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,
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!

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.

“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!

[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.]

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.

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.”

The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey.

Heart! that didst press forward still,
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!

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;”
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,—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!

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.

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!

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.”

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.

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—“The bust is the poetess, but the picture is all mother.”—Memoir, p. 129-130.]

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—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!

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.

“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.

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?

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!

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!

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.

[“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.

Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants.

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,
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.

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.’ 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!

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!

“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!

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.

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!

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!
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!

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.

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!

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, 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.]

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.

“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!

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.

“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!”

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!”

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, 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!
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 alike propitious be!
And when thou diest—(live a thousand years!)—
May friends fill classic bottles with their tears!
I can no more—receive my parting gasp!—
Bid Scotland mourn the last, last lingering Wasp!”

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.]