, Yet the night of fear is flown-- He is living, and our own! Brethren! spread his festal board, Hang his mantle and his sword, With the armour, on the wall-- While this long, long silent hall Joyfully doth hear again Voice and string Swell to thee the exulting strain, God our King!

THE PAINTER’S LAST WORK.

[Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter Blake, which is beautifully related by Allan Cunningham.]

“Clasp me a little longer on the brink Of life, while I can feel thy dear caress; And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh! think, And let it mitigate thy woe’s excess, That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend to more than human friendship just-- Oh! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hope of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust!”--Campbell.

_The Scene is an English Cottage. The lattice opens upon a Landscape at sunset._

Eugene, Teresa.

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

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

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

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

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

_Eugene._ E’en _therefore_ we can part, With an immortal trust, that such high love Is not of things to perish. Let me leave One record still of its ethereal flame Brightening through death’s cold shadow. Once again, Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast, And eyes half veil’d, in thine own soul absorb’d, As in thy watchings ere I sink to sleep; And I will give the bending, flower-like grace Of that soft form, and the still sweetness throned On that pale brow, and in that quivering smile Of voiceless love, a life that shall outlast Their delicate earthly being. There! thy head Bow’d down with beauty, and with tenderness, And lowly thought--even thus--my own Teresa! Oh! the quick-glancing radiance and bright bloom, That once around thee hung, have melted now Into more solemn light--but holier far, And dearer, and yet lovelier in mine eyes, Than all that summer-flush! For by my couch, In patient and serene devotedness, Thou hast made those rich hues and sunny smiles Thine offering unto me. Oh! I may give Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow, And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye, Unto the canvass; I may catch the flow Of all those drooping locks, and glorify, With a soft halo, what is imaged thus-- But how much rests unbreathed, my faithful one! What thou hast been to me! This bitter world! This cold, unanswering world, that hath no voice To greet the gentle spirit, that drives back All birds of Eden, which would sojourn here A little while--how have I turn’d away From its keen, soulless air, and in thy heart Found ever the sweet fountain of response To quench my thirst for home! The dear work grows Beneath my hand,--the last!

_Teresa_, (_falling on his neck in tears._) Eugene! Eugene! Break not my heart with thine excess of love!-- Oh! must I lose thee--thou that hast been still The tenderest--best!

_Eugene._ Weep, weep not thus, beloved! Let my true heart o’er thine retain its power Of soothing to the last! Mine own Teresa! Take strength from strong affection! Let our souls, Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God’s rich boon-- Our perfect love! Oh, blessed have we been In that high gift! thousands o’er earth may pass, With hearts unfreshen’d by the heavenly dew, Which hath kept _ours_ from withering. Kneel, true wife! And lay thy hands in mine.

_(She kneels beside the couch--he prays.)_

Oh, thus receive Thy children’s thanks, Creator! for the love Which thou hast granted, through all earthly woes, To spread heaven’s peace around them--which hath bound Their spirits to each other and to thee, With links whereon unkindness ne’er hath breathed, Nor wandering thought. We thank thee, gracious God! For all its treasured memories, tender cares, Fond words, bright, bright sustaining looks, unchanged Through tears and joy! O Father! most of all, We thank, we bless thee, for the priceless trust, Through thy redeeming Son vouchsafed to those That love in thee, of union, in thy sight And in thy heavens, immortal! Hear our prayer! Take home our fond affections, purified To spirit-radiance from all earthly stain; Exalted, solemnised, made fit to dwell, Father! where all things that are lovely meet, And all things that are pure--for evermore With thee and thine!

A PRAYER OF AFFECTION.

Blessings, O Father! shower-- Father of Mercies! round his precious head! On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour, And the pure visions of his midnight bed, Blessings be shed!

Father! I pray thee not For earthly treasure to that most beloved-- Fame, fortune, power: oh! be his spirit proved By these, or by their absence, at thy will! But let thy peace be wedded to his lot, Guarding his inner life from touch of ill, With its dove-pinion still! Let such a sense of thee, Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love, His bosom-guest inalienably be, That wheresoe’er he move, A heavenly light serene Upon his heart and mien May sit undimm’d! a gladness rest his own, Unspeakable, and to the world unknown! Such as from childhood’s morning land of dreams, Remember’d faintly, gleams-- Faintly remember’d, and too swiftly flown!

So let him walk with thee, Made by thy Spirit free; And when thou call’st him from his mortal place, To his last hour be still that sweetness given, That joyful trust! and brightly let him part, With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart, Mature to meet in heaven His Saviour’s face!

MOTHER’S LITANY BY THE SICKBED OF A CHILD.

Saviour, that of woman born, Mother-sorrow didst not scorn-- Thou, with whose last anguish strove One dear thought of earthly love-- Hear and aid!

Low he lies, my precious child, With his spirit wandering wild From its gladsome tasks and play, And its bright thoughts far away-- Saviour, aid!

Pain sits heavy on his brow, E’en though slumber seal it now; Round his lip is quivering strife, In his hand unquiet life-- Aid! oh, aid!

Saviour! loose the burning chain From his fever’d heart and brain, Give, oh! give his young soul back Into its own cloudless track! Hear and aid!

Thou that saidst, “Awake! arise!” E’en when death had quench’d the eyes-- In this hour of grief’s deep sighing, When o’erwearied hope is dying, Hear and aid!

Yet, oh! make him thine, all thine, Saviour! whether Death’s or mine! Yet, oh! pour on human love, Strength, trust, patience, from above! Hear and aid!

NIGHT HYMN AT SEA.

THE WORDS WRITTEN FOR A MELODY BY FELTON.

Night sinks on the wave, Hollow gusts are sighing, Sea-birds to their cave Through the gloom are flying. Oh! should storms come sweeping, Thou, in heaven unsleeping, O’er thy children vigil keeping, Hear, hear, and save!

Stars look o’er the sea, Few, and sad, and shrouded; Faith our light must be, When all else is clouded. Thou, whose voice came thrilling, Wind and billow stilling, Speak once more! our prayer fulfilling-- Power dwells with thee!

SONNETS.

FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE.

“Your tents are desolate; your stately steps, Of all their choral dances, have not left One trace beside the fountains: your full cup Of gladness and of trembling, each alike Is broken. Yet, amidst undying things, The mind still keeps your loveliness, and still All the fresh glories of the early world Hang round you in the spirit’s pictured halls, Never to change!”

INVOCATION.

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

INVOCATION CONTINUED.

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

THE SONG OF MIRIAM.

A song for Israel’s God! Spear, crest, and helm Lay by the billows of the old Red Sea, When Miriam’s voice o’er that sepulchral realm Sent on the blast a hymn of jubilee. With her lit eye, and long hair floating free, Queen-like she stood, and glorious was the strain, E’en as instinct with the tempestuous glee Of the dark waters, tossing o’er the slain. A song for God’s own victory! Oh, thy lays, Bright poesy! were holy in their birth: How hath it died, thy seraph-note of praise, In the bewildering melodies of earth! Return from troubling, bitter founts--return, Back to the life-springs of thy native urn!

RUTH.

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

THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH.

“And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until water dropped upon them out of heaven; and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night.”--2 Sam. xxi. 10.

Who watches on the mountain with the dead, Alone before the awfulness of night?-- A seer awaiting the deep spirit’s might? A warrior guarding some dark pass of dread? No--a lorn woman! On her drooping head, Once proudly graceful, heavy beats the rain; She recks not--living for the unburied slain, Only to scare the vulture from their bed. So, night by night, her vigil hath she kept With the pale stars, and with the dews hath wept: Oh! surely some bright Presence from above On those wild rocks the lonely one must aid! E’en so; a strengthener through all storm and shade, Th’ unconquerable angel, mightiest Love!

THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMITE WOMAN.

“And she answered, I dwell among mine own people.” 2 Kings, iv. 13.

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

THE ANNUNCIATION.

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

THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN.

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

THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST’S FEET.

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

MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST.

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

THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER THE DEATH OF LAZARUS.

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

THE MEMORIAL OF MARY.

“Verily I say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, there shall also this that this woman hath done, be told for a memorial of her.”--Matthew, xxvi. 13.--See also John, xii. 3.

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

THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE CROSS.

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

MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE.

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

MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS OF THE RESURRECTION.

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

SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL.

THE SACRED HARP.

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

TO A FAMILY BIBLE.

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

REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY.

FROM AN OLD ITALIAN PICTURE.

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

PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS.

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

ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST.

AN ECCE HOMO, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI.

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

THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLESSED.

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

MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES.

“He went up to a mountain apart to pray.”

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

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.

“Consider the lilies of the field.”

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

THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.

“And behold the birds of the air.”

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

THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW’S SON.

“And he that was dead sat up and began to speak.”

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

THE OLIVE TREE.

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

THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION.

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

PLACES OF WORSHIP.

“God is a spirit.”

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

OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK.[426]

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

[426] Fawsley Park, near Daventry.

A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES.[427]

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

[427] That of Aber, near Bangor.

LOUISE SCHEPLER.

[Louise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of the pastor Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his children for their perusal after his decease, affectingly commemorates her unwearied zeal in visiting and instructing the children of the mountain hamlets, through all seasons, and in all circumstances of difficulty and danger.]

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

TO THE SAME.

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

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE TWO MONUMENTS.[428]

“Oh! bless’d are they who live and die like ‘him,’ Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn’d!” Wordsworth.

Banners hung drooping from on high In a dim cathedral’s nave, Making a gorgeous canopy O’er a noble, noble grave!

And a marble warrior’s form beneath, With helm and crest array’d, As on his battle-bed of death, Lay in their crimson shade.

Triumph yet linger’d in his eye, Ere by the dark night seal’d; And his head was pillow’d haughtily On standard and on shield.

And shadowing that proud trophy-pile, With the glory of his wing, An eagle sat--yet seem’d the while Panting through heaven to spring.

He sat upon a shiver’d lance, There by the sculptor bound; But in the light of his lifted glance Was _that_ which scorn’d the ground.

And a burning flood of gem-like hues, From a storied window pour’d, There fell, there centred, to suffuse The conqueror and his sword.

A flood of hues--but _one_ rich dye O’er all supremely spread, With a purple robe of royalty Mantling the mighty dead.

Meet was that robe for _him_ whose name Was a trumpet-note in war, His pathway still the march of fame, His eye the battle-star.

But faintly, tenderly was thrown, From the colour’d light, one ray, Where a low and pale memorial-stone By the couch of glory lay.

Few were the fond words chisell’d _there_, Mourning for parted worth; But the very heart of love and prayer Had given their sweetness forth.

They spoke of one whose life had been As a hidden streamlet’s course, Bearing on health and joy unseen From its clear mountain-source:

Whose young, pure memory, lying deep Midst rock, and wood, and hill, Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,[429] A soft light, meek and still:

Whose gentle voice, too early call’d Unto Music’s land away, Had won for God the earth’s, enthrall’d By words of silvery sway.

These were _his_ victories--yet, enroll’d In no high song of fame, The pastor of the mountain-fold Left but to heaven his name.

To heaven, and to the peasant’s hearth, A blessed household-sound; And finding lowly love on earth, Enough, enough, he found!

Bright and more bright before me gleam’d That sainted image still, Till one sweet moonlight memory seem’d The regal fane to fill.

Oh! how my silent spirit turn’d From those proud trophies nigh! How my full heart within me burn’d Like _Him_ to live and die!

[428] Suggested by a passage in Captain Sherer’s “Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.”

[429]

“Love had he seen in huts where poor men lie.” Wordsworth.

THE COTTAGE GIRL.

A child beside a hamlet’s fount at play, Her fair face laughing at the sunny day;

A gush of waters tremulously bright, Kindling the air to gladness with their light; And a soft gloom beyond of summer trees, Darkening the turf; and, shadow’d o’er by these, A low, dim, woodland cottage--this was all! What had the scene for memory to recall With a fond look of love? What secret spell With the heart’s pictures made its image dwell?

What but the spirit of the joyous child, That freshly forth o’er stream and verdure smiled, Casting upon the common things of earth A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth!

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

I look’d on the field where the battle was spread, When thousands stood forth in their glancing array; And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed Through the dun-rolling clouds that o’ershadow’d the fray.

I saw the dark forest of lances appear, As the ears of the harvest unnumber’d they stood; I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near, Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of the wood.

Afar the harsh notes of the war-drum were roll’d, Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair; On high to the gust stream’d the banner’s red fold, O’er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of despair.

I look’d on the field of contention again, When the sabre was sheath’d and the tempest had past; The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain, And the fem softly sigh’d in the low, wailing blast.

Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose, And bright shone the stars through the sky’s deepen’d blue; And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose, Where the fox-glove lay gemm’d with its pearl-drops of dew.

But where swept the ranks of that dark, frowning host, As the ocean in might, as the storm-cloud in speed? Where now are the thunders of victory’s boast-- The slayer’s dread wrath, and the strength of the steed?

Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone, To mark the lone scene of their shame or their pride; One grass-cover’d mound told the traveller alone Where thousands lay down in their anguish, and died!

O Glory! behold thy famed guerdon’s extent: For this, toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot-- A name like the mist, when the night-beams are spent; A grave with its tenants unwept and forgot!

A PENITENT’S RETURN.

“Can guilt or misery ever enter here? Ah, no! the spirit of domestic peace, Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove, And ever murmuring forth a quiet song, Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim, The hallow’d porch. She hath a heavenly smile, That sinks into the sullen soul of Vice, And wins him o’er to virtue.”--Wilson.

My father’s house once more, In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around, Something, amidst the dewy calm profound, Broods, never mark’d before!

Is it the brooding night? Is it the shivery creeping on the air, That makes the home so tranquil and so fair, O’erwhelming to my sight?

All solemnised it seems, And still’d, and darken’d in each time-worn hue, Since the rich, clustering roses met my view, As now, by starry gleams.

And this high elm, where last I stood and linger’d--where my sisters made Our mother’s bower--I deem’d not that it cast So far and dark a shade!

How spirit-like a tone Sighs through yon tree! My father’s place was there At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair! Now those gray locks are gone!

My soul grows faint with fear! Even as if angel-steps had mark’d the sod. I tremble where I move--the voice of God Is in the foliage here!

Is it indeed the night That makes my home so awful? Faithless-hearted! ’Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed The inborn, gladdening light!

No outward thing is changed; Only the joy of purity is fled, And, long from nature’s melodies estranged, Thou hear’st their tones with dread.

Therefore the calm abode, By thy dark spirit, is o’erhung with shade; And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God Makes thy sick heart afraid!

The night-flowers round that door Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air; Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more To pass, and rest thee there.

And must I turn away?-- Hark, hark!--it is my mother’s voice I hear-- Sadder than once it seem’d--yet soft and clear;-- Doth she not seem to pray?

My name!--I caught the sound! Oh! blessed tone of love--the deep, the mild! Mother! my mother! now receive thy child: Take back the lost and found!

A THOUGHT OF PARADISE.

“We receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live; Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud; And, would we aught behold of higher worth Than that inanimate, cold world allow’d To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd, Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud, Enveloping the earth; And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element.”--Coleridge.

Green spot of holy ground! If thou couldst yet be found, Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers; If not one sullying breath Of time, or change, or death, Had touch’d the vernal glory of thy bowers;

Might our tired pilgrim-feet, Worn by the desert’s heat, On the bright freshness of thy turf repose? Might our eyes wander there Through heaven’s transparent air, And rest on colours of the immortal rose?

Say, would thy balmy skies And fountain-melodies Our heritage of lost delight restore? Could thy soft honey-dews Through all our veins diffuse The early, child-like, trustful sleep once more?

And might we, in the shade By thy tall cedars made, With angel-voices high communion hold? Would their sweet, solemn tone Give back the music gone, Our Being’s harmony, so jarr’d of old?

Oh no!--thy sunny hours Might come with blossom-showers, All thy young leaves to spirit-lyres might thrill; But _we_--should we not bring Into thy realms of spring The shadows of our souls to haunt us still?

What could _thy_ flowers and airs Do for our earth-born cares? Would the world’s chain melt off and leave us free? No!--past each living stream, Still would some fever-dream Track the lorn wanderers, meet no more for thee!

Should we not shrink with fear If angel-steps were near, Feeling our burden’d souls within us die? How might our passions brook The still and searching look, The star-like glance of seraph purity?

Thy golden-fruited grove Was not for pining love; Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies! Oh! _thou_ wert but a part Of what man’s exiled heart Hath lost--the dower of _inborn_ Paradise!

LET US DEPART!

[It is mentioned by Josephus, that, a short time previous to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, going by night into the inner court of the Temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and, after that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, “Let us depart hence!”]

Night hung on Salem’s towers, And a brooding hush profound Lay where the Roman eagle shone High o’er the tents around--

The tents that rose by thousands, In the moonlight glimmering pale; Like white waves of a frozen sea Filling an Alpine vale.

And the Temple’s massy shadow Fell broad, and dark, and still, In peace--as if the Holy One Yet watch’d his chosen hill.

But a fearful sound was heard In that old fane’s deepest heart, As if mighty wings rush’d by, And a dread voice raised the cry, “_Let us depart!_”

Within the fated city E’en then fierce discord raved, Though o’er night’s heaven the comet-sword Its vengeful token waved.

There were shouts of kindred warfare Through the dark streets ringing high, Though every sign was full which told Of the bloody vintage nigh;

Though the wild red spears and arrows Of many a meteor host Went flashing o’er the holy stars, In the sky now seen, now lost.

And that fearful sound was heard In the Temple’s deepest heart, As if mighty wings rush’d by, And a voice cried mournfully, “_Let us depart!_”

But within the fated city There was revelry that night-- The wine-cup and the timbrel note, And the blaze of banquet-light.

The footsteps of the dancer Went bounding through the hall, And the music of the dulcimer Summon’d to festival:

While the clash of brother-weapons Made lightning in the air, And the dying at the palace gates Lay down in their despair;

And that fearful sound was heard At the Temple’s thrilling heart, As if mighty wings rush’d by, And a dread voice raised the cry, “_Let us depart!_”

ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING THE CROSS.

PAINTED BY VELASQUEZ.[430]

By the dark stillness brooding in the sky, Holiest of sufferers! round thy path of woe, And by the weight of mortal agony Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek brow, My heart was awed: the burden of thy pain Sank on me with a mystery and a chain.

I look’d once more--and, as the virtue shed Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray Of victory from thy mien; and round thy head, The halo, melting spirit-like away, Seem’d of the very soul’s bright rising born, To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn.

And upwards, through transparent darkness gleaming, Gazed in mute reverence woman’s earnest eye, Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming, With quenchless faith, and deep love’s fervency, Gathering, like incense round some dim-veil’d shrine, About the form, so mournfully divine!

Oh! let thine image, as e’en then it rose, Live in my soul for ever, calm and clear, Making itself a temple of repose, Beyond the breath of human hope or fear! A holy place, where through all storms may lie One living beam of dayspring from on high.

[430] This picture is in the possession of the Viscount Harberton, Merrion Square, Dublin.

COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT.

“Could we but keep our spirits to that height, We might be happy; but this clay will sink Its spark immortal.”--Byron.

Return, my thoughts--come home! Ye wild and wing’d! what do ye o’er the deep? And wherefore thus the abyss of time o’ersweep, As birds the ocean-foam?

Swifter than shooting-star, Swifter than lances of the northern-light, Upspringing through the purple heaven of night, Hath been your course afar!

Through the bright battle-clime, Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams, And reeds are whispering of heroic themes, By temples of old time:

Through the north’s ancient halls, Where banners thrill’d of yore--where harp-strings rung; But grass waves now o’er those that fought and sung, Hearth-light hath left their walls!

Through forests old and dim, Where o’er the leaves dread magic seems to brood; And sometimes on the haunted solitude Rises the pilgrim’s hymn:

Or where some fountain lies, With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleaming! There have ye been, ye wanderers! idly dreaming Of man’s lost paradise!

Return, my thoughts--return! Cares wait your presence in life’s daily track, And voices, not of music, call you back-- Harsh voices, cold and stem!

Oh, no! return ye not! Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be! Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and free, O’er many a haunted spot.

Go! seek the martyr’s grave, Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast; Or, through the ruin’d cities of the past, Follow the wise and brave!

Go! visit cell and shrine, Where woman hath endured!--thro’ wrong, thro’ scorn, Uncheer’d by fame, yet silently upborne By promptings more divine!

Go, shoot the gulf of death! Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind, Where the heart’s boundless love its rest may find, Where the storm sends no breath! Higher, and yet more high--! Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would lay On your victorious wings--mount, mount! Your way Is through eternity!

THE WATER-LILY.

“The Water-Lilies, that are serene in the calm clear water, but no less serene among the black and scowling waves.”--Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life.

Oh! beautiful thou art, Thou sculpture-like and stately river-queen! Crowning the depths, as with the light serene Of a pure heart.

Bright lily of the wave! Rising in fearless grace with every swell, Thou seem’st as if a spirit meekly brave Dwelt in thy cell:

Lifting alike thy head Of placid beauty, feminine yet free, Whether with foam or pictured azure spread The waters be.

What is like thee, fair flower, The gentle and the firm! thus bearing up To the blue sky that alabaster cup, As to the shower?

Oh! love is most like thee, The love of woman! quivering to the blast Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, Midst life’s dark sea.

And faith--oh, is not faith Like thee, too, lily! springing into light, Still buoyantly, above the billows’ might, Through the storm’s breath?

Yes! link’d with such high thought, Flower! let thine image in my bosom lie; Till something there of its own purity And peace be wrought--

Something yet more divine Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed Forth from thy breast upon the river’s bed. As from a shrine.

THE SONG OF PENITENCE.[431]

UNFINISHED.

[We learn from the Rev. R. P. Graves, that “The Song of Penitence,” if it had been finished in time, was intended for insertion among the “Scenes and Hymns of Life.”]

He pass’d from earth Without his fame,--the calm, pure, starry fame He might have won, to guide on radiantly Full many a noble soul,--he sought it not; And e’en like brief and barren lightning pass’d The wayward child of genius. And the songs Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life, Had shower’d forth recklessly, as ocean-waves Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed, They died before him;--they were winged seed Scatter’d afar, and, falling on the rock Of the world’s heart, had perish’d. One alone, One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain, The deep beseeching of a stricken breast, Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls Of the kind few that loved him, with a love Faithful to even its disappointed hope, That song of tears found root, and by their hearths Full oft, in low and reverential tones, Fill’d with the piety of tenderness, Is murmur’d to their children, when his name On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls, Far from the world’s rude voices, far away. Oh! hear, and judge him gently; ’twas his last.

I come alone, and faint I come-- To nature’s arms I flee; The green woods take their wanderer home, But Thou, O Father! may I turn to thee?

The earliest odour of the flower, The bird’s first song is thine; Father in heaven! my dayspring’s hour Pour’d its vain incense on another shrine.

Therefore my childhood’s once-loved scene Around me faded lies; Therefore, remembering what hath been, I ask, is this mine early paradise?

It is, it is--but Thou art gone; Or if the trembling shade Breathe yet of thee, with alter’d tone Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismay’d.

[431] Suggested by the late Mrs Fletcher’s story of _The Lost Life_, published in the _Amulet_ for 1830.

TROUBADOUR SONG.

They rear’d no trophy o’er his grave, They hade no requiem flow; What left they there to tell the brave That a warrior sleeps below?

A shiver’d spear, a cloven shield, A helm with its white plume torn, And a blood-stain’d turf on the fatal field, Where a chief to his rest was borne.

He lies not where his fathers sleep, But who hath a tomb more proud? For the Syrian wilds his record keep, And a banner is his shroud.

THE ENGLISH BOY.

“Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt They owe their ancestors; and make them swear To pay it, by transmitting down entire Those sacred rights to which themselves were born.” Akenside.

Look from the ancient mountains down, My noble English boy! Thy country’s fields around thee gleam In sunlight and in joy.

Ages have roll’d since foeman’s march Pass’d o’er that old, firm sod; For well the land hath fealty held To freedom and to God!

Gaze proudly on, my English boy! And let thy kindling mind Drink in the spirit of high thought From every chainless wind!

There, in the shadow of old Time, The halls beneath thee lie Which pour’d forth to the fields of yore Our England’s chivalry.

How bravely and how solemnly They stand, midst oak and yew! Whence Cressy’s yeomen haply framed The bow, in battle true.

And round their walls the good swords hang Whose faith knew no alloy, And shields of knighthood, pure from stain: Gaze on, my English boy!

Gaze where the hamlet’s ivied church Gleams by the antique elm, Or where the minster lifts the cross High through the air’s blue realm.

Martyrs have shower’d their free heart’s blood That England’s prayer might rise, From those gray fanes of thoughtful years, Unfetter’d, to the skies.

Along their aisles, beneath their trees, This earth’s most glorious dust, Once fired with valour, wisdom, song, Is laid in holy trust.

Gaze on--gaze farther, farther yet-- My gallant English boy! Yon blue sea bears thy country’s flag, The billows’ pride and joy!

Those waves in many a fight have closed Above her faithful dead; That red-cross flag victoriously Hath floated o’er their bed.

They perish’d--this green turf to keep By hostile tread unstain’d, These knightly halls inviolate, Those churches unprofaned.

And high and clear their memory’s light Along our shore is set, And many an answering beacon-fire Shall there be kindled yet!

Lift up thy heart, my English boy! And pray, like _them_ to stand, Should God so summon _thee_, to guard The altars of the land.

TO THE BLUE ANEMONE.

Flower of starry clearness bright! Quivering urn of colour’d light! Hast thou drawn thy cup’s rich dye From the intenseness of the sky? From a long, long fervent gaze Through the year’s first golden days, Up that blue and silent deep, Where, like things of sculptured sleep, Alabaster clouds repose, With the sunshine on their snows? Thither was thy heart’s love turning, Like a censer ever burning, Till the purple heavens in thee Set their smile, Anemone?

Or can those warm tints be caught Each from some quick glow of thought? So much of bright _soul_ there seems In thy bendings and thy gleams, So much thy sweet life resembles That which feels, and weeps, and trembles, I could deem thee spirit-fill’d, As a reed by music thrill’d, When thy being I behold To each loving breath unfold, Or, like woman’s willowy form, Shrink before the gathering storm! I could ask a _voice_ from thee, Delicate Anemone!

Flower! thou seem’st not born to die With thy radiant purity, But to melt in air away, Mingling with the soft Spring-day, When the crystal heavens are still, And faint azure veils each hill, And the lime-leaf doth not move, Save to songs that stir the grove, And earth all glorified is seen, As imaged in some lake serene; --Then thy vanishing should be, Pure and meek Anemone!

Flower! the laurel still may shed Brightness round the victor’s head; And the rose in beauty’s hair Still its festal glory wear; And the willow-leaves drop o’er Brows which love sustains no more: But by living rays refined, Thou, the trembler of the wind, Thou the spiritual flower, Sentient of each breeze and shower, Thou, rejoicing in the skies, And transpierced with all their dyes; Breathing vase, with light o’erflowing, Gem-like to thy centre glowing, Thou the poet’s type shalt be, Flower of soul, Anemone!

SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE.

SCENES FROM “TASSO.”

[One of the many literary projects contemplated by Mrs Hemans at this time, was a series of German studies, consisting of translations of scenes and passages from some of the most celebrated German authors, introduced and connected by illustrative remarks. The only one of these papers which she ever completed, was that on Goethe’s “Tasso,” published in the _New Monthly Magazine_ for January 1834; a paper which well deserves attention, as it embodies so much of her individual feeling with respect to the high and sacred mission of the Poet; as well as regarding that mysterious analogy between the outer world of nature and the inner world of the heart, which it was so peculiarly the tendency of her writings to develop.--_Memoir_, pp. 272-3.]

The dramatic poem of “Tasso,” though presenting no changeful pageants of many-coloured life--no combination of stirring incidents, nor conflict of tempestuous passions--is yet rich in interest for those who find--

“The still, sad music of humanity, ... of ample power To chasten and subdue.”

It is a picture of the struggle between elements which never can assimilate--powers whose dominion is over spheres essentially adverse; between the spirit of poetry and the spirit of the world. Why is it that this collision is almost invariably fatal to the gentler and the holier nature? Some master-minds have, indeed, winged their way through the tumults of crowded life, like the sea-bird cleaving the storm from which its pinions come forth unstained; but there needs a celestial panoply, with which few indeed are gifted, to bear the heirs of genius not only unwounded, but unsoiled, through the battle; and too frequently the result of the poet’s lingering afar from his better home has been mental degradation and untimely death. Let us not be understood as requiring for his wellbeing an absolute seclusion from the world and its interests. _His_ nature, if the abiding-place of the true light be indeed within him, is endowed above all others with the tenderest and most widely-embracing sympathies. Not alone from “the things of the everlasting hills,” from the storms or the silence of midnight skies, will he seek the grandeur and the beauty which have their central residence in a far more majestic temple. Mountains, and rivers, and mighty woods, the cathedrals of nature--these will have their part in his pictures; but their colouring and shadows will not be wholly the gift of rising or departed suns, nor of the night with all her stars; it will be a varying suffusion from the life within, from the glowing clouds of thought and feeling, which mantle with their changeful drapery all external creation.

----“We receive but what we give, And in _our_ life alone does nature live.”

Let the poet bear into the recesses of woods and shadowy hills a heart full-fraught with the sympathies which will have been fostered by intercourse with his kind--a memory covered with the secret inscriptions which joy and sorrow fail not indelibly to write: then will the voice of every stream respond to him in tones of gladness or melancholy, accordant with those of his own soul, and he himself, by the might of feelings intensely human, may breathe the living spirit of the oracle into the resounding cavern or the whispering oak. We thus admit it essential to his high office, that the chambers of imagery in the heart of the poet must be filled with materials moulded from the sorrows, the affections, the fiery trials, and immortal longings of the human soul. Where love, and faith, and anguish, meet and contend--where the tones of prayer are wrung from the suffering spirit--_there_ lie his veins of treasure; there are the sweet waters ready to flow from the stricken rock. But he will not seek them through the gaudy and hurrying masque of artificial life; he will not be the fettered Samson to make sport for the sons and daughters of fashion. Whilst he shuns no brotherly communion with his kind, he will ever reserve to his nature the power of _self_-communion--silent hours for

“The harvest of the quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart,”

and inviolate retreats in the depths of his being--fountains lone and still, upon which only the eye of Heaven shines down in its hallowed serenity. So have those who make us “heirs of truth and freedom by immortal lays,” ever preserved the calm, intellectual ether in which they live and move from the taint of worldly infection; and it appears the object of Goethe, in the work before us, to make the gifted spirit sadder and wiser by the contemplation of one, which, having sold its birthright, and stooped from its “privacy of glorious light,” is forced into perpetual contact with things essentially of the earth earthy. Dante has spoken of what the Italian poets must have learned but too feelingly under their protecting princes--the bitter taste of another’s bread, the weary steps by which the stairs of another’s house are ascended; but it is suffering of a more spiritual nature which is here portrayed. Would that the courtly patronage, at the shrine of which the Italian muse has so often waved her censer, had imposed no severer tasks upon its votaries than the fashioning of the snow statue which it required from the genius of Michael Angelo! The story of Tasso is fraught with yet deeper meaning, though it is not from the period of his most agonising trials that the materials of Goethe’s work are drawn. The poet is here introduced to us as a youth at the court of Ferrara; visionary, enthusiastic, keenly alive to the splendour of the gorgeous world around him, throwing himself passionately upon the current of every newly-excited feeling; a creature of sudden lights and shadows, of restless strivings after ideal perfection, of exultations and of agonies. Why is it that the being thus exhibited as endowed with all these trembling capacities for joy and pain, with noble aspirations and fervid eloquence, fails to excite a more reverential interest, a more tender admiration? He is wanting in dignity, in the sustaining consciousness of his own high mission; he has no city of refuge within himself, and thus--

“Every little living nerve, That from bitter words doth swerve,”

has the power to shake his whole soul from its pride of place. He is thus borne down by the cold, triumphant worldliness of the courtier Antonio, from the collision with whom, and the mistaken endeavour of Tasso’s friends to reconcile natures dissimilar as the sylph and gnome of fanciful creations, the conflicting elements of the piece are chiefly derived. There are impressive lessons to be drawn from the contemplation of these scenes, though, perhaps, it is not quite thus that we could have wished _him_ delineated who “poured his spirit over Palestine;” and it is occasionally almost too painful to behold the high-minded Tasso, recognised by his country as _superior with the sword and the pen to all men_, struggling in so ignoble an arena, and finally overpowered by so unworthy an antagonist. This world is indeed “too much with us,” and but too powerful is often its withering breath upon the ethereal natures of love, devotion, and enthusiasm, which, in other regions,

“May bear bright, golden flowers, but not in this soil.”

Yet who has not known victorious moments, in which the lightly-armed genii of ridicule have quailed!--the conventional forms of life have shrunk as a shrivelled scroll before the Ithuriel touch of some generous feeling, some high and overshadowing passion suddenly aroused from the inmost recesses of the folded soul, and striking the electric chain which mysteriously connects all humanity? We could have wished that some such thrilling moment had been here introduced by the mighty master of Germany--something to relieve the too continuous impression of inherent weakness in the cause of the vanquished--something of a transmuting power in the soul of Tasso, to glorify the clouds which accumulate around it--to turn them into “contingencies of pomp” by the interpenetration of its own celestial light. Yet we approach with reverence the work of a noble hand; and, whilst entering upon our task of translation, we acknowledge, in humility, the feebleness of all endeavour to pour into the vase of another language the exquisitely subtle spirit of Goethe’s poetry--to transplant and naturalise the delicate felicities of thought and expression by which this piece is so eminently distinguished.

The visionary rapture which takes possession of Tasso upon being crowned with laurel by the Princess Leonora d’Este, the object of an affection which the youthful poet has scarcely yet acknowledged to himself, is thus portrayed in one of the earlier scenes:--

“Let me then bear the burden of my bliss To some deep grove that oft hath veil’d my grief; There let me roam in solitude: no eye Shall then recall the triumph undeserved. And if some shining fountain suddenly On its clear mirror to my sight should give The form of one who, strangely, brightly crown’d, Seems musing in the blue reflected heaven, As it streams down through rocks and parted trees, Then will I dream that on the enchanted wave I see Elysium pictured! I will ask _Who_ is the bless’d departed one?--the youth From long past ages with his glorious wreath? Who shall reveal his name?--who speak his worth? Oh! that another and another there Might press, with him to hold bright communing! Might I but see the minstrels and the chiefs Of the old time on that pure fountain-side. For evermore inseparably link’d As they were link’d in life! Not steel to steel Is bound more closely by the magnet’s power Than the same striving after lofty things Doth bind the bard and warrior. Homer’s life Was self-forgetfulness--he pour’d it forth, One rich libation to another’s fame: And Alexander through th’ Elysian grove To seek Achilles and his poet flies. Might I behold their meeting!”

But he is a reed shaken with the wind. Antonio reaches the Court of Ferrara at this crisis, in all the importance of a successful negotiation with the Vatican. He strikes down the wing of the poet’s delicate imagination with the arrows of a careless irony, and Tasso is for a time completely dazzled and overpowered by the worldly science of the skilful diplomatist. The deeper wisdom of his own simplicity is yet veiled from his eyes. Life seems to pass before him, as portrayed by the discourse of Antonio, like a mighty triumphal procession, in the exulting movements and clarion-sounds of which he alone has no share; and at last the forms of beauty, peopling his own spiritual world, seem to dissolve into clouds, even into faint shadows of clouds, before the strong glare of the external world, leaving his imagination as a desolate house, whence light and music have departed. He thus pours forth, when alone with the Princess Leonora, the impressions produced upon him by Antonio’s descriptions:--

They still disturb my heart-- Still do they crowd my soul tumultuously-- The troubling images of that vast world, Which--living, restless, fearful as it is-- Yet, at the bidding of one master-mind, E’en as commanded by a demigod, Seems to fulfil its course. With eagerness, Yea, with a strange delight, my soul drank in The strong words of the experienced; but, alas! The more I listen’d, still the more I sank In mine own eyes; I seem’d to die away As into some faint echo of the rocks-- A shadowy sound--a nothing!

There is something of a very touching beauty in the character of the Princess Leonora d’Este. She does not, indeed, resemble some of the lovely beings delineated by Shakspeare--the females, “graceful without design, and unforeseeing,” in whom, even under the pressure of heaviest calamity, it is easy to discern the existence of the sunny and gladsome nature which would spring up with fawn-like buoyancy were but the crushing weight withdrawn. The spirit of Leonora has been at once elevated and subdued by early trial: high thoughts, like messengers from heaven, have been its visitants in the solitude of the sick-chamber; and looking upon life and creation, as it were, through the softening veil of remembered suffering, it has settled into such majestic loveliness as the Italian painters delight to shadow forth on the calm brow of their Madonna. Its very tenderness is self-resignation; its inner existence serene, yet sad--“a being breathing thoughtful breath.” She is worshipped by the poet as his tutelary angel, and her secret affection for him might almost become that character. It has all the deep devotedness of a woman’s heart, with the still purity of a seraphic guardian, taking no part in the passionate dreams of earthly happiness. She feels his genius with a reverential appreciation; she watches over it with a religious tenderness, for ever interposing to screen its unfolding powers from every ruder breath. She rejoices in his presence as a flower filling its cup with gladness from the morning light; yet, preferring _his_ wellbeing to all earthly things, she would meekly offer up, for the knowledge of his distant happiness, even the fulness of that only and unutterable joy. A deep feeling of woman’s lot on earth--the lot of endurance and of sacrifice--seems ever present to her soul, and speaks characteristically in these lines, with which she replies to a wish of Tasso’s for the return of the golden age:--

When earth has men to reverence female _hearts_, To know the treasure of rich truth and love, Set deep within a high-soul’d woman’s breast; When the remembrance of our summer prime Keeps brightly in man’s heart a holy place; When the keen glance that pierces through so much Looks also tenderly through that dim veil By time or sickness hung round drooping forms, When the possession, stilling every wish, Draws not desire away to other wealth-- A brighter dayspring then for _us_ may dawn, Then may _we_ solemnise our golden age.

A character thus meditative, affectionate, and self-secluding, would naturally be peculiarly sensitive to the secret intimations of coming sorrow. Forebodings of evil arise in her mind from the antipathy so apparent between Tasso and Antonio; and, after learning that the cold, keen irony of the latter has irritated the poet almost to frenzy, she thus, to her friend Leonora de Sanvitale, reproaches herself for not having listened to the monitory whispers of her soul:--

Alas! that we so slowly learn to heed The secret signs and omens of the breast! An oracle speaks low within our hearts-- Low, still, yet clear, its prophet-voice forewarns What to pursue, what shun. ... Yes! my whole soul misgave me silently When he and Tasso met.

She admits to her friend the necessity for his departure from Ferrara; but thus reverts, with fondly-clinging remembrance, to the time when he first became known to her:--

Oh! mark’d and singled was the hour when first He met mine eye! Sickness and grief just then Had pass’d away: from long, long suffering freed, I lifted up my brow, and silently Gazed upon life again. The sunny day, The sweet looks of my kindred, made a light Of gladness round me, and my freshen’d heart Drank the rich, healing balm of hope once more. Then onward, through the glowing world, I dared To send my glance, and many a kind, bright shape There beckon’d from afar. Then first the youth, Led by a sister’s hand, before me stood, And my soul clung to him e’en then, O friend! To cling for evermore.

_Leo._ Lament it not, My princess!--to have known heaven’s gifted ones Is to have gather’d into the full soul Inalienable wealth!

_Prin._ Oh, precious things! The richly graced, the exquisite, are things To fear, to love with trembling! Beautiful Is the pure flame when on thy hearth it shines, When in the friendly torch it gives thee light, How gracious and how calm!--but, once unchain’d, Lo! ruin sweeps along its fatal path!

She then announces her determination to make the sacrifice of his society, in which alone her being seems to find its full completion.

Alas, dear friend! my soul indeed is fix’d-- Let him depart! Yet cannot I but feel Even now the sadness of long days to come-- The cold void left me by a lost delight! No more shall sunrise from my opening eye Chase his bright image glorified in dreams; Glad hope to see him shall no longer stir With joyous flutterings my scarce-waken’d soul; And vainly, vainly, through yon garden bowers, Amidst the dewy shadows, my first look Shall seek his form! How blissful was the thought With him to share each golden evening’s peace! How grew the longing, hour by hour, to read His spirit yet more deeply! Day by day How my own being, tuned to happiness, Gave forth a voice of finer harmony!-- Now is the twilight-gloom around me fallen: The festal day, the sun’s magnificence, All riches of this many-colour’d world, What are they now?--dim, soulless, desolate! Veil’d in the cloud that sinks upon my heart. Once was each day a life!--each care was mute, Even the low boding hush’d within the soul; And the smooth waters of a gliding stream, Without the rudder’s aid, bore lightly on Our fairy bark of joy!

Her companion endeavours, but in vain, to console her.

_Leon._ If the kind words of friendship cannot soothe, The still, sweet influences of this fair world Shall win thee back unconsciously to peace.

_Prin._ Yes! beautiful it is, the glowing world! So many a joy keeps flitting to and fro In all its paths, and ever, ever seems One step, _but_ one, removed; till our fond thirst For the still fading fountain, step by step, Lures to the grave! So seldom do we find What seem’d by Nature moulded for our love, And for our bliss endow’d--or, _if_ we find, So seldom to our yearning hearts can hold! That which once freely made itself our own Bursts from us!--that which eagerly we press’d We coldly loose! A treasure may be ours, Only we know it not, or know, perchance, Unconscious of its worth!

But the dark clouds are gathering within the spirit of Tasso itself, and the devotedness of affection would in vain avert their lightnings by the sacrifice of all its own pure enjoyments. In the solitary confinement to which the Duke has sentenced him, as a punishment for his duel with Antonio, his jealous imagination, like that of the self-torturing Rousseau, pictures the whole world as arrayed in one conspiracy against him, and he doubts even of _her_ truth and gentleness whose watching thoughts are all for his welfare. The following passages affectingly mark the progress of the dark despondency which finally overwhelms him, though the concluding lines of the last are brightened by a ray of those immortal hopes, the light of which we could have desired to recognise more frequently in this deeply thoughtful work.

PRESENTIMENT OF HIS RUIN.

Alas! too well I feel, too true a voice Within me whispers, that the Mighty Power Which, on sustaining wings of strength and joy, Bears up the healthful spirit, will but cast Mine to the earth--will rend me utterly!---- I must away!

ON A FRIEND’S DECLARING HERSELF UNABLE TO RECOGNISE HIM.

Rightly thou speak’st--I am myself no more; And yet in worth not less than I have been. Seems this a dark, strange riddle? Yet,’tis none! The gentle moon that gladdens thee by night-- Thine eye, thy spirit irresistibly Winning with beams of love--mark! how it floats Through the day’s glare, a pale and powerless cloud! I am o’ercome by the full blaze of noon; Ye know me, and I know myself no more!

ON BEING ADVISED TO REFRAIN FROM COMPOSITION.

Vainly, too vainly, ’gainst the power I strive, Which, night and day, comes rushing through my soul! Without that pouring forth of thought and song My life is life no more! Wilt thou forbid the silkworm to spin on, When hourly, with the labour’d line, he draws Nearer to death. In vain!--the costly web Must from his inmost being still be wrought, Till he lies wrapp’d in his consummate shroud. Oh! that a gracious God to us may give The lot of that bless’d worm!--to spread free wings, And burst exultingly on brighter life, In a new realm of sunshine!

He is at last released, and admitted into the presence of the Princess Leonora, to take his leave of her before commencing a distant journey. Notwithstanding his previous doubts of her interest in him, he is overcome by the pitying tenderness of her manner, and breaks into a strain of passionate gratitude and enthusiasm:--

Thou art the same pure angel, as when first Thy radiance cross’d my path! Forgive, forgive, If for a moment, in his blind despair, The mortal’s troubled glance hath read thee wrong! Once more he knows thee! His expanding soul Flows forth to worship thee for evermore, And his full heart dissolves in tenderness. ... Is it false light which draws me on to thee? Is it delirium?--Is it thought inspired, And grasping first high truth divinely clear? Yes! ’tis even so--the feeling which alone Can make me bless’d on earth!

The wildness of his ecstasy at last terrifies his gentle protectress from him; he is forsaken by all as a being lost in hopeless delusion, and, being left alone tn the insulting pity of Antonio, his strength of heart is utterly subdued: he passionately bewails his weakness, and even casts down his spirit almost in wondering admiration before the calm self-collectedness of his enemy, who himself seems at last almost melted by the extremity of the poet’s desolation, as thus poured forth:--

Can I then image no high-hearted man Whose pangs and conflicts have surpass’d mine own, That my vex’d soul might win sustaining power From thoughts of _him_? I cannot!--all is lost! One thing alone remains, one mournful boon: Nature on us, her suffering children, showers The gift of tears--the impassion’d cry of grief, When man can bear no more;--and with _my_ woe, With mine above all others, hath been link’d Sad music, piercing eloquence, to pour All, all its fulness forth! To me a God Hath given strong utterance for mine agony, When others, in their deep despair, are mute! ... Thou standest calm and still, thou noble man! I seem before thee as the troubled wave: But oh! be thoughtful!--in thy lofty strength Exult thou not! By nature’s might alike That rock was fix’d, that quivering wave was made The sensitive of storm! She sends her blasts-- The living water flies--it quakes and swells, And bows down tremblingly with breaking foam; Yet once that mirror gave the bright sun back In calm transparence--once the gentle stars Lay still upon its undulating breast! Now the sweet peace is gone--the glory now Departed from the wave! I know myself No more in these dark perils, and no more I blush to lose that knowledge. From the bark Is wrench’d the rudder, and through all its frame The quivering vessel groans. Beneath my feet The rocking earth gives way--to thee I cling-- I grasp thee with mine arms. In wild despair So doth the struggling sailor clasp the rock Whereon he perishes!

And thus painfully ends this celebrated drama, the catastrophe being that of the spiritual wreck within, unmingled with the terrors drawn from outward circumstances and change. The majestic lines in which Byron has embodied the thoughts of the captive Tasso, will form a fine contrast and relief to the music of despair with which Goethe’s work is closed:--

“All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, But must be borne. I stoop not to despair; For I have baffled with mine agony, And made me wings wherewith to overfly The narrow circus of my dungeon-wall; And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall; And revell’d among men and things divine, And pour’d my spirit over Palestine, In honour of the sacred war for Him, The God who was on earth and is in heaven; For He hath strengthen’d me in heart and limb. That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, I have employ’d my penance to record How Salem’s shrine was won, and how adored.”

SCENES FROM “IPHIGENIA.”

A FRAGMENT.

There is a charm of antique grace, of the majestic repose resulting from a faultless symmetry, about the whole of this composition, which inclines us to rank it as among the most consummate works of art ever achieved by the master-mind of its author. The perfection of its design and finish is analogous to that of a Grecian temple, seen as the crown of some old classic height, with all its pure outlines--all the delicate proportions of its airy pillars--brought into bold relief by the golden sunshine, and against the unclouded blue of its native heavens. Complete within itself, the harmonious edifice is thus also to the mind and eye of the beholder; they are filled, and desire no more--they even feel that more would be but encumbrance upon the fine adjustment of the well-ordered parts constituting the graceful whole. It sends no vague dreams to wander through infinity, such as are excited by a Gothic minster, where the slight pinnacles striving upward, like the free but still baffled thought of the architect--the clustering pillars and high arches imitating the bold combinations of mysterious forests--the many-branching cells, and long visionary aisles, of which waving torchlight or uncertain glimpses of the moon seem the fittest illumination--ever suggest ideas of some conception in the originally moulding mind, far more vast than the means allotted to human accomplishment--of struggling endeavour, and painfully submitted will. Akin to the spirit of such creations is that of the awful but irregular Faust, and other works of Goethe, in which the restless questionings, the lofty aspirations, and dark misgivings of the human soul, are perpetually called up to “come like shadows, so depart,” across the stormy splendours of the scene; and the mind is engaged in ceaseless conflict with the interminable mysteries of life. It is otherwise with the work before us: overshadowed, as it were, by the dark wings of the inflexible Destiny which hovers above the children of Tantalus, the spirit of the imaginary personages, as well as of the reader, here moves acquiescently _within_ the prescribed circle of events, and is seldom tempted beyond, to plunge into the abyss of general speculations upon the lot of humanity.

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