Introduction
One hour for distant homes to weep Midst Afric’s burnings sands, One silent sunset hour was given To the slaves of many lands.
They sat beneath a lonely palm, In the gardens of their lord; And, mingling with the fountain’s tune, Their songs of exile pour’d.
And strangely, sadly did those lays Of Alp and ocean sound, With Afric’s wild, red skies above, And solemn wastes around.
Broken with tears were oft their tones, And most when most they tried To breathe of hope and liberty, From hearts that inly died.
So met the sons of many lands, Parted by mount and main; So did they sing in brotherhood, Made kindred by the chain.
THE BROTHER’S DIRGE.
In the proud old fanes of England My warrior-fathers lie, Banners hang drooping o’er their dust With gorgeous blazonry. But thou, but thou, my brother! O’er thee dark billows sweep-- The best and bravest heart of all Is shrouded by the deep.
In the old high wars of England My noble fathers bled; For her lion-kings of lance and spear, They went down to the dead. But thou, but thou, my brother! Thy life-drops flow’d for me-- Would I were with thee in thy rest, Young sleeper of the sea!
In a shelter’d home of England Our sister dwells alone, With quick heart listening for the sound Of footsteps that are gone. She little dreams, my brother! Of the wild fate we have found; I, midst the Afric sands a slave, Thou, by the dark seas bound.
THE ALPINE HORN.
The Alpine horn! the Alpine horn! Oh! through my native sky, Might I but hear its deep notes borne Once more--but once--and die!
Yet, no! Midst breezy hills thy breath, So full of hope and morn, Would win me from the bed of death-- O joyous Alpine horn!
But here the echo of that blast, To many a battle known, Seems mournfully to wander past, A wild, shrill, wailing tone!
Haunt me no more! for slavery’s air Thy proud notes were not born; The dream but deepens my despair-- Be hush’d, thou Alpine horn!
O YE VOICES!
O ye voices round my own hearth singing, As the winds of May to memory sweet! Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing, Would those vernal tones the wanderer greet, Once again?
Never, never! Spring hath smiled and parted Oft since then your fond farewell was said; O’er the green turf of the gentle-hearted Summer’s hand the rose-leaves may have shed, Oft again!
Or if still around my heart ye linger, Yet, sweet voices! there must change have come: Years have quell’d the free soul of the singer, Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home Ne’er again!
I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE.
I dream of all things free! Of a gallant, gallant bark That sweeps through storm and sea, Like an arrow to its mark! Of a stag that o’er the hills Goes bounding in his glee; Of a thousand flashing rills-- Of all things glad and free.
I dream of some proud bird, A bright-eyed mountain-king! In my visions I have heard The rushing of his wing. I follow some wild river, On whose breast no sail may be; Dark woods around it shiver-- I dream of all things free!
Of a happy forest child, With the fawns and flowers at play; Of an Indian midst the wild, With the stars to guide his way; Of a chief his warriors leading, Of an archer’s greenwood tree-- My heart in chains is bleeding, And I dream of all things free!
FAR O’ER THE SEA.
Where are the vintage songs Wandering in glee? Where dance the peasant bands Joyous and free? Under a kind blue sky, Where doth my birthplace lie? --Far o’er the sea.
Where floats the myrtle-scent O’er vale and lea, When evening calls the dove Homewards to flee! Where doth the orange gleam Soft on my native stream? --Far o’er the sea!
Where are sweet eyes of love Watching for me? Where o’er the cabin roof Waves the green tree? Where speaks the vesper-chime Still of a holy time? --Far o’er the sea.
Dance on, ye vintage bands! Fearless and free; Still fresh and greenly wave, My father’s tree! Still smile, ye kind, blue skies! Though your son pines and dies Far o’er the sea!
THE INVOCATION.
Oh! art thou still on earth, my love? My only love! Or smiling in a brighter home, Far, far above?
Oh! is thy sweet voice fled, my love? Thy light step gone? And art thou not, in earth or heaven, Still, still my own?
I see thee with thy gleaming hair, In midnight dreams! But cold, and clear, and spirit-like, Thy soft eye seems.
Peace in thy saddest hour, my love! Dwelt on thy brow; But something mournfully divine There shineth now!
And silent ever is thy lip, And pale thy cheek;-- Oh! art thou earth’s, or art thou heaven’s? Speak to me, speak!
THE SONG OF HOPE.
Droop not, my brothers! I hear a glad strain-- We shall burst forth like streams from the winter night’s chain; A flag is unfurl’d, a bright star of the sea, A ransom approaches--we yet shall be free! Where the pines wave, where the light chamois leaps, Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps; Where the snows glisten, the mountain-rills foam, Free as the falcon’s wing, yet shall we roam.
Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks are met, Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet! Crossing the desert, o’ersweeping the sea-- Droop not, my brothers! we yet shall be free!
MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS.
THE CALL TO BATTLE.
“Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking signs, Which ne’er might be repeated.” Byron.
The vesper-bell, from church and tower, Had sent its dying sound; And the household, in the hush of eve, Were met their porch around.
A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sudden trumpet’s power-- “We rise on all our hills! Come forth! ’tis thy country’s gathering-hour: There’s a gleam of spears by every stream in each old battle-dell. Come forth, young Juan! Bid thy home a brief and proud farewell!”
Then the father gave his son the sword Which a hundred fights had seen-- “Away! and bear it back, my boy! All that it still hath been!
“Haste, haste! The hunters of the foe are up: and who shall stand The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land? Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the clarion’s blast, With the flying footsteps of the Moor, in stormy ages past.”
Then the mother kiss’d her son with tears That o’er his dark locks fell: “I bless, I bless thee o’er and o’er, Yet I stay thee not--Farewell!”
“One moment! but one moment give to parting thought or word! It is no time for woman’s tears when manhood’s heart is stirr’d. Bear but the memory of my love about thee in the fight, To breathe upon th’ avenging sword a spell of keener might.
And a maiden’s fond adieu was heard, Though deep, yet brief and low: “In the vigil, in the conflict, love! My prayer shall with thee go!”
“Come forth! come as the torrent comes when the winter’s chain is burst! So rushes on the land’s revenge, in night and silence nursed. The night is pass’d, the silence o’er--on all our hills we rise: We wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of battle cries.”
There were sad hearts in a darken’d home, When the brave had left their bower; But the strength of prayer and sacrifice Was with them in that hour.
MIGNON’S SONG.
TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE.
[Mignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character in one of Goethe’s romances, from which Sir Walter Scott’s Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in early childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons, are perpetually haunting her, and at times break forth into the following song. The original has been set to exquisite music, by Zelter, the friend of Goethe.]
“Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhn?”
Know’st thou the land where bloom the citron bowers, Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove? High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers, And through a still blue heaven the sweet winds rove. Know’st thou it well? There, there, with thee, O friend! O loved one! fain my steps would flee.
Know’st thou the dwelling? There the pillars rise, Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow; And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes To say--“Poor child! what thus hath wrought thee woe?” Know’st thou it well? There, there with thee, O my protector! homewards might I flee!
Know’st thou the mountain? High its bridge is hung, Where the mule seeks through mist and cloud his way; There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among, O’er beetling rocks there foams the torrent-spray. Know’st thou it well? With thee, with thee, There lies my path, O father! let us flee!
THE SISTERS.[412]
A BALLAD.
“I go, sweet sister! yet, my heart would linger with thee fain, And unto every parting gift some deep remembrance chain: Take, then, the braid of Eastern pearls which once I loved to wear, And with it bind for festal scenes the dark waves of thy hair! Its pale, pure brightness will beseem those raven tresses well, And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone convent-cell.”
“Oh, speak not thus, my Leonor! why part from kindred love? Through festive scenes, when thou art gone, my steps no more shall move! How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless throng? I should but miss earth’s dearest voice in every tone of song. Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me proudly twine Its wreath once more around that brow, that queenly brow of thine.”
“Oh, wouldst thou strive a wounded bird from shelter to detain? Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed to weary life again? Sweet sister! take the golden cross that I have worn so long, And bathed with many a burning tear for secret woe and wrong. It could not still my beating heart! but may it be a sign Of peace and hope, my gentle one! when meekly press’d to thine.”
“Take back, take back the cross of gold, our mother’s gift to thee-- It would but of this parting hour a bitter token be; With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but sadly shine, And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer mine. O sister! if thy heart be thus with buried grief oppress’d, Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well as on my faithful breast?”
“Urge me no more! A blight hath fallen upon my summer years! I should but darken thy young life with fruitless pangs and fears. But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for my sake, And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone of memory wake! Sing to those chords by starlight’s gleam our own sweet vesper-hymn, And think that I too chant it then, far in my cloister dim.”
“Yes! I will take the silvery lute--and I will sing to thee A song we heard in childhood’s days, even from our father’s knee. O sister! sister! are these notes amid forgotten things? Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar strings? Seems not our sainted mother’s voice to murmur in the strain? Kind sister! gentlest Leonor! say shall it plead in vain?”
[412] This ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recitative, relieved by music. It was thus performed by two graceful and highly accomplished sisters.
SONG.
“Leave us not, leave us not! Say not adieu! Have we not been to thee Tender and true?
“Take not thy sunny smile Far from our hearth! With that sweet light will fade Summer and mirth.
“Leave us not, leave us not! Can thy heart roam? Wilt thou not pine to hear Voices from home?
“Too sad our love would be If thou wert gone! Turn to us, leave us not! Thou art our own!”
“O sister! hush that thrilling lute!--oh, cease that haunting lay! Too deeply pierce those wild, sweet notes--yet, yet I cannot stay: For weary, weary is my heart! I hear a whisper’d call In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the blossom fall. I cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines to dwell Where the world’s voice can reach no more! Oh, calm thee!--Fare thee well!”
[“Mrs Hemans played very pleasingly, and was passionately fond of music. She has described in--perhaps the finest of her lyrics--the ‘Requiem of Mozart’ the manner in which she herself felt its thrilling influences.
“It was after having listened with great delight one evening to some sweet and loved voices (that are now but very seldom heard within these walls) singing those words of hers, composed from Sir Walter Scott’s dictation, for one of the old Rhine songs, that she brought with her, on the next, her lines on ‘Triumphant Music;’ and triumphant they really were, in the splendour of their effect, as she repeated them. She wrote, for these same voices, the little drama, or rather scena, ‘The Sisters,’ which formed, as it was represented[413] with extraordinary research and elegance, and with the advantage of Mr Lodge’s music, one of the most perfect private exhibitions of the kind that can be imagined. One could not help reverting to the times of Ludlow Castle, and the Bridgewater family, when the youthful performers in Milton’s exquisite masque were as pure, and as noble, and as beautiful, as the ideal personages they represented.”--Recollections of Mrs Hemans, by Mrs Lawrence of Wavertree Hall, p. 339-340.]
[413] At a beautiful residence in Needwood Forest.
THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.
[Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the younger Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock above the sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There is a desolate grace about the whole figure, which seems penetrated with the feeling of utter abandonment.]
Sound on, thou dark, unslumbering sea! My dirge is in thy moan; My spirit finds response in thee To its own ceaseless cry--“Alone, alone!”
Yet send me back one other word, Ye tones that never cease! Oh! let your secret caves be stirr’d, And say, dark waters! will ye give me peace?
Away! my weary soul hath sought In vain one echoing sigh, One answer to consuming thought In human hearts--and will the wave reply?
Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea! Sound in thy scorn and pride! I ask not, alien world! from thee What my own kindred earth hath still denied.
And yet I loved that earth so well, With all its lovely things! Was it for this the death-wind fell On my rich lyre, and quench’d its living strings?
Let them lie silent at my feet! Since, broken even as they, The heart whose music made them sweet Hath pour’d on desert sands its wealth away.
Yet glory’s light hath touch’d my name, The laurel-wreath is mine-- With a lone heart, a weary frame-- O restless deep! I come to make them thine!
Give to that crown, that burning crown, Place in thy darkest hold! Bury my anguish, my renown, With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold.
Thou sea-bird on the billow’s crest! Thou hast thy love, thy home; They wait thee in the quiet nest, And I, th’ unsought, unwatch’d-for--I too come!
I, with this wingèd nature fraught, These visions wildly free, This boundless love, this fiery thought-- Alone I come--oh! give me peace, dark sea!
DIRGE.
Where shall we make her grave? Oh! where the wild-flowers wave In the free air! Where shower and singing-bird Midst the young leaves are heard-- There--lay her there!
Harsh was the world to her-- Now may sleep minister Balm for each ill: Low on sweet nature’s breast Let the meek heart find rest, Deep, deep and still!
Murmur, glad waters! by; Faint gales! with happy sigh, Come wandering o’er That green and mossy bed, Where, on a gentle head, Storms beat no more!
What though for her in vain Falls now the bright spring-rain, Plays the soft wind? Yet still, from where she lies, Should blessed breathings rise, Gracious and kind.
Therefore let song and dew Thence in the heart renew Life’s vernal glow! And o’er that holy earth Scents of the violet’s birth Still come and go!
Oh! then, where wild flowers wave Make ye her mossy grave, In the free air! Where shower and singing-bird Midst the young leaves are heard-- There--lay her there!
A SONG OF THE ROSE.
“Cosi fior diverrai che non soggiace All ’acqua, al gelo, al vento ed allo scherno D’ una stagion volubile e fugace; E a piu fido Cultor posto in governo, Unir potrai nella tranquilla pace, Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno.” Metastasio.
Rose! what dost thou here? Bridal, royal rose! How, midst grief and fear, Canst thou thus disclose That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf glows?
Rose! too much array’d For triumphal hours, Look’st thou through the shade Of these mortal bowers, Not to disturb my soul, thou crown’d one of all flowers!
As an eagle soaring Through a sunny sky, As a clarion pouring Notes of victory, So dost thou kindle thoughts, for earthly life too high.
Thoughts of rapture, flushing Youthful poet’s cheek; Thoughts of glory, rushing Forth in song to break, But finding the spring-tide of rapid song too weak.
Yet, O festal rose! I have seen thee lying In thy bright repose Pillow’d with the dying, Thy crimson by the lip whence life’s quick blood was flying.
Summer, hope, and love O’er that bed of pain, Met in thee, yet wove Too, too frail a chain In its embracing links the lovely to detain.
Smilest thou, gorgeous flower? Oh! within the spells Of thy beauty’s power, Something dimly dwells, At variance with a world of sorrows and farewells.
All the soul forth flowing In that rich perfume, All the proud life glowing In that radiant bloom-- Have they no place but here, beneath th’ o’ershadowing tomb?
Crown’st thou but the daughters Of our tearful race? Heaven’s own purest waters Well might wear the trace Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace.
Will that clime enfold thee With immortal air? Shall we not behold thee Bright and deathless there? In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendantly more fair!
Yes! my fancy sees thee In that light disclose, And its dream thus frees thee From the mist of woes, Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal royal rose!
NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.
Children of night! unfolding meekly, slowly, To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours, When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy, And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers; To solemn things and deep, To spirit-haunted sleep, To thoughts, all purified From earth, ye seem allied; O dedicated flowers!
Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling, Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined; Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing, Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind. --So doth love’s dreaming heart Dwell from the throng apart, And but to shades disclose The inmost thought, which glows With its pure life entwined.
Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices, To no triumphant song your petals thrill, But send forth odours with the faint, soft voices Rising from hidden streams, when all is still. --So doth lone prayer arise, Mingling with secret sighs, When grief unfolds, like you, Her breast, for heavenly dew In silent hours to fill.
THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS.
“Call back your odours, lovely flowers! From the night-winds call them back; And fold your leaves till the laughing hours Come forth in the sunbeam’s track!
“The lark lies couch’d in her grassy nest, And the honey-bee is gone, And all bright things are away to rest-- Why watch ye here alone?
“Is not your world a mournful one, When your sisters close their eyes, And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone Of song in the starry skies?
“Take ye no joy in the dayspring’s birth When it kindles the sparks of dew? And the thousand strains of the forest’s mirth, Shall they gladden all but you?
“Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out On the sunny turf to play, And the woodland child with a fairy shout Goes dancing on its way!”
“Nay! let our shadowy beauty bloom When the stars give quiet light, And let us offer our faint perfume On the silent shrine of night.
“Call it not wasted, the scent we lend To the breeze, when no step is nigh: Oh, thus for ever the earth should send Her grateful breath on high!
“And love us as emblems, night’s dewy flowers, Of hopes unto sorrow given, That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours Looking alone to heaven!”
ECHO-SONG.
In thy cavern-hall, Echo! art thou sleeping? By the fountain’s fall Dreamy silence keeping? Yet one soft note borne From the shepherd’s horn, Wakes thee, Echo! into music leaping! --Strange, sweet Echo! into music leaping.
Then the woods rejoice, Then glad sounds are swelling From each sister-voice Round thy rocky dwelling; And their sweetness fills All the hollow hills, With a thousand notes, of one life telling! --Softly mingled notes, of one life telling.
Echo! in my heart Thus deep thoughts are lying, Silent and apart, Buried, yet undying; Till some gentle tone Wakening haply one, Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying! --Strange, sweet Echo! even like thee replying.[414]
[414] This song is in the possession of Mr Power.
THE MUFFLED DRUM.[415]
The muffled drum was heard In the Pyrenees by night, With a dull, deep rolling sound, Which told the hamlets round Of a soldier’s burial-rite.
But it told them not how dear, In a home beyond the main, Was the warrior-youth laid low that hour By a mountain-stream of Spain.
The oaks of England waved O’er the slumbers of his race, But a pine of the Ronceval made moan Above his last, lone place;
When the muffled drum was heard In the Pyrenees by night, With a dull, deep rolling sound, Which call’d strange echoes round To the soldier’s burial-rite.
Brief was the sorrowing there, By the stream from battle red, And tossing on its wave the plumes Of many a stately head:
But a mother--soon to die, And a sister--long to weep, Even then were breathing prayers for him In that home beyond the deep;
While the muffled drum was heard In the Pyrenees by night, With a dull, deep rolling sound, And the dark pines mourn’d round, O’er the soldier’s burial-rite.
[415] Set to beautiful music by John Lodge, Esq.
THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK.
“Adieu, adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep In the next valley-glades.” Keats.
“Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.” Shelley.
Midst the long reeds that o’er a Grecian stream Unto the faint wind sigh’d melodiously, And where the sculpture of a broken shrine Sent out thro’ shadowy grass and thick wild-flowers Dim alabaster gleams--a lonely swan Warbled his death-chant; and a poet stood Listening to that strange music, as it shook The lilies on the wave; and made the pines And all the laurels of the haunted shore Thrill to its passion. Oh! the tones were sweet, Even painfully--as with the sweetness wrung From parting love; and to the poet’s thought This was their language.
“Summer! I depart-- O light and laughing summer! fare thee well: No song the less through thy rich woods will swell, For one, one broken heart.
“And fare ye well, young flowers! Ye will not mourn! ye will shed odour still, And wave in glory, colouring every rill, Known to my youth’s fresh hours.
“And ye, bright founts! that lie Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep, My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep-- Sweet waters! I must die.
“Will ye not send one tone Of sorrow through the pines?--one murmur low? Shall not the green leaves from your voices know That I, your child, am gone?
“No! ever glad and free Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell: Waves, joyous waves! flow on, and fare ye well? Ye will not mourn for me.
“But thou, sweet boon! too late Pour’d on my parting breath, vain gift of song! Why com’st thou thus, o’ermastering, rich and strong, In the dark hour of fate?
“Only to wake the sighs Of echo-voices from their sparry cell; Only to say--O sunshine and blue skies! O life and love! farewell.”
Thus flow’d the death-chant on; while mournfully Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream-- Rocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy-- Woke to respond: and all the air was fill’d With that one sighing sound--Farewell! farewell!
Fill’d with that sound? High in the calm blue heav’n Even then a skylark hung; soft summer clouds Were floating round him, all transpierced with light, And midst that pearly radiance his dark wings Quiver’d with song: such free, triumphant song, As if tears were not,--as if breaking hearts Had not a place below; and thus that strain Spoke to the poet’s ear exultingly:--
“The summer is come; she hath said Rejoice! The wild-woods thrill to her merry voice; Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high: Sing, sing through the echoing sky!
“There is joy in the mountains! The bright waves leap Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep; Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along-- Let the heavens ring with song!
“There is joy in the forests! The bird of night Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight; But mine is the glory to sunshine given-- Sing, sing through the echoing heaven!
“Mine are the wings of the soaring morn, Mine are the fresh gales with dayspring born: Only young rapture can mount so high-- Sing, sing through the echoing sky!”
So those two voices met; so Joy and Death Mingled their accents; and, amidst the rush Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,-- “Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful, Mysterious nature! Not in thy free range Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus The dirge-note and the song of festival; But in one heart, one changeful human heart-- Ay, and within one hour of that strange world-- Thou call’st their music forth, with all its tones, To startle and to pierce!--the dying swan’s, And the glad skylark’s--triumph and despair!”
THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.
Hark! from the dim church-tower, The deep, slow Curfew’s chime! --A heavy sound unto hall and bower In England’s olden time! Sadly ’twas heard by him who came From the fields of his toil at night, And who might not see his own hearth-flame In his children’s eyes make light.
Sternly and sadly heard, As it quench’d the wood-fire’s glow, Which had cheer’d the board with the mirthful word, And the red wine’s foaming flow! Until that sullen, boding knell, Flung out from every fane, On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell, With a weight and with a chain.
Woe for the pilgrim then In the wild-deer’s forest far! No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men, Might guide him, as a star. And woe for him whose wakeful soul, With lone aspirings fill’d, Would have lived o’er some immortal scroll, While the sounds of earth were still’d!
And yet a deeper woe For the watcher by the bed, Where the fondly-loved in pain lay low, In pain and sleepless dread! For the mother, doom’d unseen to keep By the dying babe, her place, And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep, Yet not behold its face!
Darkness in chieftain’s hall! Darkness in peasant’s cot! While freedom, under that shadowy pall, Sat mourning o’er her lot. Oh! the fireside’s peace we well may prize! For blood hath flow’d like rain, Pour’d forth to make sweet sanctuaries Of England’s homes again.
Heap the yule-faggots high Till the red light fills the room! It is home’s own hour when the stormy sky Grows thick with evening gloom. Gather ye round the holy hearth, And by its gladdening blaze, Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, With a thought of the olden days!
GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.
“That voice re-measures Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures The things of nature utter; birds or trees, Or where the tall grass mid the heath-plant waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.” Coleridge.
I heard a song upon the wandering wind, A song of many tones--though one full soul Breathed through them all imploringly; and made All nature as they pass’d, all quivering leaves And low responsive reeds and waters, thrill As with the consciousness of human prayer. --At times the passion-kindled melody Might seem to gush from Sappho’s fervent heart, Over the wild sea-wave;--at times the strain Flow’d with more plaintive sweetness, as if born Of Petrarch’s voice, beside the lone Vaucluse; And sometimes, with its melancholy swell, A graver sound was mingled, a deep note Of Tasso’s holy lyre. Yet still the tones Were of a suppliant--“Leave me not!” was still The burden of their music; and I knew The lay which Genius, in its loneliness, Its own still world, amidst th’ o’erpeopled world, Hath ever breathed to Love.
“They crown me with the glistening crown, Borne from a deathless tree; I hear the pealing music of renown-- O Love! forsake me not! Mine were a lone, dark lot, Bereft of thee! They tell me that my soul can throw A glory o’er the earth; From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow! Shed by thy gentle eyes, It gives to flower and skies A bright, new birth!
“Thence gleams the path of morning Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone! Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning With lustre not its own! Thence every wood-recess Is fill’d with loveliness, Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known.
“I see all beauty by the ray That streameth from thy smile;= Oh! bear it, bear it not away! Can that sweet light beguile? Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems, To linger long by earthly streams; I clasp it with th’ alloy Of fear midst quivering joy. Yet must I perish if the gift depart-- Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!
“The music from my lyre With thy swift step would flee; The world’s cold breath would quench the starry fire In my deep soul--a temple fill’d with thee! Seal’d would the fountains lie, The waves of harmony, Which thou alone canst free!
“Like a shrine midst rocks forsaken, Whence the oracle hath fled; Like a harp which none might waken But a mighty master dead; Like the vase of a perfume scatter’d. Such would my spirit be-- So mute, so void, so shatter’d, Bereft of thee!
“Leave me not, Love! or if this earth Yield not for thee a home, If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth Send thee a silvery voice that whispers ‘Come!’ Then, with the glory from the rose, With the sparkle from the stream, With the light thy rainbow-presence throws Over the poet’s dream; With all th’ Elysian hues Thy pathway that suffuse, With joy, with music, from the fading grove, Take me, too, heavenward on thy wing, sweet Love!”
MUSIC AT A DEATHBED.
“Music! why thy power employ Only for the sons of joy? Only for the smiling guests At natal or at nuptial feasts? Rather thy lenient numbers pour On those whom secret griefs devour; And with some softly-whisper’d air Smooth the brow of dumb despair!” Warton from Euripides.
Bring music! stir the brooding air With an ethereal breath! Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear Up from the couch of death!
A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay, Such as the southern breeze Might waft, at golden fall of day, O’er blue, transparent seas!
Oh, no! not such! That lingering spell Would lure me back to life, When my wean’d heart hath said farewell, And pass’d the gates of strife.
Let not a sigh of human love Blend with the song its tone! Let no disturbing echo move One that must die alone!
But pour a solemn-breathing strain Fill’d with the soul of prayer! Let a life’s conflict, fear, and pain, And trembling hope be there.
Deeper, yet deeper! In my thought Lies more prevailing sound, A harmony intensely fraught With pleading more profound:
A passion unto music given, A sweet, yet piercing cry; A breaking heart’s appeal to Heaven, A bright faith’s victory!
Deeper! Oh! may no richer power Be in those notes enshrined? Can all which crowds on earth’s last hour No fuller language find?
Away! and hush the feeble song, And let the chord be still’d! Far in another land ere long My dream shall be fulfill’d.
MARSHAL SCHWERIN’S GRAVE.
[“I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin--a plain, quiet cenotaph, erected in the middle of a wide corn-field, on the very spot where he closed a long, faithful, and glorious career in arms. He fell here, at eighty years of age, at the head of his own regiment, the standard of it waving in his hand. His seat was in the leathern saddle--his foot in the iron stirrup--his fingers reined the young war-horse to the last.”--Notes and Reflections during a Ramble into Germany.]
Thou didst fall in the field with thy silver hair, And a banner in thy hand; Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there, By a proudly mournful band.
In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle’s blast, Thy long bright years had sped; And a warrior’s bier was thine at last, When the snows had crown’d thy head.
Many had fallen by thy side, old chief! Brothers and friends, perchance; But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf, And light was in thy glance.
The soldier’s heart at thy step leapt high, And thy voice the war-horse knew; And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh, Wert thou, the bold and true.
Now may’st thou slumber--thy work is done-- Thou of the well-worn sword! From the stormy fight in thy fame thou’rt gone, But not to the festal board.
The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around, Where fiery blood hath flow’d: O lover of battle and trumpet-sound! Thou art couch’d in a still abode!
A quiet home from the noonday’s glare, And the breath of the wintry blast-- Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair To win thee but this at last?
THE FALLEN LIME-TREE.
O joy of the peasant! O stately lime! Thou art fall’n in thy golden honey-time! Thou whose wavy shadows, Long and long ago, Screen’d our gray forefathers From the noontide’s glow; Thou, beneath whose branches, Touch’d with moonlight gleams, Lay our early poets Wrapt in fairy dreams. O tree of our fathers! O hallow’d tree! A glory is gone from our home with thee.
Where shall now the weary Rest through summer eves? Or the bee find honey, As on thy sweet leaves? Where shall now the ringdove Build again her nest? She so long the inmate Of thy fragrant breast! But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee Far more than the ringdove, far more than the bee!
These may yet find coverts Leafy and profound, Full of dewy dimness, Odour, and soft sound: But the gentle memories Clinging all to thee, When shall they be gather’d Round another tree? O pride of our fathers! O hallow’d tree! The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee!
THE BIRD AT SEA.
Bird of the greenwood! Oh, why art thou here? Leaves dance not o’er thee, Flowers bloom not near. All the sweet waters Far hence are at play-- Bird of the greenwood! Away, away!
Where the mast quivers Thy place will not be, As midst the waving Of wild-rose and tree. How shouldst thou battle With storm and with spray? Bird of the greenwood! Away, away!
Or art thou seeking Some brighter land, Where by the south wind Vine leaves are fann’d? ’Midst the wild billows Why then delay? Bird of the greenwood! Away, away!
“Chide not my lingering Where storms are dark; A hand that hath nursed me Is in the bark-- A heart that hath cherish’d Through winter’s long day: So I turn from the greenwood, Away, away!”
THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.
“I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children of earth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no more?--whether they have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which my future home is to be cast? or whether they have their images above, only wrought in a more wondrous and delightful mould.”--
“Conversations with an ambitious Student in ill health.”
Bear them not from grassy dells Where wild bees have honey-cells; Not from where sweet water-sounds Thrill the greenwood to its bounds; Not to waste their scented breath On the silent room of Death!
Kindred to the breeze they are, And the glow-worm’s emerald star, And the bird whose song is free, And the many-whispering tree: Oh! too deep a love, and vain, They would win to earth again.
Spread them not before the eyes Closing fast on summer skies! Woo thou not the spirit back From its lone and viewless track, With the bright things which have birth Wide o’er all the colour’d earth!
With the violet’s breath would rise Thoughts too sad for her who dies; From the lily’s pearl-cup shed, Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed; Dreams of youth--of spring-time’s eves-- Music--beauty--all she leaves!
Hush! ’tis thou that dreaming art, Calmer is her gentle heart. Yes! o’er fountain, vale, and grove, Leaf and flower, hath gush’d her love; But that passion, deep and true, Knows not of a last adieu.
Types of lovelier forms than these In their fragile mould she sees; Shadows of yet richer things, Born beside immortal springs, Into fuller glory wrought, Kindled by surpassing thought!
Therefore, in the lily’s leaf, She can read no word of grief; O’er the woodbine she can dwell, Murmuring not--Farewell! farewell! And her dim, yet speaking eye Greets the violet solemnly.
Therefore once, and yet again, Strew them o’er her bed of pain; From her chamber take the gloom With a light and flush of bloom: So should one depart, who goes Where no death can touch the rose!
THE IVY-SONG.[416]
Oh! how could fancy crown with thee, In ancient days, the God of Wine, And bid thee at the banquet be Companion of the Vine? Ivy! thy home is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o’er; Where song and beaker once went round, But now are known no more; Where long-fallen gods recline, There the place is thine.
The Roman, on his battle-plains, Where kings before his eagles bent, With thee, amidst exulting strains, Shadow’d the victor’s tent. Though, shining there in deathless green, Triumphantly thy boughs might wave, Better thou lovest the silent scene Around the victor’s grave-- Urn and sculpture half divine Yield their place to thine.
The cold halls of the regal dead, Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, Where hollow sounds the lightest tread-- Ivy! they know thee well! And far above the festal vine Thou wavest where once proud banners hung, Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine-- The Rhine, still fresh and young! Tower and rampart o’er the Rhine, Ivy! all are thine!
High from the fields of air look down Those eyries of a vanish’d race, Where harp, and battle, and renown, Have pass’d, and left no trace. But thou art there!--serenely bright, Meeting the mountain-storms with bloom, Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, Or crown the lowliest tomb! Ivy! Ivy! all are thine, Palace, hearth, and shrine.
’Tis still the same: our pilgrim-tread O’er classic plains, through deserts free, On the mute path of ages fled, Still meets decay and thee. And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, stern in power-- Days pass--thou Ivy never sere,[417] And thou shalt have thy dower. All are thine, or must be thine-- Temple, pillar, shrine!
[416] This song, as originally written, the reader will have met with in an earlier part of this publication, (p. 354.) Being afterwards completely remodelled by Mrs Hemans, perhaps no apology is requisite for its re-insertion here.
[417] “Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”--Lycidas.
THE MUSIC OF ST PATRICK’S.
[The choral music of St Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, is almost unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific skill. The majestic harmony of effect thus produced is not a little deepened by the character of the church itself, which, though small, yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and old monumental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to recognise it as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old--a place to witness the solitary vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at the burial of some warlike king.]
“All the choir Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas.”--Milton.
Again! oh! send that anthem-peal again Through the arch’d roof in triumph to the sky! Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain, The banners thrill as if with victory!
Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might have heard, While arm’d for fields of chivalrous renown: Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirr’d, While throbbing still beneath the recent crown!
Those notes once more!--they bear my soul away, They lend the wings of morning to its flight; No earthly passion in th’ exulting lay Whispers one tone to win me from that height.
All is of Heaven! Yet wherefore to mine eye Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source, Even while the waves of that strong harmony Roll with my spirit on their sounding course?
Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal Thus by the burst of sorrow’s token shower! --Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel Our nature’s limit in its proudest hour?
[The mention of Neukomm’s magnificent organ-playing brings to remembrance one great enjoyment of Mrs Hemans’s residence in Dublin--the exquisite “Music of St Patrick’s,” of which she has recorded her impressions in the little poem so entitled. Its effect is, indeed, such as, once heard, can never be forgotten. If ever earthly music can be satisfying, it must surely be such as this, bringing home to our bosoms the solemn beauty of our own holy liturgy, with all its precious and endeared associations, in tones that make the heart swell with ecstasy, and the eyes overflow with unbidden tears. There was one anthem, frequently heard within those ancient walls, which Mrs Hemans used to speak of with peculiar enthusiasm--that from the 3d Psalm--“Lord, how are they increased that trouble me!” The consummate skill exhibited in the adaptation of sound to sense in this noble composition is, in truth, most admirable. The symphony to the 5th verse--“I laid me down and slept”--with its soft, dreamy vibrations, gentle as the hovering of an angel’s wing--the utter abandon, the melting into slumber, implied by the half-whispered words that came breathing as from a world of spirits--almost “steep the senses in forgetfulness,” when a sudden outbreak, as it were, of life and light, bursts forth with the glad announcement, “I awaked, for the Lord sustained me;” then the old sombre arches ring with an almost overpowering peal of triumph, bearing to Heaven’s gate the exulting chorus of the 6th and 8th verses.--Memoir, p. 260-1.]
KEENE; OR, LAMENT OF AN IRISH MOTHER OVER HER SON.
[This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and deep pathos, and other characteristics analogous to those of the national music.]
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark!
There is blood upon the threshold Whence thy step went forth at morn Like a dancer’s in its fleetness, O my bright first-born!
At the glad sound of that footstep My heart within me smiled;-- Thou wert brought me back all silent On thy bier, my child!
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark!
I thought to see thy children Laugh on me with thine eyes; But my sorrow’s voice is lonely Where my life’s flower lies.
I shall go to sit beside thee, Thy kindred’s graves among; I shall hear the tall grass whisper-- I shall not hear it long.
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark!
And I, too, shall find slumber With my lost one in the earth;-- Let none light up the ashes Again on our hearth!
Let the roof go down!--let silence On the home for ever fall, Where my boy lay cold, and heard not His lone mother’s call!
Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark!
FAR AWAY.[418]
Far away!--my home is far away, Where the blue sea laves a mountain-shore; In the woods I hear my brothers play, Midst the flowers my sister sings once more, Far away!
Far away!--my dreams are far away, When at midnight stars and shadows reign: “Gentle child!” my mother seems to say, “Follow me where home shall smile again, Far away!”
Far away!--my hope is far away, Where love’s voice young gladness may restore. --O thou dove! now soaring through the day, Lend me wings to reach that better shore, Far away!
[418] This, and the five following songs, have been set to music of great merit, by J. Zeugheer Herrmann and H. F. Chorley, Esq., and are published in a set by Mr Power, who has given permission for the appearance of the words in this volume.
THE LYRE AND FLOWER.
A lyre its plaintive sweetness pour’d Forth on the wild wind’s track; The stormy wanderer jarr’d the chord, But gave no music back.-- O child of song! Bear hence to heaven thy fire: What hopest thou from the reckless throng? Be not like that lost lyre! Not like that lyre!
A flower its leaves and odours cast On a swift-rolling wave; Th’ unheeding torrent darkly pass’d, And back no treasure gave.-- O heart of love! Waste not thy precious dower: Turn to thine only home above! Be not like that lost flower! Not like that flower!
SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST.
Sister! since I met thee last, O’er thy brow a change hath past. In the softness of thine eyes, Deep and still a shadow lies; From thy voice there thrills a tone Never to thy childhood known; Through thy soul a storm hath moved, --Gentle sister! thou hast loved!
Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught Hues too bright from troubled thought; Far along the wandering stream Thou art follow’d by a dream; In the woods and valleys lone Music haunts thee, not thine own: Wherefore fall thy tears like rain? --Sister! thou hast loved in vain!
Tell me not the tale, my flower! On my bosom pour that shower! Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted; Tell me not of young hopes blasted; Wring not forth one burning word, Let thy heart no more be stirr’d! Home alone can give thee rest. --Weep, sweet sister! on my breast!
THE LONELY BIRD.
From a ruin thou art singing, O lonely, lonely bird! The soft blue air is ringing, By thy summer music stirr’d. But all is dark and cold beneath, Where harps no more are heard: Whence win’st thou that exulting breath, O lonely, lonely bird?
Thy songs flow richly swelling To a triumph of glad sounds, As from its cavern-dwelling A stream in glory bounds! Though the castle-echoes catch no tone Of human step or word, Though the fires be quench’d and the feasting done, O lonely, lonely bird?
How can that flood of gladness Rush through thy fiery lay, From the haunted place of sadness, From the bosom of decay-- While the dirge-notes in the breeze’s moan, Through the ivy garlands heard, Come blent with thy rejoicing tone, O lonely, lonely bird?
There’s many a heart, wild singer! Like thy forsaken tower, Where joy no more may linger, Where Love hath left his bower: And there’s many a spirit e’en like thee, To mirth as lightly stirr’d, Though it soar from ruins in its glee, O lonely, lonely bird!
DIRGE AT SEA.
Sleep!--we give thee to the wave, Red with life-blood from the brave. Thou shalt find a noble grave. Fare thee well!
Sleep! thy billowy field is won: Proudly may the funeral gun, Midst the hush at set of sun, Boom thy knell!
Lonely, lonely is thy bed, Never there may flower be shed, Marble rear’d, or brother’s head Bow’d to weep.
Yet thy record on the sea, Borne through battle high and free, Long the red-cross flag shall be. Sleep! oh, sleep!
PILGRIM’S SONG TO THE EVENING STAR.
O soft star of the west! Gleaming far, Thou’rt guiding all things home, Gentle star! Thou bring’st from rock and wave The sea-bird to her nest, The hunter from the hills, The fisher back to rest. Light of a thousand streams, Gleaming far! O soft star of the west! Blessed star!
No bowery roof is mine, No hearth of love and rest, Yet guide me to my shrine, O soft star of the west! There, there my home shall be, Heaven’s dew shall cool my breast, When prayer and tear gush free, O soft star of the west!
O soft star of the west, Gleaming far! Thou’rt guiding all things home, Gentle star! Shine from thy rosy heaven, Pour joy on earth and sea! Shine on, though no sweet eyes Look forth to watch for me! Light of a thousand streams, Gleaming afar! O soft star of the west! Blessed star!
THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.
“We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short moments: and then days, months, years intervene, and we see and know nothing of each other.”--Washington Irving.
Two barks met on the deep mid-sea, When calms had still’d the tide; A few bright days of summer glee There found them side by side.
And voices of the fair and brave Rose mingling thence in mirth; And sweetly floated o’er the wave The melodies of earth.
Moonlight on that lone Indian main Cloudless and lovely slept; While dancing step, and festive strain Each deck in triumph swept.
And hands were link’d, and answering eyes With kindly meaning shone; Oh! brief and passing sympathies, Like leaves together blown!
A little while such joy was cast Over the deep’s repose, Till the loud singing winds at last Like trumpet-music rose.
And proudly, freely on their way The parting vessels bore; In calm or storm, by rock or bay, To meet--oh, never more!
Never to blend in victory’s cheer, To aid in hours of woe: And thus bright spirits mingle here, Such ties are form’d below!
COME AWAY.
Come away!--the child, where flowers are springing Round its footsteps on the mountain-slope, Hears a glad voice from the upland singing, Like the skylark’s with its tone of hope: Come away!
Bounding on, with sunny lands before him, All the wealth of glowing life outspread, Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o’er him, By that strain the youth in joy is led: Come away!
Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling O’er the sweetness of the voice within; Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling, Urge the hunter still to chase, to win: Come away!
Come away!--the heart at last forsaken, Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue; Yet a breath can still those words awaken, Though to other shores far hence they woo: Come away!
In the light leaves, in the reed’s faint sighing, In the low, sweet sounds of early spring, Still their music wanders--till the dying Hears them pass, as on a spirit’s wing: Come away!
FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL.
[“Fair Helen of Kirkconnel,” as she is called in the Scottish Minstrelsy, throwing herself between her betrothed lover and a rival by whom his life was assailed, received a mortal wound, and died in the arms of the former.]
Hold me upon thy faithful heart, Keep back my flitting breath; ’Tis early, early to depart, Beloved!--yet this is death!
Look on me still--let that kind eye Be the last light I see! Oh! sad it is in spring to die, But yet I die for thee!
For thee, my own!--thy stately head Was never thus to bow: Give tears when with me love hath fled, True love, thou know’st it now!
Oh, the free streams look’d bright, where’er We in our gladness roved; And the blue skies were very fair, O friend! because we loved.
Farewell!--I bless thee--live thou on When this young heart is low! Surely my blood thy life hath won-- Clasp me once more--I go!
MUSIC FROM SHORE.
A sound comes on the rising breeze, A sweet and lovely sound! Piercing the tumult of the seas That wildly dash around.
From land, from sunny land it comes, From hills with murmuring trees, From paths by still and happy homes-- That sweet sound on the breeze.
Why should its faint and passing sigh Thus bid my quick pulse leap? No part in earth’s glad melody Is mine upon the deep.
Yet blessing, blessing on the spot Whence those rich breathings flow! Kind hearts, although they know me not, Like mine there beat and glow.
And blessing, from the bark that roams O’er solitary seas, To those that far in happy homes Give sweet sounds to the breeze!
LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS EYES.
Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, Truth in their dark transparence lies; Their sweetness gives me back the tears And the free trust of early years, My gentle child!
The spirit of my infant prayer Shines in the depths of quiet there; And home and love once more are mine. Found in that dewy calm divine, My gentle child!
Oh! heaven is with thee in thy dreams, Its light by day around thee gleams-- Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies: Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, My gentle child!
IF THOU HAST CRUSH’D A FLOWER.
“Oh, cast thou not Affection from thee! In this bitter world Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast; Watch--guard it--suffer not a breath to dim The bright gem’s purity!”
If thou hast crush’d a flower, The root may not be blighted; If thou hast quench’d a lamp, Once more it may be lighted: But on thy harp, or on thy lute, The string which thou hast broken Shall never in sweet sound again Give to thy touch a token!
If thou hast loosed a bird Whose voice of song could cheer thee, Still, still he may be won From the skies to warble near thee: But if upon the troubled sea Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, Hope not that wind or wave will bring The treasure back when needed.
If thou hast bruised a vine, The summer’s breath is healing, And its clusters yet may glow Through the leaves their bloom revealing: But if thou hast a cup o’erthrown With a bright draught fill’d--oh! never Shall earth give back that lavish’d wealth To cool thy parch’d lip’s fever!
The heart is like that cup, If thou waste the love it bore thee; And like that jewel gone, Which the deep will not restore thee; And like that string of harp or lute Whence the sweet sound is scatter’d,-- Gently, oh! gently touch the chords, So soon for ever shatter’d!
BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED.
Brightly, brightly hast thou fled! Ere one grief had bow’d thy head! Brightly didst thou part! With thy young thoughts pure from spot, With thy fond love wasted not, With thy bounding heart.
Ne’er by sorrow to be wet, Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet, Ere with dust o’erspread: Lilies ne’er by tempest blown, White rose which no stain hath known, Be about thee shed!
So we give thee to the earth, And the primrose shall have birth O’er thy gentle head; Thou that, like a dewdrop borne On a sudden breeze of morn, Brightly thus hast fled!
THE BED OF HEATH.
“Soldier, awake! the night is past; Hear’st thou not the bugle’s blast? Feel’st thou not the dayspring’s breath? Rouse thee from thy bed of heath! Arm, thou bold and strong! Soldier! what deep spell hath bound thee? Fiery steeds are neighing round thee-- Banners to the fresh wind play: Rise, and arm--’tis day,’tis day! And thou hast slumber’d long.”
“Brother! on the heathery lea Longer yet my sleep must be; Though the morn of battle rise, Darkly night rolls o’er my eyes-- Brother, this is death! Call me not when bugles sound, Call me not when wine flows round; Name me but amidst the brave, Give me but a soldier’s grave-- But my bed of heath!”
FAIRY SONG.
Have ye left the greenwood lone, Are your steps for ever gone? Fairy King and Elfin Queen, Come ye to the sylvan scene, From your dim and distant shore, Never more?
Shall the pilgrim never hear With a thrill of joy and fear, In the hush of moonlight hours, Voices from the folded flowers, Faint, sweet flute-notes as of yore, Never more?
“Mortal! ne’er shall bowers of earth Hear again our midnight mirth: By our brooks and dingles green Since unhallow’d steps have been, Ours shall thread the forests hoar Never more.
“Ne’er on earth-born lily’s stem Will we hang the dewdrop’s gem; Ne’er shall reed or cowslip’s head Quiver to our dancing tread, By sweet fount or murmuring shore-- Never more!”
WHAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND.
What woke the buried sound that lay In Memnon’s harp of yore? What spirit on its viewless way Along the Nile’s green shore? Oh! not the night, and not the storm, And not the lightning’s fire; But sunlight’s torch, the kind, the warm-- This, this awoke the lyre.
What wins the heart’s deep chords to pour Thus music forth on life-- Like a sweet voice prevailing o’er The truant sounds of strife? Oh! not the conflict midst the throng, Not e’en the trumpet’s hour; Love is the gifted and the strong, To wake that music’s power!
SING TO ME, GONDOLIER!
Sing to me, Gondolier! Sing words from Tasso’s lay; While blue, and still, and clear, Night seems but softer day. The gale is gently falling, As if it paused to hear Some strain the past recalling-- Sing to me, Gondolier!
“Oh, ask me not to wake The memory of the brave; Bid no high numbers break The silence of the wave. Gone are the noble-hearted, Closed the bright pageants here; And the glad song is departed From the mournful Gondolier!”
LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE.
It is thy pity makes me weep, My soul was strong before; Silent, yet strong its griefs to keep From vainly gushing o’er. Turn from me, turn those gentle eyes! In this fond gaze my spirit dies: Look on me thus no more!
Too late that softness comes to bless, My heart’s glad life is o’er; It will but break with tenderness, Which cannot now restore! The lyre-strings have been jarr’d too long, Winter hath touch’d the source of song! Look on me thus no more!
O’ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS.
O’er the far blue mountains, O’er the white sea-foam, Come, thou long-parted one! Back to thine home.
When the bright fire shineth, Sad looks thy place, While the true heart pineth Missing thy face.
Music is sorrowful Since thou art gone; Sisters are mourning thee-- Come to thine own!
Hark! the home-voices call Back to thy rest; Come to thy father’s hall, Thy mother’s breast!
O’er the far blue mountains, O’er the white sea-foam, Come, thou long-parted one! Back to thine home.
O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING!
O thou breeze of spring, Gladdening sea and shore! Wake the woods to sing, Wake my heart no more! Streams have felt the sighing Of thy scented wing, Let each fount replying Hail thee, breeze of spring! Once more!
O’er long-buried flowers Passing not in vain, Odours in soft showers Thou hast brought again. Let the primrose greet thee, Let the violet pour Incense forth to meet thee-- Wake my heart no more! No more!
From a funeral urn Bower’d in leafy gloom, Even thy soft return Calls not song or bloom. Leave my spirit sleeping Like that silent thing; Stir the founts of weeping There, O breeze of spring! No more!
COME TO ME, DREAMS OF HEAVEN!
Come to me, dreams of heaven! My fainting spirit bear On your bright wings, by morning given, Up to celestial air. Away--far, far away, From bowers by tempests riven, Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day, O blessed dreams of heaven!
Come but for one brief hour, Sweet dreams! and yet again O’er burning thought and memory shower Your soft effacing rain! Waft me where gales divine, With dark clouds ne’er have striven, Where living founts for ever shine-- O blessed dreams of heaven!
GOOD-NIGHT.
Day is past! Stars have set their watch at last; Founts that through the deep woods flow Make sweet sounds, unheard till now; Flowers have shut with fading light-- Good-night!
Go to rest! Sleep sit dove-like on thy breast! If within that secret cell One dark form of memory dwell, Be it mantled from thy sight-- Good-night!
Joy be thine! Kind looks o’er thy slumbers shine! Go, and in the spirit-land Meet thy home’s long-parted band; Be their eyes all love and light-- Good-night!
Peace to all! Dreams of heaven on mourners fall! Exile! o’er thy couch may gleams Pass from thine own mountain-streams; Bard! away to worlds more bright-- Good-night!
LET HER DEPART.
Her home is far, oh! far away! The clear light in her eyes Hath naught to do with earthly day-- ’Tis kindled from the skies. Let her depart!
She looks upon the things of earth, Even as some gentle star Seems gazing down on grief or mirth, How softly, yet how far! Let her depart!
Her spirit’s hope--her bosom’s love-- Oh! could they mount and fly! She never sees a wandering dove, But for its wings to sigh. Let her depart!
She never hears a soft wind bear Low music on its way, But deems it sent from heavenly air For her who cannot stay. Let her depart!
Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams, She breathes and moves alone, Pining for those bright bowers and streams Where her beloved is gone. Let her depart!
HOW CAN THAT LOVE SO DEEP, SO LONE.
How can that love so deep, so lone, So faithful unto death, Thus fitfully in laughing tone, In airy word, find breath?
Nay! ask how on the dark wave’s breast, The lily’s cup may gleam, Though many a mournful secret rest Low in the unfathom’d stream.
That stream is like my hidden love, In its deep current’s power; And like the play of words above, That lily’s trembling flower.
WATER-LILIES.
A FAIRY SONG.
Come away, elves!--while the dew is sweet, Come to the dingles where fairies meet! Know that the lilies have spread their bells O’er all the pools in our forest dells; Stilly and lightly their vases rest On the quivering sleep of the water’s breast, Catching the sunshine through leaves that throw To their scented bosoms an emerald glow; And a star from the depth of each pearly cup, A golden star unto heaven looks up, As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie, Set in the blue of the summer sky. Come away! Under arching boughs we’ll float, Making those urns each a fairy boat; We’ll row them with reeds o’er the fountains free, And a tall flag-leaf shall our streamer be; And we’ll send out wild music so sweet and low, It shall seem from the bright flower’s heart to flow, As if ’twere a breeze with a flute’s low sigh, Or water-drops train’d into melody. Come away! for the midsummer sun grows strong, And the life of the lily may not be long.
THE BROKEN FLOWER.
Oh! wear it on thy heart, my love! Still, still a little while! Sweetness is lingering in its leaves, Though faded be their smile. Yet, for the sake of what hath been, Oh, cast it not away! ’Twas born to grace a summer scene, A long, bright, golden day, My love! A long, bright, golden day!
A little while around thee, love! Its fragrance yet shall cling, Telling, that on thy heart hath lain A fair, though faded thing. But not even that warm heart hath power To win it back from fate,-- Oh! I am like thy broken flower, Cherish’d too late, too late, My love! Cherish’d alas! too late!
I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAIN.
I would we had not met again! I had a dream of thee, Lovely, though sad, on desert-plain-- Mournful on midnight sea.
What though it haunted me by night, And troubled through the day? It touch’d all earth with spirit-light, It glorified my way!
Oh! what shall now my faith restore In holy things and fair? We met--I saw thy soul once more-- The world’s breath had been there!
Yes! it was sad on desert-plain, Mournful on midnight sea; Yet would I buy with life again That one deep dream of thee!
FAIRIES’ RECALL.
While the blue is richest In the starry sky, While the softest shadows On the greensward lie, While the moonlight slumbers In the lily’s urn, Bright elves of the wild-wood! Oh! return, return!
Round the forest-fountain, On the river-shore, Let your silvery laughter Echo yet once more; While the joyous bounding Of your dewy feet Rings to that old chorus-- “The daisy is so sweet!”[419]
Oberon! Titania! Did your starlight mirth With the song of Avon Quit this work-day earth? Yet, while green leaves glisten, And while bright stars burn, By that magic memory, Oh! return, return!
[419] See the fairies’ chorus in Chaucer’s “Flower and the Leaf.”
THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA.
Oh! tell me not the woods are fair Now Spring is on her way! Well, well I know how brightly there In joy the young leaves play; How sweet on winds of morn or eve The violet’s breath may be;-- Yet ask me, woo me not to leave My lone rock by the sea.
The wild wave’s thunder on the shore, The curlew’s restless cries, Unto my watching heart are more Than all earth’s melodies. Come back, my ocean rover! come! There’s but one place for me, Till I can greet thy swift sail home-- My lone rock by the sea!
O YE VOICES GONE!
O ye voices gone! Sounds of other years! Hush that haunting tone, Melt me not to tears! All around forget, All who loved you well; Yet, sweet voices! yet O’er my soul ye swell. With the winds of spring, With the breath of flowers, Floating back, ye bring Thoughts of vanished hours. Hence your music take, O ye voices gone! This lonely heart ye make But more deeply lone.
BY A MOUNTAIN-STREAM AT REST.
By a mountain-stream at rest, We found the warrior lying, And around his noble breast A banner clasp’d in dying: Dark and still Was every hill, And the winds of night were sighing.
Last of his noble race To a lonely bed we bore him-- ’Twas a green, still, solemn place. Where the mountain-heath waves o’er him, Woods alone Seem to moan, Wild streams to deplore him.
Yet, from festive hall and lay Our sad thoughts oft are flying To those dark hills far away, Where in death we found him lying; On his breast A banner press’d, And the night-wind o’er him sighing.
IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING?
Is there some Spirit sighing With sorrow in the air? Can weary hearts be dying, Vain love repining there? If not, then how can that wild wail, O sad Æeolian lyre! Be drawn forth by the wandering gale From thy deep thrilling wire?
No, no!--thou dost not borrow That sadness from the wind, Nor are those tones of sorrow In thee, O harp! enshrined; But in our own hearts deeply set Lies the true quivering lyre, Whence love, and memory, and regret Wake answers from thy wire.
THE NAME OF ENGLAND.
The trumpet of the battle Hath a high and thrilling tone; And the first, deep gun of an ocean-fight Dread music all its own.
But a mightier power, my England! Is in that name of thine, To strike the fire from every heart Along the banner’d line.
Proudly it woke the spirits Of yore, the brave and true, When the bow was bent on Cressy’s field, And the yeoman’s arrow flew.
And proudly hath it floated Through the battles of the sea, When the red-cross flag o’er smoke-wreaths play’d Like the lightning in its glee.
On rock, on wave, on bastion, Its echoes have been known; By a thousand streams the hearts lie low That have answer’d to its tone.
A thousand ancient mountains Its pealing note hath stirr’d,-- Sound on, and on, for evermore, O thou victorious word!
OLD NORWAY.
A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG.
[“To a Norwegian, the words Gamlé Norgé (Old Norway) have a spell in them immediate and powerful; they cannot be resisted. Gamlé Norgé is heard, in an instant, repeated by every voice; the glasses are filled, raised, and drained--not a drop is left; and then bursts forth the simultaneous chorus ‘For Norgé!’ the national song of Norway. Here, (at Christiansand,) and in a hundred other instances in Norway, I have seen the character of a company entirely changed by the chance introduction of the expression Gamlé Norgé. The gravest discussion is instantly interrupted; and one might suppose for the moment that the party was a party of patriots, assembled to commemorate some national anniversary of freedom.”--Derwent Conway’s Personal Narrative of a Journey through Norway and Sweden.
The following words have been published, as arranged to the spirited national air of Norway, by Charles Graves, Esq.]
Arise! Old Norway sends the word Of battle on the blast; Her voice the forest pines hath stirr’d, As if a storm went past; Her thousand hills the call have heard, And forth their fire-flags cast.
Arm, arm, free hunters! for the chase, The kingly chase of foes! ’Tis not the bear or wild wolf’s race Whose trampling shakes the snows: Arm, arm! ’tis on a nobler trace The northern spearman goes.
Our hills have dark and strong defiles, With many an icy bed; Heap there the rocks for funeral piles Above the invader’s head! Or let the seas, that guard our isles, Give burial to his dead!
COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP!
[“Mrs Hemans writes for all tastes and for all ages, as well as for all nations, and therefore she may do well to write in all sorts of style and manner. And, at all events, she who pleases others so well, may be allowed at times to please herself. Such strains as the following might soothe the ear of Rhadamanthus, and charm Cerberus to slumber.”--Eclectic Review, 1834.]
Come to me, gentle Sleep! I pine, I pine for thee; Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep, And set my spirit free! Each lonely, burning thought In twilight languor steep-- Come to the full heart, long o’erwrought, O gentle, gentle Sleep!
Come with thine urn of dew, Sleep, gentle Sleep! yet bring No voice, love’s yearning to renew, No vision on thy wing! Come, as to folding flowers, To birds in forests deep-- Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours, O gentle, gentle Sleep!
SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE,
TO
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ.,
IN TOKEN OF DEEP RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND FERVENT GRATITUDE FOR MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL BENEFIT DERIVED FROM REVERENTIAL COMMUNION WITH THE SPIRIT OF HIS POETRY, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY FELICIA HEMANS.[420]
Preface.--I trust I shall not be accused of presumption for the endeavour which I have here made to enlarge, in some degree, the sphere of religious poetry, by associating with its themes more of the emotions, the affections, and even the purer imaginative enjoyments of daily life, than may have been hitherto admitted within the hallowed circle.
It has been my wish to portray the religious spirit, not alone in its meditative joys and solitary aspirations, (the poetic embodying of which seems to require from the reader a state of mind already separated and exalted,) but likewise in those active influences upon human life, so often called into victorious energy by trial and conflict, though too often also, like the upward-striving flame of a mountain watch-fire, borne down by tempest-showers, or swayed by the current of opposing winds.
I have sought to represent that spirit as penetrating the gloom of the prison and the deathbed, bearing “healing on its wings” to the agony of parting love--strengthening the heart of the wayfarer for “perils in the wilderness”--gladdening the domestic walk through field and woodland--and springing to life in the soul of childhood, along with its earliest rejoicing perceptions of natural beauty.
Circumstances not altogether under my own control have, for the present, interfered to prevent the fuller development of a plan which I yet hope more worthily to mature; and I lay this little volume before the public with that deep sense of deficiency which cannot be more impressively taught to human powers than by their reverential application to things divine.--Felicia Hemans.
1834.
[420] The long-contemplated collection of Scenes and Hymns of Life was published soon after the two little volumes above alluded to. In her original dedication of this work to Mr Wordsworth, Mrs Hemans had given free scope to the expression of her sentiments, not only of veneration for the poet, but of deep and grateful regard for the friend. From a fear, however, that delicacy on Mr Wordsworth’s part might prevent his wishing to receive, in a public form, a testimonial of so much private feeling from a living individual, the intended letter was suppressed, and its substantial ideas conveyed in the brief inscription which was finally prefixed to the volume. It is now hoped that all such objections to its publication have vanished, and that the revered friend to whom it was addressed will receive it as the heart-tribute of one to whom flattery was unknown--as consecrated by the solemn truth of a voice from the grave.
Intended Dedication of the “Scenes and Hymns of Life,” to William Wordsworth, Esq.
“My dear Sir,
“I earnestly wish that the little volume here inscribed to you, in token of affectionate veneration, were pervaded by more numerous traces of those strengthening and elevating influences which breathe from all your poetry ‘a power to virtue friendly.’ I wish, too, that such a token could more adequately convey my deep sense of gratitude for moral and intellectual benefit long derived from the study of that poetry--for the perpetual fountains of ‘serious faith and inward glee’ which I have never failed to discover amidst its pure and lofty regions--for the fresh green places of refuge which it has offered me in many an hour, when
‘The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart;’
and when I have found in your thoughts and images such relief as the vision of your ‘Sylvan Wye’ may, at similar times, have afforded to yourself.
“May I be permitted, on the present occasion, to record my unfading recollections of enjoyment from your society--of delight in having heard from your own lips, and amidst your own lovely mountain-land, many of those compositions, the remembrance of which will ever spread over its hills and waters a softer colouring of spiritual beauty? Let me also express to you, as to a dear and most honoured friend, my fervent wishes for your long enjoyment of a widely-extended influence, which cannot but be blessed--of a domestic life, encircling you with yet nearer and deeper sources of happiness; and of those eternal hopes, on whose foundation you have built, as a Christian poet, the noble structure of your works.
“I rely upon your kindness, my dear Sir, for an indulgent reception of my offering, however lowly, since you will feel assured of the sincerity with which it is presented by your ever grateful and affectionate Felicia Hemans.”
THE ENGLISH MARTYRS;
A SCENE OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY.
“Thy face Is all at once spread over with a calm More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy! I am no more disconsolate.” Wilson.
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.