Mingled their accents; and, amidst the rush
Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,--
“Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful,
Mysterious nature! Not in thy free range
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus
The dirge-note and the song of festival;
But in one _heart_, one changeful human heart--
Ay, and within one hour of that strange world--
Thou call’st their music forth, with all its tones,
To startle and to pierce!--the dying swan’s,
And the glad skylark’s--triumph and despair!”
THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.
Hark! from the dim church-tower,
The deep, slow Curfew’s chime!
--A heavy sound unto hall and bower
In England’s olden time!
Sadly ’twas heard by him who came
From the fields of his toil at night,
And who might not see his own hearth-flame
In his children’s eyes make light.
Sternly and sadly heard,
As it quench’d the wood-fire’s glow,
Which had cheer’d the board with the mirthful word,
And the red wine’s foaming flow!
Until that sullen, boding knell,
Flung out from every fane,
On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell,
With a weight and with a chain.
Woe for the pilgrim then
In the wild-deer’s forest far!
No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide him, as a star.
And woe for him whose wakeful soul,
With lone aspirings fill’d,
Would have lived o’er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were still’d!
And yet a deeper woe
For the watcher by the bed,
Where the fondly-loved in pain lay low,
In pain and sleepless dread!
For the mother, doom’d unseen to keep
By the dying babe, her place,
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!
Darkness in chieftain’s hall!
Darkness in peasant’s cot!
While freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o’er her lot.
Oh! the fireside’s peace we well may prize!
For blood hath flow’d like rain,
Pour’d forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England’s homes again.
Heap the yule-faggots high
Till the red light fills the room!
It is home’s own hour when the stormy sky
Grows thick with evening gloom.
Gather ye round the holy hearth,
And by its gladdening blaze,
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
With a thought of the olden days!
GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.
“That voice re-measures
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures
The things of nature utter; birds or trees,
Or where the tall grass mid the heath-plant waves,
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.” Coleridge.
I heard a song upon the wandering wind,
A song of many tones--though one full soul
Breathed through them all imploringly; and made
All nature as they pass’d, all quivering leaves
And low responsive reeds and waters, thrill
As with the consciousness of human prayer.
--At times the passion-kindled melody
Might seem to gush from Sappho’s fervent heart,
Over the wild sea-wave;--at times the strain
Flow’d with more plaintive sweetness, as if born
Of Petrarch’s voice, beside the lone Vaucluse;
And sometimes, with its melancholy swell,
A graver sound was mingled, a deep note
Of Tasso’s holy lyre. Yet still the tones
Were of a suppliant--“_Leave me not!_” was still
The burden of their music; and I knew
The lay which Genius, in its loneliness,
Its own still world, amidst th’ o’erpeopled world,
Hath ever breathed to Love.
“They crown me with the glistening crown,
Borne from a deathless tree;
I hear the pealing music of renown--
O Love! forsake me not!
Mine were a lone, dark lot,
Bereft of thee!
They tell me that my soul can throw
A glory o’er the earth;
From thee, from _thee_, is caught that golden glow!
Shed by thy gentle eyes,
It gives to flower and skies
A bright, new birth!
“Thence gleams the path of morning
Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone!
Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning
With lustre not its own!
Thence every wood-recess
Is fill’d with loveliness,
Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known.
“I see all beauty by the ray
That streameth from thy smile;=
Oh! bear it, bear it not away!
Can that sweet light beguile?
Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems,
To linger long by earthly streams;
I clasp it with th’ alloy
Of fear midst quivering joy.
Yet must I perish if the gift depart--
Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!
“The music from my lyre
With thy swift step would flee;
The world’s cold breath would quench the starry fire
In my deep soul--a temple fill’d with thee!
Seal’d would the fountains lie,
The waves of harmony,
Which thou alone canst free!
“Like a shrine midst rocks forsaken,
Whence the oracle hath fled;
Like a harp which none might waken
But a mighty master dead;
Like the vase of a perfume scatter’d.
Such would my spirit be--
So mute, so void, so shatter’d,
Bereft of thee!
“Leave me not, Love! or if this earth
Yield not for thee a home,
If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth
Send thee a silvery voice that whispers ‘_Come!_’
Then, with the glory from the rose,
With the sparkle from the stream,
With the light thy rainbow-presence throws
Over the poet’s dream;
With all th’ Elysian hues
Thy pathway that suffuse,
With joy, with music, from the fading grove,
Take _me_, too, heavenward on thy wing, sweet Love!”
MUSIC AT A DEATHBED.
“Music! why thy power employ
Only for the sons of joy?
Only for the smiling guests
At natal or at nuptial feasts?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour
On those whom secret griefs devour;
And with some softly-whisper’d air
Smooth the brow of dumb despair!”
Warton from Euripides.
Bring music! stir the brooding air
With an ethereal breath!
Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear
Up from the couch of death!
A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay,
Such as the southern breeze
Might waft, at golden fall of day,
O’er blue, transparent seas!
Oh, no! not such! That lingering spell
Would lure me back to life,
When my wean’d heart hath said farewell,
And pass’d the gates of strife.
Let not a sigh of human love
Blend with the song its tone!
Let no disturbing echo move
One that must die alone!
But pour a solemn-breathing strain
Fill’d with the soul of prayer!
Let a life’s conflict, fear, and pain,
And trembling hope be there.
Deeper, yet deeper! In my thought
Lies more prevailing sound,
A harmony intensely fraught
With pleading more profound:
A passion unto music given,
A sweet, yet piercing cry;
A breaking heart’s appeal to Heaven,
A bright faith’s victory!
Deeper! Oh! may no richer power
Be in those notes enshrined?
Can all which crowds on earth’s last hour
No fuller language find?
Away! and hush the feeble song,
And let the chord be still’d!
Far in another land ere long
My dream shall be fulfill’d.
MARSHAL SCHWERIN’S GRAVE.
[“I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin--a plain, quiet cenotaph,
erected in the middle of a wide corn-field, on the very spot where he
closed a long, faithful, and glorious career in arms. He fell here, at
eighty years of age, at the head of his own regiment, the standard of
it waving in his hand. His seat was in the leathern saddle--his foot
in the iron stirrup--his fingers reined the young war-horse to the
last.”--_Notes and Reflections during a Ramble into Germany._]
Thou didst fall in the field with thy silver hair,
And a banner in thy hand;
Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there,
By a proudly mournful band.
In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle’s blast,
Thy long bright years had sped;
And a warrior’s bier was thine at last,
When the snows had crown’d thy head.
Many had fallen by thy side, old chief!
Brothers and friends, perchance;
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf,
And light was in thy glance.
The soldier’s heart at thy step leapt high,
And thy voice the war-horse knew;
And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh,
Wert thou, the bold and true.
Now may’st thou slumber--thy work is done--
Thou of the well-worn sword!
From the stormy fight in thy fame thou’rt gone,
But not to the festal board.
The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around,
Where fiery blood hath flow’d:
O lover of battle and trumpet-sound!
Thou art couch’d in a still abode!
A quiet home from the noonday’s glare,
And the breath of the wintry blast--
Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair
To win thee but _this_ at last?
THE FALLEN LIME-TREE.
O joy of the peasant! O stately lime!
Thou art fall’n in thy golden honey-time!
Thou whose wavy shadows,
Long and long ago,
Screen’d our gray forefathers
From the noontide’s glow;
Thou, beneath whose branches,
Touch’d with moonlight gleams,
Lay our early poets
Wrapt in fairy dreams.
O tree of our fathers! O hallow’d tree!
A glory is gone from our home with thee.
Where shall now the weary
Rest through summer eves?
Or the bee find honey,
As on thy sweet leaves?
Where shall now the ringdove
Build again her nest?
She so long the inmate
Of thy fragrant breast!
But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee
Far more than the ringdove, far more than the bee!
These may yet find coverts
Leafy and profound,
Full of dewy dimness,
Odour, and soft sound:
But the gentle memories
Clinging all to thee,
When shall they be gather’d
Round another tree?
O pride of our fathers! O hallow’d tree!
The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee!
THE BIRD AT SEA.
Bird of the greenwood!
Oh, why art thou here?
Leaves dance not o’er thee,
Flowers bloom not near.
All the sweet waters
Far hence are at play--
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!
Where the mast quivers
Thy place will not be,
As midst the waving
Of wild-rose and tree.
How shouldst thou battle
With storm and with spray?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!
Or art thou seeking
Some brighter land,
Where by the south wind
Vine leaves are fann’d?
’Midst the wild billows
Why then delay?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!
“Chide not my lingering
Where storms are dark;
A hand that hath nursed me
Is in the bark--
A heart that hath cherish’d
Through winter’s long day:
So I turn from the greenwood,
Away, away!”
THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.
“I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children of earth, to
know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no more?--whether they
have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which my future home is
to be cast? or whether they have their images above, only wrought in a
more wondrous and delightful mould.”--
“Conversations with an ambitious Student in ill health.”
Bear them not from grassy dells
Where wild bees have honey-cells;
Not from where sweet water-sounds
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds;
Not to waste their scented breath
On the silent room of Death!
Kindred to the breeze they are,
And the glow-worm’s emerald star,
And the bird whose song is free,
And the many-whispering tree:
Oh! too deep a love, and vain,
They would win to earth again.
Spread them not before the eyes
Closing fast on summer skies!
Woo thou not the spirit back
From its lone and viewless track,
With the bright things which have birth
Wide o’er all the colour’d earth!
With the violet’s breath would rise
Thoughts too sad for her who dies;
From the lily’s pearl-cup shed,
Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed;
Dreams of youth--of spring-time’s eves--
Music--beauty--all she leaves!
Hush! ’tis thou that dreaming art,
Calmer is _her_ gentle heart.
Yes! o’er fountain, vale, and grove,
Leaf and flower, hath gush’d her love;
But that passion, deep and true,
Knows not of a last adieu.
Types of lovelier forms than these
In their fragile mould she sees;
Shadows of yet richer things,
Born beside immortal springs,
Into fuller glory wrought,
Kindled by surpassing thought!
Therefore, in the lily’s leaf,
She can read no word of grief;
O’er the woodbine she can dwell,
Murmuring not--Farewell! farewell!
And her dim, yet speaking eye
Greets the violet solemnly.
Therefore once, and yet again,
Strew them o’er her bed of pain;
From her chamber take the gloom
With a light and flush of bloom:
So should one depart, who goes
Where no death can touch the rose!
THE IVY-SONG.[416]
Oh! how could fancy crown with _thee_,
In ancient days, the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the Vine?
Ivy! _thy_ home is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o’er;
Where song and beaker once went round,
But now are known no more;
Where long-fallen gods recline,
There the place is thine.
The Roman, on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
With thee, amidst exulting strains,
Shadow’d the victor’s tent.
Though, shining there in deathless green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor’s grave--
Urn and sculpture half divine
Yield their place to thine.
The cold halls of the regal dead,
Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell,
Where hollow sounds the lightest tread--
Ivy! they know thee well!
And far above the festal vine
Thou wavest where once proud banners hung,
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine--
The Rhine, still fresh and young!
Tower and rampart o’er the Rhine,
Ivy! all are thine!
High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish’d race,
Where harp, and battle, and renown,
Have pass’d, and left no trace.
But thou art there!--serenely bright,
Meeting the mountain-storms with bloom,
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or crown the lowliest tomb!
Ivy! Ivy! all are thine,
Palace, hearth, and shrine.
’Tis still the same: our pilgrim-tread
O’er classic plains, through deserts free,
On the mute path of ages fled,
Still meets decay and thee.
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, stern in power--
Days pass--thou Ivy never sere,[417]
And thou shalt have thy dower.
All are thine, or must be thine--
Temple, pillar, shrine!
[416] This song, as originally written, the reader will have met with
in an earlier part of this publication, (p. 354.) Being afterwards
completely remodelled by Mrs Hemans, perhaps no apology is requisite
for its re-insertion here.
[417] “Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”--_Lycidas._
THE MUSIC OF ST PATRICK’S.
[The choral music of St Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, is almost
unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific
skill. The majestic harmony of effect thus produced is not a little
deepened by the character of the church itself, which, though small,
yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and old
monumental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by the spirit
of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to recognise it
as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old--a place to witness the
solitary vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at the
burial of some warlike king.]
“All the choir
Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas.”--Milton.
Again! oh! send that anthem-peal again
Through the arch’d roof in triumph to the sky!
Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain,
The banners thrill as if with victory!
Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might have heard,
While arm’d for fields of chivalrous renown:
Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirr’d,
While throbbing still beneath the recent crown!
Those notes once more!--they bear my soul away,
They lend the wings of morning to its flight;
No earthly passion in th’ exulting lay
Whispers one tone to win me from that height.
All is of Heaven! Yet wherefore to mine eye
Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source,
Even while the waves of that strong harmony
Roll with my spirit on their sounding course?
Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal
Thus by the burst of sorrow’s token shower!
--Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel
Our nature’s limit in its proudest hour?
[The mention of Neukomm’s magnificent organ-playing brings to
remembrance one great enjoyment of Mrs Hemans’s residence in
Dublin--the exquisite “Music of St Patrick’s,” of which she has
recorded her impressions in the little poem so entitled. Its effect
is, indeed, such as, once heard, can never be forgotten. If ever
earthly music can be _satisfying_, it must surely be such as this,
bringing home to our bosoms the solemn beauty of our own holy
liturgy, with all its precious and endeared associations, in tones
that make the heart swell with ecstasy, and the eyes overflow with
unbidden tears. There was one anthem, frequently heard within those
ancient walls, which Mrs Hemans used to speak of with peculiar
enthusiasm--that from the 3d Psalm--“Lord, how are they increased
that trouble me!” The consummate skill exhibited in the adaptation
of sound to sense in this noble composition is, in truth, most
admirable. The symphony to the 5th verse--“I laid me down and
slept”--with its soft, dreamy vibrations, gentle as the hovering
of an angel’s wing--the utter _abandon_, the melting into slumber,
implied by the half-whispered words that came breathing as from a
world of spirits--almost “steep the senses in forgetfulness,” when a
sudden outbreak, as it were, of life and light, bursts forth with the
glad announcement, “I awaked, for the Lord sustained me;” then the
old sombre arches ring with an almost overpowering peal of triumph,
bearing to Heaven’s gate the exulting chorus of the 6th and 8th
verses.--_Memoir_, p. 260-1.]
KEENE; OR, LAMENT OF AN IRISH MOTHER OVER HER SON.
[This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the Irish
Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and deep pathos, and
other characteristics analogous to those of the national music.]
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son!
Silent and dark!
There is blood upon the threshold
Whence thy step went forth at morn
Like a dancer’s in its fleetness,
O my bright first-born!
At the glad sound of that footstep
My heart within me smiled;--
Thou wert brought me back all silent
On thy bier, my child!
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son!
Silent and dark!
I thought to see thy children
Laugh on me with thine eyes;
But my sorrow’s voice is lonely
Where my life’s flower lies.
I shall go to sit beside thee,
Thy kindred’s graves among;
I shall hear the tall grass whisper--
I shall not hear it long.
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son!
Silent and dark!
And I, too, shall find slumber
With my lost one in the earth;--
Let none light up the ashes
Again on our hearth!
Let the roof go down!--let silence
On the home for ever fall,
Where my boy lay cold, and heard not
His lone mother’s call!
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son!
Silent and dark!
FAR AWAY.[418]
Far away!--my home is far away,
Where the blue sea laves a mountain-shore;
In the woods I hear my brothers play,
Midst the flowers my sister sings once more,
Far away!
Far away!--my dreams are far away,
When at midnight stars and shadows reign:
“Gentle child!” my mother seems to say,
“Follow me where home shall smile again,
Far away!”
Far away!--my hope is far away,
Where love’s voice young gladness may restore.
--O thou dove! now soaring through the day,
Lend me wings to reach that better shore,
Far away!
[418] This, and the five following songs, have been set to music of
great merit, by J. Zeugheer Herrmann and H. F. Chorley, Esq., and
are published in a set by Mr Power, who has given permission for the
appearance of the words in this volume.
THE LYRE AND FLOWER.
A lyre its plaintive sweetness pour’d
Forth on the wild wind’s track;
The stormy wanderer jarr’d the chord,
But gave no music back.--
O child of song!
Bear hence to heaven thy fire:
What hopest thou from the reckless throng?
Be not like that lost lyre!
Not like that lyre!
A flower its leaves and odours cast
On a swift-rolling wave;
Th’ unheeding torrent darkly pass’d,
And back no treasure gave.--
O heart of love!
Waste not thy precious dower:
Turn to thine only home above!
Be not like that lost flower!
Not like that flower!
SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST.
Sister! since I met thee last,
O’er thy brow a change hath past.
In the softness of thine eyes,
Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone
Never to thy childhood known;
Through thy soul a storm hath moved,
--Gentle sister! thou hast loved!
Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught
Hues too bright from troubled thought;
Far along the wandering stream
Thou art follow’d by a dream;
In the woods and valleys lone
Music haunts thee, not thine own:
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain?
--Sister! thou hast loved in vain!
Tell me not the tale, my flower!
On my bosom pour that shower!
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted;
Tell me not of young hopes blasted;
Wring not forth one burning word,
Let thy heart no more be stirr’d!
Home alone can give thee rest.
--Weep, sweet sister! on my breast!
THE LONELY BIRD.
From a ruin thou art singing,
O lonely, lonely bird!
The soft blue air is ringing,
By thy summer music stirr’d.
But all is dark and cold beneath,
Where harps no more are heard:
Whence win’st thou that exulting breath,
O lonely, lonely bird?
Thy songs flow richly swelling
To a triumph of glad sounds,
As from its cavern-dwelling
A stream in glory bounds!
Though the castle-echoes catch no tone
Of human step or word,
Though the fires be quench’d and the feasting done,
O lonely, lonely bird?
How can that flood of gladness
Rush through thy fiery lay,
From the haunted place of sadness,
From the bosom of decay--
While the dirge-notes in the breeze’s moan,
Through the ivy garlands heard,
Come blent with thy rejoicing tone,
O lonely, lonely bird?
There’s many a heart, wild singer!
Like thy forsaken tower,
Where joy no more may linger,
Where Love hath left his bower:
And there’s many a spirit e’en like thee,
To mirth as lightly stirr’d,
Though it soar from ruins in its glee,
O lonely, lonely bird!
DIRGE AT SEA.
Sleep!--we give thee to the wave,
Red with life-blood from the brave.
Thou shalt find a noble grave.
Fare thee well!
Sleep! thy billowy field is won:
Proudly may the funeral gun,
Midst the hush at set of sun,
Boom thy knell!
Lonely, lonely is thy bed,
Never there may flower be shed,
Marble rear’d, or brother’s head
Bow’d to weep.
Yet thy record on the sea,
Borne through battle high and free,
Long the red-cross flag shall be.
Sleep! oh, sleep!
PILGRIM’S SONG TO THE EVENING STAR.
O soft star of the west!
Gleaming far,
Thou’rt guiding all things home,
Gentle star!
Thou bring’st from rock and wave
The sea-bird to her nest,
The hunter from the hills,
The fisher back to rest.
Light of a thousand streams,
Gleaming far!
O soft star of the west!
Blessed star!
No bowery roof is mine,
No hearth of love and rest,
Yet guide me to my shrine,
O soft star of the west!
There, there my home shall be,
Heaven’s dew shall cool my breast,
When prayer and tear gush free,
O soft star of the west!
O soft star of the west,
Gleaming far!
Thou’rt guiding all things home,
Gentle star!
Shine from thy rosy heaven,
Pour joy on earth and sea!
Shine on, though no sweet eyes
Look forth to watch for me!
Light of a thousand streams,
Gleaming afar!
O soft star of the west!
Blessed star!
THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.
“We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and looks
of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short moments: and then
days, months, years intervene, and we see and know nothing of each
other.”--Washington Irving.
Two barks met on the deep mid-sea,
When calms had still’d the tide;
A few bright days of summer glee
There found them side by side.
And voices of the fair and brave
Rose mingling thence in mirth;
And sweetly floated o’er the wave
The melodies of earth.
Moonlight on that lone Indian main
Cloudless and lovely slept;
While dancing step, and festive strain
Each deck in triumph swept.
And hands were link’d, and answering eyes
With kindly meaning shone;
Oh! brief and passing sympathies,
Like leaves together blown!
A little while such joy was cast
Over the deep’s repose,
Till the loud singing winds at last
Like trumpet-music rose.
And proudly, freely on their way
The parting vessels bore;
In calm or storm, by rock or bay,
To meet--oh, never more!
Never to blend in victory’s cheer,
To aid in hours of woe:
And thus bright spirits mingle here,
Such ties are form’d below!
COME AWAY.
Come away!--the child, where flowers are springing
Round its footsteps on the mountain-slope,
Hears a glad voice from the upland singing,
Like the skylark’s with its tone of hope:
Come away!
Bounding on, with sunny lands before him,
All the wealth of glowing life outspread,
Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o’er him,
By that strain the youth in joy is led:
Come away!
Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling
O’er the sweetness of the voice within;
Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling,
Urge the hunter still to chase, to win:
Come away!
Come away!--the heart at last forsaken,
Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue;
Yet a breath can still those words awaken,
Though to other shores far hence they woo:
Come away!
In the light leaves, in the reed’s faint sighing,
In the low, sweet sounds of early spring,
Still their music wanders--till the dying
Hears them pass, as on a spirit’s wing:
Come away!
FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL.
[“Fair Helen of Kirkconnel,” as she is called in the Scottish
Minstrelsy, throwing herself between her betrothed lover and a rival
by whom his life was assailed, received a mortal wound, and died in
the arms of the former.]
Hold me upon thy faithful heart,
Keep back my flitting breath;
’Tis early, early to depart,
Beloved!--yet this is death!
Look on me still--let that kind eye
Be the last light I see!
Oh! sad it is in spring to die,
But yet I die for thee!
For thee, my own!--thy stately head
Was never thus to bow:
Give tears when with me love hath fled,
True love, thou know’st it now!
Oh, the free streams look’d bright, where’er
We in our gladness roved;
And the blue skies were very fair,
O friend! because we loved.
Farewell!--I bless thee--live thou on
When this young heart is low!
Surely my blood thy life hath won--
Clasp me once more--I go!
MUSIC FROM SHORE.
A sound comes on the rising breeze,
A sweet and lovely sound!
Piercing the tumult of the seas
That wildly dash around.
From land, from sunny land it comes,
From hills with murmuring trees,
From paths by still and happy homes--
That sweet sound on the breeze.
Why should its faint and passing sigh
Thus bid my quick pulse leap?
No part in earth’s glad melody
Is mine upon the deep.
Yet blessing, blessing on the spot
Whence those rich breathings flow!
Kind hearts, although they know me not,
Like mine there beat and glow.
And blessing, from the bark that roams
O’er solitary seas,
To those that far in happy homes
Give sweet sounds to the breeze!
LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS EYES.
Look on me with thy cloudless eyes,
Truth in their dark transparence lies;
Their sweetness gives me back the tears
And the free trust of early years,
My gentle child!
The spirit of my infant prayer
Shines in the depths of quiet there;
And home and love once more are mine.
Found in that dewy calm divine,
My gentle child!
Oh! heaven is with thee in thy dreams,
Its light by day around thee gleams--
Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies:
Look on me with thy cloudless eyes,
My gentle child!
IF THOU HAST CRUSH’D A FLOWER.
“Oh, cast thou not
Affection from thee! In this bitter world
Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast;
Watch--guard it--suffer not a breath to dim
The bright gem’s purity!”
If thou hast crush’d a flower,
The root may not be blighted;
If thou hast quench’d a lamp,
Once more it may be lighted:
But on thy harp, or on thy lute,
The string which thou hast broken
Shall never in sweet sound again
Give to thy touch a token!
If thou hast loosed a bird
Whose voice of song could cheer thee,
Still, still he may be won
From the skies to warble near thee:
But if upon the troubled sea
Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded,
Hope not that wind or wave will bring
The treasure back when needed.
If thou hast bruised a vine,
The summer’s breath is healing,
And its clusters yet may glow
Through the leaves their bloom revealing:
But if thou hast a cup o’erthrown
With a bright draught fill’d--oh! never
Shall earth give back that lavish’d wealth
To cool thy parch’d lip’s fever!
The heart is like that cup,
If thou waste the love it bore thee;
And like that jewel gone,
Which the deep will not restore thee;
And like that string of harp or lute
Whence the sweet sound is scatter’d,--
Gently, oh! gently touch the chords,
So soon for ever shatter’d!
BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED.
Brightly, brightly hast thou fled!
Ere one grief had bow’d thy head!
Brightly didst thou part!
With thy young thoughts pure from spot,
With thy fond love wasted not,
With thy bounding heart.
Ne’er by sorrow to be wet,
Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet,
Ere with dust o’erspread:
Lilies ne’er by tempest blown,
White rose which no stain hath known,
Be about thee shed!
So we give thee to the earth,
And the primrose shall have birth
O’er thy gentle head;
Thou that, like a dewdrop borne
On a sudden breeze of morn,
Brightly thus hast fled!
THE BED OF HEATH.
“Soldier, awake! the night is past;
Hear’st thou not the bugle’s blast?
Feel’st thou not the dayspring’s breath?
Rouse thee from thy bed of heath!
Arm, thou bold and strong!
Soldier! what deep spell hath bound thee?
Fiery steeds are neighing round thee--
Banners to the fresh wind play:
Rise, and arm--’tis day,’tis day!
And thou hast slumber’d long.”
“Brother! on the heathery lea
Longer yet my sleep must be;
Though the morn of battle rise,
Darkly night rolls o’er my eyes--
Brother, this is death!
Call me not when bugles sound,
Call me not when wine flows round;
Name me but amidst the brave,
Give me but a soldier’s grave--
But my bed of heath!”
FAIRY SONG.
Have ye left the greenwood lone,
Are your steps for ever gone?
Fairy King and Elfin Queen,
Come ye to the sylvan scene,
From your dim and distant shore,
Never more?
Shall the pilgrim never hear
With a thrill of joy and fear,
In the hush of moonlight hours,
Voices from the folded flowers,
Faint, sweet flute-notes as of yore,
Never more?
“Mortal! ne’er shall bowers of earth
Hear again our midnight mirth:
By our brooks and dingles green
Since unhallow’d steps have been,
Ours shall thread the forests hoar
Never more.
“Ne’er on earth-born lily’s stem
Will we hang the dewdrop’s gem;
Ne’er shall reed or cowslip’s head
Quiver to our dancing tread,
By sweet fount or murmuring shore--
Never more!”
WHAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND.
What woke the buried sound that lay
In Memnon’s harp of yore?
What spirit on its viewless way
Along the Nile’s green shore?
Oh! not the night, and not the storm,
And not the lightning’s fire;
But sunlight’s torch, the kind, the warm--
This, this awoke the lyre.
What wins the heart’s deep chords to pour
Thus music forth on life--
Like a sweet voice prevailing o’er
The truant sounds of strife?
Oh! not the conflict midst the throng,
Not e’en the trumpet’s hour;
Love is the gifted and the strong,
To wake that music’s power!
SING TO ME, GONDOLIER!
Sing to me, Gondolier!
Sing words from Tasso’s lay;
While blue, and still, and clear,
Night seems but softer day.
The gale is gently falling,
As if it paused to hear
Some strain the past recalling--
Sing to me, Gondolier!
“Oh, ask me not to wake
The memory of the brave;
Bid no high numbers break
The silence of the wave.
Gone are the noble-hearted,
Closed the bright pageants here;
And the glad song is departed
From the mournful Gondolier!”
LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE.
It is thy pity makes me weep,
My soul was strong before;
Silent, yet strong its griefs to keep
From vainly gushing o’er.
Turn from me, turn those gentle eyes!
In this fond gaze my spirit dies:
Look on me thus no more!
Too late that softness comes to bless,
My heart’s glad life is o’er;
It will but break with tenderness,
Which cannot now restore!
The lyre-strings have been jarr’d too long,
Winter hath touch’d the source of song!
Look on me thus no more!
O’ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS.
O’er the far blue mountains,
O’er the white sea-foam,
Come, thou long-parted one!
Back to thine home.
When the bright fire shineth,
Sad looks thy place,
While the true heart pineth
Missing thy face.
Music is sorrowful
Since thou art gone;
Sisters are mourning thee--
Come to thine own!
Hark! the home-voices call
Back to thy rest;
Come to thy father’s hall,
Thy mother’s breast!
O’er the far blue mountains,
O’er the white sea-foam,
Come, thou long-parted one!
Back to thine home.
O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING!
O thou breeze of spring,
Gladdening sea and shore!
Wake the woods to sing,
Wake my heart no more!
Streams have felt the sighing
Of thy scented wing,
Let each fount replying
Hail thee, breeze of spring!
Once more!
O’er long-buried flowers
Passing not in vain,
Odours in soft showers
Thou hast brought again.
Let the primrose greet thee,
Let the violet pour
Incense forth to meet thee--
Wake my heart no more!
No more!
From a funeral urn
Bower’d in leafy gloom,
Even _thy_ soft return
Calls not song or bloom.
Leave my spirit sleeping
Like that silent thing;
Stir the founts of weeping
_There_, O breeze of spring!
No more!
COME TO ME, DREAMS OF HEAVEN!
Come to me, dreams of heaven!
My fainting spirit bear
On your bright wings, by morning given,
Up to celestial air.
Away--far, far away,
From bowers by tempests riven,
Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day,
O blessed dreams of heaven!
Come but for one brief hour,
Sweet dreams! and yet again
O’er burning thought and memory shower
Your soft effacing rain!
Waft me where gales divine,
With dark clouds ne’er have striven,
Where living founts for ever shine--
O blessed dreams of heaven!
GOOD-NIGHT.
Day is past!
Stars have set their watch at last;
Founts that through the deep woods flow
Make sweet sounds, unheard till now;
Flowers have shut with fading light--
Good-night!
Go to rest!
Sleep sit dove-like on thy breast!
If within that secret cell
One dark form of memory dwell,
Be it mantled from thy sight--
Good-night!
Joy be thine!
Kind looks o’er thy slumbers shine!
Go, and in the spirit-land
Meet thy home’s long-parted band;
Be their eyes all love and light--
Good-night!
Peace to all!
Dreams of heaven on mourners fall!
Exile! o’er thy couch may gleams
Pass from thine own mountain-streams;
Bard! away to worlds more bright--
Good-night!
LET HER DEPART.
Her home is far, oh! far away!
The clear light in her eyes
Hath naught to do with earthly day--
’Tis kindled from the skies.
Let her depart!
She looks upon the things of earth,
Even as some gentle star
Seems gazing down on grief or mirth,
How softly, yet how far!
Let her depart!
Her spirit’s hope--her bosom’s love--
Oh! could they mount and fly!
She never sees a wandering dove,
But for its wings to sigh.
Let her depart!
She never hears a soft wind bear
Low music on its way,
But deems it sent from heavenly air
For her who cannot stay.
Let her depart!
Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams,
She breathes and moves alone,
Pining for those bright bowers and streams
Where her beloved is gone.
Let her depart!
HOW CAN THAT LOVE SO DEEP, SO LONE.
How can that love so deep, so lone,
So faithful unto death,
Thus fitfully in laughing tone,
In airy word, find breath?
Nay! ask how on the dark wave’s breast,
The lily’s cup may gleam,
Though many a mournful secret rest
Low in the unfathom’d stream.
That stream is like my hidden love,
In its deep current’s power;
And like the play of words above,
That lily’s trembling flower.
WATER-LILIES.
A FAIRY SONG.
Come away, elves!--while the dew is sweet,
Come to the dingles where fairies meet!
Know that the lilies have spread their bells
O’er all the pools in our forest dells;
Stilly and lightly their vases rest
On the quivering sleep of the water’s breast,
Catching the sunshine through leaves that throw
To their scented bosoms an emerald glow;
And a star from the depth of each pearly cup,
A golden star unto heaven looks up,
As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie,
Set in the blue of the summer sky.
Come away! Under arching boughs we’ll float,
Making those urns each a fairy boat;
We’ll row them with reeds o’er the fountains free,
And a tall flag-leaf shall our streamer be;
And we’ll send out wild music so sweet and low,
It shall seem from the bright flower’s heart to flow,
As if ’twere a breeze with a flute’s low sigh,
Or water-drops train’d into melody.
Come away! for the midsummer sun grows strong,
And the life of the lily may not be long.
THE BROKEN FLOWER.
Oh! wear it on thy heart, my love!
Still, still a little while!
Sweetness is lingering in its leaves,
Though faded be their smile.
Yet, for the sake of what hath been,
Oh, cast it not away!
’Twas born to grace a summer scene,
A long, bright, golden day,
My love!
A long, bright, golden day!
A little while around thee, love!
Its fragrance yet shall cling,
Telling, that on thy heart hath lain
A fair, though faded thing.
But not even that warm heart hath power
To win it back from fate,--
Oh! _I_ am like thy broken flower,
Cherish’d too late, too late,
My love!
Cherish’d alas! too late!
I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAIN.
I would we had not met again!
I had a dream of thee,
Lovely, though sad, on desert-plain--
Mournful on midnight sea.
What though it haunted me by night,
And troubled through the day?
It touch’d all earth with spirit-light,
It glorified my way!
Oh! what shall now my faith restore
In holy things and fair?
We met--I saw thy soul once more--
The world’s breath had been there!
Yes! it was sad on desert-plain,
Mournful on midnight sea;
Yet would I buy with life again
That one deep dream of thee!
FAIRIES’ RECALL.
While the blue is richest
In the starry sky,
While the softest shadows
On the greensward lie,
While the moonlight slumbers
In the lily’s urn,
Bright elves of the wild-wood!
Oh! return, return!
Round the forest-fountain,
On the river-shore,
Let your silvery laughter
Echo yet once more;
While the joyous bounding
Of your dewy feet
Rings to that old chorus--
“The daisy is so sweet!”[419]
Oberon! Titania!
Did your starlight mirth
With the song of Avon
Quit this work-day earth?
Yet, while green leaves glisten,
And while bright stars burn,
By that magic memory,
Oh! return, return!
[419] See the fairies’ chorus in Chaucer’s “Flower and the Leaf.”
THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA.
Oh! tell me not the woods are fair
Now Spring is on her way!
Well, well I know how brightly there
In joy the young leaves play;
How sweet on winds of morn or eve
The violet’s breath may be;--
Yet ask me, woo me not to leave
My lone rock by the sea.
The wild wave’s thunder on the shore,
The curlew’s restless cries,
Unto my watching heart are more
Than all earth’s melodies.
Come back, my ocean rover! come!
There’s but one place for me,
Till I can greet thy swift sail home--
My lone rock by the sea!
O YE VOICES GONE!
O ye voices gone!
Sounds of other years!
Hush that haunting tone,
Melt me not to tears!
All around forget,
All who loved you well;
Yet, sweet voices! yet
O’er my soul ye swell.
With the winds of spring,
With the breath of flowers,
Floating back, ye bring
Thoughts of vanished hours.
Hence your music take,
O ye voices gone!
This lonely heart ye make
But more deeply lone.
BY A MOUNTAIN-STREAM AT REST.
By a mountain-stream at rest,
We found the warrior lying,
And around his noble breast
A banner clasp’d in dying:
Dark and still
Was every hill,
And the winds of night were sighing.
Last of his noble race
To a lonely bed we bore him--
’Twas a green, still, solemn place.
Where the mountain-heath waves o’er him,
Woods alone
Seem to moan,
Wild streams to deplore him.
Yet, from festive hall and lay
Our sad thoughts oft are flying
To those dark hills far away,
Where in death we found him lying;
On his breast
A banner press’d,
And the night-wind o’er him sighing.
IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING?
Is there some Spirit sighing
With sorrow in the air?
Can weary hearts be dying,
Vain love repining _there_?
If not, then how can that wild wail,
O sad Æeolian lyre!
Be drawn forth by the wandering gale
From thy deep thrilling wire?
No, no!--thou dost not borrow
That sadness from the wind,
Nor are those tones of sorrow
In thee, O harp! enshrined;
But in our own hearts deeply set
Lies the true quivering lyre,
Whence love, and memory, and regret
Wake answers from thy wire.
THE NAME OF ENGLAND.
The trumpet of the battle
Hath a high and thrilling tone;
And the first, deep gun of an ocean-fight
Dread music all its own.
But a mightier power, my England!
Is in that name of thine,
To strike the fire from every heart
Along the banner’d line.
Proudly it woke the spirits
Of yore, the brave and true,
When the bow was bent on Cressy’s field,
And the yeoman’s arrow flew.
And proudly hath it floated
Through the battles of the sea,
When the red-cross flag o’er smoke-wreaths play’d
Like the lightning in its glee.
On rock, on wave, on bastion,
Its echoes have been known;
By a thousand streams the hearts lie low
That have answer’d to its tone.
A thousand ancient mountains
Its pealing note hath stirr’d,--
Sound on, and on, for evermore,
O thou victorious word!
OLD NORWAY.
A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG.
[“To a Norwegian, the words _Gamlé Norgé_ (Old Norway) have a spell in
them immediate and powerful; they cannot be resisted. _Gamlé Norgé_
is heard, in an instant, repeated by every voice; the glasses are
filled, raised, and drained--not a drop is left; and then bursts forth
the simultaneous chorus ‘_For Norgé!_’ the national song of Norway.
Here, (at Christiansand,) and in a hundred other instances in Norway,
I have seen the character of a company entirely changed by the chance
introduction of the expression _Gamlé Norgé_. The gravest discussion
is instantly interrupted; and one might suppose for the moment
that the party was a party of patriots, assembled to commemorate
some national anniversary of freedom.”--Derwent Conway’s _Personal
Narrative of a Journey through Norway and Sweden_.
The following words have been published, as arranged to the spirited
national air of Norway, by Charles Graves, Esq.]
Arise! Old Norway sends the word
Of battle on the blast;
Her voice the forest pines hath stirr’d,
As if a storm went past;
Her thousand hills the call have heard,
And forth their fire-flags cast.
Arm, arm, free hunters! for the chase,
The kingly chase of foes!
’Tis not the bear or wild wolf’s race
Whose trampling shakes the snows:
Arm, arm! ’tis on a nobler trace
The northern spearman goes.
Our hills have dark and strong defiles,
With many an icy bed;
Heap there the rocks for funeral piles
Above the invader’s head!
Or let the seas, that guard our isles,
Give burial to his dead!
COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP!
[“Mrs Hemans writes for all tastes and for all ages, as well as for
all nations, and therefore she may do well to write in all sorts
of style and manner. And, at all events, she who pleases others so
well, may be allowed at times to please herself. Such strains as the
following might soothe the ear of Rhadamanthus, and charm Cerberus to
slumber.”--_Eclectic Review_, 1834.]
Come to me, gentle Sleep!
I pine, I pine for thee;
Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep,
And set my spirit free!
Each lonely, burning thought
In twilight languor steep--
Come to the full heart, long o’erwrought,
O gentle, gentle Sleep!
Come with thine urn of dew,
Sleep, gentle Sleep! yet bring
No voice, love’s yearning to renew,
No vision on thy wing!
Come, as to folding flowers,
To birds in forests deep--
Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours,
O gentle, gentle Sleep!
SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE,
TO
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ.,
IN TOKEN OF DEEP RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND FERVENT GRATITUDE FOR
MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL BENEFIT DERIVED FROM REVERENTIAL COMMUNION WITH
THE SPIRIT OF HIS POETRY, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY
FELICIA HEMANS.[420]
Preface.--I trust I shall not be accused of presumption for the
endeavour which I have here made to enlarge, in some degree, the
sphere of religious poetry, by associating with its themes more of the
emotions, the affections, and even the purer imaginative enjoyments of
daily life, than may have been hitherto admitted within the hallowed
circle.
It has been my wish to portray the religious spirit, not alone in
its meditative joys and solitary aspirations, (the poetic embodying
of which seems to require from the reader a state of mind already
separated and exalted,) but likewise in those active influences upon
human life, so often called into victorious energy by trial and
conflict, though too often also, like the upward-striving flame of a
mountain watch-fire, borne down by tempest-showers, or swayed by the
current of opposing winds.
I have sought to represent that spirit as penetrating the gloom of the
prison and the deathbed, bearing “healing on its wings” to the agony
of parting love--strengthening the heart of the wayfarer for “perils
in the wilderness”--gladdening the domestic walk through field and
woodland--and springing to life in the soul of childhood, along with
its earliest rejoicing perceptions of natural beauty.
Circumstances not altogether under my own control have, for the
present, interfered to prevent the fuller development of a plan which
I yet hope more worthily to mature; and I lay this little volume
before the public with that deep sense of deficiency which cannot be
more impressively taught to human powers than by their reverential
application to things divine.--Felicia Hemans.
1834.
[420] The long-contemplated collection of _Scenes and Hymns of Life_
was published soon after the two little volumes above alluded to. In
her original dedication of this work to Mr Wordsworth, Mrs Hemans
had given free scope to the expression of her sentiments, not only
of veneration for the poet, but of deep and grateful regard for the
friend. From a fear, however, that delicacy on Mr Wordsworth’s part
might prevent his wishing to receive, in a public form, a testimonial
of so much private feeling from a living individual, the intended
letter was suppressed, and its substantial ideas conveyed in the brief
inscription which was finally prefixed to the volume. It is now hoped
that all such objections to its publication have vanished, and that
the revered friend to whom it was addressed will receive it as the
heart-tribute of one to whom flattery was unknown--as consecrated by
the solemn truth of a voice from the grave.
_Intended Dedication of the “Scenes and Hymns of Life,” to William
Wordsworth, Esq._
“My dear Sir,
“I earnestly wish that the little volume here inscribed to you, in
token of affectionate veneration, were pervaded by more numerous
traces of those strengthening and elevating influences which breathe
from all your poetry ‘a power to virtue friendly.’ I wish, too, that
such a token could more adequately convey my deep sense of gratitude
for moral and intellectual benefit long derived from the study of
that poetry--for the perpetual fountains of ‘serious faith and inward
glee’ which I have never failed to discover amidst its pure and lofty
regions--for the fresh green places of refuge which it has offered me
in many an hour, when
‘The fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart;’
and when I have found in your thoughts and images such relief as the
vision of your ‘Sylvan Wye’ may, at similar times, have afforded to
yourself.
“May I be permitted, on the present occasion, to record my unfading
recollections of enjoyment from your society--of delight in having
heard from your own lips, and amidst your own lovely mountain-land,
many of those compositions, the remembrance of which will ever spread
over its hills and waters a softer colouring of spiritual beauty? Let
me also express to you, as to a dear and most honoured friend, my
fervent wishes for your long enjoyment of a widely-extended influence,
which cannot but be blessed--of a domestic life, encircling you with
yet nearer and deeper sources of happiness; and of those eternal hopes,
on whose foundation you have built, as a Christian poet, the noble
structure of your works.
“I rely upon your kindness, my dear Sir, for an indulgent reception
of my offering, however lowly, since you will feel assured of the
sincerity with which it is presented by your ever grateful and
affectionate Felicia Hemans.”
THE ENGLISH MARTYRS;
A SCENE OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY.
“Thy face
Is all at once spread over with a calm
More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy!
I am no more disconsolate.” Wilson.
Scene I.--_A Prison._
Edith _alone_.
_Edith._ Morn once again! Morn in the lone, dim cell,
The cavern of the prisoner’s fever-dream;
And morn on all the green, rejoicing hills,
And the bright waters round the prisoner’s home,
Far, far away! Now wakes the early bird,
That in the lime’s transparent foliage sings,
Close to my cottage-lattice--he awakes,
To stir the young leaves with his gushing soul,
And to call forth rich answers of delight
From voices buried in a thousand trees
Through the dim, starry hours. Now doth the lake
Darken and flash in rapid interchange
Unto the matin breeze; and the blue mist
Rolls, like a furling banner, from the brows
Of the forth-gleaming hills and woods that rise
As if new-born. Bright world! and I am here!
And thou, O thou! the awakening thought of whom
Was more than dayspring, dearer than the sun,
Herbert! the very glance of whose clear eye
Made my soul melt away to one pure fount
Of living, bounding gladness!--where art _thou_?
My friend! my only and my blessed love!
Herbert, my soul’s companion!
Gomez, _a Spanish Priest, enters_.
_Gom._ Daughter, hail!
I bring thee tidings.
_Ed._ Heaven will aid my soul
Calmly to meet whate’er thy lips announce.
_Gom._ Nay, lift a song of thanksgiving to heaven,
And bow thy knee down for deliverance won!
Hast thou not pray’d for life? and wouldst thou not
Once more be free!
_Ed._ Have I not pray’d for life?
I, that am so beloved! that love again
With such a heart of tendrils? Heaven! _thou_ know’st
The gushings of my prayer! And would I not
Once more be free? I that have been a child
Of breezy hills, a playmate of the fawn
In ancient woodlands from mine infancy!
A watcher of the clouds and of the stars,
Beneath the adoring silence of the night;
And a glad wanderer with the happy streams,
Whose laughter fills the mountains! Oh! to hear
Their blessed sounds again!
_Gom._ Rejoice, rejoice!
Our queen hath pity, maiden! on thy youth;
She wills not thou shouldst perish. I am come
To loose thy bonds.
_Ed._ And shall I see _his_ face,
And shall I listen to _his_ voice again,
And lay my head upon his faithful breast,
Weeping there in my gladness? _Will_ this be?
Blessings upon thee, father! my quick heart
Hath deem’d thee stern--say, wilt thou not forgive
The wayward child, too long in sunshine rear’d--
Too long unused to chastening? Wilt thou not?
But Herbert, Herbert! Oh, my soul hath rush’d
On a swift gust of sudden joy away,
Forgetting all beside! Speak, father! speak!
Herbert--is he, too, free?
_Gom._ His freedom lies
In his own choice--a boon like thine.
_Ed._ Thy words
Fall changed and cold upon my boding heart.
Leave not this dim suspense o’ershadowing me;
Let all be told.
_Gom._ The monarchs of the earth
Shower not their mighty gifts without a claim
Unto some token of true vassalage,
Some mark of homage.
_Ed._ Oh! unlike to _Him_
Who freely pours the joy of sunshine forth,
And the bright, quickening rain, on those who serve
And those who heed Him not!
_Gom._ (_laying a paper before her._) Is it so much
That thine own hand should set the crowning seal
To thy deliverance? Look, thy task is here!
Sign but these words for liberty and life.
_Ed._ (_examining and then throwing it from her._)
Sign but these words! and wherefore saidst thou not
--“Be but a traitor to God’s light within?”
Cruel, oh cruel! thy dark sport hath been
With a young bosom’s hope! Farewell, glad life!
Bright opening path to love and home, farewell!
And thou--now leave me with my God alone!
_Gom._ Dost thou reject heaven’s mercy?
_Ed._ Heaven’s! doth _heaven_
Woo the free spirit for dishonour’d breath
To sell its birthright?--doth _heaven_ set a price
On the clear jewel of unsullied faith,
And the bright calm of conscience? Priest, away!
God hath been with me midst the holiness
Of England’s mountains. Not in sport alone
I trod their heath-flowers; but high thoughts rose up
From the broad shadow of the enduring rocks,
And wander’d with me into solemn glens,
Where my soul felt the beauty of His word.
I have heard voices of immortal truth,
Blent with the everlasting torrent-sounds
That make the deep hills tremble.--Shall I quail?
Shall England’s daughter sink? No! He who there
Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm,
Will not forsake His child!
_Gom._ (_turning from her._) Then perish! lost
In thine own blindness!
_Ed._ (_suddenly throwing herself at his feet._)
Father! hear me yet!
Oh! if the kindly touch of human love
Hath ever warm’d thy breast----
_Gom._ Away--away!
I know not love.
_Ed._ Yet hear! if thou hast known
The tender sweetness of a mother’s voice--
If the true vigil of affection’s eye
Hath watch’d thy childhood--if fond tears have e’er
Been shower’d upon thy head--if parting words
E’er pierced thy spirit with their tenderness--
Let me but look upon _his_ face once more,
Let me but say--Farewell, my soul’s beloved!
And I will bless thee still!
_Gom._ (_aside._) Her soul may yield,
Beholding him in fetters; woman’s faith
Will bend to woman’s love.
Thy prayer is heard;
Follow, and I will guide thee to his cell.
_Ed._ O stormy hour of agony and joy!
But I shall see him--I shall hear his voice!
[_They go out._
Scene II.--_Another part of the Prison._
Herbert, Edith.
_Ed._ Herbert! my Herbert! is it thus we meet?
_Her._ The voice of my own Edith! Can such joy
Light up this place of death! And do I feel
Thy breath of love once more upon my cheek,
And the soft floating of thy gleamy hair,
My blessed Edith? Oh, so pale! so changed!
My flower, my blighted flower! thou that wert made
For the kind fostering of sweet, summer airs,
How hath the storm been with thee? Lay thy head
On this true breast again, my gentle one!
And tell me all.
_Ed._ Yes! take me to thy heart,
For I am weary, weary! Oh! that heart!
The kind, the brave, the tender!--how my soul
Hath sicken’d in vain yearnings for the balm
Of rest on that warm heart!--full, deep repose!
One draught of dewy stillness after storm!
And God hath pitied me, and I am here--
Yet once before I die.
_Her._ They _cannot_ slay
One young, and meek, and beautiful as thou,
My broken lily! Surely the long days
Of the dark cell have been enough for _thee_!
Oh! thou shalt live, and raise thy gracious head
Yet in calm sunshine.
_Ed._ Herbert! I have cast
The snare of proferr’d mercy from my soul,
This very hour. God to the weak hath given
Victory o’er life and death. The tempter’s price
Hath been rejected--Herbert, I must die.
_Her._ O Edith! Edith! I, that led thee first
From the old path wherein thy fathers trod--
I, that received it as an angel’s task,
To pour the fresh light on thine ardent soul,
Which drank it as a sunflower--_I_ have been
Thy guide to death.
_Ed._ To heaven! my guide to heaven,
My noble and my blessed! Oh! look up,
Be strong, rejoice, my Herbert! But for _thee_,
How could my spirit have sprung up to God
Through the dark cloud which o’er its vision hung,
The night of fear and error?--thy dear hand
First raised that veil, and show’d the glorious world
My heritage beyond. Friend! love, and friend!
It was as if thou gavest me mine own soul
In those bright days! Yes! a new earth and heaven,
And a new sense for all their splendours born--
These were thy gifts; and shall I not rejoice
To die, upholding their immortal worth,
Even for _thy_ sake? Yes! fill’d with nobler life
By thy pure love, made holy to the truth,
Lay me upon the altar of thy God,
The first fruits of thy ministry below--
_Thy_ work, thine own!
_Her._ My love, my sainted love!
Oh! I _can_ almost yield thee unto heaven;
Earth would but sully thee! Thou must depart,
With the rich crown of thy celestial gifts
Untainted by a breath. And yet, alas!
Edith! what dreams of holy happiness,
Even for _this_ world, were ours!--the low sweet home,
The pastoral dwelling, with its ivied porch,
And lattice gleaming through the leaves--and thou
My life’s companion! Thou, beside my hearth,
Sitting with thy meek eyes, or greeting me
Back from brief absence with thy bounding step,
In the green meadow-path, or by my side
Kneeling--thy calm uplifted face to mine,
In the sweet hush of prayer! And now--oh, now!--
How have we loved--how fervently! how long!
And _this_ to be the close!
_Ed._ Oh! bear me up
Against the unutterable tenderness
Of earthly love, my God!--in the sick hour
Of dying human hope, forsake me not!
Herbert, my Herbert! even from that sweet home
Where it had been too much of Paradise
To dwell with thee--even thence the oppressor’s hand
Might soon have torn us; or the touch of death
Might one day there have left a widow’d heart,
Pining alone. We will go hence, beloved!
To the bright country where the wicked cease
From troubling, where the spoiler hath no sway;
Where no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs
The Sabbath-peace of love. We will go hence,
Together with our wedded souls, to heaven:
No solitary lingering, no cold void,
No dying of the heart! Our lives have been
Lovely through faithful love, and in our deaths
We will not be divided.
_Her_. Oh! the peace
Of God is lying far within thine eyes,
Far underneath the mist of human tears
Lighting those blue, still depths, and sinking thence
On my worn heart. Now am I girt with strength,
Now I can bless thee, my true bride for heaven!
_Ed._ And let me bless _thee_, Herbert!--in this hour
Let my soul bless thee with prevailing might!
Oh! thou hast loved me nobly! thou didst take
An orphan to thy heart--a thing unprized
And desolate; and thou didst guard her there,
That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl
Of richest price; and thou didst fill her soul
With the high gifts of an immortal wealth.
I bless, I bless thee! Never did thine eye
Look on me but in glistening tenderness,
My gentle Herbert! Never did thy voice
But in affection’s deepest music speak
To thy poor Edith! Never was thy heart
Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine,
My faithful, generous Herbert! Woman’s peace
Ne’er on a breast so tender and so true
Reposed before. Alas! thy showering tears
Fall fast upon my cheek--forgive, forgive!
I should not melt thy noble strength away
In such an hour.
_Her._ Sweet Edith, no! my heart
Will fail no more. God bears me up through thee,
And by thy words, and by thy heavenly light
Shining around thee, through thy very tears,
Will yet sustain me! Let us call on Him!
Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft,
Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him,
Th’ all-pitying One, to aid.
[_They kneel._
Oh, look on us,
Father above!--in tender mercy look
On us, thy children!--through th’ o’ershadowing cloud
Of sorrow and mortality, send aid--
Save, or we perish! We would pour our lives
Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth;
But we are weak--we, the bruised reeds of earth,
Are sway’d by every gust. Forgive, O God!
The blindness of our passionate desires,
The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts
Which cleave to dust! Forgive the strife; accept
The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears,
From mortal pangs wrung forth! And if our souls,
In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess,
Of their long-clasping love, have wander’d not,
Holiest! from thee--oh! take them to thyself,
After the fiery trial--take them home
To dwell, in that imperishable bond
Before thee link’d, for ever. Hear!--thro’ Him
Who meekly drank the cup of agony,
Who pass’d through death to victory, hear and save!
Pity us, Father! we are girt with snares:
Father in Heaven! we have no help but thee.
[_They rise._
Is thy soul strengthen’d, my beloved one?
O Edith! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice,
And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn
We loved in happier days--the strain which tells
Of the dread conflict in the olive shade?
Edith _sings_.
He knelt, the Saviour knelt and pray’d,
When but his Father’s eye
Look’d through the lonely garden’s shade
On that dread agony;
The Lord of all above, beneath,
Was bow’d with sorrow unto death.
The sun set in a fearful hour,
The stars might well grow dim,
When this mortality had power
So to o’ershadow Him!
That He who gave man’s breath, might know
The very depths of human woe.
He proved them all!--the doubt, the strife,
The faint perplexing dread,
The mists that hang o’er parting life,
All gather’d round his head;
And the Deliverer knelt to pray--
Yet pass’d it not, that cup, away!
It pass’d not--though the stormy wave
Had sunk beneath his tread;
It pass’d not--though to Him the grave
Had yielded up its dead.
But there was sent him from on High
A gift of strength for man to die.
And was the Sinless thus beset
With anguish and dismay?
How may _we_ meet our conflict yet,
In the dark, narrow way?
Through Him--through Him that path who trod.
--Save, or we perish, Son of God!
Hark, hark! the parting signal.
[_Prison attendants enter._
Fare thee well!
O thou unutterably loved, farewell!
Let our hearts bow to God!
_Her._ One last embrace--
On earth the last! We have eternity
For love’s communion yet! Farewell!--farewell!
[_She is led out._
’Tis o’er!--the bitterness of death is past!
FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.
“Once when I look’d along the laughing earth,
Up the blue heavens and through the middle air,
Joyfully ringing with the skylark’s song,
I wept! and thought how sad for one so young
To bid farewell to so much happiness.
But Christ hath call’d me from this lower world,
Delightful though it be.” Wilson.
_Apartment in an English country-house._--Lilian _reclining, as
sleeping on a couch. Her mother watching beside her. Her sister enters
with flowers._
_Mother._ Hush! lightly tread! Still tranquilly she sleeps,
As when a babe I rock’d her on my heart.
I’ve watch’d, suspending e’en my breath, in fear
To break the heavenly spell. Move silently!
And oh! those flowers! Dear Jessy! bear them hence--
Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears
That shook her trembling frame, when last we brought
The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know
What sudden longings for the woods and hills,
Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly,
These leaves and odours with strange influence wake
In her fast-kindled soul?
_Jessy._ Oh! she would pine,
Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld,
Mother! far more than _now_ her spirit yearns
For the blue sky, the singing birds and brooks,
And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome spring
Their blooms recall.
_Lilian_, (_raising herself_.) Is that my Jessy’s voice
It woke me not, sweet mother! I had lain
Silently, visited by waking dreams,
Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness,
Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought flowers?
Nay, fear not now thy fond child’s waywardness,
My thoughtful mother!--in her chasten’d soul
The passion-colour’d images of life,
Which, with their sudden, startling flush, awoke
So oft those burning tears, have died away;
And night is there--still, solemn, holy night!
With all her stars, and with the gentle tune
Of many fountains, low and musical,
By day unheard.
_Mother._ And wherefore _night_, my child?
Thou art a creature all of life and dawn,
And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise,
And walk forth with the dayspring.
_Lilian._ Hope it not!
Dream it no more, my mother!--there are things
Known but to God, and to the parting soul,
Which feels His thrilling summons.
But my words
Too much o’ershadow those kind, loving eyes.
Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step,
Well do I see, hath not alone explored
The garden bowers, but freely visited
Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet
Is from the cool, green, shadowy river-nook,
Where the stream chimes around th’ old mossy stones
With sounds like childhood’s laughter. Is that spot
Lovely as when our glad eyes hail’d it first?
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep
The clear brown wave with every passing wind?
And through the shallower waters, where they lie
Dimpling in light, do the vein’d pebbles gleam
Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies,
From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still
Among the poplar-boughs?
_Jessy._ All, all is there
Which glad midsummer’s wealthiest hours can bring;
All, save the _soul_ of all, thy lightning-smile!
Therefore I stood in sadness midst the leaves,
And caught an under-music of lament
In the stream’s voice. But Nature waits thee still,
And for thy coming piles a fairy throne
Of richest moss.
_Lilian._ Alas! it may not be!
My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly
To all these blessed haunts of song and thought;
Yet not the less I love to look on these,
Their dear memorials,--strew them o’er my couch
Till it grow like a forest-bank in spring,
All flush’d with violets and anemones.
Ah! the pale brier-rose! touch’d so tenderly,
As a pure ocean-shell, with faintest red,
Melting away to pearliness! I know
How its long, light festoons o’erarching hung
From the gray rock that rises altar-like,
With its high, waving crown of mountain-ash,
Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough
Of honey’d woodbine tells me of the oak,
Whose deep, midsummer gloom sleeps heavily,
Shedding a verdurous twilight o’er the face
Of the glade’s pool. Methinks I see it now;
I look up through the stirring of its leaves
Unto the intense blue, crystal firmament.
The ringdove’s wing is flitting o’er my head,
Casting at times a silvery shadow down
Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful!
How beautiful is all this fair, free world
Under God’s open sky!
_Mother._ Thou art o’erwrought
Once more, my child! The dewy, trembling light
Presaging tears, again is in thine eye.
Oh, hush, dear Lilian! turn thee to repose.
_Lilian._ Mother! I cannot. In my soul the thoughts
Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire;
Importunately to my lips they throng,
And with their earthly kindred seek to blend
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone--
(For I _must_ go)--then the remember’d words
Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth,
Will to thy fond heart be as amulets
Held there, with life and love. And weep not thus,
Mother! dear sister!--kindest, gentlest ones!
Be comforted that now _I_ weep no more
For the glad earth and all the golden light
Whence I depart.
No! God hath purified my spirit’s eye,
And in the folds of this consummate rose
I read bright prophecies. I see not there,
Dimly and mournfully, the word “_farewell_”
On the rich petals traced. No--in soft veins
And characters of beauty, I can read--
“_Look up, look heavenward!_”
Blessed God of Love!
I thank Thee for these gifts, the precious links
Whereby my spirit unto Thee is drawn!
I thank Thee that the loveliness of earth
Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these
But germs of things unperishing, that bloom
Beside th’ immortal streams? Shall I not find
The lily of the field, the Saviour’s flower,
In the serene and never-moaning air,
And the clear starry light of angel eyes,
A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far
Will not the violet’s dusky purple glow,
When it hath ne’er been press’d to broken hearts,
A record of lost love?
_Mother._ My Lilian! thou
Surely in _thy_ bright life hast little known
Of lost things or of changed!
_Lilian._ Oh! little yet,
For _thou_ hast been my shield! But had it been
My lot on this world’s billows to be thrown
Without thy love, O mother! there are hearts
So perilously fashion’d, that for them
God’s touch alone hath gentleness enough
To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!--
We will not speak of this!
By what strange spell
Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers,
I dream of music? Something in their hues,
All melting into colour’d harmonies,
Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords,
Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die
In tenderest falls away. Oh, bring thy harp,
Sister! A gentle heaviness at last
Hath touch’d mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep
Will come again.
_Jessy._ What wouldst thou hear?--the Italian peasant’s lay,
Which makes the desolate Campagna ring
With “_Roma! Roma!_” or the madrigal
Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily?
Or the old ditty left by troubadours
To girls of Languedoc?
_Lilian._ Oh, no! not these.
_Jessy._ What then?--the Moorish melody still known
Within the Alhambra city? or those notes
Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile’s heart
Even unto death?
_Lilian._ No, sister! nor yet these--
Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret,
Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes
In the caressing sweetness of their tones,
For one who dies. They would but woo me back
To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds--
And vainly, vainly. No! a loftier strain,
A deeper music!--something that may bear
The spirit upon slow yet mighty wings,
Unsway’d by gusts of earth; something all fill’d
With solemn adoration, tearful prayer.
Sing me that antique strain which once I deem’d
Almost too sternly simple, too austere
In its grave majesty! I love it now--
_Now_ it seems fraught with holiest power to hush
All billows of the soul, e’en like His voice
That said of old--“Be still!” Sing me that strain,
“The Saviour’s dying hour.”
Jessy _sings to the Harp_.
O Son of Man!
In thy last mortal hour
Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully!
All that on us is laid,
All the deep gloom,
The desolation and the abandonment,
The dark amaze of death--
All upon _thee_ too fell,
Redeemer! Son of Man!
But the keen pang
Wherewith the silver cord
Of earth’s affection from the soul is wrung;
The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown
Into the quick, strong heart;
This, _this_--the passion and the agony
Of battling love and death,
Surely was not for _thee_,
Holy One! Son of God!
Yes, my Redeemer!
E’en this cup was thine!
Fond, wailing voices call’d thy spirit back:
E’en midst the mighty thoughts
Of that last crowning hour--
E’en on thine awful way to victory,
Wildly they call’d thee back!
And weeping eyes of love
Unto thy heart’s deep core
Pierced through the folds of death’s mysterious veil.
Suffer! thou Son of Man!
Mother-tears were mingled
With thy costly blood-drops,
In the shadow of the atoning cross;
And the friend, the faithful,
He that on thy bosom
Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain--
He, a pale sad watcher,
Met with looks of anguish
All the anguish in _thy_ last meek glance--
Dying Son of Man!
Oh! therefore unto thee,
Thou that hast known all woes
Bound in the girdle of mortality!
Thou that wilt lift the reed
Which storms have bruised,
To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry,
And, in that tempest-hour, when love and life
Mysteriously must part,
When tearful eyes
Are passionately bent
To drink earth’s last fond meaning from our gaze,
Then, then forsake us not!
Shed on our spirits then
The faith and deep submissiveness of thine!
Thou that didst love
Thou that didst weep and die--
Thou that didst rise a victor glorified;
Conqueror! thou Son of God!
CATHEDRAL HYMN.
“They dreamt not of a perishable home
Who thus could build. Be mine in hours of fear
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here.”
Wordsworth.
A dim and mighty minster of old time!
A temple shadowy with remembrances
Of the majestic past! The very light
Streams with a colouring of heroic days
In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle
A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back
To other years!--and the rich fretted roof,
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves,
Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose--
The tenderest image of mortality--
Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts
Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves;--all these things
Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly,
On their heart’s worship pour’d a wealth of love!
Honour be with the dead! The people kneel
Under the helms of antique chivalry,
And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown,
And midst the forms, in pale, proud slumber carved,
Of warriors on their tombs. The people kneel
Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell’d crowns
On the flush’d brows of conquerors have been set;
Where the high anthems of old victories
Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain thoughts!
Memories of power and pride, which long ago,
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk
In twilight-depths away. Return, my soul!
The Cross recalls thee. Lo! the blessed Cross!
High o’er the banners and the crests of earth,
Fix’d in its meek and still supremacy!
And lo! the throng of beating human hearts,
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief,
All their full treasures of immortal hope,
Gather’d before their God! Hark! how the flood
Of the rich organ-harmony bears up
Their voice on its high waves!--a mighty burst!
A forest-sounding music! Every tone
Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings
From gulfs of tossing foliage, there is blent:
And the old minster--forest-like itself--
With its long avenues of pillar’d shade,
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain
O’erflows its dim recesses, leaving not
One tomb unthrill’d by the strong sympathy
Answering the electric notes. Join, join, my soul!
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness,
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.
Rise like an altar-fire!
In solemn joy aspire,
Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain!
On thy strong rushing wind
Bear up from humankind
Thanks and implorings--be they not in vain!
Father, which art on high!
Weak is the melody
Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear,
Unless the heart be there,
Winging the words of prayer
With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.
Let, then, thy Spirit brood
Over the multitude--
Be thou amidst them, thro’ that heavenly Guest!
So shall their cry have power
To win from thee a shower
Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.
What griefs that make no sign,
That ask no aid but thine,
Father of mercies! here before thee swell!
As to the open sky,
All their dark waters lie
To thee reveal’d, in each close bosom-cell.
The sorrow for the dead,
Mantling its lonely head
From the world’s glare, is, in thy sight, set free;
And the fond, aching love,
Thy minister to move
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.
And doth not thy dread eye
Behold the agony
In that most hidden chamber of the heart,
Where darkly sits remorse,
Beside the secret source
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?
Yes! here before thy throne
Many--yet each alone--
To thee that terrible unveiling make:
And still, small whispers clear
Are startling many an ear,
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake.
How dreadful is this place!
The glory of thy face
Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight.
Where shall the guilty flee?
Over what far-off sea?
What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light?
Not to the cedar-shade
Let his vain flight be made;
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;
What, but the Cross, can yield
The hope--the stay--the shield?
_Thence_ may the Atoner lead him up to thee!
Be thou, be thou his aid!
Oh, let thy love pervade
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought!
There let the living stone
Be cleft--the seed be sown--
The song of fountains from the silence brought!
So shall thy breath once more
Within the soul restore
Thine own first image--Holiest and Most High!
As a clear lake is fill’d
With hues of heaven, instill’d
Down to the depths of its calm purity.
And if, amidst the throng
Link’d by the ascending song,
There are whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar;
Thanks, Father! that the power
Of joy, man’s early dower,
Thus, e’en midst tears, can fervently adore!
Thanks for each gift divine!
Eternal praise be thine,
Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer!
Let the hymn pierce the sky,
And let the tombs reply!
For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there.
WOOD WALK AND HYMN.[421]
“Move along these shades
In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand
Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods.”--Wordsworth.
Father--Child.
_Child._ There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves
Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime
And chestnut boughs, and those long arching sprays
Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood
Were all one picture!
_Father._ Hast thou heard, my boy,
The peasant’s legend of that quivering tree?
_Child._ No, father: doth he say the fairies dance
Amidst the branches?
_Father._ Oh! a cause more deep,
More solemn far, the rustic doth assign
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves!
The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon
The meek Redeemer bow’d his head to death,
Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze
Disturbs the airy thistle-down, or shakes
The light lines of the shining gossamer.
_Child._, (_after a pause._) Dost thou believe it, father?
_Father._ Nay, my child,
_We_ walk in clearer light. But yet, even now,
With something of a lingering love, I read
The characters, by that mysterious hour,
Stamp’d on the reverential soul of man
In visionary days; and thence thrown back
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign
Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven,
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so!
_They_ do not wisely that, with hurried hand,
Would pluck these salutary fancies forth
From their strong soil within the peasant’s breast,
And scatter them--far, far too fast!--away
As worthless weeds. Oh! little do we know
_When_ they have soothed, when saved!
But come, dear boy!
My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee.
Come--let us search for violets.
_Child._ Know you not
More of the legends which the woodmen tell
Amidst the trees and flowers?
_Father._ Wilt thou know more?
Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-brown stains
There--by the mossy roots of yon old beech,
Midst the rich tuft of cowslips--see’st thou not?
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree
Just bending o’er it with a wild bee’s weight.
_Child._ The Arum leaf?
_Father._ Yes. These deep inwrought marks,
The villager will tell thee, (and with voice
Lower’d in his true heart’s reverent earnestness,)
Are the flower’s portion from th’ atoning blood
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew;
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf,
Catching from that dread shower of agony
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus
Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains,
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind
Never to waft away!
And hast thou seen
The passion-flower? It grows not in the woods,
But midst the bright things brought from other climes.
_Child._ What! the pale star-shaped flower, with purple streaks,
And light green tendrils?
_Father._ Thou hast mark’d it well.
Yes! a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower,
As from a land of spirits! To mine eye
Those faint, wan petals--colourless, and yet
Not white, but shadowy--with the mystic lines
(As letters of some wizard language gone)
Into their vapour-like transparence wrought,
Bear something of a strange solemnity,
Awfully lovely!--and the Christian’s thought
Loves, in their cloudy penciling, to find
Dread symbols of his Lord’s last mortal pangs
Set by God’s hand--the coronal of thorns--
The cross, the wounds--with other meanings deep
Which I will teach thee when we meet again
That flower, the chosen for the martyr’s wreath,
The Saviour’s holy flower.
But let us pause:
Now have we reach’d the very inmost heart
Of the old wood. How the green shadows close
Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round,
A luxury of gloom! Scarce doth one ray,
Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal
O’er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades;
Or if it doth, ’tis with a mellow’d hue
Of glow-worm colour’d light.
Here, in the days
Of pagan visions, would have been a place
For worship of the wood-nymphs! Through these oaks
A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown
The quivering image of its Dorian shafts
On the stream’s bosom, or a sculptured form,
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom,
Have bow’d its head o’er that dark crystal down,
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops
Under bright rain. But _we_, my child, are here
With God, our God, a Spirit, who requires
Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth;
And this high knowledge--deep, rich, vast enough
To fill and hallow all the solitude--
Makes consecrated earth where’er we move,
Without the aid of shrines.
What! dost thou feel
The solemn whispering influence of the scene
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand
Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child!
’Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here,
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope
With dark exuberance; and beneath these plumes
Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds
In its pure, crimson goblets, fresh and bright,
The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile,
And let me hear once more the woodland verse
I taught thee late--’twas made for such a scene.
_Child speaks._
[421] “It is not often we find the superstitions of dark and ignorant
ages dealt with in so gentle and agreeable a manner as by Mrs Hemans.
She seizes, in common with others, the poetic aspect these present,
but diffuses over them, at the same time, a refinement of sentiment
gathered entirely from her own feelings. A subject which, from another
pencil, would have been disagreeable and offensive to us, is made by
her graceful touches to win upon our imagination. Witness the poem
called ‘The Wood Walk and Hymn;’ we will quote the commencement of it--
‘There are the aspens with their silvery leaves,’” etc.
_Blackwood’s Magazine_, Dec. 1848.
WOOD HYMN.
Broods there some spirit here?
The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud;
And o’er the pools, all still and darkly clear,
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow’d;
And something of a tender cloistral gloom
Deepens the violet’s bloom.
The very light that streams
Through the dim, dewy veil of foliage round
Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams--
As if it knew the place were holy ground;
And would not startle, with too bright a burst,
Flowers, all divinely nursed.
_Wakes_ there some spirit here?
A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by;
And leaves and waters, in its wild career,
Shed forth sweet voices--each a mystery!
Surely some awful influence must pervade
These depths of trembling shade!
Yes! lightly, softly move!
There _is_ a power, a presence in the woods;
A viewless being that, with life and love,
Informs the reverential solitudes:
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod--
Thou--_thou_ art here, my God!
And if with awe we tread
The minster-floor, beneath the storied pane,
And, midst the mouldering banners of the dead,
Shall the green, voiceful wild seem _less_ thy fane,
Where thou alone hast built?--where arch and roof
Are of thy living woof?
The silence and the sound,
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee;
The temple-twilight of the gloom profound,
The dew-cup of the frail anemone,
The reed by every wandering whisper thrill’d--
All, all with thee are fill’d!
Oh! purify mine eyes,
More and yet more, by love and lowly thought,
Thy presence, holiest One! to recognise
In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought
And, midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear
Ever thy voice to hear!
And sanctify my heart
To meet the awful sweetness of that tone
With no faint thrill or self-accusing start,
But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own--
Joy, such as dwelt in Eden’s glorious bowers
Ere sin had dimm’d the flowers.
Let me not know the change
O’er nature thrown by guilt!--the boding sky,
The hollow leaf-sounds ominous and strange,
The weight wherewith the dark tree-shadows lie!
Father! oh! keep my footsteps pure and free,
To walk the woods with thee!
PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT.
“Soul of our souls! and safeguard of the world!
Sustain--Thou only canst--the sick at heart;
Restore their languid spirits, and recall
Their lost affections unto thee and thine.”--Wordsworth.
Night--holy night--the time
For mind’s free breathings in a purer clime!
Night!--when in happier hour the unveiling sky
Woke all my kindled soul
To meet its revelations, clear and high,
With the strong joy of immortality!
Now hath strange sadness wrapp’d me, strange and deep--
And my thoughts faint, and shadows o’er them roll,
E’en when I deem’d them seraph-plumed, to sweep
Far beyond earth’s control.
Wherefore is this? I see the stars returning,
Fire after fire in heaven’s rich temple burning:
Fast shine they forth--my spirit-friends, my guides,
Bright rulers of my being’s inmost tides;
They shine--but faintly, through a quivering haze:
Oh! is the dimness _mine_ which clouds those rays?
They from whose glance my childhood drank delight!
A joy unquestioning--a love intense--
They that, unfolding to more thoughtful sight
The harmony of their magnificence,
Drew silently the worship of my youth
To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth;
Shall they shower blessing, with their beams divine,
Down to the watcher on the stormy sea,
And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine
Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine,
And to the wanderer lone
On wastes of Afric thrown,
And not to _me_?
Am I a thing forsaken?
And is the gladness taken
From the bright-pinion’d nature which hath soar’d
Through realms by royal eagle ne’er explored,
And, bathing there in streams of fiery light,
Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite?
And now an alien! Wherefore must this be?
How shall I rend the chain?
How drink rich life again
From those pure urns of radiance, welling free?
--Father of Spirits! let me turn to thee!
Oh! if too much exulting in her dower,
My soul, not yet to lowly thought subdued,
Hath stood without thee on her hill of power--
A fearful and a dazzling solitude!
And therefore from that haughty summit’s crown
To dim desertion is by thee cast down;
Behold! thy child submissively hath bow’d--
Shine on him through the cloud!
Let the now darken’d earth and curtain’d heaven
Back to his vision with thy face be given!
Bear him on high once more,
But in thy strength to soar,
And wrapt and still’d by that o’ershadowing might,
Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chasten’d sight.
Or if it be that, like the ark’s lone dove,
My thoughts go forth, and find no resting-place,
No sheltering home of sympathy and love
In the responsive bosoms of my race,
And back return, a darkness and a weight,
Till my unanswer’d heart grows desolate--
_Yet_, yet sustain me, Holiest!--I am vow’d
To solemn service high;
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow’d,
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary,
Fainting beneath the burden of the day,
Because no human tone
Unto the altar-stone
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate,
Where it should make eternal truth its mate,
May cheer the sacred, solitary way?
Oh! be the whisper of thy voice within
Enough to strengthen! Be the hope to win
A more deep-seeing homage for thy name,
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame!
Make me thine only!--Let me add but one
To those refulgent steps all undefiled,
Which glorious minds have piled
Through bright self-offering, earnest, childlike, lone,
For mounting to thy throne!
And let my soul, upborne
On wings of inner morn,
Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense
Of that bless’d work, its own high recompense.
The dimness melts away
That on your glory lay,
O ye majestic watchers of the skies!
Through the dissolving veil,
Which made each aspect pale,
Your gladdening fires once more I recognise;
And once again a shower
Of hope, and joy, and power,
Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes.
And if that splendour to my sober’d sight
Come tremulous, with more of pensive light--
Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught
With more that pierces through each fold of thought
Than I was wont to trace
On heaven’s unshadow’d face--
Be it e’en so!--be mine, though set apart
Unto a radiant ministry, yet still
A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart,
Bow’d before thee, O Mightiest! whose bless’d will
All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil.[422]
[422] Written after hearing the introductory Lecture on Astronomy
delivered in Trinity College, Dublin, by Sir William Hamilton, royal
astronomer of Ireland, on the 8th November 1832.
THE TRAVELLER’S EVENING SONG.
Father! guide me! Day declines,
Hollow winds are in the pines;
Darkly waves each giant bough
O’er the sky’s last crimson glow:
Hush’d is now the convent’s bell,
Which erewhile with breezy swell
From the purple mountains bore
Greeting to the sunset-shore.
Now the sailor’s vesper-hymn
Dies away.
Father! in the forest dim,
Be my stay!
In the low and shivering thrill
Of the leaves that late hung still;
In the dull and muffled tone
Of the sea-wave’s distant moan;
In the deep tints of the sky,
There are signs of tempests nigh.
Ominous, with sullen sound,
Falls the closing dusk around.
Father! through the storm and shade
O’er the wild,
Oh! be _Thou_ the lone one’s aid--
Save thy child!
Many a swift and sounding plume
Homewards, through the boding gloom,
O’er my way hath flitted fast
Since the farewell sunbeam pass’d
From the chestnut’s ruddy bark,
And the pools, now lone and dark,
Where the wakening night-winds sigh
Through the long reeds mournfully.
Homeward, homeward, all things haste--
God of might!
Shield the homeless midst the waste!
Be his light!
In his distant cradle-nest,
Now my babe is laid to rest;
Beautiful its slumber seems
With a glow of heavenly dreams--
Beautiful, o’er that bright sleep.
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep,
Where his mother bends to pray
For the loved and far away.
Father! guard that household bower,
Hear that prayer!
Back, through thine all-guiding power,
Lead me there!
Darker, wilder grows the night;
Not a star sends quivering light
Through the massy arch of shade
By the stern, old forest made.
Thou! to whose unslumbering eyes
All my pathway open lies,
By thy Son who knew distress
In the lonely wilderness,
Where no roof to that bless’d head
Shelter gave--
Father! through the time of dread,
Save--oh, save!
BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT’S CHILD IN THE FORESTS.
Scene.--_The banks of a solitary river in an American forest. A tent
under pine-trees in the foreground._ Agnes _sitting before the tent,
with a child in her arms apparently sleeping._
_Agnes._ Surely ’tis all a dream--a fever-dream!
The desolation and the agony--
The strange, red sunrise, and the gloomy woods,
So terrible with their dark giant boughs,
And the broad, lonely river!--all a dream!
And my boy’s voice will wake me, with its clear,
Wild singing tones, as they were wont to come
Through the wreath’d sweetbrier at my lattice-panes
In happy, happy England! Speak to me!
Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch’d
All the dread night beside thee, till her brain
Is darken’d by swift waves of fantasies,
And her soul faint with longing for thy voice.
Oh! I _must_ wake him with one gentle kiss
On his fair brow!
(_Shudderingly._) The strange, damp, thrilling touch!
The marble chill! Now, now it rushes back--
Now I know all!--dead--_dead!_--a fearful word!
My boy hath left me in the wilderness,
To journey on without the blessed light
In his deep, loving eyes. He’s gone!--he’s gone!
_Her_ Husband _enters_.
_Husband._ Agnes! my Agnes! hast thou look’d thy last
On our sweet slumberer’s face? The hour is come--
The couch made ready for his last repose.
_Agnes._ Not yet! thou canst not take him from me yet!
If he but left me for a few short days,
This were too brief a gazing time to draw
His angel image into my fond heart,
And fix its beauty there. And now--oh! _now_,
Never again the laughter of his eye
Shall send its gladdening summer through my soul
--Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay!
Thou canst not take him from me.
_Husband._ My beloved!
Is it not God hath taken him? the God
That took our first-born, o’er whose early grave
Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and say,
“His will be done!”
_Agnes._ Oh! that near household grave,
Under the turf of England, seem’d not half--
Not half so much to part me from my child
As these dark woods. It lay beside our home,
And I could watch the sunshine, through all hours,
Loving and clinging to the grassy spot;
And I could dress its greensward with fresh flowers,
Familiar meadow-flowers. O’er _thee_, my babe!
The primrose will not blossom! Oh! that now,
Together, by thy fair young sister’s side,
We lay midst England’s valleys!
_Husband._ Dost thou grieve,
Agnes! that thou hast follow’d o’er the deep
An exile’s fortunes? If it _thus_ can be,
Then, after many a conflict cheerily met,
My spirit sinks at last.
_Agnes._ Forgive! forgive!
My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild--
Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount
Of unknown bitterness! Thou art my home!
Mine only and my blessed one! Where’er
Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness,
_There_ is my country! _there_ my head shall rest,
And throb no more. Oh! still, by thy strong love,
Bear up the feeble reed!
(_Kneeling with the child in her arms._)
And thou, my God!
Hear my soul’s cry from this dread wilderness!
Oh! hear, and pardon me! If I have made
This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark
Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness,
Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume,
Oh, pardon me!
If nature hath rebell’d,
And from thy light turn’d wilfully away,
Making a midnight of her agony,
When the despairing passion of her clasp
Was from its idol stricken at one touch
Of thine Almighty hand--oh, pardon me!
By thy Son’s anguish, pardon! In the soul
The tempests and the waves will know thy voice--
Father! say, “Peace, be still!”
(_Giving the child to her husband._)
Farewell, my babe!
Go from my bosom now to other rest!
With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow,
And on thy pale, calm cheek these contrite tears,
I yield thee to thy Maker!
_Husband._ Now, my wife!
Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more
A light upon my path. Now shall I bear,
From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose--
With a calm, trustful heart.
_Agnes._ My Edmund! where--
Where wilt thou lay him?
_Husband._ See’st thou where the spire
Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun
To burning gold?--there--o’er yon willow-tuft?
Under that native desert monument
Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn,
With the gray mosses of the wilderness
Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth,
E’en from the fulness of his own pure heart,
A wild, sad forest hymn--a song of tears,
Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy
Chanting it o’er his solitary task,
As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves,
Perchance unconsciously.
_Agnes._ My gentle son!
The affectionate, the gifted! With what joy--
Edmund, rememberest thou?--with what bright joy
His baby brother ever to his arms
Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair
In that kind, useful breast! Oh! now no more!
But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart,
Even to a well-spring of adoring tears,
For many a blessing left.
(_Bending over the child._) Once more, farewell!
Oh, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look!
How can it be sustain’d? Away, away!
(_After a short pause._)
Edmund! my woman’s nature still is weak--
I cannot see thee render dust to dust!
Go thou, my husband! to thy solemn task;
I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer
Till thy return.
_Husband._ Then strength be with thy prayer!
Peace on thy bosom! Faith and heavenly hope
Unto thy spirit! Fare thee well a while!
We must be pilgrims of the woods again,
After this mournful hour.
(_He goes out with the child._--Agnes, _kneels in
prayer.--After a time, voices without are heard singing._)
FUNERAL HYMN.
Where the long reeds quiver,
Where the pines make moan,
By the forest-river,
Sleeps our babe alone.
England’s field-flowers may not deck his grave,
Cypress shadows o’er him darkly wave.
Woods unknown receive him,
Midst the mighty wild;
Yet with God we leave him,
Blessed, blessed child!
And our tears gush o’er his lovely dust,
Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust.
Though his eye hath brighten’d
Oft our weary way,
And his clear laugh lighten’d
Half our hearts’ dismay;
Still in hope we give back what was given,
Yielding up the beautiful to heaven.
And to her who bore him,
Her who long must weep,
Yet shall heaven restore him
From his pale, sweet sleep!
Those blue eyes of love and peace again
Through her soul will shine, undimm’d by pain.
Where the long reeds quiver,
Where the pines make moan,
Leave we by the river
Earth to earth alone!
God and Father! may our journeyings on
Lead to where the blessed boy is gone!
From the exile’s sorrow,
From the wanderer’s dread
Of the night and morrow,
Early, brightly fled;
Thou hast call’d him to a sweeter home
Than our lost one o’er the ocean’s foam.
Now let thought behold him,
With his angel look,
Where those arms enfold him,
Which benignly took
Israel’s babes to their Good Shepherd’s breast
When his voice their tender meekness blest.
Turn thee now, fond mother!
From thy dead, oh, turn!
Linger not, young brother,
Here to dream and mourn:
Only kneel once more around the sod,
Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God!
EASTER-DAY IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD.
There is a wakening on the mighty hills,
A kindling with the spirit of the morn!
Bright gleams are scatter’d from the thousand rills,
And a soft visionary hue is born
On the young foliage, worn
By all the embosom’d woods--a silvery green,
Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously serene.
And lo! where, floating through a glory, sings
The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky!
Lo! where the darkness of his buoyant wings,
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high,
Trembles with melody!
While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice
To the rich laugh of music in that voice.
But purer light than of the early sun
Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth!
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark’s mirth,
By this glad morning’s birth!
And gifts more precious by its breath are shed
Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet’s head.
Gifts for the _soul_, from whose illumined eye
O’er nature’s face the colouring glory flows;
Gifts from the fount of immortality,
Which, fill’d with balm, unknown to human woes,
Lay hush’d in dark repose,
Till thou, bright dayspring! madest its waves our own,
By thine unsealing of the burial stone.
Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills!
And let a full victorious tone be given,
By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills
Your urn-like depths with sound! The tomb is riven,
The radiant gate of heaven
Unfolded--and the stern, dark shadow cast
By death’s o’ersweeping wing, from the earth’s bosom past.
And you, ye graves! upon whose turf I stand,
Girt with the slumber of the hamlet’s dead,
Time, with a soft and reconciling hand,
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread
O’er every narrow bed:
But not by time, and not by nature sown
Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown.
Christ hath arisen! Oh, not one cherish’d head
Hath, midst the flowery sods, been pillow’d here
Without a hope, (howe’er the heart hath bled
In its vain yearnings o’er the unconscious bier,)
A hope, upspringing clear
From those majestic tidings of the morn,
Which lit the living way to all of woman born.
Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love!
E’en on this greensward: night hath heard thy cry,
Heart-stricken one! thy precious dust above--
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply
Unto thine agony!
But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide,
Christ hath arisen, O love! thy tears shall all be dried.
Dark must have been the gushing of those tears,
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb
On thine impassion’d soul, in elder years,
When, burden’d with the mystery of its doom,
Mortality’s thick gloom
Hung o’er the sunny world, and with the breath
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death.
By thee, sad Love! and by thy sister, Fear,
Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought
To vail that haunting shadow, still too near,
Still ruling secretly the conqueror’s thought,
And where the board was fraught
With wine and myrtles in the summer bower,
Felt, e’en when disavow’d, a presence and a power.
But that dark night is closed: and o’er the dead,
_Here_, where the gleamy primrose-tufts have blown,
And where the mountain-heath a couch has spread,
And, settling oft on some gray, letter’d stone,
The redbreast warbles lone;
And the wild-bee’s deep drowsy murmurs pass,
Like a low thrill of harp-strings, through the grass:
Here, midst the chambers of the Christian’s sleep,
_We_ o’er death’s gulf may look with trusting eye;
For Hope sits, dove-like, on the gloomy deep,
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie
Seem all one sanctuary
Of holiest thought--nor needs their fresh, bright sod,
Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God.
Christ hath arisen! O mountain-peaks! attest--
Witness, resounding glen and torrent-wave!
The immortal courage in the human breast
Sprung from that victory--tell how oft the brave
To camp midst rock and cave,
Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne,
Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn!
The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day--
Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone
Have thrill’d their pines, when those that knelt to pray
Rose up to arm! The pure, high snows have known
A colouring not their own,
But from true hearts, which, by that crimson stain,
Gave token of a trust that call’d no suffering vain.
Those days are past--the mountains wear no more
The solemn splendour of the martyr’s blood;
And may that awful record, as of yore,
Never again be known to field or flood!
E’en though the faithful stood,
A noble army, in the exulting sight
Of earth and heaven, which bless’d their battle for the right!
But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken
Is yet home silently in homes obscure;
And many a bitter cup is meekly taken;
And, for the strength whereby the just and pure
Thus steadfastly endure,
Glory to Him whose victory won that dower!
Him from whose rising stream’d that robe of spirit-power.
Glory to Him! Hope to the suffering breast!
Light to the nations! He hath roll’d away
The mists which, gathering into deathlike rest,
Between the soul and heaven’s calm ether lay--
His love hath made it day
With those that sat in darkness. Earth and sea!
Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made free!
THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.
“A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, to waylay.
...
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death.” Wordsworth.
I saw him at his sport erewhile,
The bright, exulting boy!
Like summer’s lightning came the smile
Of his young spirit’s joy--
A flash that, wheresoe’er it broke,
To life undreamt-of beauty woke.
His fair locks waved in sunny play,
By a clear fountain’s side,
Where jewel-colour’d pebbles lay
Beneath the shallow tide;
And pearly spray at times would meet
The glancing of his fairy feet.
He twined him wreaths of all spring-flowers,
Which drank that streamlet’s dew;
He flung them o’er the wave in showers,
Till, gazing, scarce I knew
Which seem’d more pure, or bright, or wild,
The singing fount or laughing child.
To look on all that joy and bloom
Made earth one festal scene,
Where the dull shadow of the tomb
Seem’d as it ne’er had been.
How could one image of decay
Steal o’er the dawn of such clear day?
I saw once more that aspect bright--
The boy’s meek head was bow’d
In silence o’er the Book of Light,
And, like a golden cloud--
The still cloud of a pictured sky--
His locks droop’d round it lovingly.
And if my heart had deem’d him fair,
When, in the fountain-glade,
A creature of the sky and air,
Almost on wings he play’d;
Oh! how much holier beauty now
Lit the young human being’s brow!
The being born to toil, to die,
To break forth from the tomb
Unto far nobler destiny
Than waits the skylark’s plume!
I saw him, in that thoughtful hour,
Win the first knowledge of his dower.
The _soul_, the awakening _soul_ I saw--
My watching eye could trace
The shadows of its new-born awe
Sweeping o’er that fair face:
As o’er a flower might pass the shade
By some dread angel’s pinion made!
The soul, the mother of deep fears,
Of high hopes infinite,
Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears,
Of sleepless inner sight;
Lovely, but solemn, it arose,
Unfolding what no more might close.
The red-leaved tablets,[423] undefiled,
As yet, by evil thought--
Oh! little dream’d the brooding child
Of what within me wrought,
While _his_ young heart first burn’d and stirr’d,
And quiver’d to the eternal word.
And reverently my spirit caught
The reverence of _his_ gaze--
A sight with dew of blessing fraught
To hallow after-days;
To make the proud heart meekly wise,
By the sweet faith in those calm eyes.
It seem’d as if a temple rose
Before me brightly there;
And in the depths of its repose
My soul o’erflow’d with prayer,
Feeling a solemn presence nigh--
The power of infant sanctity!
O Father! mould my heart once more
By thy prevailing breath!
Teach me, oh! teach me to adore
E’en with that pure one’s faith--
A faith, all made of love and light,
Child-like, and therefore full of might!
[423] “All this, and more than this, is now engraved upon the
_red-leaved tablets_ of my heart.”--Haywood.
A POET’S DYING HYMN.
“Be mute who will, who can,
Yet I will praise thee with impassion’d voice!
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine
In such a temple as we now behold,
Rear’d for thy presence; therefore am I bound
To worship, here and every where.”--Wordsworth.
The blue, deep, glorious heavens!--I lift mine eye,
And bless thee, O my God! that I have met
And own’d thine image in the majesty
Of their calm temple still!--that, never yet,
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night:
I bless thee, O my God!
That now still clearer, from their pure expanse,
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine,
Touching death’s features with a lovely glance
Of light, serenely, solemnly divine,
And lending to each holy star a ray
As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away:
I bless thee, O my God!
That I have heard thy voice nor been afraid,
In the earth’s garden--midst the mountains old,
And the low thrillings of the forest-shade,
And the wild sound of waters uncontroll’d--
And upon many a desert plain and shore--
No solitude--for there I felt _thee_ more:
I bless thee, O my God!
And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed
The gift, the vision of the unseal’d eye,
To pierce the mist o’er life’s deep meanings spread,
To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie
Far in man’s heart--if I have kept it free
And pure, a consecration unto thee:
I bless thee, O my God!
If my soul’s utterance hath by thee been fraught
With an awakening power--if thou hast made
Like the wing’d seed, the breathings of my thought,
And by the swift winds bid them be convey’d
To lands of other lays, and there become
Native as early melodies of home:
I bless thee, O my God!
Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,
Not for a place midst kingly minstrels dead,
But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,
A still small whisper, in my song hath led
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne,
Or but one hope, one prayer,--for this alone
I bless thee, O my God!
That I have loved--that I have known the love
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs,
Yet, with a colouring halo from above,
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things,
Whate’er its anguish or its woe may be,
Still weaving links for intercourse with thee:
I bless thee, O my God!
That by the passion of its deep distress,
And by the o’erflowing of its mighty prayer,
And by the yearning of its tenderness,
Too full for words upon their stream to bear,
I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine,
Well-spring of love, the unfathom’d, the divine,
I bless thee, O my God!
That hope hath ne’er my heart or song forsaken,
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread,
Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken
Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed:
That passing storms have only fann’d the fire
Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire,
I bless thee, O my God!
Now art thou calling me in every gale,
Each sound and token of the dying day;
Thou leav’st me not--though early life grows pale,
I am not darkly sinking to decay;
But, hour by hour, my soul’s dissolving shroud
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud.
I bless thee, O my God!
And if this earth, with all its choral streams,
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies,
And mountain sanctuaries for poet’s dreams,
Be lovely still in my departing eyes--
’Tis not that fondly I would linger here,
But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear:
I bless thee, O my God!
And that the tender shadowing I behold,
The tracery veining every leaf and flower,
Of glories cast in more consummate mould,
No longer vassals to the changeful hour;
That life’s last roses to my thoughts can bring
Rich visions of imperishable spring:
I bless thee, O my God!
Yes! the young, vernal voices in the skies
Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear,
Seem heralds of th’ eternal melodies,
The spirit-music, imperturb’d and clear--
The full of soul, yet passionate no more:
Let _me_, too, joining those pure strains, adore!
I bless thee, O my God!
Now aid, sustain me still. To thee I come--
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are,
And for the hope of that immortal home,
And for thy Son, the bright and morning star,
The sufferer and the victor-king of death,
I bless thee with my glad song’s dying breath!
I bless thee, O my God!
[“I have lately written what I consider one of my best pieces--‘A
Poet’s Dying Hymn.’ It appeared in the last number of _Blackwood_,”
(April 1832.)--_Letter from Mrs Hemans._
“It is impossible to read this affecting poem without feeling
how distinctly it breathes the inward echoes of the soul to the
frequent warnings of the Summoner; those presentiments which must
have long silently possessed her, here for the first time finding
utterance. Still more strongly does it evidence that subdued and
serene frame of mind, into which her once vivacious temperament and
painfully vibrating sensibilities were now so gently and happily
subsiding.”--_Memoir_, p. 254.]
THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
“Many an eye
May wail the dimming of our shining star.”--_Shakspeare._
A glorious voice hath ceased!
Mournfully, reverently--the funeral chant
Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound,
A hollow murmur of the dying year,
In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad!
A more Æolian, melancholy tone
Than ever wail’d o’er bright things perishing!
For _that_ is passing from the darken’d land,
Which the green summer will not bring us back--
Though all her songs return. The funeral chant
Breathe reverently! They bear the mighty forth,
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind;
They bear him through the household paths, the groves,
Where every tree had music of its own
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love--
And he is silent! Past the living stream
They bear him now; the stream whose kindly voice,
On alien shores, his true heart burn’d to hear--
And he is silent! O’er the heathery hills,
Which his own soul had mantled with a light
Richer than autumn’s purple, now they move--
And he is silent!--he, whose flexile lips
Were but unseal’d, and lo! a thousand forms,
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height,
In glowing life upsprang,--vassal and chief,
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal,
Fast-rushing through the brightly troubled air,
Like the Wild Huntsman’s band. And still they live,
To those fair scenes imperishably bound,
And, from the mountain-mist still flashing by,
Startle the wanderer who hath listen’d there
To the seer’s voice: phantoms of colour’d thought,
Surviving him who raised. O eloquence!
O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead!
Who shall wake _thee_? lord of the buried past!
And art thou _there_--to those dim nations join’d,
Thy subject-host so long? The wand is dropp’d,
The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand
Touch’d, and the genii came! Sing reverently
The funeral chant! The mighty is borne home,
And who shall be his mourners? Youth and age,
For each hath felt his magic--love and grief,
For he hath communed with the heart of each:
Yes--the free spirit of humanity
May join the august procession, for to him
Its mysteries have been tributary things,
And all its accents known. From field or wave,
Never was conqueror on his battle-bier,
By the veil’d banner and the muffled drum,
And the proud drooping of the crested head,
More nobly follow’d home. The last abode,
The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach’d:
A still, majestic spot, girt solemnly
With all th’ imploring beauty of decay;
A stately couch midst ruins! meet for him
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant
Over the honour’d grave! The _grave_!--oh, say
Rather the shrine!--an altar for the love,
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths
Of years unborn--a place where leaf and flower,
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead,
Shall be made holy things, where every weed
Shall have its portion of th’ inspiring gift
From buried glory breathed. And now what strain
Making victorious melody ascend
High above sorrow’s dirge, befits the tomb
Where he that sway’d the nations thus is laid--
The crown’d of men?
A lowly, lowly song.