She sat, where on each wind that sigh’d

The citron’s breath went by,

While the red gold of eventide

Burn’d in the Italian sky.

Her bower was one where daylight’s close

Full oft sweet laughter found,

As thence the voice of childhood rose

To the high vineyards round.

But still and thoughtful at her knee

Her children stood that hour,

Their bursts of song and dancing glee

Hush’d as by words of power.

With bright fix’d wondering eyes, that gazed

Up to their mother’s face,

With brows through parted ringlets raised,

They stood in silent grace.

While she--yet something o’er her look

Of mournfulness was spread--

Forth from a poet’s magic book

The glorious numbers read;

The proud undying lay, which pour’d

Its light on evil years;

_His_ of the gifted pen and sword,[354]

The triumph, and the tears.

She read of fair Erminia’s flight,

Which Venice once might hear

Sung on her glittering seas at night

By many a gondolier:

Of him she read, who broke the charm

That wrapt the myrtle grove;

Of Godfrey’s deeds, of Tancred’s arm,

That slew his Paynim love.

Young cheeks around that bright page glow’d,

Young holy hearts were stirr’d;

And the meek tears of woman flow’d

Fast o’er each burning word.

And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,

Came sweet, each pause between,

When a strange voice of sudden grief

Burst on the gentle scene.

The mother turn’d--a way-worn man,

In pilgrim garb, stood nigh,

Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,

Of proud yet mournful eye.

But drops which would not stay for pride

From that dark eye gush’d free,

As pressing his pale brow, he cried,

“Forgotten! e’en by thee!

“Am I so changed?--and yet we two

Oft hand in hand have play’d;

This brow hath been all bathed in dew

From wreaths which thou hast made;

We have knelt down and said one prayer,

And sung one vesper strain;

My soul is dim with clouds of care--

Tell me those words again!

“Life hath been heavy on my head--

I come a stricken deer,

Bearing the heart, midst crowds that bled,

To bleed in stillness here.”

She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept

Shook all her thrilling frame--

She fell upon his neck and wept,

Murmuring her brother’s name.

Her _brother’s_ name!--and who was he,

The weary one, th’ unknown,

That came, the bitter world to flee,

A stranger to his own?

He was the bard of gifts divine

To sway the souls of men;

He of the song for Salem’s shrine,

He of the sword and pen!

[354] It is scarcely necessary to recall the well-known Italian saying,

that Tasso, with his sword and pen, was superior to all men.

ULLA; OR, THE ADJURATION.

“Yet speak to me! I have outwatch’d the stars,

And gazed o’er heaven in vain, in search of thee.

Speak to me! I have wander’d o’er the earth,

And never found thy likeness. Speak to me!

This once--once more!” Manfred.

“Thou’rt gone!--thou’rt slumbering low,

With the sounding seas above thee:

It is but a restless woe,

But a haunting dream to love thee!

Thrice the glad swan has sung

To greet the spring-time hours,

Since thine oar at parting flung

The white spray up in showers.

There’s a shadow of the grave on thy hearth and round thy home;

Come to me from the ocean’s dead!--thou’rt surely of them--come!”

’Twas Ulla’s voice! Alone she stood

In the Iceland summer night,

Far gazing o’er a glassy flood

From a dark rock’s beetling height.

“I know thou hast thy bed

Where the sea-weed’s coil hath bound thee;

The storm sweeps o’er thy head,

But the depths are hush’d around thee.

What wind shall point the way

To the chambers where thou’rt lying?

Come to me thence, and say

If thou thought’st on me in dying?

I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and cheek.

Come to me from the ocean’s dead!--thou’rt surely of them--speak!”

She listen’d--’twas the wind’s low moan,

’Twas the ripple of the wave,

’Twas the wakening osprey’s cry alone

As it startled from its cave.

“I know each fearful spell

Of the ancient Runic lay,

Whose mutter’d words compel

The tempest to obey.

But I adjure not _thee_

By magic sign or song;

My voice shall stir the sea

By love--the deep, the strong!

By the might of woman’s tears, by the passion of her sighs,

Come to me from the ocean’s dead!--by the vows we pledged, arise!”

Again she gazed with an eager glance,

Wandering and wildly bright;--

She saw but the sparkling waters dance

To the arrowy northern-light.

“By the slow and struggling death

Of hope that loathed to part,

By the fierce and withering breath

Of despair on youth’s high heart--

By the weight of gloom which clings

To the mantle of the night,

By the heavy dawn which brings

Naught lovely to the sight--

By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung of grief and fear,

Come to me from the ocean’s dead! Awake, arise, appear!”

Was it her yearning spirit’s dream?

Or did a pale form rise,

And o’er the hush’d wave glide and gleam,

With bright, still, mournful eyes?

“Have the depths heard? They have!

My voice prevails: thou’rt there,

Dim from thy watery grave--

O thou that wert so fair!

Yet take me to thy rest!

There dwells no fear with love;

Let me slumber on thy breast,

While the billow rolls above!

Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the bright ones have their

home,

We will sleep among the ocean’s dead. Stay for me, stay!--I come!”

There was a sullen plunge below,

A flashing on the main;

And the wave shut o’er that wild heart’s woe--

Shut, and grew still again.

TO WORDSWORTH.

Thine is a strain to read among the hills,

The old and full of voices,--by the source

Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills

The solitude with sound; for in its course

Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part

Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken

To the still breast in sunny garden bowers,

Where vernal winds each tree’s low tones awaken,

And bud and bell with changes mark the hours.

There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day

Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,

When night hath hush’d the woods with all their birds,

There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet

As antique music, link’d with household words;

While in pleased murmurs woman’s lip might move,

And the raised eye of childhood shine in love.

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews

Brood silently o’er some lone burial-ground,

Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse

A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around;

From its own glow of hope and courage high,

And steadfast faith’s victorious constancy.

True bard and holy!--thou art e’en as one

Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,

In every spot beneath the smiling sun,

Sees where the springs of living waters lie:

Unseen awhile they sleep--till, touch’d by thee,

Bright healthful waves flow forth, to each glad wanderer free.

[These verses, addressed “To the Author of the Excursion and the

Lyrical Ballads,” first appeared in the _Literary Magnet_ for April

1826--a clever and tasteful periodical at that time conducted by

Mr Alaric A. Watts--who appended to it the following complimentary

editorial note:--

“We have much pleasure in presenting to our readers this exquisite

address to the poet Wordsworth, with which we have been kindly

favoured by its distinguished author. Those who are acquainted with Mr

W.’s writings, will readily feel and appreciate the truth and beauty

of the tribute.”

The same little poem was afterwards inclosed by Mrs Hemans in one

of her letters to her accomplished and deeply attached friend, Miss

Jewsbury--at whose recommendation the writings of the great poet of

the Lakes had become an earnest study with our author, and with what

advantage, her compositions subsequent to this time sufficiently

testify. In the letter referred to, Mrs Hemans seems proud to avow

these obligations.

“The inclosed lines,” she says--“an effusion of deep and sincere

admiration--will give you some idea of the enjoyment, and I hope

I may say advantage, which you have been the means of imparting,

by so kindly intrusting me with your precious copy of Wordsworth’s

Miscellaneous Poems. It has opened to me such a treasure of thought

and feeling, that I shall always associate your name with some of my

pleasantest recollections, as having introduced me to the knowledge of

what I can only regret should have been so long a ‘Yarrow unvisited.’

I would not write to you sooner, because I wished to tell you that I

had really _studied_ these poems, and they have been the daily food

of my mind ever since I borrowed them. There is hardly any scene of

a happy, though serious, domestic life, or any mood of a reflective

mind, with the spirit of which some one or other of them does not

beautifully harmonise. This author is the true poet of home, and of

all the lofty feelings which have their root in the soil of home

affections. His fine sonnets to Liberty, and indeed all his pieces

which have any reference to political interest, remind me of the

spirit in which Schiller has conceived the character of William

Tell--a calm, single-hearted herdsman of the hills, breaking forth

into fiery and indignant eloquence when the sanctity of his hearth is

invaded. Then what power Wordsworth condenses into single lines, like

Lord Byron’s ‘curdling a long life into one hour!’

‘The still, sad music of humanity’--

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

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

and a thousand others, which we must some time (and I hope not a very

distant one) talk over together. Many of these lines quite haunt me:

and I have a strange feeling, as if I must have known them in my

childhood; they come over me so like old melodies. I can hardly speak

of favourites among so many things that delight me; but I think ‘The

Narrow Glen,’ the ‘Lines on Corra Linn,’ the ‘Song for the Feast of

Brougham Castle,’ ‘Yarrow Visited,’ and ‘The Cuckoo,’ are among those

which take hold of imagination the soonest, and recur most frequently

to memory.

* * * * *

“I know not how I can have so long omitted to mention the

_Ecclesiastical Sketches_, which I have read, and do constantly read,

with deep interest. Their beauty grows upon you, and develops as you

study it, like that of the old pictures by the Italian masters.”]

A MONARCH’S DEATH-BED.

[The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assassinated by his nephew,

afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the wayside,

and only supported in his last moments by a female peasant, who

happened to be passing.]

A monarch on his deathbed lay--

Did censers waft perfume,

And soft lamps pour their silvery ray,

Through his proud chamber’s gloom?

He lay upon a greensward bed,

Beneath a darkening sky--

A lone tree waving o’er his head,

A swift stream rolling by.

Had he then fallen as warriors fall,

Where spear strikes fire with spear?

Was there a banner for his pall,

A buckler for his bier?

Not so--nor cloven shields nor helms

Had strewn the bloody sod,

Where he, the helpless lord of realms,

Yielded his soul to God.

Were there not friends with words of cheer,

And princely vassals nigh?

And priests, the crucifix to rear

Before the glazing eye?

A peasant girl that royal head

Upon her bosom laid,

And, shrinking not for woman’s dread,

The face of death survey’d.

Alone she sat: from hill and wood

Red sank the mournful sun;

Fast gush’d the fount of noble blood--

Treason its worst had done.

With her long hair she vainly press’d

The wounds, to stanch their tide--

Unknown, on that meek humble breast,

Imperial Albert died!

TO THE MEMORY OF HEBER.

“Umile in tanta gloria.”--Petrarch.

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone,

Of sainted genius call’d too soon away,

Of light from this world taken, while it shone

Yet kindling onward to the perfect day--

How shall our grief, if mournful these things be,

Flow forth, O thou of many gifts! for thee?

Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard

And that deep soul of gentleness and power,

Have we not felt its breath in every word

Wont from thy lip as Hermon’s dew to shower?

Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn’d--

Of heaven they were, and thither have return’d.

How shall we mourn thee? With a lofty trust,

Our life’s immortal birthright from above!

With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just,

Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love,

And yet can weep!--for nature thus deplores

The friend that leaves us, though for happier shores.

And one high tone of triumph o’er thy bier,

One strain of solemn rapture, be allow’d!

Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career,

Not to decay, but unto death hast bow’d,

In those bright regions of the rising sun,

Where victory ne’er a crown like thine had won.

Praise! for yet one more name with power endow’d

To cheer and guide us, onward as we press;

Yet one more image on the heart bestow’d

To dwell there, beautiful in holiness!

Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from the dead

Shines as the star which to the Saviour led!

THE ADOPTED CHILD.

“Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child?

Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild,

A straw-roof’d cabin, with lowly wall--

Mine is a fair and a pillar’d hall,

Where many an image of marble gleams,

And the sunshine of picture for ever streams.”

“Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play,

Through the long bright hours of the summer day;

They find the red cup-moss where they climb,

And they chase the bee o’er the scented thyme,

And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know--

Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”

“Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell--

Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;

Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,

Harps which the wandering breezes tune,

And the silvery wood-note of many a bird

Whose voice was ne’er in thy mountains heard.”

“Oh! my mother sings, at the twilight’s fall,

A song of the hills far more sweet than all;

She sings it under our own green tree

To the babe half slumbering on her knee:

I dreamt last night of that music low--

Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”

“Thy mother is gone, from her cares to rest--

She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast;

Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy! no more,

Nor hear the song at the cabin door.

Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh,

And we’ll pluck the grapes of the richest dye.”

“Is my mother gone from her home away?

But I know that my brothers are there at play--

I know they are gathering the foxglove’s bell,

Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well;

Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow--

Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”

“Fair child! thy brothers are wanderers now,

They sport no more on the mountain’s brow;

They have left the fern by the spring’s green side,

And the streams where the fairy barks were tried.

Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,

For thy cabin home is a lonely spot.”

“Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill?--

But the bird and the blue-fly rove o’er it still;

And the red-deer bound in their gladness free,

And the heath is bent by the singing bee,

And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow--

Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”

INVOCATION.

“I call’d on dreams and visions, to disclose

That which is veil’d from waking thought; conjured

Eternity, as men constrain a ghost

To appear and answer.” Wordsworth.

Answer me, burning stars of night!

Where is the spirit gone,

That past the reach of human sight

As a swift breeze hath flown?

And the stars answer’d me--“We roll

In light and power on high;

But, of the never-dying soul,

Ask that which cannot die.”

O many-toned and chainless wind!

Thou art a wanderer free;

Tell me if thou its place canst find,

Far over mount and sea?

And the wind murmur’d in reply--

“The blue deep I have cross’d,

And met its barks and billows high,

But not what thou hast lost.”

Ye clouds that gorgeously repose

Around the setting sun,

Answer! have ye a home for those

Whose earthly race is run?

The bright clouds answer’d--“We depart,

We vanish from the sky;

Ask what is deathless in thy heart,

For that which cannot die.”

Speak then, thou voice of God within,

Thou of the deep low tone!

Answer me, through life’s restless din--

Where is the spirit flown?

And the voice answer’d--“Be thou still!

Enough to know is given:

Clouds, winds, and stars _their_ part fulfil--

_Thine_ is, to trust in Heaven.”

KÖRNER AND HIS SISTER.

[“Charles Theodore Körner, the celebrated young German poet and

soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a detachment of French troops

on the 20th of August 1813, a few hours after the composition of his

popular piece, _The Sword-Song_. He was buried at the village of

Wöbbelin in Mecklenburg, under a beautiful oak, in a recess of which

he had frequently deposited verses composed by him while campaigning

in its vicinity. The monument erected to his memory is of cast-iron;

and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and sword, a favourite

emblem of Körner’s, from which one of his works had been entitled.

Near the grave of the poet is that of his only sister, who died of

grief for his loss, having only survived him long enough to complete

his portrait and a drawing of his burial-place. Over the gate of the

cemetery is engraved one of his own lines:--

‘Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht.’

(Forget not the faithful dead.)”

--See Richardson’s _Translation of Körner’s Life and Works_, and

Downe’s _Letters from Mecklenburg_.]

Green wave the oak for ever o’er thy rest,

Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest,

And, in the stillness of thy country’s breast,

Thy place of memory as an altar keepest;

Brightly thy spirit o’er her hills was pour’d,

Thou of the Lyre and Sword!

Rest, bard! rest, soldier! By the father’s hand

Here shall the child of after years be led,

With his wreath-offering silently to stand

In the hush’d presence of the glorious dead--

Soldier and bard! for thou thy path hast trod

With freedom and with God.

The oak waved proudly o’er thy burial rite,

On thy crown’d bier to slumber warriors bore thee,

And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight

Wept as they veil’d their drooping banners o’er thee;

And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token

That Lyre and Sword were broken.

_Thou_ hast a hero’s tomb: a lowlier bed

Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying--

The gentle girl that bow’d her fair young head

When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying.

Brother, true friend! the tender and the brave!--

She pined to share thy grave.

Fame was thy gift from others;--but for her,

To whom the wide world held that only spot,

_She_ loved thee!--lovely in your lives ye were,

And in your early deaths divided not.

Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy,--what hath she?

Her own bless’d place by thee!

It was thy spirit, brother! which had made

The bright earth glorious to her youthful eye,

Since first in childhood midst the vines ye play’d,

And sent glad singing through the free blue sky.

Ye were but two--and when that spirit pass’d,

Woe to the one, the last!

Woe, yet not long! She linger’d but to trace

Thine image from the image in her breast--

Once, once again to see that buried face

But smile upon her, ere she went to rest.

Too sad a smile! its living light was o’er--

It answer’d hers no more.

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed,

The home too lonely whence thy step had fled;

What then was left for her the faithful-hearted?

Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead!

Softly she perish’d: be the Flower deplored

Here with the Lyre and Sword!

Have ye not met ere now?--so let those trust

That meet for moments but to part for years--

That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust--

That love, where love is but a fount of tears.

Brother! sweet sister! peace around ye dwell:

Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell![355]

[355] The following lines, addressed to the author of the above, by the

venerable father of Körner, who, with the mother, survived the “Lyre,

Sword, and Flower,” here commemorated, may not be uninteresting to the

German reader:--

“Wohllaut tont aus der Ferne von freundlichen Luften getragen,

Schmeichelt mit lindernder Kraft sich in der Trauernden Ohr, Starkt den

erhebenden Glauben an solcher seelen Verwandschaft, Die zum Tempel die

brust nur fur das Wurdige weihn.

Aus dem Lande zu dem sich stets der gefeyerte Jungling Hingezogen

gefuhlt, wird ihm ein glazender Lohn. Heil dem Brittischen Volke, wenn

ihm das Deutsche nicht fremd ist! Uber Lander und Meer reichen sich

beyde die Hand.” Theodor Körner’s Vater.

THE DEATH-DAY OF KÖRNER.[356]

A song for the death-day of the brave--

A song of pride!

The youth went down to a hero’s grave,

With the sword, his bride.[357]

He went, with his noble heart unworn,

And pure, and high--

An eagle stooping from clouds of morn,

Only to die.

He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone

Beneath his hand

Had thrill’d to the name of his God alone

And his fatherland.

And with all his glorious feelings yet

In their first glow,

Like a southern stream that no frost hath met

To chain its flow.

A song for the death-day of the brave--

A song of pride!

For him that went to a hero’s grave,

With the sword, his bride.

He hath left a voice in his trumpet lays

To turn the flight,

And a guiding spirit for after days,

Like a watch-fire’s light.

And a grief in his father’s soul to rest,

Midst all high thought;

And a memory unto his mother’s breast,

With healing fraught.

And a name and fame above the blight

Of earthly breath,

Beautiful--beautiful and bright,

In life and death!

A song for the death-day of the brave--

A song of pride!

For him that went to a hero’s grave,

With the sword, his bride!

[356] On reading part of a letter from Körner’s father, addressed to

Mr Richardson, the translator of his works, in which he speaks of “The

Death-day of his son.”

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

[As the great German writers at this time, and ever afterwards,

exerted a great influence over the mind of Mrs Hemans, it may please

the reader to know, on the authority of her sister, the degrees

of estimation in which she held some of these. We quote from the

_Memoir_, p. 54-8.

“She in general preferred the writings of Schiller to those of

Goethe, and could for ever find fresh beauties in _Wallenstein_,

with which she was equally familiar in its eloquent original, and in

Coleridge’s magnificent translation, or, as it may truly be called,

transfusion. Those most conversant with her literary tastes, will

remember her almost actual relation-like love for the characters of

Max and Thekla, whom, like many other ‘beings of the mind,’ she had

learned to consider as friends; and her constant quotations of certain

passages from this noble tragedy, which peculiarly accorded with her

own views and feelings. In the _Stimmen der Völker in Lieder_ of

Herder, she found a rich store of thoughts and suggestions; and it

was this work which inspired her with the idea of her own ‘Lays of

Many Lands,’ most of which appeared originally in the _New Monthly

Magazine_, then edited by Mr Campbell. She also took great delight

in the dreamy beauties of Novalis and Tieck, and in what has been

gracefully characterised by Mr Chorley, as the ‘moonlight tenderness’

of Oehlenschläger. Of the works of the latter, her especial favourite

was _Coreggio_; and of Tieck, _Sternbald’s Wanderungen_, which she

often made her out-of-doors companion. It was always an especial mark

of her love for a book, and of her considering it true to nature, and

to the best wisdom of the heart,[358] when she promoted it to the list

of those with which she would ‘take sweet counsel’ amidst the woods

and fields.

“But, amongst all these names of power, none awakened a more lively

interest in her mind, than that of the noble-hearted Körner, the young

soldier-bard, who, in the words of Professor Bouterwek, ‘would have

become a distinguished tragic poet, had he not met with the still

more glorious fate of falling on the field of battle, while fighting

for the deliverance of Germany.’ The stirring events of his life, the

heroism of his early death, and the beautiful tie which subsisted

between him and his only sister, whose fate was so touchingly bound

up with his own, formed a romance of real life which could not fail

to excite feelings of the warmest enthusiasm in a bosom so ready as

hers to respond to all things high and holy. The lyric of ‘The Grave

of Körner,’ is, perhaps, one of the most impressive Mrs Hemans ever

wrote. Her whole heart was in a subject which so peculiarly combined

the two strains dearest to her nature, the chivalrous and the tender.

‘They were but two--and when that spirit pass’d,

Woe to the one, the last!’

“That mournful echo--‘They were but two,’ was, by some indefinable

association, connected in her mind with another and far differing

brother and sister, called into existence by the magic pen of Sir

Walter Scott. The affecting ejaculation, ‘There are but two of us!’

so often repeated by the hapless Clara Mowbray in _St Ronan’s Well_,

was frequently quoted by Mrs Hemans as an instance of the deepest

pathos. The lyric in question was, it is believed, one of the first

tributes which appeared in England to the memory of the author of

‘The Lyre and Sword,’ though his name has since become ‘familiar in

our ears as household words.’ A translation of the ‘Life of Körner,’

with selections from his poems, &c., was published in 1827, by G. F.

Richardson, Esq., whose politeness in presenting a copy of the work to

Mrs Hemans, inscribed with a dedicatory sonnet, led to an interchange

of letters with that gentleman, and was further the means of procuring

for her the high gratification of a direct message, full of the most

feeling acknowledgment, from the venerable father of the hero, who

afterwards addressed to her a poetical tribute from _Theodor Körner’s

Father_ [see p. 425.] Her pleasure in receiving this genuine offering

was thus expressed to Mr Richardson, who had been the medium through

which it reached her. ‘_Theodor Körner’s Vater!_’--it is, indeed, a

title beautifully expressing all the holy pride which the memory of

_die treuen Todten_[359] must inspire; and awakening every good and

high feeling to its sound. I shall prize the lines as a relic. Will

you be kind enough to assure M. Körner, with my grateful respects, of

the value which will be attached to them, a value so greatly enhanced

by their being in his own hand. They are very beautiful, I think, in

their somewhat antique and _treuherzig_[360] simplicity, and worthy to

have proceeded from _Theodor Körner’s Vater_.

“The following almost literal translation of these lines is given by

W. B. Chorley, Esq., in his interesting little volume, ‘The Lyre and

Sword,’ published in 1834:--

‘Gently a voice from afar is borne to the ear of the mourner;

Mildly it soundeth, yet strong, grief in his bosom to soothe;

Strong in the soul-cheering faith, that hearts have a share in his

sorrow,

In whose depths all things holy and noble are shrined.

From that land once dearly beloved by our brave one, the fallen,

Mourning blent with bright fame--cometh a wreath for his urn.

Hail to thee, England the free! thou see’st in the German no

stranger.

Over the earth and the seas, join’d be both lands, heart and hand!’

“There was nothing which delighted Mrs Hemans more in German

literature, than the cordial feeling of brotherhood, so conspicuous

amongst its most eminent authors, and their freedom from all the

petty rivalries and manœuvres on which she herself looked down with

as much of wonder as of contempt. In a letter, in which she speaks

of the bitterness, and jealousy, and strife, pervading the tone of

many of our own Reviews, she adds, turning to a brighter picture

with a feeling of relief, like that of one emerging from the heated

atmosphere of a city to breathe the fresh air of the mountains:--‘How

very different seems the spirit of literary men in Germany! I am

just reading a work of Tieck’s, which is dedicated to Schlegel; and

I am delighted with the beautiful simplicity of these words in the

dedication:--_Es war eine schöne Zeit meines Lebens, als ich dich und

deinen Bruder Friedrich zuerst kennen lernte’; eine noch schönere

als wir und Novalis für Kunst und Wissenschaft vereinigt lebten, und

uns in mannigfaltigen Bestrebungen begegneten. Jetzt hat uns das

Schicksal schon seit vielen Jahren getrennt. Ich kann nur in Geist

und in der Erinnerung mit dir leben._[361] ‘Is not that union of

bright minds, _für Kunst und Wissenschaft_, a picture on which it is

delightful to repose?’”]

[358] “One of our poets says, with equal truth and beauty, ‘The heart

is wise.’ We should be not only happier but better if we attended more

to its dictates.”--Ethel Churchill, by L. E. L. vol. i. p. 234.

[359] The faithful dead.

[360] True-hearted.

[361] “That was a bright era in my life when I first learned to know

you and your brother Frederick; a still brighter, when we and Novalis

lived united for art and knowledge, and emulated one another in various

competitions. Fate has since, for many years, divided us. I can now

live with you only in spirit and in memory.”

AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.

“I come

To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree

And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path,

And thymy mound that flings unto the winds

Its morning incense, is my friend.”--Barry Cornwall.

There were thick leaves above me and around,

And low sweet sighs like those of childhood’s sleep,

Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound

As of soft showers on water; dark and deep

Lay the oak shadows o’er the turf, so still

They seem’d but pictured glooms; a hidden rill

Made music, such as haunts us in a dream,

Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam

Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed,

Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down,

And steep’d the magic page wherein I read

Of royal chivalry and old renown,

A tale of Palestine.[362] Meanwhile the bee

Swept past me with a tone of summer hours--

A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers,

Blue skies, and amber sunshine: brightly free,

On filmy wings, the purple dragon-fly

Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by;

And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell

Where sat the lone wood-pigeon.

But ere long,

All sense of these things faded, as the spell

Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong

On my chain’d soul. ’Twas not the leaves I heard:--

A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirr’d,

Through its proud floating folds. ’Twas not the brook

Singing in secret through its grassy glen;--

A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen

Peal’d from the desert’s lonely heart, and shook

The burning air. Like clouds when winds are high,

O’er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby,

And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear

Flash’d where a fountain’s diamond wave lay clear,

Shadow’d by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout

Of merry England’s joy swell’d freely out,

Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose glorious hue

Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue:

And harps were there--I heard their sounding strings,

As the waste echo’d to the mirth of kings.

The bright mask faded. Unto life’s worn track,

What call’d me from its flood of glory back?

A voice of happy childhood!--and they pass’d,

Banner, and harp, and Paynim’s trumpet’s blast.

Yet might I scarce bewail the splendours gone,

My heart so leap’d to that sweet laughter’s tone.[363]

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

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

p. 385.

A VOYAGER’S DREAM OF LAND.

“His very heart athirst

To gaze at nature in her green array,

Upon the ship’s tall side he stands possess’d

With visions prompted by intense desire;

Fair fields appear below, such as he left

Far distant, such as he would die to find:

He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.”

Cowper.

The hollow dash of waves!--the ceaseless roar!--

Silence, ye billows!--vex my soul no more.

There’s a spring in the woods by my sunny home,

Afar from the dark sea’s tossing foam;

Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear,

As a song from the shore to the sailor’s ear!

And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws

Through the feathery fern and the olive boughs,

And the gleam on its path as it steals away

Into deeper shades from the sultry day,

And the large water-lilies that o’er its bed

Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread,

They haunt me! I dream of that bright spring’s flow,

I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe!

Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry!

My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by.

Know ye my home, with the lulling sound

Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round

Know ye it, brethren! where bower’d it lies

Under the purple of southern skies?

With the streamy gold of the sun that shines

In through the cloud of its clustering vines,

And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers,

Borne from the mountain in dewy hours,

And the fire-fly’s glance through the darkening shades,

Like shooting stars in the forest glades,

And the scent of the citron at eve’s dim fall--

Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all?

The heavy-rolling surge! the rocking mast!--

Hush! give my dream’s deep music way, thou blast!

Oh, the glad sounds of the joyous earth!

The notes of the singing cicala’s mirth,

The murmurs that live in the mountain pines,

The sighing of reeds as the day declines,

The wings flitting home through the crimson glow

That steeps the wood when the sun is low,

The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill

To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still--

I hear them!--around me they rise, they swell,

They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell--

They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time,

And waken my youth in its hour of prime.

The white foam dashes high--away, away!

Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray!

It is there!--down the mountains I see the sweep

Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep,

With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear

Floating upborne on the blue summer air,

And the light pouring through them in tender gleams,

And the flashing forth of a thousand streams!

Hold me not, brethren! I go, I go

To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow,

To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest,

Massy and still, on the greensward’s breast,

To the rocks that resound with the water’s play--

I hear the sweet laugh of my fount--give way!

Give way!--the booming surge, the tempest’s roar,

The sea-bird’s wail shall vex my soul no more.

THE EFFIGIES.

“Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann:

Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied.

Allein die Thränen, die unendlichen

Der überbliebnen, der verlass’nen Frau,

Zählt keine Nachwelt.” Goethe.

Warrior! whose image on thy tomb,

With shield and crested head,

Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom

By the stain’d window shed;

The records of thy name and race

Have faded from the stone,

Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace

What thou hast been and done.

A banner, from its flashing spear,

Flung out o’er many a fight;

A war-cry ringing far and clear,

And strong to turn the flight;

An arm that bravely bore the lance

On for the holy shrine;

A haughty heart and a kingly glance--

Chief! were not these things thine?

A lofty place where leaders sate

Around the council board;

In festive halls a chair of state

When the blood-red wine was pour’d;

A name that drew a prouder tone

From herald, harp, and bard:

Surely these things were all thine own--

So hadst thou thy reward.

Woman! whose sculptured form at rest

By the arm’d knight is laid,

With meek hands folded o’er a breast

In matron robes array’d;

What was _thy_ tale?--O gentle mate

Of him, the bold and free,

Bound unto his victorious fate,

What bard hath sung of _thee_?

_He_ woo’d a bright and burning star--

_Thine_ was the void, the gloom,

The straining eye that follow’d far

His fast-receding plume;

The heart-sick listening while his steed

Sent echoes on the breeze;

The pang--but when did _Fame_ take heed

Of griefs obscure as these?

Thy silent and secluded hours

Through many a lonely day

While bending o’er thy broider’d flowers,

With spirits far away;

Thy weeping midnight prayers for him

Who fought on Syrian plains,

Thy watchings till the torch grew dim--

_These_ fill no minstrel strains.

A still, sad life was thine!--long years

With tasks unguerdon’d fraught--

Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,

Vigils of anxious thought;

Prayer at the cross in fervour pour’d,

Alms to the pilgrim given--

Oh! happy, happier than thy lord,

In that lone path to heaven!

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND.

“Look now abroad! Another race has fill’d

Those populous borders--wide the wood recedes,

And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till’d;

The land is full of harvests and green meads.” Bryant.

The breaking waves dash’d high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,

And the woods against a stormy sky

Their giant branches toss’d;

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o’er,

When a band of exiles moor’d their bark

On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came;

Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear;--

They shook the depths of the desert gloom

With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard and the sea;

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang

To the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soar’d

From his nest by the white wave’s foam;

And the rocking pines of the forest roar’d--

This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair

Amidst that pilgrim band;--

Why had _they_ come to wither there,

Away from their childhood’s land?

There was woman’s fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love’s truth;

There was manhood’s brow serenely high,

And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?--

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?--

They sought a faith’s pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trode.

They have left unstain’d what there they found--

Freedom to worship God.

THE SPIRIT’S MYSTERIES.

“And slight, withal, may be the things which bring

Back on the heart the weight which it would fling

Aside for ever;--it may be a sound--

A tone of music--summer’s breath, or spring--

A flower--a leaf--the ocean--which may wound--

Striking th’ electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.”

Childe Harold.

The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken

Vague yearnings, like the sailor’s for the shore,

And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken

From some bright former state, our own no more;

Is not this all a mystery? Who shall say

Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?

The sudden images of vanish’d things,

That o’er the spirit flash, we know not why;

Tones from some broken harp’s deserted strings,

Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by;

A rippling wave--the dashing of an oar--

A flower-scent floating past our parents’ door;

A word--scarce noted in its hour perchance,

Yet back returning with a plaintive tone;

A smile--a sunny or a mournful glance,

Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown;

Are not these mysteries when to life they start,

And press vain tears in gushes from the heart?

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams,

Calling up shrouded faces from the dead,

And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,

Familiar objects brightly to o’erspread;

And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear--

These are night’s mysteries--who shall make them clear?

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill,

That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast,

In a low tone which naught can drown or still,

Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest;

Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall?

Why shakes the spirit thus? ’Tis mystery all!

Darkly we move--we press upon the brink

Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not;

Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think

Are those whom death has parted from our lot!

Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made--

Let us walk humbly on, but undismay’d!

Humbly--for knowledge strives in vain to feel

Her way amidst these marvels of the mind;

Yet undismay’d--for do they not reveal

Th’ immortal being with our dust entwin’d?--

So let us deem! and e’en the tears they wake

Shall then be blest, for that high nature’s sake.

THE DEPARTED.

“Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings,

The powerful of the earth--the wise--the good,

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulchre.” Bryant.

And shrink ye from the way

To the spirit’s distant shore?--

Earth’s mightiest men, in arm’d array,

Are thither gone before.

The warrior-kings, whose banner

Flew far as eagles fly,

They are gone where swords avail them not,

From the feast of victory.

And the seers who sat of yore

By Orient palm or wave,

They have pass’d with all their starry lore--

Can _ye_ still fear the grave?

We fear! we fear! The sunshine

Is joyous to behold,

And we reck not of the buried kings,

Nor the awful seers of old.

Ye shrink! The bards whose lays

Have made your deep hearts burn,

They have left the sun, and the voice of praise,

For the land whence none return.

And the beautiful, whose record

Is the verse that cannot die,

They too are gone, with their glorious bloom,

From the love of human eye.

Would ye not join that throng

Of the earth’s departed flowers,

And the masters of the mighty song,

In their far and fadeless bowers?

Those songs are high and holy,

But they vanquish not our fear:

Not from _our_ path those flowers are gone--

We fain would linger here!

Linger then yet awhile,

As the last leaves on the bough!--

Ye have loved the light of many a smile

That is taken from you now.

There have been sweet singing voices

In your walks, that now are still;

There are seats left void in your earthly homes,

Which none again may fill.

Soft eyes are seen no more,

That made spring-time in your heart;

Kindred and friends are gone before--

And _ye_ still fear to part?

We fear not now, we fear not!

Though the way through darkness bends;

Our souls are strong to follow _them_,

Our own familiar friends!

THE PALM-TREE.[364]

It waved not through an eastern sky,

Beside a fount of Araby;

It was not fann’d by southern breeze

In some green isle of Indian seas;

Nor did its graceful shadow sleep

O’er stream of Afric, lone and deep.

But fair the exiled palm-tree grew

Midst foliage of no kindred hue;

Through the laburnum’s dropping gold

Rose the light shaft of orient mould,

And Europe’s violets, faintly sweet,

Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.

Strange look’d it there! The willow stream’d

Where silvery waters near it gleam’d;

The lime-bough lured the honey-bee

To murmur by the desert’s tree,

And showers of snowy roses made

A lustre in its fan-like shade.

There came an eve of festal hours--

Rich music fill’d that garden’s bowers;

Lamps, that from flowering branches hung,

On sparks of dew soft colour flung;

And bright forms glanced--a fairy show--

Under the blossoms to and fro.

But one, a lone one, midst the throng,

Seem’d reckless all of dance or song:

He was a youth of dusky mien,

Whereon the Indian sun had been,

Of crested brow and long black hair--

A stranger, like the palm-tree, there.

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes,

Glittering athwart the leafy glooms.

He pass’d the pale-green olives by,

Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye;

But when to that sole palm he came,

Then shot a rapture through his frame!

To him, to him its rustling spoke--

The silence of his soul it broke!

It whisper’d of his own bright isle,

That lit the ocean with a smile;

Ay, to his ear that native tone

Had something of the sea-wave’s moan?

His mother’s cabin-home, that lay

Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay;

The dashing of his brethren’s oar--

The conch-note heard along the shore;

All through his wakening bosom swept--

He clasp’d his country’s tree, and wept!

Oh! scorn him not! The strength whereby

The patriot girds himself to die,

Th’ unconquerable power which fills

The freeman battling on his hills,

These have one fountain deep and clear--

The same whence gush’d that childlike tear!

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

_Les Jardins_.

THE CHILD’S LAST SLEEP.

SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREY’S.

Thou sleepest--but when wilt thou wake, fair child?

When the fawn awakes in the forest wild?

When the lark’s wing mounts with the breeze of morn?

When the first rich breath of the rose is born?--

Lovely thou sleepest! yet something lies

Too deep and still on thy soft-seal’d eyes;

Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see--

When will the hour of thy rising be?

Not when the fawn wakes--not when the lark

On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark.

Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet

The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet;

Love, with sad kisses unfelt, hath press’d

Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast;

And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee,

Shall colour all blossoms, fair child! but thee.

Thou’rt gone from us, bright one!--that _thou_ shouldst die,

And life be left to the butterfly![365]

Thou’rt gone as a dewdrop is swept from the bough:

Oh! for the world where thy home is now!

How may we love but in doubt and fear,

How may we anchor our fond hearts here;

How should e’en joy but a trembler be,

Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?

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

monument.

THE SUNBEAM.

Thou art no lingerer in monarch’s hall--

A joy thou art, and a wealth to all!

A bearer of hope unto land and sea--

Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee?

Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles;

Thou hast touch’d with glory his thousand isles;

Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam,

And gladden’d the sailor like words from home.

To the solemn depths of the forest-shades,

Thou art streaming on through their green arcades;

And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow

Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.

I look’d on the mountains--a vapour lay

Folding their heights in its dark array:

Thou brakest forth, and the mist became

A crown and a mantle of living flame.

I look’d on the peasant’s lowly cot--

Something of sadness had wrapt the spot;

But a gleam of _thee_ on its lattice fell,

And it laugh’d into beauty at that bright spell.

To the earth’s wild places a guest thou art,

Flushing the waste like the rose’s heart;

And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed

A tender smile on the ruin’s head.

Thou tak’st through the dim church-aisle thy way,

And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day,

And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old,

Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold.

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave,

Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave;

Thou scatter’st its gloom like the dreams of rest,

Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.

Sunbeam of summer! oh, what is like thee?

Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea!--

_One_ thing is like thee to mortals given,

The faith touching all things with hues of heaven!

BREATHINGS OF SPRING.

Thou givest me flowers, thou givest me songs; bring back

The love that I have lost!

What wakest thou, Spring? Sweet voices in the woods,

And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute:

Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes,

The lark’s clear pipe, the cuckoo’s viewless flute,

Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee,

E’en as our hearts may be.

And the leaves greet thee, Spring!--the joyous leaves,

Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade,

Where each young spray a rosy flush receives,

When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery shade,

And happy murmurs, running through the grass,

Tell that thy footsteps pass.

And the bright waters--they too hear thy call,

Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep!

Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall

Makes melody, and in the forests deep,

Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray

Their windings to the day.

And flowers--the fairy-peopled world of flowers!

Thou from the dust hast set that glory free,

Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours,

And penciling the wood anemone:

Silent they seem--yet each to thoughtful eye

Glows with mute poesy.

But what awakest thou in the _heart_, O Spring!

The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs?

Thou that givest back so many a buried thing,

Restorer of forgotten harmonies!

Fresh songs and scents break forth where’er thou art--

What wakest thou in the heart?

Too much, oh! there too much! We know not well

Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee,

What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul’s deep cell,

Gush for the faces we no more may see!

How are we haunted, in the wind’s low tone,

By voices that are gone!

Looks of familiar love, that never more,

Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet,

Past words of welcome to our household door,

And vanish’d smiles, and sounds of parted feet--

Spring! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees,

Why, why revivest thou these?

Vain longings for the dead!--why come they back

With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms?

Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs?

Yes, gentle Spring! no sorrow dims thine air,

Breathed by our loved ones _there_!

THE ILLUMINATED CITY.

The hills all glow’d with a festive light,

For the royal city rejoiced by night:

There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree,

Banners were lifted and streaming free;

Every tall pillar was wreath’d with fire;

Like a shooting meteor was every spire;

And the outline of many a dome on high

Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky.

I pass’d through the streets. There were throngs on throngs--

Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs;

There was music forth from each palace borne--

A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn;

The forests heard it, the mountains rang,

The hamlets woke to its haughty clang;

Rich and victorious was every tone,

Telling the land of her foes o’erthrown.

Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain?

Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain!

Gallant and true were the hearts that fell--

Grief in the homes they have left must dwell:

Grief o’er the aspect of childhood spread,

And bowing the beauty of woman’s head!

Didst thou hear, midst the songs, not one tender moan

For the many brave to their slumbers gone?

I saw not the face of a weeper there--

Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamps’ glare!

I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd--

The music of victory was all too loud!

Mighty it roll’d on the winds afar,

Shaking the streets like a conqueror’s car--

Through torches and streamers its flood swept by:

How could I listen for moan or sigh?

Turn then away from life’s pageants--turn,

If its deep story thy heart would learn!

Ever too bright is that outward show,

Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe.

But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view

The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true;

Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal:--

So must thy spirit be taught to feel!

THE SPELLS OF HOME.

“There blend the ties that strengthen

Our hearts in hours of grief,

The silver links that lengthen

Joy’s visits when most brief.”

Bernard Barton.

By the soft green light in the woody glade,

On the banks of moss where thy childhood play’d,

By the household tree through which thine eye

First look’d in love to the summer sky,

By the dewy gleam, by the very breath

Of the primrose-tufts in the grass beneath,

Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,

Holy and precious--oh, guard it well!

By the sleepy ripple of the stream,

Which hath lull’d thee into many a dream,

By the shiver of the ivy leaves

To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves,

By the bee’s deep murmur in the limes,

By the music of the Sabbath chimes,

By every sound of thy native shade,

Stronger and dearer the spell is made.

By the gathering round the winter hearth,

When twilight call’d unto household mirth,

By the fairy tale or the legend old

In that ring of happy faces told,

By the quiet hour when hearts unite

In the parting prayer and the kind “Good-night!”

By the smiling eye, and the loving tone,

Over thy life has the spell been thrown.

And bless that gift!--it hath gentle might,

A guardian power and a guiding light.

It hath led the freeman forth to stand

In the mountain-battles of his land;

It hath brought the wanderer o’er the seas

To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze;

And back to the gates of his father’s hall

It hath led the weeping prodigal.

Yes! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray

From the pure first-loves of its youth away--

When the sullying breath of the world would come

O’er the flowers it brought from its childhood’shome--

Think thou again of the woody glade,

And the sound by the rustling ivy made--

Think of the tree at thy father’s door,

And the kindly spell shall have power once more!

ROMAN GIRL’S SONG.

“Roma, Roma, Roma!

Non e piu come era prima.”

Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

On thy seven hills of yore

Thou sat’st a queen.

Thou hadst thy triumphs then

Purpling the street,

Leaders and sceptred men

Bow’d at thy feet.

They that thy mantle wore,

As gods were seen--

Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

Rome! thine imperial brow

Never shall rise:

What hast thou left thee now?--

Thou hast thy skies!

Blue, deeply blue, they are,

Gloriously bright!

Veiling thy wastes afar

With colour’d light.

Thou hast the sunset’s glow,

Rome! for thy dower,

Flushing tall cypress-bough,

Temple and tower!

And all sweet sounds are thine,

Lovely to hear,

While night, o’er tomb and shrine,

Rests darkly clear.

Many a solemn hymn,

By starlight sung,

Sweeps through the arches dim,

Thy wrecks among.

Many a flute’s low swell,

On thy soft air

Lingers and loves to dwell

With summer there.

Thou hast the south’s rich gift

Of sudden song--

A charm’d fountain, swift,

Joyous and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move

With queenly tread;

Thou hast proud fanes above

Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber’s shore

A mournful mien:--

Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

THE DISTANT SHIP.

The sea-bird’s wing o’er ocean’s breast

Shoots like a glancing star,

While the red radiance of the west

Spreads kindling fast and far;

And yet that splendour wins thee not--

Thy still and thoughtful eye

Dwells but on one dark distant spot

Of all the main and sky.

Look round thee! O’er the slumbering deep

A solemn glory broods;

A fire hath touch’d the beacon-steep,

And all the golden woods;

A thousand gorgeous clouds on high

Burn with the amber light!--

What spell from that rich pageantry

Chains down thy gazing sight?

A softening thought of human cares,

A feeling link’d to earth!

Is not yon speck a bark which bears

The loved of many a hearth?

Oh! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear,

Crowd her frail world even now,

And manhood’s prayer and woman’s tear

Follow her venturous prow?

Bright are the floating clouds above,

The glittering seas below;

But we are bound by cords of love

To kindred weal and woe.

Therefore, amidst this wide array

Of glorious things and fair,

My soul is on that bark’s lone way--

For human hearts are there.

THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing!

Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring?

“We come from the shores of the green old Nile,

From the land where the roses of Sharon smile,

From the palms that wave through the Indian sky,

From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.

“We have swept o’er cities in song renown’d--

Silent they lie with the deserts round!

We have cross’d proud rivers, whose tide hath roll’d

All dark with the warrior-blood of old;

And each worn wing hath regain’d its home,

Under peasant’s roof-trees or monarch’s dome.”

And what have ye found in the monarch’s dome,

Since last ye traversed the blue sea’s foam?--

“We have found a change, we have found a pall,

And a gloom o’ershadowing the banquet’s hall,

And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt--

Naught looks the same, save the nest we built!”

O joyous birds! it hath still been so;

Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go!

But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep,

And the hills o’er their quiet a vigil keep:

Say what have ye found in the peasant’s cot,

Since last ye parted from that sweet spot?--

“A change we have found there--and many a change!

Faces and footsteps, and all things strange!

Gone are the heads of the silvery hair,

And the young that were have a brow of care,

And the place is hush’d where the children play’d--

Naught looks the same, save the nest we made!”

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,

Birds that o’ersweep it in power and mirth!

Yet through the wastes of the trackless air

_Ye_ have a guide, and shall we despair?

Ye over desert and deep have pass’d--

So may _we_ reach our bright home at last!

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

They grew in beauty side by side,

They fill’d one home with glee;--

Their graves are sever’d far and wide,

By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night

O’er each fair sleeping brow:

She had each folded flower in sight--

Where are those dreamers now?

One, midst the forest of the West,

By a dark stream is laid--

The Indian knows his place of rest,

Far in the cedar-shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one--

He lies where pearls lie deep;

_He_ was the loved of all, yet none

O’er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest

Above the noble slain:

He wrapt his colours round his breast

On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one--o’er _her_ the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fann’d;

She faded ’midst Italian flowers--

The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who play’d

Beneath the same green tree;

Whose voices mingled as they pray’d

Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheer’d with song the hearth!--

Alas, for love! if _thou_ wert all,

And naught beyond, O Earth!

MOZART’S REQUIEM.

[A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger of remarkable

appearance, and dressed in deep mourning, called at his house, and

requested him to prepare a requiem, in his best style, for the funeral

of a distinguished person. The sensitive imagination of the composer

immediately seized upon the circumstance as an omen of his own fate;

and the nervous anxiety with which he laboured to fulfil the task,

had the effect of realising his impression. He died within a few days

after completing this magnificent piece of music, which was performed

at his interment.]

“These birds of Paradise but long to flee

Back to their native mansion.”

“Prophecy of Dante.”

A requiem!--and for whom?

For beauty in its bloom?

For valour fallen--a broken rose or sword?

A dirge for king or chief,

With pomp of stately grief,

Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored?

Not so--it is not so!

The warning voice I know,

From other worlds a strange mysterious tone;

A solemn funeral air

It call’d me to prepare,

And my heart answer’d secretly--my own!

One more then, one more strain,

In links of joy and pain,

Mighty the troubled spirit to enthrall!

And let me breathe my dower

Of passion and of power

Full into that deep lay--the last of all!

The last!--and I must go

From this bright world below,

This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound!

Must leave its festal skies,

With all their melodies,

That ever in my breast glad echoes found!

Yet have I known it long:

Too restless and too strong

Within this clay hath been th’ o’ermastering flame;

Swift thoughts, that came and went,

Like torrents o’er me sent,

Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame.

Like perfumes on the wind,

Which none may stay or bind,

The beautiful comes floating through my soul;

I strive with yearnings vain

The spirit to detain

Of the deep harmonies that past me roll!

Therefore disturbing dreams

Trouble the secret streams

And founts of music that o’erflow my breast;

Something far more divine

Than may on earth be mine,

Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest.

Shall I then _fear_ the tone

That breathes from worlds unknown?--

Surely these feverish aspirations _there_

Shall grasp their full desire,

And this unsettled fire

Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air.

One more then, one more strain;

To earthly joy and pain

A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell!

I pour each fervent thought,

With fear, hope, trembling, fraught,

Into the notes that o’er my dust shall swell.

[One of the peculiar features of the increased sensitiveness of her

temperament at this time, was an awakened enthusiasm for music,

which amounted to an absolute passion. “I do not think,” she wrote,

“that I can bear the burden of my life without music for more than

two or three days.” Yet, with sensibilities so exquisite as hers,

this melomania was a source of far more pain than pleasure; it was

so impossible for any earthly strains to approach that ideal and

unattainable standard of perfection which existed within her mind,

and which she has shadowed forth with a mournful energy in “Mozart’s

Requiem.”

From time to time, however, she had enjoyment of music of a very high

character, for much of which she was indebted to her acquaintance with

Mr Lodge, the distinguished amateur, by whom so many of her songs have

been set to melodies of infinite beauty and feeling. At a somewhat

later period she derived much delight from the talents of Mr James

Zengheer Herrmann, from whom, for a time, she took lessons, for the

express purpose of studying, and fully understanding, the _Stabat

Mater_ of Pergolesi, which had taken an extraordinary hold of her

imagination. This fine composition was first brought to her notice by

Mr Lodge, to whom she thus expressed her appreciation of it:--“It is

quite impossible for me to tell you the impression I have received

from that most spiritual music of Pergolesi’s, which really haunted me

the whole night. How much I have to thank you for introducing me, in

such a manner, to so new and glorious a world of musical thought and

feeling!”--_Memoir_, p. 167-8.]

THE IMAGE IN LAVA.[366]

Thou thing of years departed!

What ages have gone by

Since here the mournful seal was set

By love and agony?

Temple and tower have moulder’d,

Empires from earth have pass’d,

And woman’s heart hath left a trace

Those glories to outlast!

And childhood’s fragile image,

Thus fearfully enshrined,

Survives the proud memorials rear’d

By conquerors of mankind.

Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering

Upon thy mother’s breast

When suddenly the fiery tomb

Shut round each gentle guest?

A strange, dark fate o’ertook you,

Fair babe and loving heart!

One moment of a thousand pangs--

Yet better than to part!

Haply of that fond bosom

On ashes here impress’d,

Thou wert the only treasure, child!

Whereon a hope might rest.

Perchance all vainly lavish’d

Its other love had been,

And where it trusted, naught remain’d

But thorns on which to lean.

Far better, then, to perish,

Thy form within its clasp,

Than live and lose thee, precious one!

From that impassion’d grasp.

Oh! I could pass all relics

Left by the pomps of old,

To gaze on this rude monument

Cast in affection’s mould.

Love! human love! what art thou?

Thy print upon the dust

Outlives the cities of renown

Wherein the mighty trust!

Immortal, oh! immortal

Thou art, whose earthly glow

Hath given these ashes holiness--

It must, it _must_ be so!

[366] The impression of a woman’s form, with an infant clasped to the

bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum.

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

O lovely voices of the sky,

That hymn’d the Saviour’s birth!

Are ye not singing still on high,

Ye that sang “Peace on earth?”

To us yet speak the strains

Wherewith, in days gone by,

Ye bless’d the Syrian swains,

O voices of the sky!

O clear and shining light! whose beams

That hour heaven’s glory shed

Around the palms, and o’er the streams,

And on the shepherd’s head;

Be near, through life and death,

As in that holiest night

Of Hope, and Joy, and Faith,

O clear and shining light!

O star! which led to Him whose love

Brought down man’s ransom free;

Where art thou?--Midst the hosts above

May we still gaze on thee?

In heaven thou art not set,

Thy rays earth might not dim--

Send them to guide us yet,

O star which led to Him!

A FATHER READING THE BIBLE.

’Twas early day, and sunlight stream’d

Soft through a quiet room,

That hush’d, but not forsaken seem’d,

Still, but with naught of gloom.

For there, serene in happy age

Whose hope is from above,

A father communed with the page

Of heaven’s recorded love.

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright,

On his gray holy hair,

And touch’d the page with tenderest light,

As if its shrine were there!

But oh! that patriarch’s aspect shone

With something lovelier far--

A radiance all the spirit’s own,

Caught not from sun or star.

Some word of life e’en then had met

His calm, benignant eye;

Some ancient promise, breathing yet

Of immortality!

Some martyr’s prayer, wherein the glow

Of quenchless faith survives:

While every feature said--“_I know_

_That my Redeemer lives!_”

And silent stood his children by,

Hushing their very breath,

Before the solemn sanctity

Of thoughts o’ersweeping death.

Silent--yet did not each young breast

With love and reverence melt?

Oh! blest be those fair girls, and blest

That home where God is felt!

[This little poem, which, as its Author herself expressed in a letter

to Mrs Joanna Baillie, was to her “a thing set apart,” as being the

last of her productions ever read to her beloved mother, was written

at the request of a young lady, who thus made known her wish “that Mrs

Hemans would embody in poetry a picture that so warmed a daughter’s

heart:”--

“Upon going into our dear father’s sitting-room this morning, my

sister and I found him deeply engaged reading his Bible, and, being

unwilling to interrupt such a holy occupation, we retired to the

further end of the apartment, to gaze unobserved upon the serene

picture. The bright morning sun was beaming on his venerable silver

hair, while his defective sight increased the earnestness with which

he perused the blessed book. Our fancy led us to believe that some

immortal thought was engaging his mind, for he raised his fine open

brow to the light, and we felt we had never loved him more deeply.

After an involuntary prayer had passed from our hearts, we whispered

to each other, ‘Oh! if Mrs Hemans could only see our father at this

moment, her glowing pen would detain the scene; for even as we gaze

upon it, the bright gleam is vanishing.’

“_December 9, 1826._”

THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS.[367]

----“His early days

Were with him in his heart.” Wordsworth.

The voices of two forest boys,

In years when hearts entwine,

Had fill’d with childhood’s merry noise

A valley of the Rhine:

To rock and stream that sound was known,

Gladsome as hunter’s bugle-tone.

The sunny laughter of their eyes,

There had each vineyard seen;

Up every cliff whence eagles rise,

Their bounding step had been:

Ay! their bright youth a glory threw

O’er the wild place wherein they grew.

But this, as day-spring’s flush, was brief

As early bloom or dew;

Alas! ’tis but the wither’d leaf

That wears th’ enduring hue!

Those rocks along the Rhine’s fair shore

Might girdle in their world no more.

For now on manhood’s verge they stood,

And heard life’s thrilling call,

As if a silver clarion woo’d

To some high festival;

And parted as young brothers part,

With love in each unsullied heart.

They parted. Soon the paths divide

Wherein our steps were one,

Like river branches, far and wide,

Dissevering as they run;

And making strangers in their course,

Of waves that had the same bright source.

Met they no more? Once more they met,

Those kindred hearts and true!

’Twas on a field of death, where yet

The battle-thunders flew,

Though the fierce day was wellnigh past,

And the red sunset smiled its last.

But as the combat closed, they found

For tender thoughts a space,

And e’en upon that bloody ground

Room for one bright embrace,

And pour’d forth on each other’s neck

Such tears as warriors need not check.

The mists o’er boyhood’s memory spread

All melted with those tears,

The faces of the holy dead

Rose as in vanish’d years;

The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever-blest,

Lifted its voice in each full breast!

Oh! was it _then_ a time to die?

It was!--that not in vain

The soul of childhood’s purity

And peace might turn again.

A ball swept forth--’twas guided well--

Heart unto heart those brothers fell!

Happy, yes, happy thus to go!

Bearing from earth away

Affections, gifted ne’er to know

A shadow--a decay--

A passing touch of change or chill,

A breath of aught whose breath can kill.

And they, between whose sever’d souls,

Once in close union tied,

A gulf is set, a current rolls

For ever to divide;

Well may _they_ envy such a lot,

Whose hearts yearn on--but mingle not.

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

en Italie_.

THE LAST WISH.

Go to the forest-shade,

Seek thou the well-known glade,

Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie,

Gleaming through moss-tufts deep,

Like dark eyes fill’d with sleep,

And bathed in hues of summer’s midnight sky.

Bring me their buds, to shed

Around my dying bed

A breath of May and of the wood’s repose;

For I, in sooth, depart

With a reluctant heart,

That fain would linger where the bright sun glows.

Fain would I stay with thee!--

Alas! this may not be;

Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours!

Go where the fountain’s breast

Catches, in glassy rest,

The dim green light that pours through laurel bowers.

I know how softly bright,

Steep’d in that tender light,

The water-lilies tremble there e’en now;

Go to the pure stream’s edge,

And from its whispering sedge

Bring me those flowers to cool my fever’d brow!

Then, as in Hope’s young days,

Track thou the antique maze

Of the rich garden to its grassy mound;

There is a lone white rose,

Shedding, in sudden snows,

Its faint leaves o’er the emerald turf around.

Well know’st thou that fair tree--

A murmur of the bee

Dwells ever in the honey’d lime above:

Bring me one pearly flower

Of all its clustering shower--

For on that spot we first reveal’d our love.

Gather one woodbine bough,

Then, from the lattice low

Of the bower’d cottage which I bade thee mark,

When by the hamlet last

Through dim wood-lanes we pass’d,

While dews were glancing to the glowworm’s spark.

Haste! to my pillow bear

Those fragrant things and fair;

My hand no more may bind them up at eve--

Yet shall their odour soft

One bright dream round me waft

Of life, youth, summer--all that I must leave!

And oh! if thou wouldst ask

Wherefore thy steps I task,

The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace--

’Tis that some thought of me,

When I am gone, may be

The spirit bound to each familiar place.

I bid mine image dwell

(Oh! break not thou the spell!)

In the deep wood and by the fountain-side;

Thou must not, my beloved!

Rove where we two have roved,

Forgetting her that in her spring-time died!

FAIRY FAVOURS.

[This little poem was written in the winter of 1827. In writing to a

friend shortly afterwards, Mrs Hemans herself thus alludes to it: “I

am so glad you liked ‘Fairy Favours.’ It is, indeed, filled with my

own true and ever-yearning feeling--that longing for more affection,

more confidence, more entire interchange of thought, than I am ever

likely to meet with. However, I will not repine whilst I have friends

who love me as you do.”]

----Give me but

Something whereunto I may bind my heart;

Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp

Affection’s tendrils round.

Wouldst thou wear the gift of immortal bloom?

Wouldst thou smile in scorn at the shadowy tomb?

Drink of this cup! it is richly fraught

With balm from the gardens of Genii brought;

Drink! and the spoiler shall pass thee by,

When the young all scatter’d like rose-leaves lie.

And would not the youth of my soul be gone,

If the loved had left me, one by one?

Take back the cup that may never bless,

The gift that would make me brotherless.

How should I live, with no kindred eye

To reflect mine immortality!

Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell,

Over the mighty in air that dwell?

Wouldst thou call the spirits of shore and steep

To fetch thee jewels from ocean’s deep?

Wave but this rod, and a viewless band,

Slaves to thy will, shall around thee stand.

And would not fear, at my coming, then

Hush every voice in the homes of men?

Would not bright eyes in my presence quail?

Young cheeks with a nameless thrill turn pale?

No gift be mine that aside would turn

The human love for whose founts I yearn!

Wouldst thou then read through the hearts of those

Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose?

Wear this rich gem! it is charm’d to show

When a change comes over affection’s glow:

Look on its flushing or fading hue,

And learn if the trusted be false or true!

Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust,

Though my heart’s wealth be but pour’d on dust!

Let not a doubt in my soul have place,

To dim the light of a loved one’s face;

Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile--

That glory would pass could I look on guile!

Say, then, what boon of my power shall be,

Favour’d of spirits! pour’d forth on thee?

Thou scornest the treasures of wave and mine,

Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine,

Thou art fain with a mortal’s lot to rest--

Answer me! how may I grace it best?

Oh! give me no sway o’er the powers unseen,

But a human heart where my own may lean!

A friend, one tender and faithful friend,

Whose thoughts’ free current with mine may blend;

And, leaving not either on earth alone,

Bid the bright, calm close of our lives be one!

ANNOTATION ON “RECORDS OF WOMAN,” &C.

[We feel certain that every admirer of the genius of Mrs Hemans will

be obliged to us for here reprinting, almost at length, the admirable

critique on her writings which appeared in the XCIXth Number of the

_Edinburgh Review_. The acumen, the taste, and elegance of Lord

Jeffrey, are evident throughout.

“Women, we fear, cannot do every thing, nor even every thing

they attempt. But what they can do, they do, for the most part,

excellently--and much more frequently with an absolute and perfect

success, than the aspirants of our rougher and more ambitious sex.

They cannot, we think, represent naturally the fierce and sullen

passions of men--nor their coarser vices--nor even scenes of actual

business or contention--and the mixed motives, and strong and faulty

characters, by which affairs of moment are usually conducted on the

great theatre of the world. For much of this they are disqualified

by the delicacy of their training and habits, and the still more

disabling delicacy which pervades their conceptions and feelings;

and from much they are excluded by their actual inexperience of the

realities they might wish to describe--by their substantial and

incurable ignorance of business--of the way in which serious affairs

are actually managed--and the true nature of the agents and impulses

that give movement and direction to the stronger currents of ordinary

life. Perhaps they are also incapable of long moral or political

investigations, where many complex and indeterminate elements are

to be taken into account, and a variety of opposite probabilities

to be weighed before coming to a conclusion. They are generally too

impatient to get at the ultimate results, to go well through with

such discussions; and either stop short at some imperfect view of

the truth, or turn aside to repose in the shadow of some plausible

error. This, however, we are persuaded, arises entirely from their

being seldom set on such tedious tasks. Their proper and natural

business is the practical regulations of private life, in all its

bearings, affections, and concerns; and the questions with which

they have to deal in that most important department, though often of

the utmost difficulty and nicety, involve, for the most part, but

few elements; and may generally be better described as delicate than

intricate--requiring for their solution rather a quick tact and fine

perception, than a patient or laborious examination. For the same

reason, they rarely succeed in long works, even on subjects the best

suited to their genius; their natural training rendering them equally

averse to long doubt and long labour.

“For all other intellectual efforts, however, either of the

understanding or the fancy, and requiring a thorough knowledge either

of man’s strength or his weakness, we apprehend them to be, in all

respects, as well qualified as their brethren of the stronger sex;

while, in their perceptions of grace, propriety, ridicule--their power

of detecting artifice, hypocrisy, and affectation--the force and

prompitude of their sympathy, and their capacity of noble and devoted

attachment, and of the efforts and sacrifices it may require--they

are, beyond all doubt, our superiors.

“Their business being, as we have said, with actual or social life,

and the colours it receives from the conduct and dispositions of

individuals, they unconsciously acquire, at a very early age, the

finest perception of character and manners, and are almost as soon

instinctively schooled in the deep and dangerous learning of feeling

and emotion; while the very minuteness with which they make and

meditate on these interesting observations, and the finer shades and

variations of sentiment which are thus treasured and recorded, trains

their whole faculties to a nicety and precision of operation, which

often discloses itself to advantage in their application to studies

of a very different character. When women, accordingly, have turned

their minds--as they have done but too seldom--to the exposition or

arrangement of any branch of knowledge, they have commonly exhibited,

we think, a more beautiful accuracy, and a more uniform and complete

justness of thinking, than their less discriminating brethren. There

is a finish and completeness about every thing they put out of their

hands, which indicates not only an inherent taste for elegance and

neatness, but a habit of nice observation, and singular exactness of

judgment.

“It has been so little the fashion, at any time, to encourage women

to write for publication, that it is more difficult than it should be

to prove these truths by examples. Yet there are enough, within the

reach of a very careless and superficial glance over the open field

of literature, to enable us to explain, at least, and illustrate, if

not entirely to verify, our assertions. No _man_, we will venture

to say, could have written the letters of Madame de Sevigné, or the

novels of Miss Austin, or the hymns and early lessons of Mrs Barbauld,

or the conversations of Mrs Marcet. These performances, too, are

not only essentially and intensely feminine, but they are, in our

judgment, decidedly more perfect than any masculine productions with

which they can be brought into comparison. They accomplish more

completely all the ends at which they aim, and are worked out with

a gracefulness and felicity of execution which excludes all idea of

failure, and entirely satisfies the expectations they may have raised.

We might easily have added to these instances. There are many parts

of Miss Edgeworth’s earlier stories, and of Miss Mitford’s sketches

and descriptions, and not a little of Mrs Opie’s, that exhibit the

same fine and penetrating spirit of observation, the same softness

and delicacy of hand, and unerring truth of delineation, to which we

have alluded as characterising the pure specimens of female art. The

same distinguishing traits of a woman’s spirit are visible through

the grief and the piety of Lady Russell, and the gaiety, the spite,

and the venturesomeness of Lady Mary Wortley. We have not as yet much

female poetry; but there is a truly feminine tenderness, purity, and

elegance, in the Psyche of Mrs Tighe, and in some of the smaller

pieces of Lady Craven. On some of the works of Madame de Staël--her

Corinne especially--there is a still deeper stamp of the genius of her

sex. Her pictures of its boundless devotedness--its depth and capacity

of suffering--its high aspirations--its painful irritability, and

inextinguishable thirst for emotion, are powerful specimens of that

morbid anatomy of the heart, which no hand but that of a woman’s was

fine enough to have laid open, or skilful enough to have recommended

to our sympathy and love. There is the same exquisite and inimitable

delicacy, if not the same power, in many of the happier passages of

Madame de Souza and Madame Cottin--to say nothing of the more lively

and yet melancholy records of Madame de Staël, during her long penance

in the Court of the Duchesse de Maine.

“But we are preluding too largely; and must come at once to the point,

to which the very heading of this article has already admonished the

most careless of our readers that we are tending. We think the poetry

of Mrs Hemans a fine exemplification of female poetry; and we think it

has much of the perfection which we have ventured to ascribe to the

happier productions of female genius.

“It may not be the best imaginable poetry, and may not indicate the

very highest or most commanding genius, but it embraces a great deal

of that which gives the very best poetry its chief power of pleasing;

and would strike us, perhaps, as more impassioned and exalted, if

it were not regulated and harmonised by the most beautiful taste.

It is infinitely sweet, elegant, and tender--touching, perhaps, and

contemplative, rather than vehement and overpowering; and not only

finished throughout with an exquisite delicacy, and even serenity of

execution, but informed with a purity and loftiness of feeling, and

a certain sober and humble tone of indulgence and piety, which must

satisfy all judgments, and allay the apprehensions of those who are

most afraid of the passionate exaggerations of poetry. The diction

is always beautiful, harmonious, and free; and the themes, though

of infinite variety, uniformly treated with a grace, originality,

and judgment, which mark the same master-hand. These themes she has

borrowed, with the peculiar interest and imagery that belong to them,

from the legends of different nations, and the most opposite states

of society; and has contrived to retain much of what is interesting

and peculiar in each of them, without adopting, along with it, any of

the revolting or extravagant excesses which may characterise the taste

or manners of the people or the age from which it has been derived.

She has thus transfused into her German or Scandinavian legends, the

imaginative and daring tone of the originals, without the mystical

exaggerations of the one, or the painful fierceness and coarseness

of the other--she has preserved the clearness and elegance of the

French, without their coldness or affectation--and the tenderness

and simplicity of the early Italians, without their diffuseness or

languor. Though occasionally expatiating, somewhat fondly and at

large, amongst the sweets of her own planting, there is, on the whole,

a great condensation and brevity in most of her pieces, and, almost

without exception, a most judicious and vigorous conclusion. The great

merit, however, of her poetry, is undoubtedly in its tenderness and

its beautiful imagery. The first requires no explanation; but we must

be allowed to add a word as to the peculiar charm and character of the

latter.

“It has always been our opinion, that the very essence of poetry,

apart from the pathos, the wit, or the brilliant description which may

be embodied in it, but may exist equally in prose, consists in the

fine perception and vivid expression of that subtle and mysterious

analogy which exists between the physical and the moral world--which

makes outward things and qualities the natural types and emblems of

inward gifts and emotions, and leads us to ascribe life and sentiment

to every thing that interests us in the aspects of external nature.

The feeling of this analogy, obscure and inexplicable as the theory of

it may be, is so deep and universal in our nature, that it has stamped

itself on the ordinary language of men of every kindred and speech:

and that to such an extent, that one-half of the epithets by which we

familiarly designate moral and physical qualities, are in reality so

many metaphors, borrowed reciprocally, upon this analogy, from those

opposite forms of existence. The very familiarity, however, of the

expression, in these instances, takes away its poetical effect--and

indeed, in substance, its metaphorical character. The original sense

of the word is entirely forgotten in the derivative one to which it

has succeeded; and it requires some etymological recollection to

convince us that it was originally nothing else than a typical or

analogical illustration. Thus we talk of a penetrating understanding,

and a furious blast--a weighty argument, and a gentle stream--without

being at all aware that we are speaking in the language of poetry,

and transferring qualities from one extremity of the sphere of being

to another. In these cases, accordingly, the metaphor, by ceasing

to be felt, in reality ceases to exist; and the analogy, being no

longer intimated, of course can produce no effect. But whenever it is

intimated, it does produce an effect; and that effect, we think, is

poetry.

“It has substantially two functions, and operates in two directions.

In the _first_ place, it strikes vividly out, and flashes at once on

our minds, the conception of an inward feeling or emotion, which it

might otherwise have been difficult to convey, by the presentment

of some bodily form or quality, which is instantly felt to be its

true representative; and enables us to fix and comprehend it with a

force and clearness not otherwise attainable: and, in the _second_

place, it vivifies dead and inanimate matter with the attributes

of living and sentient mind; and fills the whole visible universe

around us with objects of interest and sympathy, by tinging them

with the hues of life, and associating them with our own passions

and affections. This magical operation the poet, too, performs, for

the most part, in one of two ways--either by the direct agency of

similes and metaphors, more or less condensed or developed, or by the

mere graceful presentment of such visible objects on the scene of

his passionate dialogues or adventures, as partake of the character

of the emotion he wishes to excite, and thus form an appropriate

accompaniment or preparation for its direct indulgence or display. The

former of those methods has perhaps been most frequently employed, and

certainly has most attracted attention. But the latter, though less

obtrusive, and perhaps less frequently resorted to of set purpose,

is, we are inclined to think, the most natural and efficacious

of the two, and is often adopted, we believe unconsciously, by

poets of the highest order--the predominant emotion of their minds

overflowing spontaneously on all the objects which present themselves

to their fancy, and calling out from them, and colouring with its

own hues, those that are naturally emblematic of its character, and

in accordance with its general expression. It would be easy to show

how habitually this is done by Shakspeare and Milton especially, and

how much many of their finest passages are indebted, both for force

and richness of effect, to this general and diffusive harmony of the

external character of their scenes with the passions of their living

agents--this harmonising and appropriate glow with which they kindle

the whole surrounding atmosphere, and bring all that strikes the sense

into unison with all that touches the heart.

“But it is more to our present purpose to say, that we think the fair

writer before us is eminently a mistress of this poetical secret;

and, in truth, it was solely for the purpose of illustrating this

great charm and excellence in her imagery, that we have ventured upon

this little dissertation. Almost all her poems are rich with fine

descriptions, and studded over with images of visible beauty. But

these are never idle ornaments: all her pomps have a meaning; and

her flowers and her gems are arranged, as they are said to be among

Eastern lovers, so as to speak the language of truth and of passion.

This is peculiarly remarkable in some little pieces, which seem at

first sight to be purely descriptive, but are soon found to tell upon

the heart, with a deep moral and pathetic impression. But it is a

truth nearly as conspicuous in the greater part of her productions,

where we scarcely meet with any striking sentiment that is not ushered

in by some such symphony of external nature, and scarcely a lovely

picture that does not serve as a foreground to some deep or lofty

emotion. We may illustrate this proposition, we think, by opening

either of these little volumes at random, and taking what they first

present to us. The following exquisite lines, for example, on a

Palm-tree in an English garden:--

‘It waved not through an Eastern sky,

Beside a fount of Araby,’ etc.

“The following, which the author has named, ‘Graves of a Household,’

has rather less of external scenery, but serves, like the others, to

show how well the graphic and pathetic may be made to set off each

other:--

‘They grew in beauty, side by side,

They fill’d one home with glee,’ etc.

“We have taken these pieces chiefly on account of their shortness; but

it would not be fair to Mrs Hemans not to present our readers with

one longer specimen, and to give a portion of her graceful narrative

along with her pathetic descriptions. This story, of ‘The Lady of the

Castle,’ is told, we think, with great force and sweetness:--.

‘Thou see’st her pictured with her shining hair,

(Famed were these tresses in Provençal song,)’ etc.

“The following sketch of ‘Joan of Arc in Rheims,’ is in a loftier and

more ambitious vein, but sustained with equal grace, and as touching

in its solemn tenderness. We can afford to extract but a part of it:--

----‘Within, the light,

Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing,’ etc.

“There are several strains of a more passionate character, especially

in the two poetical epistles from Lady Arabella Stuart and Properzia

Rossi. We shall venture to give a few lines from the former. The

Lady Arabella was of royal descent; and having excited the fears of

our pusillanimous James by a secret union with the Lord Seymour, was

detained in a cruel captivity, by that heartless monarch, till the

close of her life--during which she is supposed to have indited this

letter to her lover from her prison-house:--

‘My friend, my friend! where art thou? Day by day,

Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away,’ etc.

“The following, though it has no very distinct object or moral,

breathes, we think, the very spirit of poetry, in its bright and vague

picturings, and is well entitled to the name it bears--‘An Hour of

Romance:’

‘There were thick leaves above me and around,

And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood’s sleep,’ etc.

“There is great sweetness in the following portion of a little poem on

a ‘Girl’s School:’--

‘Oh! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest

Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,’ etc.

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

Pleiad:’

‘Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?

She wears her crown of old magnificence,’ etc.

“The following on ‘The Dying Improvisatore,’ have a rich lyrical

cadence, and glow of deep feeling:--

‘Never, oh! never more,

On thy Rome’s purple heaven mine eye shall dwell,’ etc.

“But we must stop here. There would be no end of our extracts, if

we were to yield to the temptation of noting down every beautiful

passage which arrests us in turning over the leaves of the volumes

before us. We ought to recollect, too, that there are few to whom our

pages are likely to come, who are not already familiar with their

beauties; and, in fact, we have made these extracts, less with the

presumptuous belief that we are introducing Mrs Hemans for the first

time to the knowledge or admiration of our readers, than from a desire

of illustrating, by means of them, the singular felicity in the choice

and employment of her imagery, of which we have already spoken so much

at large;--that fine accord she has established between the world of

sense and of soul--that delicate blending of our deep inward emotions

with their splendid symbols and emblems without.”]

SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.

They tell but dreams--a lonely spirit’s dreams;

Yet ever through their fleeting imagery

Wanders a vein of melancholy love,

An aimless thought of home; as in the song

Of the caged skylark ye may deem there dwells

A passionate memory of blue skies and flowers.

And living streams--far off!

A SPIRIT’S RETURN.

“This is to be a mortal.

And seek the things beyond mortality!” Manfred.

Thy voice prevails--dear friend, my gentle friend!

This long-shut heart for thee shall be unseal’d;

And though thy soft eye mournfully will bend

Over the troubled stream, yet once reveal’d

Shall its freed waters flow; then rocks must close

For evermore, above their dark repose.

Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky

Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie;

Come to the woods, where all strange wandering sound

Is mingled into harmony profound;

Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind

Fills with a viewless being, unconfined,

The trembling reeds and fountains. Our own dell,

With its green dimness and Æolian breath,

Shall suit th’ unveiling of dark records well--

Hear me in tenderness and silent faith!

Thou knew’st me not in life’s fresh vernal morn--

I would thou hadst!--for then my heart on thine

Had pour’d a worthier love; now, all o’erworn

By its deep thirst for something too divine,

It hath but fitful music to bestow,

Echoes of harp-strings broken long ago.

Yet even in youth companionless I stood,

As a lone forest-bird midst ocean’s foam;

For me the silver cords of brotherhood

Were early loosed; the voices from my home

Pass’d one by one, and melody and mirth

Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth.

But, with the fulness of a heart that burn’d

For the deep sympathies of mind, I turn’d

From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought

In all wild scenes with thrilling murmurs fraught,

In every still small voice and sound of power,

And flute-note of the wind through cave and bower,

A perilous delight!--for then first woke

My life’s lone passion, the mysterious quest

Of secret knowledge; and each tone that broke

From the wood-arches or the fountain’s breast,

Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre,

But minister’d to that strange inborn fire.

Midst the bright silence of the mountain dells,

In noontide-hours or golden summer-eves,

My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells

Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves

Shakes out response. O thou rich world unseen!

Thou curtain’d realm of spirits!--thus my cry

Hath troubled air and silence--dost thou lie

Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen

Shut from us ever? The resounding woods,

Do their depths teem with marvels?--and the floods,

And the pure fountains, leading secret veins

Of quenchless melody through rock and hill,

Have they bright dwellers?--are their lone domains

Peopled with beauty, which may never still

_Our_ weary thirst of soul? Cold, weak and cold,

Is earth’s vain language, piercing not one fold

Of our deep being! Oh, for gifts more high!

For a seer’s glance to rend mortality!

For a charm’d rod, to call from each dark shrine

The oracles divine!

I woke from those high fantasies, to know

My kindred with the earth--I woke to love.

O gentle friend! to love in doubt and woe,

Shutting the heart the worshipp’d name above,

Is to love deeply; and _my_ spirit’s dower

Was a sad gift, a melancholy power

Of so adoring--with a buried care,

And with the o’erflowing of a voiceless prayer,

And with a deepening dream, that day by day,

In the still shadow of its lonely sway,

Folded me closer, till the world held naught

Save the _one_ being to my centred thought.

There was no music but his voice to hear,

No joy but such as with _his_ step drew near;

Light was but where he look’d--life where he moved:

Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved.

Oh! but such love is fearful!--and I knew

Its gathering doom: the soul’s prophetic sight

Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw

O’er all things round a full, strong, vivid light,

Too sorrowfully clear!--an under-tone

Was given to Nature’s harp, for me alone

Whispering of grief. Of grief?--be strong, awake!

Hath not thy love been victory, O my soul?

Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake

Death’s fastnesses?--a magic to control

Worlds far removed?--from o’er the grave to thee

Love hath made answer; and _thy_ tale should be

Sung like a lay of triumph! Now return

And take thy treasure from its bosom’d urn,

And lift it once to light!

In fear, in pain,

I said I loved--but yet a heavenly strain

Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream,

A joy flash’d through the trouble of my dream!

I knew myself beloved! We breathed no vow,

No mingling visions might our fate allow,

As unto happy hearts; but still and deep,

Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave,

Like golden sand in some dark river’s wave,

So did my soul that costly knowledge keep,

So jealously!--a thing o’er which to shed,

When stars alone beheld the drooping head,

Lone tears! yet ofttimes burden’d with the excess

Of our strange nature’s quivering happiness.

But, oh! sweet friend! we dream not of love’s might

Till death has robed with soft and solemn light

The image we enshrine! Before _that_ hour,

We have but glimpses of the o’ermastering power

Within us laid!--_then_ doth the spirit-flame

With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame;

The wings of that which pants to follow fast

Shake their clay-bars, as with a prison’d blast--

The sea is in our souls!

He died--_he_ died

On whom my lone devotedness was cast!

I might not keep one vigil by his side,

_I_, whose wrung heart watch’d with him to the last!

I might not once his fainting head sustain,

Nor bathe his parch’d lips in the hour of pain,

Nor say to him, “Farewell!” He pass’d away--

Oh! had _my_ love been there, its conquering sway

Had won him back from death! But thus removed,

Borne o’er th’ abyss no sounding line hath proved,

Join’d with the unknown, the viewless--he became

Unto my thoughts another, yet the same--

Changed--hallow’d--glorified!--and his low grave

Seem’d a bright mournful altar--mine, all mine:

Brother and friend soon left me _that_ sole shrine,

The birthright of the faithful!--_their_ world’s wave

Soon swept them from its brink. Oh! deem thou not

That on the sad and consecrated spot

My soul grew weak! I tell thee that a power

There kindled heart and lip--a fiery shower

My words were made--a might was given to prayer,

And a strong grasp to passionate despair,

And a dread triumph! Know’st thou what I sought?

For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought?

--Communion with the dead! I sent a cry

Through the veil’d empires of eternity--

A voice to cleave them! By the mournful truth,

By the lost promise of my blighted youth.

By the strong chain a mighty love can bind

On the beloved, the spell of mind o’er mind;

By words, which in themselves are magic high,

Armed, and inspired, and wing’d with agony;

By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem

To bear the heart’s blood in their passion-stream;

I summon’d, I adjured!--with quicken’d sense,

With the keen vigil of a life intense.

I watch’d, an answer from the winds to wring,

I listen’d, if perchance the stream might bring

Token from worlds afar; I taught _one_ sound

Unto a thousand echoes--one profound

Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky--

One prayer to night--“Awake! appear! reply!”

Hast thou been told that from the viewless bourne

The dark way never hath allow’d return?

That all, which tears can move, with life is fled--

That earthly love is powerless on the dead?

Believe it not!--There is a large lone star

Now burning o’er yon western hill afar,

And under its clear light there lies a spot

Which well might utter forth--Believe it not!

I sat beneath that planet. I had wept

My woe to stillness; every night-wind slept;

A hush was on the hills; the very streams

Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams;

And the dark tree o’ershadowing me that hour,

Stood motionless, even as the gray church-tower

Whereon I gazed unconsciously. There came

A low sound, like the tremor of a flame,

Or like the light quick shiver of a wing,

Flitting through twilight woods, across the air;

And I look’d up! Oh! for strong words to bring

Conviction o’er thy thought! Before me there,

He, the departed, stood! Ay, face to face,

So near, and yet how far! His form, his mien,

Gave to remembrance back each burning trace

Within:--Yet something awfully serene,

Pure, sculpture-like, on the pale brow, that wore

Of the once beating heart no token more;

And stillness on the lip--and o’er the hair

A gleam, that trembled through the breathless air;

And an unfathom’d calm, that seem’d to lie

In the grave sweetness of th’ illumined eye,

Told of the gulfs between our being set,

And, as that unsheath’d spirit-glance I met,

Made my soul faint:--with _fear_? Oh! _not_ with fear!

With the sick feeling that in _his_ far sphere

_My_ love could be as nothing! But he spoke--

How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill

In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill

My bosom’s infinite? O friend! I woke

_Then_ first to heavenly life! Soft, solemn, clear,

Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear,

Yet strangely seem’d as if the while they rose

From depths of distance, o’er the wide repose

Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells

Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo-cells.

But, as they murmur’d on, the mortal chill

Pass’d from me, like a mist before the morn;

And, to that glorious intercourse upborne

By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still,

Possess’d my frame. I sought that lighted eye--

From its intense and searching purity

I drank in _soul_!--I question’d of the dead--

Of the hush’d, starry shores their footsteps tread,

And I was answer’d. If remembrance there

With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air;

If thought, here piled from many a jewel-heap,

Be treasure in that pensive land to keep;

If love, o’ersweeping change, and blight, and blast,

Find _there_ the music of his home at last:

I ask’d, and I was answer’d. Full and high

Was that communion with eternity--

Too rich for aught so fleeting! Like a knell

Swept o’er my sense its closing words, “Farewell!

On earth we meet no more!” And all was gone--

The pale, bright settled brow--the thrilling tone,

The still and shining eye! and never more

May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore

That radiant guest! One full-fraught hour of heaven,

To earthly passion’s wild implorings given,

Was made my own--the ethereal fire hath shiver’d

The fragile censer in whose mould it quiver’d,

Brightly, consumingly! What now is left?

A faded world, of glory’s hues bereft--

A void, a chain! I dwell midst throngs, apart,

In the cold silence of the stranger’s heart;

A fix’d immortal shadow stands between

My spirit and life’s fast-receding scene;

A gift hath sever’d me from human ties,

A power is gone from all earth’s melodies,

Which never may return: their chords are broken,

The music of another land hath spoken--

No after-sound is sweet! This weary thirst!

And I have heard celestial fountains burst!

What _here_ shall quench it?

Dost thou not rejoice,

When the spring sends forth an awakening voice

Through the young woods? Thou dost! And in that birth

Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth,

Thousands, like thee, find gladness! Couldst thou know

How every breeze then summons _me_ to go!

How all the light of love and beauty shed

By those rich hours, but woos me to the dead!

The _only_ beautiful that change no more--

The only loved!--the dwellers on the shore

Of spring fulfill’d! The dead! _whom_ call we so?

They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know

Things wrapt from us! Away! within me pent,

That which is barr’d from its own element

Still droops or struggles! But the day _will_ come--

Over the deep the free bird finds its home;

And the stream lingers midst the rocks, yet greets

The sea at last; and the wing’d flower-seed meets

A soil to rest in: shall not _I_, too, be,

My spirit-love! upborne to dwell with thee?

Yes! by the power whose conquering anguish stirr’d

The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard,

Whose agony of triumph won thee back

Through the dim pass no mortal step may track,

Yet shall we meet! that glimpse of joy divine

Proved thee for ever and for ever mine!

[“It was towards the close of the year 1829, that Mrs Hemans began

to contemplate the publication of a new volume of poems. She had

already made some preparation for this by contributing a series of

lyrics under the title of “Songs of the Affections,” to Blackwood’s

Magazine, together with the long ballad, “The Lady of Provence,”

which, for the glowing pictures it contains, the lofty yet tender

affection to which it is consecrated, and the striking but never

uncouth changes of its versification, must be considered as one of

its author’s finest chivalresque poems. She had still, however, to

produce some work of greater importance than these, suitable for the

commencement of a volume. The subject at length fixed upon by her, as

peculiar as it was almost dangerously fascinating, was suggested by

a fireside conversation. It had long been a favourite amusement to

wind up our evenings by telling ghost-stories. One night, however,

the store of thrilling narratives was exhausted, and we began to talk

of the feelings with which the presence and the speech of a visitant

from another world, (if indeed a spirit could return,) would be most

likely to impress the person so visited. After having exhausted all

the common varieties of fear and terror in our speculations, Mrs

Hemans said that she thought the predominant sensation at the time

must partake of awe and rapture, and resemble the feelings of those

who listen to a revelation, and at the same moment know themselves

to be favoured above all men, and humbled before a being no longer

sharing their own cares or passions; but that the person so visited

must thenceforward and for ever be inevitably separated from this

world and its concerns: for the soul which had once enjoyed such a

strange and spiritual communion, which had been permitted to look,

though but for a moment, beyond the mysterious gates of death, must be

raised, by its experience, too high for common grief again to perplex,

or common joy to enliven. She spoke long and eloquently upon this

subject; and I have reason to believe that this conversation settled

her wandering fancy, and gave rise to the principal poem in her next

volume.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 69-72.

Mr Chorley, in an after part of the same work, makes the following

ingenious and suggestive remarks in reference to the same exquisite

poem:--“The coming of the apparition is described with all the

plainness and intensity of the most entire conviction, so difficult

in these days for a writer to assume--might it not almost be said,

so impossible to be assumed by those who have wholly and scornfully

cast off those superstitions, so distasteful to reason, but so dear to

fancy? It is impossible, in reading Sir Walter Scott’s incomparable

descriptions of supernatural visitations,--the episode of the ‘Bodach

Glas’ for instance, or ‘Wandering Willie’s tale,’ or the vigil of

Master Holdenough in the Mirror Chamber, (though this is afterwards

explained away,)--to imagine that the creator of these scenes did

not in some measure _believe_ in their possibility, though it might

be but with a poetical faith. Were it otherwise, they must strike us

as unnaturally as the recent French revivifications of the antique

Catholic legends and mysteries--as merely grotesque old fables,

adopted as studies by clever artists, for the sake of their glaring

contrasts and effective situations.”--_Memorials_, p. 103.

In conclusion, we add the comparative estimate formed of this

production by its author. It is from one of her letters to a friend.

“Your opinion of the ‘Spirit’s Return’ has given me particular

pleasure, because I prefer that poem to any thing else I have written;

but if there be, as my friends say, a greater power in it than I had

before evinced, I paid dearly for the discovery, and it almost made me

tremble as I sounded ‘the deep places’ of my soul.”]

THE LADY OF PROVENCE.[368]

“Courage was cast about her like a dress

Of solemn comeliness,

A gather’d mind and an untroubled face

Did give her dangers grace.” Donne.

The war-note of the Saracen

Was on the winds of France;

It had still’d the harp of the Troubadour,

And the clash of the tourney’s lance.

The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night,

And the hollow echoes of charge and flight,

Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray

In a chapel where the mighty lay,

On the old Provençal shore.

Many a Chatillon beneath,

Unstirr’d by the ringing trumpet’s breath,

His shroud of armour wore;

And the glimpses of moonlight that went and came

Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame,

Gave quivering life to the slumber pale

Of stern forms couch’d in their marble mail,

At rest on the tombs of the knightly race,

The silent throngs of that burial-place.

They were imaged there with helm and spear,

As leaders in many a bold career,

And haughty their stillness look’d and high,

Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory.

But meekly the voice of the lady rose

Through the trophies of their proud repose;

Meekly, yet fervently, calling down aid,

Under their banners of battle she pray’d;

With her pale, fair brow, and her eyes of love,

Upraised to the Virgin’s portray’d above,

And her hair flung back, till it swept the grave

Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave;

And her fragile frame, at every blast,

That full of the savage war-horn pass’d,

Trembling, as trembles a bird’s quick heart,

When it vainly strives from its cage to part--

So knelt she in her woe;

A weeper alone with the tearless dead--

Oh! they reck not of tears o’er their quiet shed,

Or the dust had stirr’d below!

Hark! a swift step! she hath caught its tone,

Through the dash of the sea, through the wild wind’s moan:

Is her lord return’d with his conquering bands?

No! a breathless vassal before her stands!

--“Hast thou been on the field?--Art thou come from the host?”

--“From the slaughter, lady!--All, all is lost!

Our banners are taken, our knights laid low,

Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe;

And thy lord,” his voice took a sadder sound--

“Thy lord--he is not on the bloody ground!

There are those who tell that the leader’s plume

Was seen on the flight through th’ gathering gloom.”

--A change o’er her mien and her spirit pass’d:

She ruled the heart which had beat so fast,

She dash’d the tears from her kindling eye,

With a glance, as of sudden royalty:

The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow,

Quick o’er bosom, and cheek, and brow,

And her young voice rose till the peasant shook

At the thrilling tone and the falcon-look:

--“Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious dead,

And fear not to say that their son hath fled?

--Away! he is lying by lance and shield,--

Point me the path to his battle-field!”

The shadows of the forest

Are about the lady now;

She is hurrying through the midnight on,

Beneath the dark pine-bough.

There’s a murmur of omens in every leaf,

There’s a wail in the stream like the dirge of a chief;

The branches that rock to the tempest strife

Are groaning like things of troubled life;

The wind from the battle seems rushing by

With a funeral-march through the gloomy sky;

The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long,

But her frame in the daring of love is strong,

And her soul as on swelling seas upborne,

And girded all fearful things to scorn.

And fearful things were around her spread,

When she reach’d the field of the warrior-dead;

There lay the noble, the valiant, low--

Ay! but _one_ word speaks of deeper woe;

There lay the _loved_--on each fallen head

Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed;

Sisters were watching in many a home

For the fetter’d footstep, no more to come;

Names in the prayer of that night were spoken,

Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken;

And the fire was heap’d, and the bright wine pour’d,

For those, now needing nor hearth nor board;

Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell,

And oh! ye beloved of women, farewell!

Silently, with lips compress’d,

Pale hands clasp’d above her breast,

Stately brow of anguish high,

Deathlike cheek, but dauntless eye;

Silently, o’er that red plain,

Moved the lady midst the slain.

Sometimes it seem’d as a charging-cry,

Or the ringing tramp of a steed, came nigh;

Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn,

Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne;

And her maidens trembled;--but on _her_ ear

No meaning fell with those sounds of fear;

They had less of mastery to shake her now,

Than the quivering, erewhile, of an aspen bough.

She search’d into many an unclosed eye,

That look’d, without soul, to the starry sky;

She bow’d down o’er many a shatter’d breast,

She lifted up helmet and cloven crest--

Not there, not there he lay!

“Lead where the most hath been dared and done,

Where the heart of the battle hath bled,--lead on!”

And the vassal took the way.

He turn’d to a dark and lonely tree

That waved o’er a fountain red:

Oh! swiftest _there_ had the currents free

From noble veins been shed.

Thickest there the spear-heads gleam’d,

And the scatter’d plumage stream’d,

And the broken shields were toss’d,

And the shiver’d lances cross’d,

And the mail-clad sleepers round

Made the harvest of that ground.

He was there! the leader amidst his band,

Where the faithful had made their last, vain stand;

He was there! but affection’s glance alone

The darkly-changed in that hour had known;

With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasp’d,

And a banner of France to his bosom clasp’d,

And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace,

And the face--oh! speak not of that dead face!

As it lay to answer love’s look no more,

Yet never so proudly loved before!

She quell’d in her soul the deep floods of woe,--

The time was not yet for their waves to flow;

She felt the full presence, the might of death,

Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath;

And a proud smile shone o’er her pale despair,

As she turn’d to his followers--“Your lord is there!

Look on him! know him by scarf and crest!--

Bear him away with his sires to rest!”

Another day, another night,

And the sailor on the deep

Hears the low chant of a funeral rite

From the lordly chapel sweep.

It comes with a broken and muffled tone,

As if that rite were in terror done;

Yet the song midst the seas hath a thrilling power,

And he knows ’tis a chieftain’s burial-hour.

Hurriedly, in fear and woe,

Through the aisle the mourners go;

With a hush’d and stealthy tread,

Bearing on the noble dead;

Sheath’d in armour of the field--

Only his wan face reveal’d,

Whence the still and solemn gleam

Doth a strange, sad contrast seem

To the anxious eyes of that pale band,

With torches wavering in every hand,

For they dread each moment the shout of war

And the burst of the Moslem scimitar.

There is no plumed head o’er the bier to bend,

No brother of battle, no princely friend:

No sound comes back, like the sounds of yore,

Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor;

By the red fountain the valiant lie,

The flower of Provençal chivalry;

But _one_ free step, and one lofty heart,

Bear through that scene to the last their part.

She hath led the death-train of the brave

To the verge of his own ancestral grave;

She hath held o’er her spirit long rigid sway,

But the struggling passion must now have way.

In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil,

By turns does the swift blood flush and fail;

The pride on the lip is lingering still,

But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill;

Anguish and triumph are met at strife,

Rending the cords of her frail young life;

And she sinks at last on her warrior’s bier,

Lifting her voice, as if death might hear.

“I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong,

My soul hath risen for thy glory strong!

Now call me hence, by thy side to be,

The world thou leav’st has no place for me.

The light goes with thee, the joy, the worth--

Faithful and tender! Oh! call me forth!

Give me my home on thy noble heart,--

Well have we loved, let us both depart!”--

And pale on the breast of the dead she lay,

The living cheek to the cheek of clay;

The _living_ cheek!--oh! it was not vain,

That strife of the spirit to rend its chain;

She is there at rest in her place of pride,

In death how queen-like--a glorious bride!

Joy for the freed one!--she might not stay

When the crown had fallen from her life away;

She might not linger--a weary thing,

A dove with no home for its broken wing,

Thrown on the harshness of alien skies,

That know not its own land’s melodies.

From the long heart-withering early gone;

She hath lived--she hath loved--her task is done!

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

THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.

“Tableau, ou l’Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe; union redoutable de

la mort et de la vie.”--Madame de Stael.

There was music on the midnight--

From a royal fane it roll’d;

And a mighty bell, each pause between,

Sternly and slowly toll’d.

Strange was their mingling in the sky,

It hush’d the listener’s breath;

For the music spoke of triumph high,

The lonely bell--of death!

There was hurrying through the midnight

A sound of many feet;

But they fell with a muffled fearfulness

Along the shadowy street:

And softer, fainter, grew their tread,

As it near’d the minster gate,

Whence a broad and solemn light was shed

From a scene of royal state.

Full glow’d the strong red radiance

In the centre of the nave,

Where the folds of a purple canopy

Swept down in many a wave,

Loading the marble pavement old

With a weight of gorgeous gloom;

For something lay midst their fretted gold,

Like a shadow of the tomb.

And within that rich pavilion,

High on a glittering throne,

A woman’s form sat silently,

Midst the glare of light alone.

Her jewell’d robes fell strangely still--

The drapery on her breast

Seem’d with no pulse beneath to thrill,

So stonelike was its rest!

But a peal of lordly music

Shook e’en the dust below,

When the burning gold of the diadem

Was set on her pallid brow!

Then died away that haughty sound;

And from the encircling band

Stepp’d prince and chief, midst the hush profound,

With homage to her hand.

Why pass’d a faint, cold shuddering

Over each martial frame,

As one by one, to touch that hand,

Noble and leader came?

Was not the settled aspect fair?

Did not a queenly grace,

Under the parted ebon hair,

Sit on the pale still face?

Death! death! canst _thou_ be lovely

Unto the eye of life?

Is not each pulse of the quick high breast

With thy cold mien at strife?

--It was a strange and fearful sight,

The crown upon that head,

The glorious robes, and the blaze of light,

All gather’d round the Dead!

And beside her stood in silence

One with a brow as pale,

And white lips rigidly compress’d,

Lest the strong heart should fail:

King Pedro, with a jealous eye,

Watching the homage done

By the land’s flower and chivalry

To her, his martyr’d one.

But on the face he look’d not,

Which once his star had been;

To every form his glance was turn’d,

Save of the breathless queen:

Though something, won from the grave’s embrace,

Of her beauty still was there,

Its hues were all of that shadowy place,

It was not for _him_ to bear.

Alas! the crown, the sceptre,

The treasures of the earth,

And the priceless love that pour’d those gifts,

Alike of wasted worth!

The rites are closed:--bear back the dead

Unto the chamber deep!

Lay down again the royal head,

Dust with the dust to sleep!

There is music on the midnight--

A requiem sad and slow,

As the mourners through the sounding aisle

In dark procession go;

And the ring of state, and the starry crown,

And all the rich array,

Are borne to the house of silence down,

With her, that queen of clay!

And tearlessly and firmly

King Pedro led the train;

But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,

When they lower’d the dust again.

’Tis hush’d at last the tomb above--

Hymns die, and steps depart:

Who call’d thee strong as Death, O Love?

_Mightier_ thou wast and art.

ITALIAN GIRL’S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

“O sanctissima, O purissima!

Dulcis Virgo Maria!

Mater amata, intemerata,

Ora, ora pro nobis.” Sicilian Mariner’s Hymn.

In the deep hour of dreams,

Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea,

And by the starlight gleams,

Mother of sorrows! lo, I come to thee!

Unto thy shrine I bear

Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie

All, all unfolded there,

Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye.

For thou, that once didst move

In thy still beauty through an early home--

Thou know’st the grief, the love,

The fear of woman’s soul;--to thee I come!

Many, and sad, and deep,

Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast;

Thou, too, couldst watch and weep--

Hear, gentlest mother! hear a heart oppress’d!

There is a wandering bark

Bearing one from me o’er the restless wave:

Oh, let thy soft eye mark

His course! Be with him, holiest! guide and save!

My soul is on that way;

My thoughts are travellers o’er the waters dim;

Through the long weary day

I walk, o’ershadow’d by vain dreams of him.

Aid him--and me, too, aid!

Oh! ’tis not well, this earthly love’s excess!

On thy weak child is laid

The burden of too deep a tenderness.

Too much o’er _him_ is pour’d

My being’s hope--scarce leaving heaven a part;

Too fearfully adored,

Oh! make not him the chastener of my heart!

I tremble with a sense

Of grief to be; I hear a warning low--

Sweet mother! call me hence!

This wild idolatry must end in woe.

The troubled joy of life,

Love’s lightning happiness, my soul hath known;

And, worn with feverish strife,

Would fold its wings: take back, take back thine own!

Hark! how the wind swept by!

The tempest’s voice comes rolling o’er the wave--

Hope of the sailor’s eye,

And maiden’s heart, blest mother! guide and save.

TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT.

From the bright stars, or from the viewless air,

Or from some world unreach’d by human thought,

Spirit, sweet spirit! if thy home be there,

And if thy visions with the past be fraught,

Answer me, answer me!

Have we not communed here of life and death?

Have we not said that love, such love as ours,

Was not to perish as a rose’s breath,

To melt away, like song from festal bowers?

Answer, oh! answer me!

Thine eye’s last light was mine--the soul that shone

Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze--

Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown,

Naught of what lived in that long, earnest gaze?

Hear, hear and answer me!

Thy voice--its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone

Thrill’d through the tempest of the parting strife,

Like a faint breeze: oh! from that music flown,

Send back _one_ sound, if love’s be quenchless life!

But once, oh! answer me!

In the still noontide, in the sunset’s hush,

In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep,

When the heart’s phantoms from the darkness rush,

Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep--

Spirit! then answer me!

By the remembrance of our blended prayer;

By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet;

By our last hope, the victor o’er despair;--

Speak! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet;

Answer me, answer me!

The grave is silent: and the far-off sky,

And the deep midnight--silent all, and lone!

Oh! if thy buried love make no reply,

What voice has earth? Hear, pity, speak, mine own!

Answer me, answer me!

THE CHAMOIS HUNTER’S LOVE.

“For all his wildness and proud fantasies,

I love him.” Croly.

Thy heart is in the upper world, where fleet the chamois bounds,

Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the torrent-sounds;

And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, through the stillness of

the air,

And where the Lauwine’s[369] peal is heard--hunter! thy heart is

there!

I know thou lov’st me well, dear friend! but better, better far,

Thou lovest that high and haughty life, with rocks and storms at

war;

In the green, sunny vales with me, thy spirit would but pine--

And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine!

And I will not seek to woo thee down from those thy native heights,

With the sweet song, our land’s own song, of pastoral delights;

For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not as mine--

And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine.

And I will leave my blessed home, my father’s joyous hearth,

With all the voices meeting there in tenderness and mirth,

With all the kind and laughing eyes, that in its firelight shine,

To sit forsaken in thy hut, yet know that thou art mine!

It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad free heart,

That I cast away for thee--for thee, all reckless as thou art!

With tremblings and with vigils lone I bind myself to dwell--

Yet, yet I would not change that lot; oh no! I love too well!

A mournful thing is love which grows to one so wild as thou,

With that bright restlessness of eye, that tameless fire of brow!

Mournful!--but dearer far I call its mingled fear and pride,

And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on earth beside.

To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every breath,

To watch through long, long nights of storm, to sleep and dream of

death,

To wake in doubt and loneliness--this doom I know is mine;

And yet I will be thine, my love! and yet I will be thine!

That I may greet thee from thine Alps, when thence thou com’st at

last,

That I may hear thy thrilling voice tell o’er each danger past,

That I may kneel and pray for thee, and win thee aid divine--

For this I will be thine, my love! for this I will be thine!

[369] _Lauwine_, the avalanche.

THE INDIAN WITH HIS DEAD CHILD.[370]

In the silence of the midnight

I journey with my dead;

In the darkness of the forest boughs

A lonely path I tread.

But my heart is high and fearless,

As by mighty wings upborne;

The mountain eagle hath not plumes

So strong as love and scorn.

I have raised thee from the grave-sod,

By the white man’s path defiled;

On to th’ ancestral wilderness,

I bear thy dust, my child!

I have ask’d the ancient deserts

To give my dead a place,

Where the stately footsteps of the free

Alone should leave a trace.

And the tossing pines made answer--

“Go, bring us back thine own!”

And the streams from all the hunters’ hills,

Rush’d with an echoing tone.

Thou shalt rest by sounding waters

That yet untamed may roll;

The voices of that chainless host

With joy shall fill thy soul.

In the silence of the midnight

I journey with the dead,

Where the arrows of my father’s bow

Their falcon-flight have sped.

I have left the spoilers’ dwellings

For evermore behind;

Unmingled with their household sounds,

For me shall sweep the wind.

Alone, amidst their hearth-fires,

I watch’d my child’s decay,

Uncheer’d I saw the spirit-light

From his young eyes fade away.

When his head sank on my bosom,

When the death-sleep o’er him fell,

Was there one to say, “A friend is near?”

There was none!--pale race, farewell!

To the forests, to the cedars,

To the warrior and his bow,

Back, back!--I bore thee laughing thence,

I bear thee slumbering now!

I bear thee unto burial

With the mighty hunters gone;

I shall hear thee in the forest breeze,

Thou wilt speak of joy, my son!

In the silence of the midnight

I journey with the dead;

But my heart is strong, my step is fleet,

My fathers’ path I tread.

[370] An Indian, who had established himself in a township of Maine,

feeling indignantly the want of sympathy evinced towards him by the

white inhabitants, particularly on the death of his only child, gave

up his farm soon afterwards, dug up the body of his child, and carried

it with him two hundred miles through the forests to join the Canadian

Indians.--See _Tudor’s Letters on the Eastern States of America_.

SONG OF EMIGRATION.

There was heard a song on the chiming sea.

A mingled breathing of grief and glee;

Man’s voice, unbroken by sighs, was there,

Filling with triumph the sunny air;

Of fresh, green lands, and of pastures new,

It sang, while the bark through the surges flew.

But ever and anon

A murmur of farewell

Told, by its plaintive tone,

That from woman’s lip it fell.

“Away, away o’er the foaming main!”

This was the free and the joyous strain,

“There are clearer skies than ours, afar,

We will shape our course by a brighter star;

There are plains whose verdure no foot hath press’d,

And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest.”

“But, alas! that we should go,”

Sang the farewell voices then,

“From the homesteads, warm and low,

By the brook and in the glen!”

“We will rear new homes under trees that glow

As if gems were the fruitage of every bough;

O’er our white walls we will train the vine,

And sit in its shadow at day’s decline;

And watch our herds, as they range at will

Through the green savannas, all bright and still.

“But woe for that sweet shade

Of the flowering orchard-trees,

Where first our children play’d

Midst the birds and honey-bees!

“All, all our own shall the forests be,

As to the bound of the roebuck free!

None shall say, ‘Hither, no further pass!’

We will track each step through the wavy grass

We will chase the elk in his speed and might,

And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night.”

“But, oh! the gray church-tower,

And the sound of Sabbath bell,

And the shelter’d garden-bower,

We have bid them all farewell!

“We will give the names of our fearless race

To each bright river whose course we trace;

We will leave our memory with mounts and floods,

And the path of our daring in boundless woods;

And our works unto many a lake’s green shore,

Where the Indians’ graves lay, alone, before.”

“But who shall teach the flowers,

Which our children loved, to dwell

In a soil that is not ours?

Home, home and friends, farewell!”

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

“If I could see him, it were well with me!”

Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

There were lights and sounds of revelling in the vanquish’d city’s

halls,

As by night the feast of victory was held within its walls;

And the conquerors fill’d the wine-cup high, after years of bright

blood shed;

But their lord, the King of Arragon, midst the triumph wail’d the

dead.

He look’d down from the fortress won, on the tents and flowers

below,

The moonlit sea, the torchlit streets--and a gloom came o’er his

brow:

The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbal’s tone;

But his heart, midst that proud music, felt more utterly alone.

And he cried, “Thou art mine, fair city! thou city of the sea!

But, oh! what portion of delight is mine at last in thee?--

I am lonely midst thy palaces, while the glad waves past them roll,

And the soft breath of thine orange bowers is mournful to my soul.

“My brother! O my brother! thou art gone--the true and brave,

And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy grave.

There are many round my throne to stand, and to march where I lead

on;

There was _one_ to _love_ me in the world--my brother! thou art

gone!

“In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-tempest’s wrath,

We stood together, side by side--one hope was ours, one path;

Thou hast wrapp’d me in thy soldier’s cloak, thou hast fenced me

with thy breast;

Thou hast watch’d beside my couch of pain--oh! bravest heart, and

best!

“I see the festive lights around,--o’er a dull, sad world they

shine;

I hear the voice of victory--my Pedro! where is _thine_?

The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit found reply!--

O brother! I have bought too dear this hollow pageantry!

“I have hosts and gallant fleets, to spread my glory and my sway,

And chiefs to lead them fearlessly,--my _friend_ hath pass’d away!

For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart may thirst in vain;

And the face that was as light to mine--it cannot come again!

“I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the offering for a

crown;

With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have purchased cold

renown;

How often will my weary heart midst the sounds of triumph die,

When I think of thee, my brother! thou flower of chivalry!

“I am lonely--I am lonely! this rest is even as death!

Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the battle-trumpet’s

breath;

Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal banner wave--

But where art thou, my brother? where? In thy low and early grave!”

And louder swell’d the songs of joy through that victorious night,

And faster flow’d the red wine forth, by the stars’ and torches’

light:

But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard the conqueror’s moan--

“My brother! O my brother! best and bravest! thou art gone!”

[371] The grief of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, for the loss of his

brother, Don Pedro, who was killed during the siege of Naples, is

affectingly described by the historian Mariana. It is also the subject

of one of the old Spanish Ballads in Lockhart’s beautiful collection.

THE RETURN.

“Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood back;

The free, the pure, the kind?”

--So murmur’d the trees in my homeward track,

As they play’d to the mountain wind.

“Hath thy soul been true to its early love”

Whisper’d my native streams;

“Hath the spirit nursed amidst hill and grove

Still revered its first high dreams?”

“Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer

Of the child in his parent-halls?”

Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air,

From the old ancestral walls.

“Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead,

Whose place of rest is nigh?

With the father’s blessing o’er thee shed,

With the mother’s trusting eye?”

Then my tears gush’d forth in sudden rain,

As I answer’d--“O ye shades!

I bring not my childhood’s heart again

To the freedom of your glades.

“I have turn’d from my first pure love aside,

O bright and happy streams!

Light after light, in my soul have died

The day-spring’s glorious dreams.

“And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass’d--

The prayer at my mother’s knee;

Darken’d and troubled I come at last,

Home of my boyish glee!