II. Another part of the Prison.

II. Another part of the Prison.

Herbert, Edith.

Ed. Herbert! my Herbert! is it thus we meet?

Her. The voice of my own Edith! Can such joy Light up this place of death! And do I feel Thy breath of love once more upon my cheek, And the soft floating of thy gleamy hair, My blessed Edith? Oh, so pale! so changed! My flower, my blighted flower! thou that wert made For the kind fostering of sweet, summer airs, How hath the storm been with thee? Lay thy head On this true breast again, my gentle one! And tell me all.

Ed. Yes! take me to thy heart, For I am weary, weary! Oh! that heart! The kind, the brave, the tender!--how my soul Hath sicken’d in vain yearnings for the balm Of rest on that warm heart!--full, deep repose! One draught of dewy stillness after storm! And God hath pitied me, and I am here-- Yet once before I die.

Her. They cannot slay One young, and meek, and beautiful as thou, My broken lily! Surely the long days Of the dark cell have been enough for thee! Oh! thou shalt live, and raise thy gracious head Yet in calm sunshine.

Ed. Herbert! I have cast The snare of proferr’d mercy from my soul, This very hour. God to the weak hath given Victory o’er life and death. The tempter’s price Hath been rejected--Herbert, I must die.

Her. O Edith! Edith! I, that led thee first From the old path wherein thy fathers trod-- I, that received it as an angel’s task, To pour the fresh light on thine ardent soul, Which drank it as a sunflower--I have been Thy guide to death.

Ed. To heaven! my guide to heaven, My noble and my blessed! Oh! look up, Be strong, rejoice, my Herbert! But for thee, How could my spirit have sprung up to God Through the dark cloud which o’er its vision hung, The night of fear and error?--thy dear hand First raised that veil, and show’d the glorious world My heritage beyond. Friend! love, and friend! It was as if thou gavest me mine own soul In those bright days! Yes! a new earth and heaven, And a new sense for all their splendours born-- These were thy gifts; and shall I not rejoice To die, upholding their immortal worth, Even for thy sake? Yes! fill’d with nobler life By thy pure love, made holy to the truth, Lay me upon the altar of thy God, The first fruits of thy ministry below-- Thy work, thine own!

Her. My love, my sainted love! Oh! I can almost yield thee unto heaven; Earth would but sully thee! Thou must depart, With the rich crown of thy celestial gifts Untainted by a breath. And yet, alas! Edith! what dreams of holy happiness, Even for this world, were ours!--the low sweet home, The pastoral dwelling, with its ivied porch, And lattice gleaming through the leaves--and thou My life’s companion! Thou, beside my hearth, Sitting with thy meek eyes, or greeting me Back from brief absence with thy bounding step, In the green meadow-path, or by my side Kneeling--thy calm uplifted face to mine, In the sweet hush of prayer! And now--oh, now!-- How have we loved--how fervently! how long! And this to be the close!

Ed. Oh! bear me up Against the unutterable tenderness Of earthly love, my God!--in the sick hour Of dying human hope, forsake me not! Herbert, my Herbert! even from that sweet home Where it had been too much of Paradise To dwell with thee--even thence the oppressor’s hand Might soon have torn us; or the touch of death Might one day there have left a widow’d heart, Pining alone. We will go hence, beloved! To the bright country where the wicked cease From troubling, where the spoiler hath no sway; Where no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs The Sabbath-peace of love. We will go hence, Together with our wedded souls, to heaven: No solitary lingering, no cold void, No dying of the heart! Our lives have been Lovely through faithful love, and in our deaths We will not be divided.

Her. Oh! the peace Of God is lying far within thine eyes, Far underneath the mist of human tears Lighting those blue, still depths, and sinking thence On my worn heart. Now am I girt with strength, Now I can bless thee, my true bride for heaven!

Ed. And let me bless thee, Herbert!--in this hour Let my soul bless thee with prevailing might! Oh! thou hast loved me nobly! thou didst take An orphan to thy heart--a thing unprized And desolate; and thou didst guard her there, That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl Of richest price; and thou didst fill her soul With the high gifts of an immortal wealth. I bless, I bless thee! Never did thine eye Look on me but in glistening tenderness, My gentle Herbert! Never did thy voice But in affection’s deepest music speak To thy poor Edith! Never was thy heart Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine, My faithful, generous Herbert! Woman’s peace Ne’er on a breast so tender and so true Reposed before. Alas! thy showering tears Fall fast upon my cheek--forgive, forgive! I should not melt thy noble strength away In such an hour.

Her. Sweet Edith, no! my heart Will fail no more. God bears me up through thee, And by thy words, and by thy heavenly light Shining around thee, through thy very tears, Will yet sustain me! Let us call on Him! Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft, Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him, Th’ all-pitying One, to aid. [They kneel. Oh, look on us, Father above!--in tender mercy look On us, thy children!--through th’ o’ershadowing cloud Of sorrow and mortality, send aid-- Save, or we perish! We would pour our lives Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth; But we are weak--we, the bruised reeds of earth, Are sway’d by every gust. Forgive, O God! The blindness of our passionate desires, The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts Which cleave to dust! Forgive the strife; accept The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears, From mortal pangs wrung forth! And if our souls, In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess, Of their long-clasping love, have wander’d not, Holiest! from thee--oh! take them to thyself, After the fiery trial--take them home To dwell, in that imperishable bond Before thee link’d, for ever. Hear!--thro’ Him Who meekly drank the cup of agony, Who pass’d through death to victory, hear and save! Pity us, Father! we are girt with snares: Father in Heaven! we have no help but thee. [They rise. Is thy soul strengthen’d, my beloved one? O Edith! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice, And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn We loved in happier days--the strain which tells Of the dread conflict in the olive shade?

Edith sings.

He knelt, the Saviour knelt and pray’d, When but his Father’s eye Look’d through the lonely garden’s shade On that dread agony; The Lord of all above, beneath, Was bow’d with sorrow unto death.

The sun set in a fearful hour, The stars might well grow dim, When this mortality had power So to o’ershadow Him! That He who gave man’s breath, might know The very depths of human woe.

He proved them all!--the doubt, the strife, The faint perplexing dread, The mists that hang o’er parting life, All gather’d round his head; And the Deliverer knelt to pray-- Yet pass’d it not, that cup, away!

It pass’d not--though the stormy wave Had sunk beneath his tread; It pass’d not--though to Him the grave Had yielded up its dead. But there was sent him from on High A gift of strength for man to die.

And was the Sinless thus beset With anguish and dismay? How may we meet our conflict yet, In the dark, narrow way? Through Him--through Him that path who trod. --Save, or we perish, Son of God!

Hark, hark! the parting signal.

[Prison attendants enter.

Fare thee well! O thou unutterably loved, farewell! Let our hearts bow to God!

Her. One last embrace-- On earth the last! We have eternity For love’s communion yet! Farewell!--farewell!

[She is led out.

’Tis o’er!--the bitterness of death is past!

FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.

“Once when I look’d along the laughing earth, Up the blue heavens and through the middle air, Joyfully ringing with the skylark’s song, I wept! and thought how sad for one so young To bid farewell to so much happiness. But Christ hath call’d me from this lower world, Delightful though it be.” Wilson.

Apartment in an English country-house.--Lilian reclining, as sleeping on a couch. Her mother watching beside her. Her sister enters with flowers.

Mother. Hush! lightly tread! Still tranquilly she sleeps, As when a babe I rock’d her on my heart. I’ve watch’d, suspending e’en my breath, in fear To break the heavenly spell. Move silently! And oh! those flowers! Dear Jessy! bear them hence-- Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears That shook her trembling frame, when last we brought The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know What sudden longings for the woods and hills, Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly, These leaves and odours with strange influence wake In her fast-kindled soul?

Jessy. Oh! she would pine, Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld, Mother! far more than now her spirit yearns For the blue sky, the singing birds and brooks, And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome spring Their blooms recall.

Lilian, (raising herself.) Is that my Jessy’s voice It woke me not, sweet mother! I had lain Silently, visited by waking dreams, Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness, Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought flowers? Nay, fear not now thy fond child’s waywardness, My thoughtful mother!--in her chasten’d soul The passion-colour’d images of life, Which, with their sudden, startling flush, awoke So oft those burning tears, have died away; And night is there--still, solemn, holy night! With all her stars, and with the gentle tune Of many fountains, low and musical, By day unheard.

Mother. And wherefore night, my child? Thou art a creature all of life and dawn, And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise, And walk forth with the dayspring.

Lilian. Hope it not! Dream it no more, my mother!--there are things Known but to God, and to the parting soul, Which feels His thrilling summons. But my words Too much o’ershadow those kind, loving eyes. Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step, Well do I see, hath not alone explored The garden bowers, but freely visited Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet Is from the cool, green, shadowy river-nook, Where the stream chimes around th’ old mossy stones With sounds like childhood’s laughter. Is that spot Lovely as when our glad eyes hail’d it first? Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep The clear brown wave with every passing wind? And through the shallower waters, where they lie Dimpling in light, do the vein’d pebbles gleam Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies, From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still Among the poplar-boughs?

Jessy. All, all is there Which glad midsummer’s wealthiest hours can bring; All, save the soul of all, thy lightning-smile! Therefore I stood in sadness midst the leaves, And caught an under-music of lament In the stream’s voice. But Nature waits thee still, And for thy coming piles a fairy throne Of richest moss.

Lilian. Alas! it may not be! My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly To all these blessed haunts of song and thought; Yet not the less I love to look on these, Their dear memorials,--strew them o’er my couch Till it grow like a forest-bank in spring, All flush’d with violets and anemones. Ah! the pale brier-rose! touch’d so tenderly, As a pure ocean-shell, with faintest red, Melting away to pearliness! I know How its long, light festoons o’erarching hung From the gray rock that rises altar-like, With its high, waving crown of mountain-ash, Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough Of honey’d woodbine tells me of the oak, Whose deep, midsummer gloom sleeps heavily, Shedding a verdurous twilight o’er the face Of the glade’s pool. Methinks I see it now; I look up through the stirring of its leaves Unto the intense blue, crystal firmament. The ringdove’s wing is flitting o’er my head, Casting at times a silvery shadow down Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful! How beautiful is all this fair, free world Under God’s open sky!

Mother. Thou art o’erwrought Once more, my child! The dewy, trembling light Presaging tears, again is in thine eye. Oh, hush, dear Lilian! turn thee to repose.

Lilian. Mother! I cannot. In my soul the thoughts Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire; Importunately to my lips they throng, And with their earthly kindred seek to blend Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone-- (For I must go)--then the remember’d words Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth, Will to thy fond heart be as amulets Held there, with life and love. And weep not thus, Mother! dear sister!--kindest, gentlest ones! Be comforted that now I weep no more For the glad earth and all the golden light Whence I depart. No! God hath purified my spirit’s eye, And in the folds of this consummate rose I read bright prophecies. I see not there, Dimly and mournfully, the word “farewell” On the rich petals traced. No--in soft veins And characters of beauty, I can read-- “Look up, look heavenward!” Blessed God of Love! I thank Thee for these gifts, the precious links Whereby my spirit unto Thee is drawn! I thank Thee that the loveliness of earth Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these But germs of things unperishing, that bloom Beside th’ immortal streams? Shall I not find The lily of the field, the Saviour’s flower, In the serene and never-moaning air, And the clear starry light of angel eyes, A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far Will not the violet’s dusky purple glow, When it hath ne’er been press’d to broken hearts, A record of lost love?

Mother. My Lilian! thou Surely in thy bright life hast little known Of lost things or of changed!

Lilian. Oh! little yet, For thou hast been my shield! But had it been My lot on this world’s billows to be thrown Without thy love, O mother! there are hearts So perilously fashion’d, that for them God’s touch alone hath gentleness enough To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!-- We will not speak of this! By what strange spell Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers, I dream of music? Something in their hues, All melting into colour’d harmonies, Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords, Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die In tenderest falls away. Oh, bring thy harp, Sister! A gentle heaviness at last Hath touch’d mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep Will come again.

Jessy. What wouldst thou hear?--the Italian peasant’s lay, Which makes the desolate Campagna ring With “Roma! Roma!” or the madrigal Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily? Or the old ditty left by troubadours To girls of Languedoc?

Lilian. Oh, no! not these.

Jessy. What then?--the Moorish melody still known Within the Alhambra city? or those notes Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile’s heart Even unto death?

Lilian. No, sister! nor yet these-- Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret, Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes In the caressing sweetness of their tones, For one who dies. They would but woo me back To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds-- And vainly, vainly. No! a loftier strain, A deeper music!--something that may bear The spirit upon slow yet mighty wings, Unsway’d by gusts of earth; something all fill’d With solemn adoration, tearful prayer. Sing me that antique strain which once I deem’d Almost too sternly simple, too austere In its grave majesty! I love it now-- Now it seems fraught with holiest power to hush All billows of the soul, e’en like His voice That said of old--“Be still!” Sing me that strain, “The Saviour’s dying hour.”

Jessy sings to the Harp.

O Son of Man! In thy last mortal hour Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully! All that on us is laid, All the deep gloom, The desolation and the abandonment, The dark amaze of death-- All upon thee too fell, Redeemer! Son of Man!

But the keen pang Wherewith the silver cord Of earth’s affection from the soul is wrung; The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown Into the quick, strong heart; This, this--the passion and the agony Of battling love and death, Surely was not for thee, Holy One! Son of God!

Yes, my Redeemer! E’en this cup was thine! Fond, wailing voices call’d thy spirit back: E’en midst the mighty thoughts Of that last crowning hour-- E’en on thine awful way to victory, Wildly they call’d thee back! And weeping eyes of love Unto thy heart’s deep core Pierced through the folds of death’s mysterious veil. Suffer! thou Son of Man!

Mother-tears were mingled With thy costly blood-drops, In the shadow of the atoning cross; And the friend, the faithful, He that on thy bosom Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain-- He, a pale sad watcher, Met with looks of anguish All the anguish in thy last meek glance-- Dying Son of Man!

Oh! therefore unto thee, Thou that hast known all woes Bound in the girdle of mortality! Thou that wilt lift the reed Which storms have bruised, To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry, And, in that tempest-hour, when love and life Mysteriously must part, When tearful eyes Are passionately bent To drink earth’s last fond meaning from our gaze, Then, then forsake us not! Shed on our spirits then The faith and deep submissiveness of thine! Thou that didst love Thou that didst weep and die-- Thou that didst rise a victor glorified; Conqueror! thou Son of God!

CATHEDRAL HYMN.

“They dreamt not of a perishable home Who thus could build. Be mine in hours of fear Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here.” Wordsworth.

A dim and mighty minster of old time! A temple shadowy with remembrances Of the majestic past! The very light Streams with a colouring of heroic days In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back To other years!--and the rich fretted roof, And the wrought coronals of summer leaves, Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose-- The tenderest image of mortality-- Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves;--all these things Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly, On their heart’s worship pour’d a wealth of love! Honour be with the dead! The people kneel Under the helms of antique chivalry, And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, And midst the forms, in pale, proud slumber carved, Of warriors on their tombs. The people kneel Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell’d crowns On the flush’d brows of conquerors have been set; Where the high anthems of old victories Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain thoughts! Memories of power and pride, which long ago, Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk In twilight-depths away. Return, my soul! The Cross recalls thee. Lo! the blessed Cross! High o’er the banners and the crests of earth, Fix’d in its meek and still supremacy! And lo! the throng of beating human hearts, With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, All their full treasures of immortal hope, Gather’d before their God! Hark! how the flood Of the rich organ-harmony bears up Their voice on its high waves!--a mighty burst! A forest-sounding music! Every tone Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings From gulfs of tossing foliage, there is blent: And the old minster--forest-like itself-- With its long avenues of pillar’d shade, Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain O’erflows its dim recesses, leaving not One tomb unthrill’d by the strong sympathy Answering the electric notes. Join, join, my soul! In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness, And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.

Rise like an altar-fire! In solemn joy aspire, Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain! On thy strong rushing wind Bear up from humankind Thanks and implorings--be they not in vain!

Father, which art on high! Weak is the melody Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear, Unless the heart be there, Winging the words of prayer With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.

Let, then, thy Spirit brood Over the multitude-- Be thou amidst them, thro’ that heavenly Guest! So shall their cry have power To win from thee a shower Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.

What griefs that make no sign, That ask no aid but thine, Father of mercies! here before thee swell! As to the open sky, All their dark waters lie To thee reveal’d, in each close bosom-cell.

The sorrow for the dead, Mantling its lonely head From the world’s glare, is, in thy sight, set free; And the fond, aching love, Thy minister to move All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.

And doth not thy dread eye Behold the agony In that most hidden chamber of the heart, Where darkly sits remorse, Beside the secret source Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?

Yes! here before thy throne Many--yet each alone-- To thee that terrible unveiling make: And still, small whispers clear Are startling many an ear, As if a trumpet bade the dead awake.

How dreadful is this place! The glory of thy face Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight. Where shall the guilty flee? Over what far-off sea? What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light?

Not to the cedar-shade Let his vain flight be made; Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea; What, but the Cross, can yield The hope--the stay--the shield? Thence may the Atoner lead him up to thee!

Be thou, be thou his aid! Oh, let thy love pervade The haunted caves of self-accusing thought! There let the living stone Be cleft--the seed be sown-- The song of fountains from the silence brought!

So shall thy breath once more Within the soul restore Thine own first image--Holiest and Most High! As a clear lake is fill’d With hues of heaven, instill’d Down to the depths of its calm purity.

And if, amidst the throng Link’d by the ascending song, There are whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar; Thanks, Father! that the power Of joy, man’s early dower, Thus, e’en midst tears, can fervently adore!

Thanks for each gift divine! Eternal praise be thine, Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer! Let the hymn pierce the sky, And let the tombs reply! For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there.

WOOD WALK AND HYMN.[421]

“Move along these shades In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods.”--Wordsworth.

Father--Child.

Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime And chestnut boughs, and those long arching sprays Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood Were all one picture!

Father. Hast thou heard, my boy, The peasant’s legend of that quivering tree?

Child. No, father: doth he say the fairies dance Amidst the branches?

Father. Oh! a cause more deep, More solemn far, the rustic doth assign To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves! The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon The meek Redeemer bow’d his head to death, Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour, Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe, Making them tremulous, when not a breeze Disturbs the airy thistle-down, or shakes The light lines of the shining gossamer.

Child., (after a pause.) Dost thou believe it, father?

Father. Nay, my child, We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now, With something of a lingering love, I read The characters, by that mysterious hour, Stamp’d on the reverential soul of man In visionary days; and thence thrown back On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven, The woodman and the mountaineer can trace On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so! They do not wisely that, with hurried hand, Would pluck these salutary fancies forth From their strong soil within the peasant’s breast, And scatter them--far, far too fast!--away As worthless weeds. Oh! little do we know When they have soothed, when saved! But come, dear boy! My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee. Come--let us search for violets.

Child. Know you not More of the legends which the woodmen tell Amidst the trees and flowers?

Father. Wilt thou know more? Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-brown stains There--by the mossy roots of yon old beech, Midst the rich tuft of cowslips--see’st thou not? There is a spray of woodbine from the tree Just bending o’er it with a wild bee’s weight.

Child. The Arum leaf?

Father. Yes. These deep inwrought marks, The villager will tell thee, (and with voice Lower’d in his true heart’s reverent earnestness,) Are the flower’s portion from th’ atoning blood On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew; And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf, Catching from that dread shower of agony A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains, A heritage, for storm or vernal wind Never to waft away! And hast thou seen The passion-flower? It grows not in the woods, But midst the bright things brought from other climes.

Child. What! the pale star-shaped flower, with purple streaks, And light green tendrils?

Father. Thou hast mark’d it well. Yes! a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower, As from a land of spirits! To mine eye Those faint, wan petals--colourless, and yet Not white, but shadowy--with the mystic lines (As letters of some wizard language gone) Into their vapour-like transparence wrought, Bear something of a strange solemnity, Awfully lovely!--and the Christian’s thought Loves, in their cloudy penciling, to find Dread symbols of his Lord’s last mortal pangs Set by God’s hand--the coronal of thorns-- The cross, the wounds--with other meanings deep Which I will teach thee when we meet again That flower, the chosen for the martyr’s wreath, The Saviour’s holy flower. But let us pause: Now have we reach’d the very inmost heart Of the old wood. How the green shadows close Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round, A luxury of gloom! Scarce doth one ray, Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal O’er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades; Or if it doth, ’tis with a mellow’d hue Of glow-worm colour’d light. Here, in the days Of pagan visions, would have been a place For worship of the wood-nymphs! Through these oaks A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown The quivering image of its Dorian shafts On the stream’s bosom, or a sculptured form, Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom, Have bow’d its head o’er that dark crystal down, Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops Under bright rain. But we, my child, are here With God, our God, a Spirit, who requires Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth; And this high knowledge--deep, rich, vast enough To fill and hallow all the solitude-- Makes consecrated earth where’er we move, Without the aid of shrines. What! dost thou feel The solemn whispering influence of the scene Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw More closely to my side, and clasp my hand Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child! ’Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here, Where brooding violets mantle this green slope With dark exuberance; and beneath these plumes Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds In its pure, crimson goblets, fresh and bright, The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile, And let me hear once more the woodland verse I taught thee late--’twas made for such a scene. Child speaks.

[421] “It is not often we find the superstitions of dark and ignorant ages dealt with in so gentle and agreeable a manner as by Mrs Hemans. She seizes, in common with others, the poetic aspect these present, but diffuses over them, at the same time, a refinement of sentiment gathered entirely from her own feelings. A subject which, from another pencil, would have been disagreeable and offensive to us, is made by her graceful touches to win upon our imagination. Witness the poem called ‘The Wood Walk and Hymn;’ we will quote the commencement of it--

‘There are the aspens with their silvery leaves,’” etc. Blackwood’s Magazine, Dec. 1848.

WOOD HYMN.

Broods there some spirit here? The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud; And o’er the pools, all still and darkly clear, The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow’d; And something of a tender cloistral gloom Deepens the violet’s bloom.

The very light that streams Through the dim, dewy veil of foliage round Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams-- As if it knew the place were holy ground; And would not startle, with too bright a burst, Flowers, all divinely nursed.

Wakes there some spirit here? A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by; And leaves and waters, in its wild career, Shed forth sweet voices--each a mystery! Surely some awful influence must pervade These depths of trembling shade!

Yes! lightly, softly move! There is a power, a presence in the woods; A viewless being that, with life and love, Informs the reverential solitudes: The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod-- Thou--thou art here, my God!

And if with awe we tread The minster-floor, beneath the storied pane, And, midst the mouldering banners of the dead, Shall the green, voiceful wild seem less thy fane, Where thou alone hast built?--where arch and roof Are of thy living woof?

The silence and the sound, In the lone places, breathe alike of thee; The temple-twilight of the gloom profound, The dew-cup of the frail anemone, The reed by every wandering whisper thrill’d-- All, all with thee are fill’d!

Oh! purify mine eyes, More and yet more, by love and lowly thought, Thy presence, holiest One! to recognise In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought And, midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear Ever thy voice to hear!

And sanctify my heart To meet the awful sweetness of that tone With no faint thrill or self-accusing start, But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own-- Joy, such as dwelt in Eden’s glorious bowers Ere sin had dimm’d the flowers.

Let me not know the change O’er nature thrown by guilt!--the boding sky, The hollow leaf-sounds ominous and strange, The weight wherewith the dark tree-shadows lie! Father! oh! keep my footsteps pure and free, To walk the woods with thee!

PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT.

“Soul of our souls! and safeguard of the world! Sustain--Thou only canst--the sick at heart; Restore their languid spirits, and recall Their lost affections unto thee and thine.”--Wordsworth.

Night--holy night--the time For mind’s free breathings in a purer clime! Night!--when in happier hour the unveiling sky Woke all my kindled soul To meet its revelations, clear and high, With the strong joy of immortality! Now hath strange sadness wrapp’d me, strange and deep-- And my thoughts faint, and shadows o’er them roll, E’en when I deem’d them seraph-plumed, to sweep Far beyond earth’s control.

Wherefore is this? I see the stars returning, Fire after fire in heaven’s rich temple burning: Fast shine they forth--my spirit-friends, my guides, Bright rulers of my being’s inmost tides; They shine--but faintly, through a quivering haze: Oh! is the dimness mine which clouds those rays? They from whose glance my childhood drank delight! A joy unquestioning--a love intense-- They that, unfolding to more thoughtful sight The harmony of their magnificence, Drew silently the worship of my youth To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth; Shall they shower blessing, with their beams divine, Down to the watcher on the stormy sea, And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine, And to the wanderer lone On wastes of Afric thrown, And not to me? Am I a thing forsaken? And is the gladness taken From the bright-pinion’d nature which hath soar’d Through realms by royal eagle ne’er explored, And, bathing there in streams of fiery light, Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite?

And now an alien! Wherefore must this be? How shall I rend the chain? How drink rich life again From those pure urns of radiance, welling free? --Father of Spirits! let me turn to thee!

Oh! if too much exulting in her dower, My soul, not yet to lowly thought subdued, Hath stood without thee on her hill of power-- A fearful and a dazzling solitude! And therefore from that haughty summit’s crown To dim desertion is by thee cast down; Behold! thy child submissively hath bow’d-- Shine on him through the cloud!

Let the now darken’d earth and curtain’d heaven Back to his vision with thy face be given! Bear him on high once more, But in thy strength to soar, And wrapt and still’d by that o’ershadowing might, Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chasten’d sight.

Or if it be that, like the ark’s lone dove, My thoughts go forth, and find no resting-place, No sheltering home of sympathy and love In the responsive bosoms of my race, And back return, a darkness and a weight, Till my unanswer’d heart grows desolate-- Yet, yet sustain me, Holiest!--I am vow’d To solemn service high; And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow’d, Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary, Fainting beneath the burden of the day, Because no human tone Unto the altar-stone Of that pure spousal fane inviolate, Where it should make eternal truth its mate, May cheer the sacred, solitary way?

Oh! be the whisper of thy voice within Enough to strengthen! Be the hope to win A more deep-seeing homage for thy name, Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame! Make me thine only!--Let me add but one To those refulgent steps all undefiled, Which glorious minds have piled Through bright self-offering, earnest, childlike, lone, For mounting to thy throne! And let my soul, upborne On wings of inner morn, Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense Of that bless’d work, its own high recompense.

The dimness melts away That on your glory lay, O ye majestic watchers of the skies! Through the dissolving veil, Which made each aspect pale, Your gladdening fires once more I recognise; And once again a shower Of hope, and joy, and power, Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes. And if that splendour to my sober’d sight Come tremulous, with more of pensive light-- Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught With more that pierces through each fold of thought Than I was wont to trace On heaven’s unshadow’d face-- Be it e’en so!--be mine, though set apart Unto a radiant ministry, yet still A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart, Bow’d before thee, O Mightiest! whose bless’d will All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil.[422]

[422] Written after hearing the introductory Lecture on Astronomy delivered in Trinity College, Dublin, by Sir William Hamilton, royal astronomer of Ireland, on the 8th November 1832.

THE TRAVELLER’S EVENING SONG.

Father! guide me! Day declines, Hollow winds are in the pines; Darkly waves each giant bough O’er the sky’s last crimson glow: Hush’d is now the convent’s bell, Which erewhile with breezy swell From the purple mountains bore Greeting to the sunset-shore. Now the sailor’s vesper-hymn Dies away. Father! in the forest dim, Be my stay!

In the low and shivering thrill Of the leaves that late hung still; In the dull and muffled tone Of the sea-wave’s distant moan; In the deep tints of the sky, There are signs of tempests nigh. Ominous, with sullen sound, Falls the closing dusk around. Father! through the storm and shade O’er the wild, Oh! be Thou the lone one’s aid-- Save thy child!

Many a swift and sounding plume Homewards, through the boding gloom, O’er my way hath flitted fast Since the farewell sunbeam pass’d From the chestnut’s ruddy bark, And the pools, now lone and dark, Where the wakening night-winds sigh Through the long reeds mournfully. Homeward, homeward, all things haste-- God of might! Shield the homeless midst the waste! Be his light!

In his distant cradle-nest, Now my babe is laid to rest; Beautiful its slumber seems With a glow of heavenly dreams-- Beautiful, o’er that bright sleep. Hang soft eyes of fondness deep, Where his mother bends to pray For the loved and far away. Father! guard that household bower, Hear that prayer! Back, through thine all-guiding power, Lead me there!

Darker, wilder grows the night; Not a star sends quivering light Through the massy arch of shade By the stern, old forest made. Thou! to whose unslumbering eyes All my pathway open lies, By thy Son who knew distress In the lonely wilderness, Where no roof to that bless’d head Shelter gave-- Father! through the time of dread, Save--oh, save!

BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT’S CHILD IN THE FORESTS.

Scene.--The banks of a solitary river in an American forest. A tent under pine-trees in the foreground. Agnes sitting before the tent, with a child in her arms apparently sleeping.

Agnes. Surely ’tis all a dream--a fever-dream! The desolation and the agony-- The strange, red sunrise, and the gloomy woods, So terrible with their dark giant boughs, And the broad, lonely river!--all a dream! And my boy’s voice will wake me, with its clear, Wild singing tones, as they were wont to come Through the wreath’d sweetbrier at my lattice-panes In happy, happy England! Speak to me! Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch’d All the dread night beside thee, till her brain Is darken’d by swift waves of fantasies, And her soul faint with longing for thy voice. Oh! I must wake him with one gentle kiss On his fair brow! (Shudderingly.) The strange, damp, thrilling touch! The marble chill! Now, now it rushes back-- Now I know all!--dead--dead!--a fearful word! My boy hath left me in the wilderness, To journey on without the blessed light In his deep, loving eyes. He’s gone!--he’s gone!

Her Husband enters.

Husband. Agnes! my Agnes! hast thou look’d thy last On our sweet slumberer’s face? The hour is come-- The couch made ready for his last repose.

Agnes. Not yet! thou canst not take him from me yet! If he but left me for a few short days, This were too brief a gazing time to draw His angel image into my fond heart, And fix its beauty there. And now--oh! now, Never again the laughter of his eye Shall send its gladdening summer through my soul --Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay! Thou canst not take him from me.

Husband. My beloved! Is it not God hath taken him? the God That took our first-born, o’er whose early grave Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and say, “His will be done!”

Agnes. Oh! that near household grave, Under the turf of England, seem’d not half-- Not half so much to part me from my child As these dark woods. It lay beside our home, And I could watch the sunshine, through all hours, Loving and clinging to the grassy spot; And I could dress its greensward with fresh flowers, Familiar meadow-flowers. O’er thee, my babe! The primrose will not blossom! Oh! that now, Together, by thy fair young sister’s side, We lay midst England’s valleys!

Husband. Dost thou grieve, Agnes! that thou hast follow’d o’er the deep An exile’s fortunes? If it thus can be, Then, after many a conflict cheerily met, My spirit sinks at last.

Agnes. Forgive! forgive! My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild-- Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount Of unknown bitterness! Thou art my home! Mine only and my blessed one! Where’er Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness, There is my country! there my head shall rest, And throb no more. Oh! still, by thy strong love, Bear up the feeble reed!

(Kneeling with the child in her arms.)

And thou, my God! Hear my soul’s cry from this dread wilderness! Oh! hear, and pardon me! If I have made This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness, Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume, Oh, pardon me! If nature hath rebell’d, And from thy light turn’d wilfully away, Making a midnight of her agony, When the despairing passion of her clasp Was from its idol stricken at one touch Of thine Almighty hand--oh, pardon me! By thy Son’s anguish, pardon! In the soul The tempests and the waves will know thy voice-- Father! say, “Peace, be still!”

(Giving the child to her husband.)

Farewell, my babe! Go from my bosom now to other rest! With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow, And on thy pale, calm cheek these contrite tears, I yield thee to thy Maker!

Husband. Now, my wife! Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more A light upon my path. Now shall I bear, From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose-- With a calm, trustful heart.

Agnes. My Edmund! where-- Where wilt thou lay him?

Husband. See’st thou where the spire Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun To burning gold?--there--o’er yon willow-tuft? Under that native desert monument Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn, With the gray mosses of the wilderness Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth, E’en from the fulness of his own pure heart, A wild, sad forest hymn--a song of tears, Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy Chanting it o’er his solitary task, As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves, Perchance unconsciously.

Agnes. My gentle son! The affectionate, the gifted! With what joy-- Edmund, rememberest thou?--with what bright joy His baby brother ever to his arms Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair In that kind, useful breast! Oh! now no more! But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart, Even to a well-spring of adoring tears, For many a blessing left. (Bending over the child.) Once more, farewell! Oh, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look! How can it be sustain’d? Away, away!

(After a short pause.)

Edmund! my woman’s nature still is weak-- I cannot see thee render dust to dust! Go thou, my husband! to thy solemn task; I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer Till thy return.

Husband. Then strength be with thy prayer! Peace on thy bosom! Faith and heavenly hope Unto thy spirit! Fare thee well a while! We must be pilgrims of the woods again, After this mournful hour.

(He goes out with the child.--Agnes, kneels in prayer.--After a time, voices without are heard singing.)

FUNERAL HYMN.

Where the long reeds quiver, Where the pines make moan, By the forest-river, Sleeps our babe alone. England’s field-flowers may not deck his grave, Cypress shadows o’er him darkly wave.

Woods unknown receive him, Midst the mighty wild; Yet with God we leave him, Blessed, blessed child! And our tears gush o’er his lovely dust, Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust.

Though his eye hath brighten’d Oft our weary way, And his clear laugh lighten’d Half our hearts’ dismay; Still in hope we give back what was given, Yielding up the beautiful to heaven.

And to her who bore him, Her who long must weep, Yet shall heaven restore him From his pale, sweet sleep! Those blue eyes of love and peace again Through her soul will shine, undimm’d by pain.

Where the long reeds quiver, Where the pines make moan, Leave we by the river Earth to earth alone! God and Father! may our journeyings on Lead to where the blessed boy is gone!

From the exile’s sorrow, From the wanderer’s dread Of the night and morrow, Early, brightly fled; Thou hast call’d him to a sweeter home Than our lost one o’er the ocean’s foam.

Now let thought behold him, With his angel look, Where those arms enfold him, Which benignly took Israel’s babes to their Good Shepherd’s breast When his voice their tender meekness blest.

Turn thee now, fond mother! From thy dead, oh, turn! Linger not, young brother, Here to dream and mourn: Only kneel once more around the sod, Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God!

EASTER-DAY IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD.

There is a wakening on the mighty hills, A kindling with the spirit of the morn! Bright gleams are scatter’d from the thousand rills, And a soft visionary hue is born On the young foliage, worn By all the embosom’d woods--a silvery green, Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously serene.

And lo! where, floating through a glory, sings The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky! Lo! where the darkness of his buoyant wings, Against a soft and rosy cloud on high, Trembles with melody! While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice To the rich laugh of music in that voice.

But purer light than of the early sun Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth! And for your dwellers nobler joy is won Than the sweet echoes of the skylark’s mirth, By this glad morning’s birth! And gifts more precious by its breath are shed Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet’s head.

Gifts for the soul, from whose illumined eye O’er nature’s face the colouring glory flows; Gifts from the fount of immortality, Which, fill’d with balm, unknown to human woes, Lay hush’d in dark repose, Till thou, bright dayspring! madest its waves our own, By thine unsealing of the burial stone.

Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills! And let a full victorious tone be given, By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills Your urn-like depths with sound! The tomb is riven, The radiant gate of heaven Unfolded--and the stern, dark shadow cast By death’s o’ersweeping wing, from the earth’s bosom past.

And you, ye graves! upon whose turf I stand, Girt with the slumber of the hamlet’s dead, Time, with a soft and reconciling hand, The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread O’er every narrow bed: But not by time, and not by nature sown Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown.

Christ hath arisen! Oh, not one cherish’d head Hath, midst the flowery sods, been pillow’d here Without a hope, (howe’er the heart hath bled In its vain yearnings o’er the unconscious bier,) A hope, upspringing clear From those majestic tidings of the morn, Which lit the living way to all of woman born.

Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love! E’en on this greensward: night hath heard thy cry, Heart-stricken one! thy precious dust above-- Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply Unto thine agony! But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide, Christ hath arisen, O love! thy tears shall all be dried.

Dark must have been the gushing of those tears, Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb On thine impassion’d soul, in elder years, When, burden’d with the mystery of its doom, Mortality’s thick gloom Hung o’er the sunny world, and with the breath Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death.

By thee, sad Love! and by thy sister, Fear, Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought To vail that haunting shadow, still too near, Still ruling secretly the conqueror’s thought, And where the board was fraught With wine and myrtles in the summer bower, Felt, e’en when disavow’d, a presence and a power.

But that dark night is closed: and o’er the dead, Here, where the gleamy primrose-tufts have blown, And where the mountain-heath a couch has spread, And, settling oft on some gray, letter’d stone, The redbreast warbles lone; And the wild-bee’s deep drowsy murmurs pass, Like a low thrill of harp-strings, through the grass:

Here, midst the chambers of the Christian’s sleep, We o’er death’s gulf may look with trusting eye; For Hope sits, dove-like, on the gloomy deep, And the green hills wherein these valleys lie Seem all one sanctuary Of holiest thought--nor needs their fresh, bright sod, Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God.

Christ hath arisen! O mountain-peaks! attest-- Witness, resounding glen and torrent-wave! The immortal courage in the human breast Sprung from that victory--tell how oft the brave To camp midst rock and cave, Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne, Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn!

The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day-- Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone Have thrill’d their pines, when those that knelt to pray Rose up to arm! The pure, high snows have known A colouring not their own, But from true hearts, which, by that crimson stain, Gave token of a trust that call’d no suffering vain.

Those days are past--the mountains wear no more The solemn splendour of the martyr’s blood; And may that awful record, as of yore, Never again be known to field or flood! E’en though the faithful stood, A noble army, in the exulting sight Of earth and heaven, which bless’d their battle for the right!

But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken Is yet home silently in homes obscure; And many a bitter cup is meekly taken; And, for the strength whereby the just and pure Thus steadfastly endure, Glory to Him whose victory won that dower! Him from whose rising stream’d that robe of spirit-power.

Glory to Him! Hope to the suffering breast! Light to the nations! He hath roll’d away The mists which, gathering into deathlike rest, Between the soul and heaven’s calm ether lay-- His love hath made it day With those that sat in darkness. Earth and sea! Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made free!

THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.

“A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, to waylay. ... A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death.” Wordsworth.

I saw him at his sport erewhile, The bright, exulting boy! Like summer’s lightning came the smile Of his young spirit’s joy-- A flash that, wheresoe’er it broke, To life undreamt-of beauty woke.

His fair locks waved in sunny play, By a clear fountain’s side, Where jewel-colour’d pebbles lay Beneath the shallow tide; And pearly spray at times would meet The glancing of his fairy feet.

He twined him wreaths of all spring-flowers, Which drank that streamlet’s dew; He flung them o’er the wave in showers, Till, gazing, scarce I knew Which seem’d more pure, or bright, or wild, The singing fount or laughing child.

To look on all that joy and bloom Made earth one festal scene, Where the dull shadow of the tomb Seem’d as it ne’er had been. How could one image of decay Steal o’er the dawn of such clear day?

I saw once more that aspect bright-- The boy’s meek head was bow’d In silence o’er the Book of Light, And, like a golden cloud-- The still cloud of a pictured sky-- His locks droop’d round it lovingly.

And if my heart had deem’d him fair, When, in the fountain-glade, A creature of the sky and air, Almost on wings he play’d; Oh! how much holier beauty now Lit the young human being’s brow!

The being born to toil, to die, To break forth from the tomb Unto far nobler destiny Than waits the skylark’s plume! I saw him, in that thoughtful hour, Win the first knowledge of his dower.

The soul, the awakening soul I saw-- My watching eye could trace The shadows of its new-born awe Sweeping o’er that fair face: As o’er a flower might pass the shade By some dread angel’s pinion made!

The soul, the mother of deep fears, Of high hopes infinite, Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears, Of sleepless inner sight; Lovely, but solemn, it arose, Unfolding what no more might close.

The red-leaved tablets,[423] undefiled, As yet, by evil thought-- Oh! little dream’d the brooding child Of what within me wrought, While his young heart first burn’d and stirr’d, And quiver’d to the eternal word.

And reverently my spirit caught The reverence of his gaze-- A sight with dew of blessing fraught To hallow after-days; To make the proud heart meekly wise, By the sweet faith in those calm eyes.

It seem’d as if a temple rose Before me brightly there; And in the depths of its repose My soul o’erflow’d with prayer, Feeling a solemn presence nigh-- The power of infant sanctity!

O Father! mould my heart once more By thy prevailing breath! Teach me, oh! teach me to adore E’en with that pure one’s faith-- A faith, all made of love and light, Child-like, and therefore full of might!

[423] “All this, and more than this, is now engraved upon the red-leaved tablets of my heart.”--Haywood.

A POET’S DYING HYMN.

“Be mute who will, who can, Yet I will praise thee with impassion’d voice! Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine In such a temple as we now behold, Rear’d for thy presence; therefore am I bound To worship, here and every where.”--Wordsworth.

The blue, deep, glorious heavens!--I lift mine eye, And bless thee, O my God! that I have met And own’d thine image in the majesty Of their calm temple still!--that, never yet, There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night: I bless thee, O my God!

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, I see the mercy of thine aspect shine, Touching death’s features with a lovely glance Of light, serenely, solemnly divine, And lending to each holy star a ray As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away: I bless thee, O my God!

That I have heard thy voice nor been afraid, In the earth’s garden--midst the mountains old, And the low thrillings of the forest-shade, And the wild sound of waters uncontroll’d-- And upon many a desert plain and shore-- No solitude--for there I felt thee more: I bless thee, O my God!

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed The gift, the vision of the unseal’d eye, To pierce the mist o’er life’s deep meanings spread, To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie Far in man’s heart--if I have kept it free And pure, a consecration unto thee: I bless thee, O my God!

If my soul’s utterance hath by thee been fraught With an awakening power--if thou hast made Like the wing’d seed, the breathings of my thought, And by the swift winds bid them be convey’d To lands of other lays, and there become Native as early melodies of home: I bless thee, O my God!

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath, Not for a place midst kingly minstrels dead, But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, A still small whisper, in my song hath led One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne, Or but one hope, one prayer,--for this alone I bless thee, O my God!

That I have loved--that I have known the love Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs, Yet, with a colouring halo from above, Tinges and glorifies all earthly things, Whate’er its anguish or its woe may be, Still weaving links for intercourse with thee: I bless thee, O my God!

That by the passion of its deep distress, And by the o’erflowing of its mighty prayer, And by the yearning of its tenderness, Too full for words upon their stream to bear, I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine, Well-spring of love, the unfathom’d, the divine, I bless thee, O my God!

That hope hath ne’er my heart or song forsaken, High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread, Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed: That passing storms have only fann’d the fire Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire, I bless thee, O my God!

Now art thou calling me in every gale, Each sound and token of the dying day; Thou leav’st me not--though early life grows pale, I am not darkly sinking to decay; But, hour by hour, my soul’s dissolving shroud Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud. I bless thee, O my God!

And if this earth, with all its choral streams, And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies, And mountain sanctuaries for poet’s dreams, Be lovely still in my departing eyes-- ’Tis not that fondly I would linger here, But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear: I bless thee, O my God!

And that the tender shadowing I behold, The tracery veining every leaf and flower, Of glories cast in more consummate mould, No longer vassals to the changeful hour; That life’s last roses to my thoughts can bring Rich visions of imperishable spring: I bless thee, O my God!

Yes! the young, vernal voices in the skies Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear, Seem heralds of th’ eternal melodies, The spirit-music, imperturb’d and clear-- The full of soul, yet passionate no more: Let me, too, joining those pure strains, adore! I bless thee, O my God!

Now aid, sustain me still. To thee I come-- Make thou my dwelling where thy children are, And for the hope of that immortal home, And for thy Son, the bright and morning star, The sufferer and the victor-king of death, I bless thee with my glad song’s dying breath! I bless thee, O my God!

[“I have lately written what I consider one of my best pieces--‘A Poet’s Dying Hymn.’ It appeared in the last number of Blackwood,” (April 1832.)--Letter from Mrs Hemans.

“It is impossible to read this affecting poem without feeling how distinctly it breathes the inward echoes of the soul to the frequent warnings of the Summoner; those presentiments which must have long silently possessed her, here for the first time finding utterance. Still more strongly does it evidence that subdued and serene frame of mind, into which her once vivacious temperament and painfully vibrating sensibilities were now so gently and happily subsiding.”--Memoir, p. 254.]

THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

“Many an eye May wail the dimming of our shining star.”--Shakspeare.

A glorious voice hath ceased! Mournfully, reverently--the funeral chant Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound, A hollow murmur of the dying year, In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad! A more Æolian, melancholy tone Than ever wail’d o’er bright things perishing! For that is passing from the darken’d land, Which the green summer will not bring us back-- Though all her songs return. The funeral chant Breathe reverently! They bear the mighty forth, The kingly ruler in the realms of mind; They bear him through the household paths, the groves, Where every tree had music of its own To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love-- And he is silent! Past the living stream They bear him now; the stream whose kindly voice, On alien shores, his true heart burn’d to hear-- And he is silent! O’er the heathery hills, Which his own soul had mantled with a light Richer than autumn’s purple, now they move-- And he is silent!--he, whose flexile lips Were but unseal’d, and lo! a thousand forms, From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height, In glowing life upsprang,--vassal and chief, Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal, Fast-rushing through the brightly troubled air, Like the Wild Huntsman’s band. And still they live, To those fair scenes imperishably bound, And, from the mountain-mist still flashing by, Startle the wanderer who hath listen’d there To the seer’s voice: phantoms of colour’d thought, Surviving him who raised. O eloquence! O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead! Who shall wake thee? lord of the buried past! And art thou there--to those dim nations join’d, Thy subject-host so long? The wand is dropp’d, The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand Touch’d, and the genii came! Sing reverently The funeral chant! The mighty is borne home, And who shall be his mourners? Youth and age, For each hath felt his magic--love and grief, For he hath communed with the heart of each: Yes--the free spirit of humanity May join the august procession, for to him Its mysteries have been tributary things, And all its accents known. From field or wave, Never was conqueror on his battle-bier, By the veil’d banner and the muffled drum, And the proud drooping of the crested head, More nobly follow’d home. The last abode, The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach’d: A still, majestic spot, girt solemnly With all th’ imploring beauty of decay; A stately couch midst ruins! meet for him With his bright fame to rest in, as a king Of other days, laid lonely with his sword Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant Over the honour’d grave! The grave!--oh, say Rather the shrine!--an altar for the love, The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths Of years unborn--a place where leaf and flower, By that which dies not of the sovereign dead, Shall be made holy things, where every weed Shall have its portion of th’ inspiring gift From buried glory breathed. And now what strain Making victorious melody ascend High above sorrow’s dirge, befits the tomb Where he that sway’d the nations thus is laid-- The crown’d of men? A lowly, lowly song.

Lowly and solemn be Thy children’s cry to thee, Father divine! A hymn of suppliant breath, Owning that life and death Alike are thine!

A spirit on its way, Sceptred the earth to sway, From thee was sent: Now call’st thou back thine own-- Hence is that radiance flown-- To earth but lent.

Watching in breathless awe, The bright head bow’d we saw, Beneath thy hand! Fill’d by one hope, one fear, Now o’er a brother’s bier Weeping we stand.

How hath he pass’d!--the lord Of each deep bosom-chord, To meet thy sight, Unmantled and alone, On thy bless’d mercy thrown, O Infinite!

So, from his harvest-home, Must the tired peasant come; So, in one trust, Leader and king must yield The naked soul reveal’d To thee, All Just!

The sword of many a fight-- What then shall be its might? The lofty lay That rush’d on eagle wing-- What shall its memory bring? What hope, what stay?

O Father! in that hour, When earth all succouring power Shall disavow; When spear, and shield, and crown In faintness are cast down-- Sustain us, Thou!

By Him who bow’d to take The death-cup for our sake, The thorn, the rod; From whom the last dismay Was not to pass away-- Aid us, O God!

Tremblers beside the grave, We call on thee to save, Father divine! Hear, hear our suppliant breath! Keep us, in life and death, Thine, only thine!

THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGGIO’S.

In the deep wilderness unseen she pray’d, The daughter of Jerusalem; alone With all the still, small whispers of the night, And with the searching glances of the stars, And with her God, alone: she lifted up Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o’er her head, The dark leaves thrill’d with prayer--the tearful prayer Of woman’s quenchless, yet repentant love.

Father of Spirits, hear! Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal’d, Look on the fountain of the burning tear, Before thy sight in solitude unseal’d!

Hear, Father! hear, and aid! If I have loved too well, if I have shed, In my vain fondness, o’er a mortal head, Gifts on thy shrine, my God! more fitly laid;

If I have sought to live But in one light, and made a human eye The lonely star of mine idolatry, Thou that art Love! oh, pity and forgive!

Chasten’d and school’d at last, No more, no more my struggling spirit burns, But, fix’d on thee, from that wild worship turns-- What have I said?--the deep dream is not past!

Yet hear!--if still I love, Oh! still too fondly--if, for ever seen, An earthly image comes my heart between And thy calm glory, Father! throned above;

If still a voice is near, (E’en while I strive these wanderings to control,) An earthly voice disquieting my soul With its deep music, too intensely dear;

O Father! draw to thee My lost affections back!--the dreaming eyes Clear from their mist--sustain the heart that dies, Give the worn soul once more its pinions free!

I must love on, O God! This bosom must love on!--but let thy breath Touch and make pure the flame that knows not death, Bearing it up to heaven--love’s own abode!

Ages and ages past, the wilderness, With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night, With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds, That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers. How many such hath woman’s bursting heart Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed, Like the dim night-flower’s odour, up to God!

PRISONERS’ EVENING SERVICE.

A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.[424]

“From their spheres The stars of human glory are cast down. Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms Of all the mighty, wither’d and consumed! Nor is power given to lowliest innocence Long to protect her own.” Wordsworth.

Scene--Prison of the Luxembourg in Paris, during the Reign of Terror.

D’Aubigné, an aged Royalist--Blanche, his daughter, a young girl.

Blanche. What was your doom, my father? In thine arms I lay unconsciously through that dread hour. Tell me the sentence! Could our judges look, Without relenting, on thy silvery hair? Was there not mercy, father? Will they not Restore us to our home?

D’Aubigné. Yes, my poor child! They send us home.

Blanche. Oh! shall we gaze again On the bright Loire? Will the old hamlet spire, And the gray turret of our own chateau, Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms? Will the kind voices of our villagers, The loving laughter in their children’s eyes, Welcome us back at last? But how is this? Father! thy glance is clouded--on thy brow There sits no joy!

D’Aubigné. Upon my brow, dear girl! There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace As may befit the Christian who receives, And recognises in submissive awe, The summons of his God.

Blanche. Thou dost not mean---- No, no! it cannot be! Didst thou not say They sent us home?

D’Aubigné. Where is the spirit’s home? Oh! most of all, in these dark, evil days, Where should it be--but in that world serene, Beyond the sword’s reach and the tempest’s power, --Where, but in heaven?

Blanche. My father!

D’Aubigné. We must die. We must look up to God, and calmly die. Come to my heart, and weep there! For awhile Give nature’s passion way; then brightly rise In the still courage of a woman’s heart. Do I not know thee? Do I ask too much From mine own noble Blanche?

Blanche, (falling on his bosom.) Oh! clasp me fast! Thy trembling child! Hide, hide me in thine arms-- Father!

D’Aubigné. Alas! my flower, thou’rt young to go-- Young, and so fair! Yet were it worse, methinks, To leave thee where the gentle and the brave, The loyal-hearted and the chivalrous, And they that loved their God, have all been swept, Like the sere leaves, away. For them no hearth Through the wide land was left inviolate, No altar holy; therefore did they fall, Rejoicing to depart. The soil is steep’d In noble blood; the temples are gone down; The voice of prayer is hush’d, or fearfully Mutter’d, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would live Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee, To quit for ever the dishonour’d soil, The burden’d air! Our God upon the cross-- Our king upon the scaffold[425]--let us think Of these--and fold endurance to our hearts, And bravely die!

Blanche. A dark and fearful way! An evil doom for thy dear, honour’d head! O thou, the kind, the gracious! whom all eyes Bless’d as they look’d upon! Speak yet again-- Say, will they part us?

D’Aubigné. No, my Blanche; in death, We shall not be divided.

Blanche. Thanks to God! He, by thy glance, will aid me--I shall see His light before me to the last. And when-- Oh, pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child!-- When shall the hour befall?

D’Aubigné. Oh! swiftly now, And suddenly, with brief, dread interval, Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that hour As yet I know not. Each low throbbing pulse Of the quick pendulum may usher in Eternity!

Blanche, (kneeling before him.) My father! lay thy hand On thy poor Blanche’s head, and once again Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness-- Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul, Ere we are call’d.

D’Aubigné. If I may speak through tears!-- Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently, Child of my heart!--thou who dost look on me With thy lost mother’s angel eyes of love! Thou, that hast been a brightness in my path, A guest of heaven unto my lonely soul, A stainless lily in my widow’d house, There springing up, with soft light round thee shed, For immortality! Meek child of God! I bless thee--He will bless thee! In his love He calls thee now from this rude stormy world To thy Redeemer’s breast! And thou wilt die, As thou hast lived--my duteous, holy Blanche! In trusting and serene submissiveness, Humble, yet full of heaven.

Blanche, (rising.) Now is there strength Infused through all my spirit. I can rise And say, “Thy will be done!”

D’Aubigné, (pointing upwards.) See’st thou, my child! Yon faint light in the west? The signal star Of our due vesper-service, gleaming in Through the close dungeon-grating! Mournfully It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass, This night alone, without the lifted voice Of adoration in our narrow cell, As if unworthy fear or wavering faith Silenced the strain? No! let it waft to heaven The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality, In its dark hour once more! And we will sleep, Yes--calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.

[They sing together.

[424] The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her Letters from France, gave rise to this little scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, which they sang together in a low and restrained voice every night.

[425] A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and hearing some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamentations, turned towards the sufferer, and thus addressed him:--“My friend, whoever you may be, remember that your God expired upon the cross--your king upon the scaffold--and he who now speaks to you has had his limbs shot from under him. Meet your fate as becomes a man.”

PRISONER’S EVENING SONG.

We see no more in thy pure skies, How soft, O God! the sunset dies; How every colour’d hill and wood Seems melting in the golden flood: Yet, by the precious memories won From bright hours now for ever gone, Father! o’er all thy works, we know, Thou still art shedding beauty’s glow; Still touching every cloud and tree With glory, eloquent of thee; Still feeding all thy flowers with light, Though man hath barr’d it from our sight. We know thou reign’st, the Unchanging One, the All-just! And bless thee still with free and boundless trust!

We read no more, O God! thy ways On earth, in these wild, evil days. The red sword in the oppressor’s hand Is ruler of the weeping land; Fallen are the faithful and the pure, No shrine is spared, no hearth secure. Yet, by the deep voice from the past, Which tells us these things cannot last-- And by the hope which finds no ark Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark-- We trust thee! As the sailor knows That in its place of bright repose His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud May veil it with a midnight shroud, We know thou reign’st, All-holy One, All-just! And bless thee still with love’s own boundless trust.

We feel no more that aid is nigh, When our faint hearts within us die. We suffer--and we know our doom Must be one suffering till the tomb. Yet, by the anguish of thy Son When his last hour came darkly on; By his dread cry, the air which rent In terror of abandonment; And by his parting word, which rose Through faith victorious o’er all woes-- We know that thou may’st wound, may’st break The spirit, but wilt ne’er forsake! Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn, In our deep need to thee we turn! To whom but thee? All-merciful, All-just! In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust!

HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION.

“Thanks be to God for the mountains!” Howitt’s “Book of the Seasons.”

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God! Thou hast made thy children mighty, By the touch of the mountain-sod. Thou hast fix’d our ark of refuge Where the spoiler’s foot ne’er trod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God!

We are watchers of a beacon Whose light must never die; We are guardians of an altar Midst the silence of the sky: The rocks yield founts of courage, Struck forth as by thy rod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God!

For the dark, resounding caverns, Where thy still, small voice is heard; For the strong pines of the forests, That by thy breath are stirr’d; For the storms, on whose free pinions Thy spirit walks abroad; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God!

The royal eagle darteth On his quarry from the heights, And the stag that knows no master, Seeks there his wild delights; But we, for thy communion, Have sought the mountain-sod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God!

The banner of the chieftain Far, far below us waves; The war-horse of the spearman Cannot reach our lofty caves: Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold Of freedom’s last abode; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God!

For the shadow of thy presence, Round our camp of rock outspread; For the stern defiles of battle, Bearing record of our dead; For the snows and for the torrents, For the free heart’s burial-sod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God!

PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY.

“The land shall never rue, So England to herself do prove but true.”--Shakspeare.

Through evening’s bright repose A voice of prayer arose, When the sea-fight was done: The sons of England knelt, With hearts that now could melt, For on the wave her battle had been won.

Round their tall ship, the main Heaved with a dark red stain, Caught not from sunset’s cloud; While with the tide swept past Pennon and shiver’d mast, Which to the Ocean-Queen that day had bow’d.

But free and fair on high, A native of the sky, Her streamer met the breeze; It flow’d o’er fearless men, Though, hush’d and child-like then, Before their God they gather’d on the seas.

Oh! did not thoughts of home O’er each bold spirit come, As from the land sweet gales? In every word of prayer Had not some hearth a share, Some bower, inviolate midst England’s vales?

Yes! bright, green spots that lay In beauty far away, Hearing no billow’s roar, Safer from touch of spoil, For that day’s fiery toil, Rose on high hearts, that now with love gush’d o’er.

A solemn scene and dread! The victors and the dead, The breathless burning sky! And, passing with the race Of waves that keep no trace, The wild, brief signs of human victory!

A stern, yet holy scene! Billows, where strife hath been, Sinking to awful sleep; And words, that breathe the sense Of God’s omnipotence, Making a minster of that silent deep.

Borne through such hours afar, Thy flag hath been a star, Where eagle’s wings ne’er flew: England! the unprofaned, Thou of the earth unstain’d, Oh! to the banner and the shrine be true!

THE INDIAN’S REVENGE.

SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY.

[Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is founded are recorded in Carne’s Narrative of the Moravian Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch.]

“But by my wrongs and by my wrath, To-morrow Areouski’s breath That fires yon heaven with storms of death, Shall light me to the foe!” Indian Song in “Gertrude of Wyoming.”

Scene.--The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and sycamore trees. Herrmann, the missionary, seated alone before the cabin. The hour is evening twilight.

Herrmann. Was that the light from some lone, swift canoe Shooting across the waters?--No, a flash From the night’s first, quick fire-fly, lost again In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze Comes through the forest. In this new, strange world, Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems The mighty melancholy of the woods! The desert’s own great spirit, infinite! Little they know, in mine own fatherland, Along the castled Rhine, or e’en amidst The wild Harz mountains, or the sylvan glades Deep in the Odenwald--they little know Of what is solitude! In hours like this, There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices, To guide the peasant, singing cheerily, On the home-path; while round his lowly porch, With eager eyes awaiting his return, The cluster’d faces of his children shine To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts! Melting my spirit’s grasp from heavenly hope By your vain, earthward yearnings. O my God! Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee, Till all the hollow of these deep desires May with thyself be fill’d! Be it enough At once to gladden and to solemnise My lonely life, if for thine altar here In this dread temple of the wilderness, By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win The offering of one heart, one human heart, Bleeding, repenting, loving! Hark! a step, An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound-- ’Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass Gliding so serpent-like.

(He comes forward, and meets an Indian warrior armed.)

Enonio, is it thou? I see thy form Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine eye Discerns thy face.

Enonio. My father speaks my name.

Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the chase return’d? The night-fires lit? Why is my son abroad?

Enonio. The warrior’s arrow knows of nobler prey Than elk or deer. Now let my father leave The lone path free.

Herrmann. The forest way is long From the red chieftain’s home. Rest thee awhile Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak Of these things further.

Enonio. Tell me not of rest! My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift. I must begone.

Herrmann, (solemnly.) No, warrior! thou must stay! The Mighty One hath given me power to search Thy soul with piercing words--and thou must stay, And hear me, and give answer! If thy heart Be grown thus restless, is it not because Within its dark folds thou hast mantled up Some burning thought of ill?

Enonio, (with sudden impetuosity.) How should I rest?-- Last night the spirit of my brother came, An angry shadow in the moonlight streak, And said, “Avenge me!” In the clouds this morn I saw the frowning colour of his blood-- And that, too, had a voice. I lay at noon Alone beside the sounding waterfall, And through its thunder-music spake a tone-- A low tone piercing all the roll of waves-- And said “Avenge me!” Therefore have I raised The tomahawk, and strung the bow again, That I may send the shadow from my couch, And take the strange sound from the cataract, And sleep once more.

Herrmann. A better path, my son! Unto the still and dewy land of sleep, My hand in peace can guide thee--e’en the way Thy dying brother trod. Say, didst thou love That lost one well?

Enonio. Know’st thou not we grew up Even as twin roes amidst the wilderness? Unto the chase we journey’d in one path; We stemm’d the lake in one canoe; we lay Beneath one oak to rest. When fever hung Upon my burning lips, my brother’s hand Was still beneath my head; my brother’s robe Cover’d my bosom from the chill night-air-- Our lives were girdled by one belt of love Until he turn’d him from his father’s gods. And then my soul fell from him--then the grass Grew in the way between our parted homes; And wheresoe’er I wander’d, then it seem’d That all the woods were silent. I went forth-- I journey’d, with my lonely heart, afar, And so return’d--and where was he? The earth Own’d him no more.

Herrmann. But thou thyself, since then, Hast turn’d thee from the idols of thy tribe, And, like thy brother, bow’d the suppliant knee To the one God.

Enonio. Yes! I have learn’d to pray With my white father’s words, yet all the more My heart, that shut against my brother’s love, Hath been within me as an arrowy fire, Burning my sleep away. In the night-hush, Midst the strange whispers and dim shadowy things Of the great forests, I have call’d aloud, “Brother! forgive, forgive!” He answer’d not-- His deep voice, rising from the land of souls, Cries but “Avenge me!”--and I go forth now To slay his murderer, that when next his eyes Gleam on me mournfully from that pale shore, I may look up, and meet their glance, and say, “I have avenged thee!”

Herrmann. Oh! that human love Should be the root of this dread bitterness, Till heaven through all the fever’d being pours Transmuting balsam! Stay, Enonio! stay! Thy brother calls thee not! The spirit-world Where the departed go, sends back to earth No visitants for evil. ’Tis the might Of the strong passion, the remorseful grief At work in thine own breast, which lends the voice Unto the forest and the cataract, The angry colour to the clouds of morn, The shadow to the moonlight. Stay, my son! Thy brother is at peace. Beside his couch, When of the murderer’s poison’d shaft he died, I knelt and pray’d; he named his Saviour’s name, Meekly, beseechingly; he spoke of thee In pity and in love.

Enonio, (hurriedly.) Did he not say My arrow should avenge him?

Herrmann. His last words Were all forgiveness.

Enonio. What! and shall the man Who pierced him with the shaft of treachery, Walk fearless forth in joy?

Herrmann. Was he not once Thy brother’s friend? Oh! trust me, not in joy He walks the frowning forest. Did keen love, Too late repentant of its heart estranged, Wake in thy haunted bosom, with its train Of sounds and shadows--and shall he escape? Enonio, dream it not! Our God, the All-just, Unto himself reserves this royalty-- The secret chastening of the guilty heart, The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies, Leave it with him! Yet make it not thy hope: For that strong heart of thine--oh! listen yet-- Must, in its depths, o’ercome the very wish For death or torture to the guilty one, Ere it can sleep again.

Enonio. My father speaks Of change, for man too mighty.

Herrmann. I but speak Of that which hath been, and again must be, If thou wouldst join thy brother, in the life Of the bright country where, I well believe, His soul rejoices. He had known such change: He died in peace. He, whom his tribe once named The Avenging Eagle, took to his meek heart, In its last pangs, the spirit of those words Which, from the Saviour’s cross, went up to heaven-- “Forgive them, for they know not what they do! Father, forgive!”--And o’er the eternal bounds Of that celestial kingdom, undefiled, Where evil may not enter, he, I deem, Hath to his Master pass’d. He waits thee there-- For love, we trust, springs heavenward from the grave, Immortal in its holiness. He calls His brother to the land of golden light And ever-living fountains--couldst thou hear His voice o’er those bright waters, it would say, “My brother! oh! be pure, be merciful! That we may meet again.”

Enonio, (hesitating.) Can I return Unto my tribe, and unavenged?

Herrmann. To Him, To Him return, from whom thine erring steps Have wander’d far and long! Return, my son, To thy Redeemer! Died he not in love-- The sinless, the divine, the Son of God-- Breathing forgiveness midst all agonies? And we, dare we be ruthless? By his aid Shalt thou be guided to thy brother’s place Midst the pure spirits. Oh! retrace the way Back to thy Saviour! he rejects no heart E’en with the dark stains on it, if true tears Be o’er them shower’d. Ay! weep, thou Indian chief! For, by the kindling moonlight, I behold Thy proud lips working--weep, relieve thy soul! Tears will not shame thy manhood, in the hour Of its great conflict.

Enonio, (giving up his weapons to Herrmann.) Father! take the bow, Keep the sharp arrows till the hunters call Forth to the chase once more. And let me dwell A little while, my father! by thy side, That I may hear the blessed words again-- Like water-brooks amidst the summer hills-- From thy true lips flow forth; for in my heart The music and the memory of their sound Too long have died away.

Herrmann. Oh, welcome back, Friend, rescued one! Yes, thou shalt be my guest, And we will pray beneath my sycamore Together, morn and eve; and I will spread Thy couch beside my fire, and sleep at last-- After the visiting of holy thoughts-- With dewy wings shall sink upon thine eyes! Enter my home, and welcome, welcome back To peace, to God, thou lost and found again!

(They go into the cabin together.--Herrmann, lingering for a moment on the threshold, looks up to the starry skies.)

Father! that from amidst yon glorious worlds Now look’st on us, thy children! make this hour Blessed for ever! May it see the birth Of thine own image in the unfathom’d deep Of an immortal soul,--a thing to name With reverential thought, a solemn world! To thee more precious than those thousand stars Burning on high in thy majestic heaven!

EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY.

Father of heaven and earth! I bless thee for the night, The soft, still night! The holy pause of care and mirth, Of sound and light!

Now, far in glade and dell, Flower-cup, and bud, and bell, Have shut around the sleeping woodlark’s nest; The bee’s long murmuring toils are done, And I, the o’erwearied one, O’erwearied and o’erwrought, Bless thee, O God! O Father of the oppress’d! With my last waking thought, In the still night! Yes! e’er I sink to rest, By the fire’s dying light, Thou Lord of earth and heaven! I bless thee, who hast given, Unto life’s fainting travellers, the night-- The soft, still, holy night.

THE DAY OF FLOWERS.

A MOTHER’S WALK WITH HER CHILD.

“One spirit--His Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows. Rules universal nature. Not a flower But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain, Of his unrivall’d pencil. He inspires Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues. And bathes their eyes with nectar. Happy who walks with him!” Cowper.

Come to the woods, my boy! Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth, My happy child! The spirit of bright hours Woos us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents, From thickets, where the lonely stock-dove broods, Enter our lattice; fitful songs of joy Float in with each soft current of the air;-- And we will hear their summons; we will give One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad thoughts, And thou shalt revel midst free nature’s wealth, And for thy mother twine wild wreaths; while she, From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart The vernal ecstasy of childhood back. Come to the woods, my boy!

What! wouldst thou lead already to the path Along the copsewood brook? Come, then! in truth Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child, Is a glad, singing stream, heard or unheard, Singing its melody of happiness Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace To that sweet chime. With what a sparkling life It fills the shadowy dingle!--now the wing Of some low-skimming swallow shakes bright spray Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave; Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep, The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings Of mazy insects o’er the shallow tide Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light From burnish’d films! And mark yon silvery line Of gossamer, so tremulously hung Across the narrow current, from the tuft Of hazels to the hoary poplar’s bough! See, in the air’s transparence, how it waves, Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale, Yet breaking not--a bridge for fairy shapes, How delicate, how wondrous! Yes, my boy! Well may we make the stream’s bright, winding vein Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness, For ever deepening. Oh, forget him not, Dear child! That airy gladness which thou feel’st Wafting thee after bird and butterfly, As ’twere a breeze within thee, is not less His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours, Than this rich, outward sunshine, mantling all The leaves, and grass, and mossy-tinted stones With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step, My merry wanderer!--let us rest a while By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung From alder boughs and osiers o’er its breast, The soft red of the flowering willow-herb So vividly is pictured. Seems it not E’en melting to a more transparent glow In that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams! And, through all ages, human hearts have loved Their music, still accordant with each mood Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown Into vain worship, which hath left its trace On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still Beneath dim olive-boughs, by many a fount Of Italy and Greece. But we will take Our lesson e’en from erring hearts, which bless’d The river-deities or fountain-nymphs, For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade, And the sweet water’s tune. The One supreme, The all-sustaining, ever-present God, Who dower’d the soul with immortality, Gave also these delights, to cheer on earth Its fleeting passage; therefore let us greet Each wandering flower-scent as a boon from Him, Each bird-note, quivering midst light summer leaves, And every rich celestial tint unnamed, Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of morn and eve, Kindle and melt away! And now, in love, In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers Around the ruin’d mansion. Thou, my boy! Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee Will wear no shadow of subduing thought-- No colouring from the past. This way our path Winds through the hazels. Mark how brightly shoots The dragon-fly along the sunbeam’s line, Crossing the leafy gloom. How full of life, The life of song, and breezes, and free wings, Is all the murmuring shade! and thine, oh thine! Of all the brightest and the happiest here, My blessed child! my gift of God! that makest My heart o’erflow with summer! Hast thou twined Thy wreath so soon! yet will we loiter not, Though here the blue-bell wave, and gorgeously Round the brown, twisted roots of yon scathed oak The heath-flower spread its purple. We must leave The copse, and through yon broken avenue, Shadow’d by drooping walnut-foliage, reach The ruin’s glade. And lo! before us, fair Yet desolate, amidst the golden day, It stands, that house of silence! wedded now To verdant Nature by the o’ermantling growth Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman’s hands Once loved to train. How the rich wallflower-scent From every niche and mossy cornice floats, Embalming its decay! The bee alone Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine, Watching some homeward footstep. See! unbound From the old fretted stone-work, what thick wreaths Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down, Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and load The air with mournful fragrance--for it speaks Of life gone hence; and the faint, southern breath Of myrtle-leaves, from yon forsaken porch, Startles the soul with sweetness! Yet rich knots Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sown Through all the sunny hollow, spread around A flush of youth and joy, free nature’s joy, Undimm’d by human change. How kindly here, With the low thyme and daisies, they have blent! And, under arches of wild eglantine, Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely seems The frail gum-cistus o’er the turf to snow Its pearly flower-leaves down! Go, happy boy! Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets; Whilst I, beside this fallen dial-stone, Under the tall moss-rose tree, long unpruned, Rest where thick clustering pansies weave around Their many-tinged mosaic, midst dark grass Bedded like jewels. He hath bounded on, Wild with delight!--the crimson on his cheek Purer and richer e’en than that which lies In this deep-hearted rose-cup! Bright moss-rose! Though now so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree! Once thou wert cherish’d! and, by human love, Through many a summer duly visited For thy bloom-offerings, which o’er festal board, And youthful brow, and e’en the shaded couch Of long-secluded sickness, may have shed A joy, now lost. Yet shall there still be joy, Where God hath pour’d forth beauty, and the voice Of human love shall still be heard in praise Over his glorious gifts! O Father! Lord! The All-beneficent! I bless thy name, That thou hast mantled the green earth with flow’rs, Linking our hearts to nature! By the love Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first Into her deep recesses are beguiled-- Her minster-cells--dark glen and forest bower, Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee, Amidst the low, religious whisperings And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude, The spirit wakes to worship, and is made Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers, Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares, Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain-streams, That sing of thee! back to free childhood’s heart, Fresh with the dews of tenderness! Thou bidd’st The lilies of the field with placid smile Reprove man’s feverish strivings, and infuse Through his worn soul a more unworldly life, With their soft, holy breath. Thou hast not left His purer nature, with its fine desires, Uncared for in this universe of thine! The glowing rose attests it, the beloved Of poet-hearts, touch’d by their fervent dreams With spiritual light, and made a source Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E’en to faint age Thou lend’st the vernal bliss: the old man’s eye Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul Remembers youth and love, and hopefully Turns unto thee, who call’st earth’s buried germs From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up To put on glory, to be girt with power, And fill’d with immortality. Receive Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons, And, most of all, their heavenward influences, O Thou that gavest us flowers! Return, my boy!-- With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return! See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch’d And glorified the ruin!--glow-worm light Will twinkle on the dewdrops, ere we reach Our home again. Come! with thy last sweet prayer At thy bless’d mother’s knee, to-night shall thanks Unto our Father in his heaven arise, For all the gladness, all the beauty shed O’er one rich day of flowers.

HYMN OF THE TRAVELLER’S HOUSEHOLD ON HIS RETURN,

IN THE OLDEN TIME.

Joy! the lost one is restored! Sunshine comes to hearth and board. From the far-off countries old Of the diamond and red gold; From the dusky archer-bands, Roamers of the fiery sands; From the desert winds, whose breath Smites with sudden, silent death; He hath reach’d his home again, Where we sing In thy praise a fervent strain, God our King!

Mightiest! unto thee he turn’d When the noon-day fiercest burn’d: When the fountain-springs were far, And the sounds of Arab war Swell’d upon the sultry blast, And the sandy columns past, Unto thee he cried; and thou, Merciful! didst hear his vow! Therefore unto thee again Joy shall sing Many a sweet and thankful strain, God our King!

Thou wert with him on the main, And the snowy mountain-chain, And the rivers, dark and wide, Which through Indian forests glide: Thou didst guard him from the wrath Of the lion in his path, And the arrows on the breeze, And the dropping poison-trees. Therefore from our household train Oft shall spring Unto thee a blessing strain, God our King!

Thou to his lone, watching wife Hast brought back the light of life! Thou hast spared his loving child Home to greet him from the wild. Though the suns of Eastern skies On his cheek have set their dyes, Though long toils and sleepless cares On his brow have blanch’d the hairs, Yet the night of fear is flown-- He is living, and our own! Brethren! spread his festal board, Hang his mantle and his sword, With the armour, on the wall-- While this long, long silent hall Joyfully doth hear again Voice and string Swell to thee the exulting strain, God our King!

THE PAINTER’S LAST WORK.

[Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter Blake, which is beautifully related by Allan Cunningham.]

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

_The Scene is an English Cottage. The lattice opens upon a Landscape at sunset._

Eugene, Teresa.

Teresa. The fever’s hue hath left thy cheek, beloved! Thine eyes, that make the dayspring in my heart, Are clear and still once more! Wilt thou look forth? Now, while the sunset with low streaming light-- The light thou lovest--hath made the elm-wood stems All burning bronze, the river molten gold! Wilt thou be raised upon thy couch, to meet The rich air fill’d with wandering scents and sounds? Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest With our own evening hymn?

Eugene. Not now, dear love! My soul is wakeful--lingering to look forth, Not on the sun, but thee! Doth the light sleep On the stream tenderly? and are the stems Of our own elm-trees, by its alchemy, So richly changed? and is the sweetbrier-scent Floating around? But I have said farewell, Farewell to earth, Teresa!--not to thee; Nor yet to our deep love--nor yet awhile Unto the spirit of mine art, which flows Back on my soul in mastery. One last work! And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts, Clinging affections, and undying hopes, All, all in that memorial!

Teresa. Oh, what dream Is this, mine own Eugene? Waste thou not thus Thy scarce-returning strength; keep thy rich thoughts For happier days--they will not melt away Like passing music from the lute. Dear friend! Dearest of friends! thou canst win back at will The glorious visions.

Eugene. Yes! the unseen land Of glorious visions hath sent forth a voice To call me hence. Oh, be thou not deceived! Bind to thy heart no earthly hope, Teresa! I must, must leave thee! Yet be strong, my love! As thou hast still been gentle.

Teresa. O Eugene! What will this dim world be to me, Eugene! When wanting thy bright soul, the life of all-- My only sunshine? How can I bear on? How can we part?--we that have loved so well, With clasping spirits link’d so long by grief, By tears, by prayer?

Eugene. E’en therefore we can part, With an immortal trust, that such high love Is not of things to perish. Let me leave One record still of its ethereal flame Brightening through death’s cold shadow. Once again, Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast, And eyes half veil’d, in thine own soul absorb’d, As in thy watchings ere I sink to sleep; And I will give the bending, flower-like grace Of that soft form, and the still sweetness throned On that pale brow, and in that quivering smile Of voiceless love, a life that shall outlast Their delicate earthly being. There! thy head Bow’d down with beauty, and with tenderness, And lowly thought--even thus--my own Teresa! Oh! the quick-glancing radiance and bright bloom, That once around thee hung, have melted now Into more solemn light--but holier far, And dearer, and yet lovelier in mine eyes, Than all that summer-flush! For by my couch, In patient and serene devotedness, Thou hast made those rich hues and sunny smiles Thine offering unto me. Oh! I may give Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow, And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye, Unto the canvass; I may catch the flow Of all those drooping locks, and glorify, With a soft halo, what is imaged thus-- But how much rests unbreathed, my faithful one! What thou hast been to me! This bitter world! This cold, unanswering world, that hath no voice To greet the gentle spirit, that drives back All birds of Eden, which would sojourn here A little while--how have I turn’d away From its keen, soulless air, and in thy heart Found ever the sweet fountain of response To quench my thirst for home! The dear work grows Beneath my hand,--the last!

Teresa, (falling on his neck in tears.) Eugene! Eugene! Break not my heart with thine excess of love!-- Oh! must I lose thee--thou that hast been still The tenderest--best!

Eugene. Weep, weep not thus, beloved! Let my true heart o’er thine retain its power Of soothing to the last! Mine own Teresa! Take strength from strong affection! Let our souls, Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God’s rich boon-- Our perfect love! Oh, blessed have we been In that high gift! thousands o’er earth may pass, With hearts unfreshen’d by the heavenly dew, Which hath kept ours from withering. Kneel, true wife! And lay thy hands in mine.

(She kneels beside the couch--he prays.)

Oh, thus receive Thy children’s thanks, Creator! for the love Which thou hast granted, through all earthly woes, To spread heaven’s peace around them--which hath bound Their spirits to each other and to thee, With links whereon unkindness ne’er hath breathed, Nor wandering thought. We thank thee, gracious God! For all its treasured memories, tender cares, Fond words, bright, bright sustaining looks, unchanged Through tears and joy! O Father! most of all, We thank, we bless thee, for the priceless trust, Through thy redeeming Son vouchsafed to those That love in thee, of union, in thy sight And in thy heavens, immortal! Hear our prayer! Take home our fond affections, purified To spirit-radiance from all earthly stain; Exalted, solemnised, made fit to dwell, Father! where all things that are lovely meet, And all things that are pure--for evermore With thee and thine!

A PRAYER OF AFFECTION.

Blessings, O Father! shower-- Father of Mercies! round his precious head! On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour, And the pure visions of his midnight bed, Blessings be shed!

Father! I pray thee not For earthly treasure to that most beloved-- Fame, fortune, power: oh! be his spirit proved By these, or by their absence, at thy will! But let thy peace be wedded to his lot, Guarding his inner life from touch of ill, With its dove-pinion still! Let such a sense of thee, Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love, His bosom-guest inalienably be, That wheresoe’er he move, A heavenly light serene Upon his heart and mien May sit undimm’d! a gladness rest his own, Unspeakable, and to the world unknown! Such as from childhood’s morning land of dreams, Remember’d faintly, gleams-- Faintly remember’d, and too swiftly flown!

So let him walk with thee, Made by thy Spirit free; And when thou call’st him from his mortal place, To his last hour be still that sweetness given, That joyful trust! and brightly let him part, With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart, Mature to meet in heaven His Saviour’s face!

MOTHER’S LITANY BY THE SICKBED OF A CHILD.

Saviour, that of woman born, Mother-sorrow didst not scorn-- Thou, with whose last anguish strove One dear thought of earthly love-- Hear and aid!

Low he lies, my precious child, With his spirit wandering wild From its gladsome tasks and play, And its bright thoughts far away-- Saviour, aid!

Pain sits heavy on his brow, E’en though slumber seal it now; Round his lip is quivering strife, In his hand unquiet life-- Aid! oh, aid!

Saviour! loose the burning chain From his fever’d heart and brain, Give, oh! give his young soul back Into its own cloudless track! Hear and aid!

Thou that saidst, “Awake! arise!” E’en when death had quench’d the eyes-- In this hour of grief’s deep sighing, When o’erwearied hope is dying, Hear and aid!

Yet, oh! make him thine, all thine, Saviour! whether Death’s or mine! Yet, oh! pour on human love, Strength, trust, patience, from above! Hear and aid!

NIGHT HYMN AT SEA.

THE WORDS WRITTEN FOR A MELODY BY FELTON.

Night sinks on the wave, Hollow gusts are sighing, Sea-birds to their cave Through the gloom are flying. Oh! should storms come sweeping, Thou, in heaven unsleeping, O’er thy children vigil keeping, Hear, hear, and save!

Stars look o’er the sea, Few, and sad, and shrouded; Faith our light must be, When all else is clouded. Thou, whose voice came thrilling, Wind and billow stilling, Speak once more! our prayer fulfilling-- Power dwells with thee!

SONNETS.

FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE.

“Your tents are desolate; your stately steps, Of all their choral dances, have not left One trace beside the fountains: your full cup Of gladness and of trembling, each alike Is broken. Yet, amidst undying things, The mind still keeps your loveliness, and still All the fresh glories of the early world Hang round you in the spirit’s pictured halls, Never to change!”

INVOCATION.

As the tired voyager on stormy seas Invokes the coming of bright birds from shore, To waft him tidings, with the gentler breeze, Of dim, sweet woods that hear no billows roar; So, from the depth of days, when earth yet wore Her solemn beauty and primeval dew, I call you, gracious Forms! Oh, come! restore Awhile that holy freshness, and renew Life’s morning dreams. Come with the voice, the lyre, Daughters of Judah! with the timbrel rise! Ye of the dark, prophetic, Eastern eyes, Imperial in their visionary fire; Oh! steep my soul in that old, glorious time, When God’s own whisper shook the cedars of your clime!

INVOCATION CONTINUED.

And come, ye faithful! round Messiah seen, With a soft harmony of tears and light Streaming through all your spiritual mien-- As in calm clouds of pearly stillness bright, Showers weave with sunshine, and transpierce their slight Ethereal cradle. From your heart subdued All haughty dreams of power had wing’d their flight, And left high place for martyr fortitude, True faith, long-suffering love. Come to me, come! And as the seas, beneath your Master’s tread, Fell into crystal smoothness, round him spread Like the clear pavement of his heavenly home; So, in your presence, let the soul’s great deep Sink to the gentleness of infant sleep.

THE SONG OF MIRIAM.

A song for Israel’s God! Spear, crest, and helm Lay by the billows of the old Red Sea, When Miriam’s voice o’er that sepulchral realm Sent on the blast a hymn of jubilee. With her lit eye, and long hair floating free, Queen-like she stood, and glorious was the strain, E’en as instinct with the tempestuous glee Of the dark waters, tossing o’er the slain. A song for God’s own victory! Oh, thy lays, Bright poesy! were holy in their birth: How hath it died, thy seraph-note of praise, In the bewildering melodies of earth! Return from troubling, bitter founts--return, Back to the life-springs of thy native urn!

RUTH.

The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn, By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann’d, Still brings me back thine image--O forlorn, Yet not forsaken Ruth! I see thee stand Lone, midst the gladness of the harvest-band-- Lone, as a wood-bird on the ocean’s foam Fall’n in its weariness. Thy fatherland Smiles far away! yet to the sense of home-- That finest, purest, which can recognise Home in affection’s glance--for ever true Beats thy calm heart; and if thy gentle eyes Gleam tremulous through tears,’tis not to rue Those words, immortal in their deep love’s tone, “Thy people and thy God shall be mine own!”

THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH.

“And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until water dropped upon them out of heaven; and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night.”--2 Sam. xxi. 10.

Who watches on the mountain with the dead, Alone before the awfulness of night?-- A seer awaiting the deep spirit’s might? A warrior guarding some dark pass of dread? No--a lorn woman! On her drooping head, Once proudly graceful, heavy beats the rain; She recks not--living for the unburied slain, Only to scare the vulture from their bed. So, night by night, her vigil hath she kept With the pale stars, and with the dews hath wept: Oh! surely some bright Presence from above On those wild rocks the lonely one must aid! E’en so; a strengthener through all storm and shade, Th’ unconquerable angel, mightiest Love!

THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMITE WOMAN.

“And she answered, I dwell among mine own people.” 2 Kings, iv. 13.

“I dwell among mine own,”--oh, happy thou! Not for the sunny clusters of the vine, Not for the olives on the mountain’s brow, Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line Of streams, that make the green land where they shine Laugh to the light of waters--not for these, Nor the soft shadow of ancestral trees, Whose kindly whisper floats o’er thee and thine-- Oh! not for these I call thee richly blest, But for the meekness of thy woman’s breast, Where that sweet depth of still contentment lies; And for thy holy, household love, which clings Unto all ancient and familiar things, Weaving from each some link for home’s dear charities.

THE ANNUNCIATION.

Lowliest of women, and most glorified! In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone, A brightness round thee grew--and by thy side, Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone, Solemn, yet breathing gladness. From her throne A queen had risen with more imperial eye, A stately prophetess of victory From her proud lyre had struck a tempest’s tone, For such high tidings as to thee were brought, Chosen of heaven! that hour: but thou, oh! thou, E’en as a flower with gracious rains o’erfraught, Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow, And take to thy meek breast th’ all-holy word, And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord.

THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN.

Yet as a sunburst flushing mountain-snow, Fell the celestial touch of fire ere long On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow, And thy calm spirit lighten’d into song. Unconsciously, perchance, yet free and strong Flow’d the majestic joy of tuneful words, Which living harps the choirs of heaven among Might well have link’d with their divinest chords. Full many a strain, borne far on glory’s blast, Shall leave, where once its haughty music pass’d, No more to memory than a reed’s faint sigh; While thine, O childlike Virgin! through all time Shall send its fervent breath o’er every clime, Being of God, and therefore not to die.

THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST’S FEET.

There was a mournfulness in angel eyes, That saw thee, woman! bright in this world’s train, Moving to pleasure’s airy melodies, Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain. But from thy beauty’s garland, brief and vain, When one by one the rose-leaves had been torn; When thy heart’s core had quiver’d to the pain Through every life-nerve sent by arrowy scorn; When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odours forth On the Redeemer’s feet, with many a sigh, And showering tear-drop, of yet richer worth Than all those costly balms of Araby; Then was there joy, a song of joy in heaven, For thee, the child won back, the penitent forgiven!

MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST.

Oh! bless’d beyond all daughters of the earth! What were the Orient’s thrones to that low seat Where thy hush’d spirit drew celestial birth, Mary! meek listener at the Saviour’s feet? No feverish cares to that divine retreat Thy woman’s heart of silent worship brought, But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to meet With love, and wonder, and submissive thought. Oh! for the holy quiet of thy breast, Midst the world’s eager tones and footsteps flying, Thou, whose calm soul was like a well-spring, lying So deep and still in its transparent rest, That e’en when noontide burns upon the hills, Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirror fills.

THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER THE DEATH OF LAZARUS.

One grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead! Was in your bosoms--thou, whose steps, made fleet By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled, Bore thee, as wings, the Lord of Life to greet; And thou, that duteous in thy still retreat Didst wait his summons, then with reverent love Fall weeping at the bless’d Deliverer’s feet, Whom e’en to heavenly tears thy woe could move. And which to Him, the All-seeing and All-just, Was loveliest--that quick zeal, or lowly trust? Oh! question not, and let no law be given To those unveilings of its deepest shrine, By the wrung spirit made in outward sign: Free service from the heart is all in all to heaven.

THE MEMORIAL OF MARY.

“Verily I say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, there shall also this that this woman hath done, be told for a memorial of her.”--Matthew, xxvi. 13.--See also John, xii. 3.

Thou hast thy record in the monarch’s hall, And on the waters of the far mid sea; And where the mighty mountain-shadows fall, The Alpine hamlet keeps a thought of thee: Where’er, beneath some Oriental tree, The Christian traveller rests--where’er the child Looks upward from the English mother’s knee, With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild, There art thou known--where’er the Book of light Bears hope and healing, there, beyond all blight, Is borne thy memory, and all praise above. Oh! say what deed so lifted thy sweet name, Mary! to that pure, silent place of fame? One lowly offering of exceeding love.

THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE CROSS.

Like those pale stars of tempest-hours, whose gleam Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast. Such by the cross doth your bright lingering seem, Daughters of Zion! faithful to the last! Ye, through the darkness o’er the wide earth cast By the death-cloud within the Saviour’s eye, E’en till away the heavenly spirit pass’d, Stood in the shadow of his agony. O blessed faith! a guiding lamp, that hour Was lit for woman’s heart! To her, whose dower Is all of love and suffering from her birth, Still hath your act a voice--through fear, through strife, Bidding her bind each tendril of her life To that which her deep soul hath proved of holiest worth.

MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE.

Weeper! to thee how bright a morn was given After thy long, long vigil of despair, When that high voice which burial-rocks had riven Thrill’d with immortal tones the silent air! Never did clarion’s royal blast declare Such tale of victory to a breathless crowd, As the deep sweetness of one word could bear Into thy heart of hearts, O woman! bow’d By strong affection’s anguish! one low word-- “Mary!” and all the triumph wrung from death Was thus reveal’d; and thou, that so hadst err’d, So wept, and been forgiven, in trembling faith Didst cast thee down before the all-conquering Son, Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had won!

MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS OF THE RESURRECTION.

Then was a task of glory all thine own, Nobler than e’er the still, small voice assign’d To lips in awful music making known The stormy splendours of some prophet’s mind. “Christ is arisen!”--by thee, to wake mankind, First from the sepulchre those words were brought! Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind First on its way, with those high tidings fraught-- “Christ is arisen!” Thou, thou, the sin-enthrall’d! Earth’s outcast, heaven’s own ransom’d one, wert call’d In human hearts to give that rapture birth: Oh raised from shame to brightness! there doth lie The tenderest meaning of His ministry, Whose undespairing love still own’d the spirit’s worth.

SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL.

THE SACRED HARP.

How shall the harp of poesy regain That old victorious tone of prophet-years-- A spell divine o’er guilt’s perturbing fears, And all the hovering shadows of the brain? Dark, evil wings took flight before the strain, And showers of holy quiet, with its fall, Sank on the soul. Oh! who may now recall The mighty music’s consecrated reign? Spirit of God! whose glory once o’erhung A throne, the ark’s dread cherubim between, So let thy presence brood, though now unseen, O’er those two powers by whom the harp is strung, Feeling and Thought! till the rekindled chords Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words.

TO A FAMILY BIBLE.

What household thoughts around thee, as their shrine, Cling reverently? Of anxious looks beguiled, My mother’s eyes upon thy page divine Each day were bent--her accents, gravely mild, Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child, Wander’d on breeze-like fancies oft away, To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild, Some fresh-discover’d nook for woodland play, Some secret nest. Yet would the solemn Word, At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard, Fall on thy waken’d spirit, there to be A seed not lost,--for which, in darker years, O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears, Heart-blessings on the holy dead and thee!

REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY.

FROM AN OLD ITALIAN PICTURE.

Under a palm-tree, by the green, old Nile, Lull’d on his mother’s breast, the fair child lies, With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile Brooding above the slumber of his eyes; While, through the stillness of the burning skies, Lo! the dread works of Egypt’s buried kings, Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise, Regal and still as everlasting things. Vain pomps! from him, with that pure, flowery cheek, Soft shadow’d by his mother’s drooping head, A new-born spirit, mighty, and yet meek, O’er the whole world like vernal air shall spread; And bid all earthly grandeurs cast the crown, Before the suffering and the lowly, down.

PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS.

All the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing, Round the young child luxuriantly are spread; Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing In adoration, o’er his cradle shed. Roses, deep-fill’d with rich midsummer’s red, Circle his hands: but, in his grave, sweet eye, Thought seems e’en now to wake, and prophesy Of ruder coronals for that meek head. And thus it was! a diadem of thorn Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers; To Him who pour’d forth blessings in soft showers O’er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn! And we repine, for whom that cup He took, O’er blooms that mock’d our hope, o’er idols that forsook!

ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST.

AN ECCE HOMO, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI.

I met that image on a mirthful day Of youth; and, sinking with a still’d surprise, The pride of life, before those holy eyes, In my quick heart died thoughtfully away, Abash’d to mute confession of a sway Awful, though meek. And now that, from the strings Of my soul’s lyre, the tempest’s mighty wings Have struck forth tones which then unwaken’d lay; Now that, around the deep life of my mind, Affections, deathless as itself, have twined, Oft does the pale, bright vision still float by; But more divinely sweet, and speaking now Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow, Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, humanity!

THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLESSED.

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight Ye grew, fair children! hallow’d from that hour By your Lord’s blessing. Surely thence a shower Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright, Through all the after years, which saw ye move Lowly, yet still majestic, in the might, The conscious glory of the Saviour’s love! And honour’d be all childhood, for the sake Of that high love! Let reverential care Watch to behold the immortal spirit wake. And shield its first bloom from unholy air; Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the sign Of claims upon a heritage divine.

MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES.

“He went up to a mountain apart to pray.”

A child midst ancient mountains I have stood, Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest On high. The spirit of the solitude Fell solemnly upon my infant breast, Though then I pray’d not; but deep thoughts have press’d Into my being since it breathed that air, Nor could I now one moment live the guest Of such dread scenes, without the springs of prayer O’erflowing all my soul. No minsters rise Like them in pure communion with the skies, Vast, silent, open unto night and day; So might the o’erburden’d Son of Man have felt, When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt, He sought high mountains, there apart to pray.

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.

“Consider the lilies of the field.”

Flowers! when the Saviour’s calm, benignant eye Fell on your gentle beauty--when from you That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew, Eternal, universal, as the sky-- Then, in the bosom of your purity, A voice He set, as in a temple-shrine, That life’s quick travellers ne’er might pass you by Unwarn’d of that sweet oracle divine. And though, too oft its low, celestial sound By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drown’d, And the loud steps of vain, unlistening Haste, Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power Mightier to reach the soul, in thought’s hush’d hour, Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced!

THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.

“And behold the birds of the air.”

Ye too, the free and fearless birds of air, Were charged that hour, on missionary wing, The same bright lesson o’er the seas to bear, Heaven-guided wanderers, with the winds of spring. Sing on, before the storm and after, sing! And call us to your echoing woods away From worldly cares; and bid our spirits bring Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay. So may those blessed vernal strains renew Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true E’en than the first, within th’ awaken’d mind; While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life, That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife, But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resign’d.

THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW’S SON.

“And he that was dead sat up and began to speak.”

He that was dead rose up and spoke--He spoke! Was it of that majestic world unknown? Those words, which first the bier’s dread silence broke, Came they with revelation in each tone? Were the far cities of the nations gone, The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep, For man uncurtain’d by that spirit lone, Back from their portal summon’d o’er the deep? Be hush’d, my soul! the veil of darkness lay Still drawn: thy Lord call’d back the voice departed To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted, Not to reveal the mysteries of its way. Oh! take that lesson home in silent faith, Put on submissive strength to meet, not question, death!

THE OLIVE TREE.

The palm--the vine--the cedar--each hath power To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by; And each quick glistening of the laurel bower Wafts Grecian images o’er fancy’s eye. But thou, pale Olive! in thy branches lie Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old Might e’er enshrine: I could not hear the sigh To the wind’s faintest whisper, nor behold One shiver of thy leaves’ dim, silvery green, Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray’d-- When pale stars look’d upon his fainting head, And angels, ministering in silent dread, Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade.

THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION.

On Judah’s hills a weight of darkness hung, Felt shudderingly at noon: the land had driven A Guest divine back to the gates of heaven-- A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung, All grace, all truth. And when, to anguish wrung, From the sharp cross th’ enlightening spirit fled, O’er the forsaken earth a pall of dread By the great shadow of that death was flung. O Saviour! O Atoner!--thou that fain Wouldst make thy temple in each human heart, Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign; Ne’er may thy presence from its depths depart, Chased thence by guilt! Oh! turn not thou away, The bright and Morning Star, my guide to perfect day!

PLACES OF WORSHIP.

“God is a spirit.”

Spirit! whose life-sustaining presence fills Air, ocean, central depths by man untried, Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified All place, all time! The silence of the hills Breathes veneration,--founts and choral rills Of thee are murmuring,--to its inmost glade The living forest with thy whisper thrills, And there is holiness in every shade. Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest With dearer consecration those pure fanes, Which, sever’d from all sound of earth’s unrest, Hear naught but suppliant or adoring strains Rise heavenward. Ne’er may rock or cave possess Their claim on human hearts to solemn tenderness.

OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK.[426]

Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound, Caressingly, about the holy ground; And warbled, with a never-dying tone, Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone Seem’d, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam Of tower and cross, pale-quivering on the stream, O’er all th’ ancestral woodlands to be thrown-- And something yet more deep. The air was fraught With noble memories, whispering many a thought Of England’s fathers: loftily serene, They that had toil’d, watch’d, struggled, to secure, Within such fabrics, worship free and pure, Reign’d there, the o’ershadowing spirit of the scene.

[426] Fawsley Park, near Daventry.

A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES.[427]

Blessings be round it still! that gleaming fane, Low in its mountain-glen! Old, mossy trees Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane; And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze, The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas, Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone, There meets the voice of psalms! Yet not alone For memories lulling to the heart as these, I bless thee, midst thy rocks, gray house of prayer! But for their sakes who unto thee repair From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore. Oh! may the fisher and the mountaineer Words to sustain earth’s toiling children hear, Within thy lowly walls, for evermore!

[427] That of Aber, near Bangor.

LOUISE SCHEPLER.

[Louise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of the pastor Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his children for their perusal after his decease, affectingly commemorates her unwearied zeal in visiting and instructing the children of the mountain hamlets, through all seasons, and in all circumstances of difficulty and danger.]

A fearless journeyer o’er the mountain-snow Wert thou, Louise! The sun’s decaying light Oft, with its latest, melancholy glow, Redden’d thy steep, wild way: the starry night Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle’s height, Piercing some dark ravine: and many a dell Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well, Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright Oft in mid-storms--oh! not with beauty’s eye, Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning; No! pilgrim of unwearying charity! Thy spell was love--the mountain-deserts turning To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving voice!

TO THE SAME.

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind, Through the pine forests, by the upland rills, Didst roam to seek the children of the hills, A wild, neglected flock! to seek, and find, And meekly win! there feeding each young mind With balms of heavenly eloquence: not thine, Daughter of Christ! but His, whose love divine Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined, A burning light! Oh! beautiful, in truth, Upon the mountains are the feet of those Who bear His tidings! From thy morn of youth, For this were all thy journeyings; and the close Of that long path, heaven’s own bright sabbath-rest, Must wait thee, wanderer! on thy Saviour’s breast

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE TWO MONUMENTS.[428]

“Oh! bless’d are they who live and die like ‘him,’ Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn’d!” Wordsworth.

Banners hung drooping from on high In a dim cathedral’s nave, Making a gorgeous canopy O’er a noble, noble grave!

And a marble warrior’s form beneath, With helm and crest array’d, As on his battle-bed of death, Lay in their crimson shade.

Triumph yet linger’d in his eye, Ere by the dark night seal’d; And his head was pillow’d haughtily On standard and on shield.

And shadowing that proud trophy-pile, With the glory of his wing, An eagle sat--yet seem’d the while Panting through heaven to spring.

He sat upon a shiver’d lance, There by the sculptor bound; But in the light of his lifted glance Was that which scorn’d the ground.

And a burning flood of gem-like hues, From a storied window pour’d, There fell, there centred, to suffuse The conqueror and his sword.

A flood of hues--but one rich dye O’er all supremely spread, With a purple robe of royalty Mantling the mighty dead.

Meet was that robe for him whose name Was a trumpet-note in war, His pathway still the march of fame, His eye the battle-star.

But faintly, tenderly was thrown, From the colour’d light, one ray, Where a low and pale memorial-stone By the couch of glory lay.

Few were the fond words chisell’d there, Mourning for parted worth; But the very heart of love and prayer Had given their sweetness forth.

They spoke of one whose life had been As a hidden streamlet’s course, Bearing on health and joy unseen From its clear mountain-source:

Whose young, pure memory, lying deep Midst rock, and wood, and hill, Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,[429] A soft light, meek and still:

Whose gentle voice, too early call’d Unto Music’s land away, Had won for God the earth’s, enthrall’d By words of silvery sway.

These were his victories--yet, enroll’d In no high song of fame, The pastor of the mountain-fold Left but to heaven his name.

To heaven, and to the peasant’s hearth, A blessed household-sound; And finding lowly love on earth, Enough, enough, he found!

Bright and more bright before me gleam’d That sainted image still, Till one sweet moonlight memory seem’d The regal fane to fill.

Oh! how my silent spirit turn’d From those proud trophies nigh! How my full heart within me burn’d Like Him to live and die!

[428] Suggested by a passage in Captain Sherer’s “Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.”

[429]

“Love had he seen in huts where poor men lie.” Wordsworth.

THE COTTAGE GIRL.

A child beside a hamlet’s fount at play, Her fair face laughing at the sunny day;

A gush of waters tremulously bright, Kindling the air to gladness with their light; And a soft gloom beyond of summer trees, Darkening the turf; and, shadow’d o’er by these, A low, dim, woodland cottage--this was all! What had the scene for memory to recall With a fond look of love? What secret spell With the heart’s pictures made its image dwell?

What but the spirit of the joyous child, That freshly forth o’er stream and verdure smiled, Casting upon the common things of earth A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth!

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

I look’d on the field where the battle was spread, When thousands stood forth in their glancing array; And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed Through the dun-rolling clouds that o’ershadow’d the fray.

I saw the dark forest of lances appear, As the ears of the harvest unnumber’d they stood; I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near, Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of the wood.

Afar the harsh notes of the war-drum were roll’d, Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair; On high to the gust stream’d the banner’s red fold, O’er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of despair.

I look’d on the field of contention again, When the sabre was sheath’d and the tempest had past; The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain, And the fem softly sigh’d in the low, wailing blast.

Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose, And bright shone the stars through the sky’s deepen’d blue; And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose, Where the fox-glove lay gemm’d with its pearl-drops of dew.

But where swept the ranks of that dark, frowning host, As the ocean in might, as the storm-cloud in speed? Where now are the thunders of victory’s boast-- The slayer’s dread wrath, and the strength of the steed?

Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone, To mark the lone scene of their shame or their pride; One grass-cover’d mound told the traveller alone Where thousands lay down in their anguish, and died!

O Glory! behold thy famed guerdon’s extent: For this, toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot-- A name like the mist, when the night-beams are spent; A grave with its tenants unwept and forgot!

A PENITENT’S RETURN.

“Can guilt or misery ever enter here? Ah, no! the spirit of domestic peace, Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove, And ever murmuring forth a quiet song, Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim, The hallow’d porch. She hath a heavenly smile, That sinks into the sullen soul of Vice, And wins him o’er to virtue.”--Wilson.

My father’s house once more, In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around, Something, amidst the dewy calm profound, Broods, never mark’d before!

Is it the brooding night? Is it the shivery creeping on the air, That makes the home so tranquil and so fair, O’erwhelming to my sight?

All solemnised it seems, And still’d, and darken’d in each time-worn hue, Since the rich, clustering roses met my view, As now, by starry gleams.

And this high elm, where last I stood and linger’d--where my sisters made Our mother’s bower--I deem’d not that it cast So far and dark a shade!

How spirit-like a tone Sighs through yon tree! My father’s place was there At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair! Now those gray locks are gone!

My soul grows faint with fear! Even as if angel-steps had mark’d the sod. I tremble where I move--the voice of God Is in the foliage here!

Is it indeed the night That makes my home so awful? Faithless-hearted! ’Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed The inborn, gladdening light!

No outward thing is changed; Only the joy of purity is fled, And, long from nature’s melodies estranged, Thou hear’st their tones with dread.

Therefore the calm abode, By thy dark spirit, is o’erhung with shade; And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God Makes thy sick heart afraid!

The night-flowers round that door Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air; Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more To pass, and rest thee there.

And must I turn away?-- Hark, hark!--it is my mother’s voice I hear-- Sadder than once it seem’d--yet soft and clear;-- Doth she not seem to pray?

My name!--I caught the sound! Oh! blessed tone of love--the deep, the mild! Mother! my mother! now receive thy child: Take back the lost and found!

A THOUGHT OF PARADISE.

“We receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live; Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud; And, would we aught behold of higher worth Than that inanimate, cold world allow’d To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd, Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud, Enveloping the earth; And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element.”--Coleridge.

Green spot of holy ground! If thou couldst yet be found, Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers; If not one sullying breath Of time, or change, or death, Had touch’d the vernal glory of thy bowers;

Might our tired pilgrim-feet, Worn by the desert’s heat, On the bright freshness of thy turf repose? Might our eyes wander there Through heaven’s transparent air, And rest on colours of the immortal rose?

Say, would thy balmy skies And fountain-melodies Our heritage of lost delight restore? Could thy soft honey-dews Through all our veins diffuse The early, child-like, trustful sleep once more?

And might we, in the shade By thy tall cedars made, With angel-voices high communion hold? Would their sweet, solemn tone Give back the music gone, Our Being’s harmony, so jarr’d of old?

Oh no!--thy sunny hours Might come with blossom-showers, All thy young leaves to spirit-lyres might thrill; But we--should we not bring Into thy realms of spring The shadows of our souls to haunt us still?

What could thy flowers and airs Do for our earth-born cares? Would the world’s chain melt off and leave us free? No!--past each living stream, Still would some fever-dream Track the lorn wanderers, meet no more for thee!

Should we not shrink with fear If angel-steps were near, Feeling our burden’d souls within us die? How might our passions brook The still and searching look, The star-like glance of seraph purity?

Thy golden-fruited grove Was not for pining love; Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies! Oh! thou wert but a part Of what man’s exiled heart Hath lost--the dower of inborn Paradise!

LET US DEPART!

[It is mentioned by Josephus, that, a short time previous to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, going by night into the inner court of the Temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and, after that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, “Let us depart hence!”]

Night hung on Salem’s towers, And a brooding hush profound Lay where the Roman eagle shone High o’er the tents around--

The tents that rose by thousands, In the moonlight glimmering pale; Like white waves of a frozen sea Filling an Alpine vale.

And the Temple’s massy shadow Fell broad, and dark, and still, In peace--as if the Holy One Yet watch’d his chosen hill.

But a fearful sound was heard In that old fane’s deepest heart, As if mighty wings rush’d by, And a dread voice raised the cry, “Let us depart!”

Within the fated city E’en then fierce discord raved, Though o’er night’s heaven the comet-sword Its vengeful token waved.

There were shouts of kindred warfare Through the dark streets ringing high, Though every sign was full which told Of the bloody vintage nigh;

Though the wild red spears and arrows Of many a meteor host Went flashing o’er the holy stars, In the sky now seen, now lost.

And that fearful sound was heard In the Temple’s deepest heart, As if mighty wings rush’d by, And a voice cried mournfully, “Let us depart!”

But within the fated city There was revelry that night-- The wine-cup and the timbrel note, And the blaze of banquet-light.

The footsteps of the dancer Went bounding through the hall, And the music of the dulcimer Summon’d to festival:

While the clash of brother-weapons Made lightning in the air, And the dying at the palace gates Lay down in their despair;

And that fearful sound was heard At the Temple’s thrilling heart, As if mighty wings rush’d by, And a dread voice raised the cry, “Let us depart!”

ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING THE CROSS.

PAINTED BY VELASQUEZ.[430]

By the dark stillness brooding in the sky, Holiest of sufferers! round thy path of woe, And by the weight of mortal agony Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek brow, My heart was awed: the burden of thy pain Sank on me with a mystery and a chain.

I look’d once more--and, as the virtue shed Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray Of victory from thy mien; and round thy head, The halo, melting spirit-like away, Seem’d of the very soul’s bright rising born, To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn.

And upwards, through transparent darkness gleaming, Gazed in mute reverence woman’s earnest eye, Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming, With quenchless faith, and deep love’s fervency, Gathering, like incense round some dim-veil’d shrine, About the form, so mournfully divine!

Oh! let thine image, as e’en then it rose, Live in my soul for ever, calm and clear, Making itself a temple of repose, Beyond the breath of human hope or fear! A holy place, where through all storms may lie One living beam of dayspring from on high.

[430] This picture is in the possession of the Viscount Harberton, Merrion Square, Dublin.

COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT.

“Could we but keep our spirits to that height, We might be happy; but this clay will sink Its spark immortal.”--Byron.

Return, my thoughts--come home! Ye wild and wing’d! what do ye o’er the deep? And wherefore thus the abyss of time o’ersweep, As birds the ocean-foam?

Swifter than shooting-star, Swifter than lances of the northern-light, Upspringing through the purple heaven of night, Hath been your course afar!

Through the bright battle-clime, Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams, And reeds are whispering of heroic themes, By temples of old time:

Through the north’s ancient halls, Where banners thrill’d of yore--where harp-strings rung; But grass waves now o’er those that fought and sung, Hearth-light hath left their walls!

Through forests old and dim, Where o’er the leaves dread magic seems to brood; And sometimes on the haunted solitude Rises the pilgrim’s hymn:

Or where some fountain lies, With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleaming! There have ye been, ye wanderers! idly dreaming Of man’s lost paradise!

Return, my thoughts--return! Cares wait your presence in life’s daily track, And voices, not of music, call you back-- Harsh voices, cold and stem!

Oh, no! return ye not! Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be! Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and free, O’er many a haunted spot.

Go! seek the martyr’s grave, Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast; Or, through the ruin’d cities of the past, Follow the wise and brave!

Go! visit cell and shrine, Where woman hath endured!--thro’ wrong, thro’ scorn, Uncheer’d by fame, yet silently upborne By promptings more divine!

Go, shoot the gulf of death! Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind, Where the heart’s boundless love its rest may find, Where the storm sends no breath! Higher, and yet more high--! Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would lay On your victorious wings--mount, mount! Your way Is through eternity!

THE WATER-LILY.

“The Water-Lilies, that are serene in the calm clear water, but no less serene among the black and scowling waves.”--Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life.

Oh! beautiful thou art, Thou sculpture-like and stately river-queen! Crowning the depths, as with the light serene Of a pure heart.

Bright lily of the wave! Rising in fearless grace with every swell, Thou seem’st as if a spirit meekly brave Dwelt in thy cell:

Lifting alike thy head Of placid beauty, feminine yet free, Whether with foam or pictured azure spread The waters be.

What is like thee, fair flower, The gentle and the firm! thus bearing up To the blue sky that alabaster cup, As to the shower?

Oh! love is most like thee, The love of woman! quivering to the blast Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, Midst life’s dark sea.

And faith--oh, is not faith Like thee, too, lily! springing into light, Still buoyantly, above the billows’ might, Through the storm’s breath?

Yes! link’d with such high thought, Flower! let thine image in my bosom lie; Till something there of its own purity And peace be wrought--

Something yet more divine Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed Forth from thy breast upon the river’s bed. As from a shrine.

THE SONG OF PENITENCE.[431]

UNFINISHED.

[We learn from the Rev. R. P. Graves, that “The Song of Penitence,” if it had been finished in time, was intended for insertion among the “Scenes and Hymns of Life.”]

He pass’d from earth Without his fame,--the calm, pure, starry fame He might have won, to guide on radiantly Full many a noble soul,--he sought it not; And e’en like brief and barren lightning pass’d The wayward child of genius. And the songs Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life, Had shower’d forth recklessly, as ocean-waves Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed, They died before him;--they were winged seed Scatter’d afar, and, falling on the rock Of the world’s heart, had perish’d. One alone, One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain, The deep beseeching of a stricken breast, Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls Of the kind few that loved him, with a love Faithful to even its disappointed hope, That song of tears found root, and by their hearths Full oft, in low and reverential tones, Fill’d with the piety of tenderness, Is murmur’d to their children, when his name On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls, Far from the world’s rude voices, far away. Oh! hear, and judge him gently; ’twas his last.

I come alone, and faint I come-- To nature’s arms I flee; The green woods take their wanderer home, But Thou, O Father! may I turn to thee?

The earliest odour of the flower, The bird’s first song is thine; Father in heaven! my dayspring’s hour Pour’d its vain incense on another shrine.

Therefore my childhood’s once-loved scene Around me faded lies; Therefore, remembering what hath been, I ask, is this mine early paradise?

It is, it is--but Thou art gone; Or if the trembling shade Breathe yet of thee, with alter’d tone Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismay’d.

[431] Suggested by the late Mrs Fletcher’s story of The Lost Life, published in the Amulet for 1830.

TROUBADOUR SONG.

They rear’d no trophy o’er his grave, They hade no requiem flow; What left they there to tell the brave That a warrior sleeps below?

A shiver’d spear, a cloven shield, A helm with its white plume torn, And a blood-stain’d turf on the fatal field, Where a chief to his rest was borne.

He lies not where his fathers sleep, But who hath a tomb more proud? For the Syrian wilds his record keep, And a banner is his shroud.

THE ENGLISH BOY.

“Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt They owe their ancestors; and make them swear To pay it, by transmitting down entire Those sacred rights to which themselves were born.” Akenside.

Look from the ancient mountains down, My noble English boy! Thy country’s fields around thee gleam In sunlight and in joy.

Ages have roll’d since foeman’s march Pass’d o’er that old, firm sod; For well the land hath fealty held To freedom and to God!

Gaze proudly on, my English boy! And let thy kindling mind Drink in the spirit of high thought From every chainless wind!

There, in the shadow of old Time, The halls beneath thee lie Which pour’d forth to the fields of yore Our England’s chivalry.

How bravely and how solemnly They stand, midst oak and yew! Whence Cressy’s yeomen haply framed The bow, in battle true.

And round their walls the good swords hang Whose faith knew no alloy, And shields of knighthood, pure from stain: Gaze on, my English boy!

Gaze where the hamlet’s ivied church Gleams by the antique elm, Or where the minster lifts the cross High through the air’s blue realm.

Martyrs have shower’d their free heart’s blood That England’s prayer might rise, From those gray fanes of thoughtful years, Unfetter’d, to the skies.

Along their aisles, beneath their trees, This earth’s most glorious dust, Once fired with valour, wisdom, song, Is laid in holy trust.

Gaze on--gaze farther, farther yet-- My gallant English boy! Yon blue sea bears thy country’s flag, The billows’ pride and joy!

Those waves in many a fight have closed Above her faithful dead; That red-cross flag victoriously Hath floated o’er their bed.

They perish’d--this green turf to keep By hostile tread unstain’d, These knightly halls inviolate, Those churches unprofaned.

And high and clear their memory’s light Along our shore is set, And many an answering beacon-fire Shall there be kindled yet!

Lift up thy heart, my English boy! And pray, like them to stand, Should God so summon thee, to guard The altars of the land.

TO THE BLUE ANEMONE.

Flower of starry clearness bright! Quivering urn of colour’d light! Hast thou drawn thy cup’s rich dye From the intenseness of the sky? From a long, long fervent gaze Through the year’s first golden days, Up that blue and silent deep, Where, like things of sculptured sleep, Alabaster clouds repose, With the sunshine on their snows? Thither was thy heart’s love turning, Like a censer ever burning, Till the purple heavens in thee Set their smile, Anemone?

Or can those warm tints be caught Each from some quick glow of thought? So much of bright soul there seems In thy bendings and thy gleams, So much thy sweet life resembles That which feels, and weeps, and trembles, I could deem thee spirit-fill’d, As a reed by music thrill’d, When thy being I behold To each loving breath unfold, Or, like woman’s willowy form, Shrink before the gathering storm! I could ask a voice from thee, Delicate Anemone!

Flower! thou seem’st not born to die With thy radiant purity, But to melt in air away, Mingling with the soft Spring-day, When the crystal heavens are still, And faint azure veils each hill, And the lime-leaf doth not move, Save to songs that stir the grove, And earth all glorified is seen, As imaged in some lake serene; --Then thy vanishing should be, Pure and meek Anemone!

Flower! the laurel still may shed Brightness round the victor’s head; And the rose in beauty’s hair Still its festal glory wear; And the willow-leaves drop o’er Brows which love sustains no more: But by living rays refined, Thou, the trembler of the wind, Thou the spiritual flower, Sentient of each breeze and shower, Thou, rejoicing in the skies, And transpierced with all their dyes; Breathing vase, with light o’erflowing, Gem-like to thy centre glowing, Thou the poet’s type shalt be, Flower of soul, Anemone!

SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE.

SCENES FROM “TASSO.”

[One of the many literary projects contemplated by Mrs Hemans at this time, was a series of German studies, consisting of translations of scenes and passages from some of the most celebrated German authors, introduced and connected by illustrative remarks. The only one of these papers which she ever completed, was that on Goethe’s “Tasso,” published in the New Monthly Magazine for January 1834; a paper which well deserves attention, as it embodies so much of her individual feeling with respect to the high and sacred mission of the Poet; as well as regarding that mysterious analogy between the outer world of nature and the inner world of the heart, which it was so peculiarly the tendency of her writings to develop.--Memoir, pp. 272-3.]

The dramatic poem of “Tasso,” though presenting no changeful pageants of many-coloured life--no combination of stirring incidents, nor conflict of tempestuous passions--is yet rich in interest for those who find--

“The still, sad music of humanity, ... of ample power To chasten and subdue.”

It is a picture of the struggle between elements which never can assimilate--powers whose dominion is over spheres essentially adverse; between the spirit of poetry and the spirit of the world. Why is it that this collision is almost invariably fatal to the gentler and the holier nature? Some master-minds have, indeed, winged their way through the tumults of crowded life, like the sea-bird cleaving the storm from which its pinions come forth unstained; but there needs a celestial panoply, with which few indeed are gifted, to bear the heirs of genius not only unwounded, but unsoiled, through the battle; and too frequently the result of the poet’s lingering afar from his better home has been mental degradation and untimely death. Let us not be understood as requiring for his wellbeing an absolute seclusion from the world and its interests. His nature, if the abiding-place of the true light be indeed within him, is endowed above all others with the tenderest and most widely-embracing sympathies. Not alone from “the things of the everlasting hills,” from the storms or the silence of midnight skies, will he seek the grandeur and the beauty which have their central residence in a far more majestic temple. Mountains, and rivers, and mighty woods, the cathedrals of nature--these will have their part in his pictures; but their colouring and shadows will not be wholly the gift of rising or departed suns, nor of the night with all her stars; it will be a varying suffusion from the life within, from the glowing clouds of thought and feeling, which mantle with their changeful drapery all external creation.

----“We receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live.”

Let the poet bear into the recesses of woods and shadowy hills a heart full-fraught with the sympathies which will have been fostered by intercourse with his kind--a memory covered with the secret inscriptions which joy and sorrow fail not indelibly to write: then will the voice of every stream respond to him in tones of gladness or melancholy, accordant with those of his own soul, and he himself, by the might of feelings intensely human, may breathe the living spirit of the oracle into the resounding cavern or the whispering oak. We thus admit it essential to his high office, that the chambers of imagery in the heart of the poet must be filled with materials moulded from the sorrows, the affections, the fiery trials, and immortal longings of the human soul. Where love, and faith, and anguish, meet and contend--where the tones of prayer are wrung from the suffering spirit--there lie his veins of treasure; there are the sweet waters ready to flow from the stricken rock. But he will not seek them through the gaudy and hurrying masque of artificial life; he will not be the fettered Samson to make sport for the sons and daughters of fashion. Whilst he shuns no brotherly communion with his kind, he will ever reserve to his nature the power of self-communion--silent hours for

“The harvest of the quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart,”

and inviolate retreats in the depths of his being--fountains lone and still, upon which only the eye of Heaven shines down in its hallowed serenity. So have those who make us “heirs of truth and freedom by immortal lays,” ever preserved the calm, intellectual ether in which they live and move from the taint of worldly infection; and it appears the object of Goethe, in the work before us, to make the gifted spirit sadder and wiser by the contemplation of one, which, having sold its birthright, and stooped from its “privacy of glorious light,” is forced into perpetual contact with things essentially of the earth earthy. Dante has spoken of what the Italian poets must have learned but too feelingly under their protecting princes--the bitter taste of another’s bread, the weary steps by which the stairs of another’s house are ascended; but it is suffering of a more spiritual nature which is here portrayed. Would that the courtly patronage, at the shrine of which the Italian muse has so often waved her censer, had imposed no severer tasks upon its votaries than the fashioning of the snow statue which it required from the genius of Michael Angelo! The story of Tasso is fraught with yet deeper meaning, though it is not from the period of his most agonising trials that the materials of Goethe’s work are drawn. The poet is here introduced to us as a youth at the court of Ferrara; visionary, enthusiastic, keenly alive to the splendour of the gorgeous world around him, throwing himself passionately upon the current of every newly-excited feeling; a creature of sudden lights and shadows, of restless strivings after ideal perfection, of exultations and of agonies. Why is it that the being thus exhibited as endowed with all these trembling capacities for joy and pain, with noble aspirations and fervid eloquence, fails to excite a more reverential interest, a more tender admiration? He is wanting in dignity, in the sustaining consciousness of his own high mission; he has no city of refuge within himself, and thus--

“Every little living nerve, That from bitter words doth swerve,”

has the power to shake his whole soul from its pride of place. He is thus borne down by the cold, triumphant worldliness of the courtier Antonio, from the collision with whom, and the mistaken endeavour of Tasso’s friends to reconcile natures dissimilar as the sylph and gnome of fanciful creations, the conflicting elements of the piece are chiefly derived. There are impressive lessons to be drawn from the contemplation of these scenes, though, perhaps, it is not quite thus that we could have wished him delineated who “poured his spirit over Palestine;” and it is occasionally almost too painful to behold the high-minded Tasso, recognised by his country as superior with the sword and the pen to all men, struggling in so ignoble an arena, and finally overpowered by so unworthy an antagonist. This world is indeed “too much with us,” and but too powerful is often its withering breath upon the ethereal natures of love, devotion, and enthusiasm, which, in other regions,

“May bear bright, golden flowers, but not in this soil.”

Yet who has not known victorious moments, in which the lightly-armed genii of ridicule have quailed!--the conventional forms of life have shrunk as a shrivelled scroll before the Ithuriel touch of some generous feeling, some high and overshadowing passion suddenly aroused from the inmost recesses of the folded soul, and striking the electric chain which mysteriously connects all humanity? We could have wished that some such thrilling moment had been here introduced by the mighty master of Germany--something to relieve the too continuous impression of inherent weakness in the cause of the vanquished--something of a transmuting power in the soul of Tasso, to glorify the clouds which accumulate around it--to turn them into “contingencies of pomp” by the interpenetration of its own celestial light. Yet we approach with reverence the work of a noble hand; and, whilst entering upon our task of translation, we acknowledge, in humility, the feebleness of all endeavour to pour into the vase of another language the exquisitely subtle spirit of Goethe’s poetry--to transplant and naturalise the delicate felicities of thought and expression by which this piece is so eminently distinguished.

The visionary rapture which takes possession of Tasso upon being crowned with laurel by the Princess Leonora d’Este, the object of an affection which the youthful poet has scarcely yet acknowledged to himself, is thus portrayed in one of the earlier scenes:--

“Let me then bear the burden of my bliss To some deep grove that oft hath veil’d my grief; There let me roam in solitude: no eye Shall then recall the triumph undeserved. And if some shining fountain suddenly On its clear mirror to my sight should give The form of one who, strangely, brightly crown’d, Seems musing in the blue reflected heaven, As it streams down through rocks and parted trees, Then will I dream that on the enchanted wave I see Elysium pictured! I will ask Who is the bless’d departed one?--the youth From long past ages with his glorious wreath? Who shall reveal his name?--who speak his worth? Oh! that another and another there Might press, with him to hold bright communing! Might I but see the minstrels and the chiefs Of the old time on that pure fountain-side. For evermore inseparably link’d As they were link’d in life! Not steel to steel Is bound more closely by the magnet’s power Than the same striving after lofty things Doth bind the bard and warrior. Homer’s life Was self-forgetfulness--he pour’d it forth, One rich libation to another’s fame: And Alexander through th’ Elysian grove To seek Achilles and his poet flies. Might I behold their meeting!”

But he is a reed shaken with the wind. Antonio reaches the Court of Ferrara at this crisis, in all the importance of a successful negotiation with the Vatican. He strikes down the wing of the poet’s delicate imagination with the arrows of a careless irony, and Tasso is for a time completely dazzled and overpowered by the worldly science of the skilful diplomatist. The deeper wisdom of his own simplicity is yet veiled from his eyes. Life seems to pass before him, as portrayed by the discourse of Antonio, like a mighty triumphal procession, in the exulting movements and clarion-sounds of which he alone has no share; and at last the forms of beauty, peopling his own spiritual world, seem to dissolve into clouds, even into faint shadows of clouds, before the strong glare of the external world, leaving his imagination as a desolate house, whence light and music have departed. He thus pours forth, when alone with the Princess Leonora, the impressions produced upon him by Antonio’s descriptions:--

They still disturb my heart-- Still do they crowd my soul tumultuously-- The troubling images of that vast world, Which--living, restless, fearful as it is-- Yet, at the bidding of one master-mind, E’en as commanded by a demigod, Seems to fulfil its course. With eagerness, Yea, with a strange delight, my soul drank in The strong words of the experienced; but, alas! The more I listen’d, still the more I sank In mine own eyes; I seem’d to die away As into some faint echo of the rocks-- A shadowy sound--a nothing!

There is something of a very touching beauty in the character of the Princess Leonora d’Este. She does not, indeed, resemble some of the lovely beings delineated by Shakspeare--the females, “graceful without design, and unforeseeing,” in whom, even under the pressure of heaviest calamity, it is easy to discern the existence of the sunny and gladsome nature which would spring up with fawn-like buoyancy were but the crushing weight withdrawn. The spirit of Leonora has been at once elevated and subdued by early trial: high thoughts, like messengers from heaven, have been its visitants in the solitude of the sick-chamber; and looking upon life and creation, as it were, through the softening veil of remembered suffering, it has settled into such majestic loveliness as the Italian painters delight to shadow forth on the calm brow of their Madonna. Its very tenderness is self-resignation; its inner existence serene, yet sad--“a being breathing thoughtful breath.” She is worshipped by the poet as his tutelary angel, and her secret affection for him might almost become that character. It has all the deep devotedness of a woman’s heart, with the still purity of a seraphic guardian, taking no part in the passionate dreams of earthly happiness. She feels his genius with a reverential appreciation; she watches over it with a religious tenderness, for ever interposing to screen its unfolding powers from every ruder breath. She rejoices in his presence as a flower filling its cup with gladness from the morning light; yet, preferring his wellbeing to all earthly things, she would meekly offer up, for the knowledge of his distant happiness, even the fulness of that only and unutterable joy. A deep feeling of woman’s lot on earth--the lot of endurance and of sacrifice--seems ever present to her soul, and speaks characteristically in these lines, with which she replies to a wish of Tasso’s for the return of the golden age:--

When earth has men to reverence female hearts, To know the treasure of rich truth and love, Set deep within a high-soul’d woman’s breast; When the remembrance of our summer prime Keeps brightly in man’s heart a holy place; When the keen glance that pierces through so much Looks also tenderly through that dim veil By time or sickness hung round drooping forms, When the possession, stilling every wish, Draws not desire away to other wealth-- A brighter dayspring then for us may dawn, Then may we solemnise our golden age.

A character thus meditative, affectionate, and self-secluding, would naturally be peculiarly sensitive to the secret intimations of coming sorrow. Forebodings of evil arise in her mind from the antipathy so apparent between Tasso and Antonio; and, after learning that the cold, keen irony of the latter has irritated the poet almost to frenzy, she thus, to her friend Leonora de Sanvitale, reproaches herself for not having listened to the monitory whispers of her soul:--

Alas! that we so slowly learn to heed The secret signs and omens of the breast! An oracle speaks low within our hearts-- Low, still, yet clear, its prophet-voice forewarns What to pursue, what shun. ... Yes! my whole soul misgave me silently When he and Tasso met.

She admits to her friend the necessity for his departure from Ferrara; but thus reverts, with fondly-clinging remembrance, to the time when he first became known to her:--

Oh! mark’d and singled was the hour when first He met mine eye! Sickness and grief just then Had pass’d away: from long, long suffering freed, I lifted up my brow, and silently Gazed upon life again. The sunny day, The sweet looks of my kindred, made a light Of gladness round me, and my freshen’d heart Drank the rich, healing balm of hope once more. Then onward, through the glowing world, I dared To send my glance, and many a kind, bright shape There beckon’d from afar. Then first the youth, Led by a sister’s hand, before me stood, And my soul clung to him e’en then, O friend! To cling for evermore.

Leo. Lament it not, My princess!--to have known heaven’s gifted ones Is to have gather’d into the full soul Inalienable wealth!

Prin. Oh, precious things! The richly graced, the exquisite, are things To fear, to love with trembling! Beautiful Is the pure flame when on thy hearth it shines, When in the friendly torch it gives thee light, How gracious and how calm!--but, once unchain’d, Lo! ruin sweeps along its fatal path!

She then announces her determination to make the sacrifice of his society, in which alone her being seems to find its full completion.

Alas, dear friend! my soul indeed is fix’d-- Let him depart! Yet cannot I but feel Even now the sadness of long days to come-- The cold void left me by a lost delight! No more shall sunrise from my opening eye Chase his bright image glorified in dreams; Glad hope to see him shall no longer stir With joyous flutterings my scarce-waken’d soul; And vainly, vainly, through yon garden bowers, Amidst the dewy shadows, my first look Shall seek his form! How blissful was the thought With him to share each golden evening’s peace! How grew the longing, hour by hour, to read His spirit yet more deeply! Day by day How my own being, tuned to happiness, Gave forth a voice of finer harmony!-- Now is the twilight-gloom around me fallen: The festal day, the sun’s magnificence, All riches of this many-colour’d world, What are they now?--dim, soulless, desolate! Veil’d in the cloud that sinks upon my heart. Once was each day a life!--each care was mute, Even the low boding hush’d within the soul; And the smooth waters of a gliding stream, Without the rudder’s aid, bore lightly on Our fairy bark of joy!

Her companion endeavours, but in vain, to console her.

Leon. If the kind words of friendship cannot soothe, The still, sweet influences of this fair world Shall win thee back unconsciously to peace.

Prin. Yes! beautiful it is, the glowing world! So many a joy keeps flitting to and fro In all its paths, and ever, ever seems One step, but one, removed; till our fond thirst For the still fading fountain, step by step, Lures to the grave! So seldom do we find What seem’d by Nature moulded for our love, And for our bliss endow’d--or, if we find, So seldom to our yearning hearts can hold! That which once freely made itself our own Bursts from us!--that which eagerly we press’d We coldly loose! A treasure may be ours, Only we know it not, or know, perchance, Unconscious of its worth!

But the dark clouds are gathering within the spirit of Tasso itself, and the devotedness of affection would in vain avert their lightnings by the sacrifice of all its own pure enjoyments. In the solitary confinement to which the Duke has sentenced him, as a punishment for his duel with Antonio, his jealous imagination, like that of the self-torturing Rousseau, pictures the whole world as arrayed in one conspiracy against him, and he doubts even of her truth and gentleness whose watching thoughts are all for his welfare. The following passages affectingly mark the progress of the dark despondency which finally overwhelms him, though the concluding lines of the last are brightened by a ray of those immortal hopes, the light of which we could have desired to recognise more frequently in this deeply thoughtful work.

PRESENTIMENT OF HIS RUIN.

Alas! too well I feel, too true a voice Within me whispers, that the Mighty Power Which, on sustaining wings of strength and joy, Bears up the healthful spirit, will but cast Mine to the earth--will rend me utterly!---- I must away!

ON A FRIEND’S DECLARING HERSELF UNABLE TO RECOGNISE HIM.

Rightly thou speak’st--I am myself no more; And yet in worth not less than I have been. Seems this a dark, strange riddle? Yet,’tis none! The gentle moon that gladdens thee by night-- Thine eye, thy spirit irresistibly Winning with beams of love--mark! how it floats Through the day’s glare, a pale and powerless cloud! I am o’ercome by the full blaze of noon; Ye know me, and I know myself no more!

ON BEING ADVISED TO REFRAIN FROM COMPOSITION.

Vainly, too vainly, ’gainst the power I strive, Which, night and day, comes rushing through my soul! Without that pouring forth of thought and song My life is life no more! Wilt thou forbid the silkworm to spin on, When hourly, with the labour’d line, he draws Nearer to death. In vain!--the costly web Must from his inmost being still be wrought, Till he lies wrapp’d in his consummate shroud. Oh! that a gracious God to us may give The lot of that bless’d worm!--to spread free wings, And burst exultingly on brighter life, In a new realm of sunshine!

He is at last released, and admitted into the presence of the Princess Leonora, to take his leave of her before commencing a distant journey. Notwithstanding his previous doubts of her interest in him, he is overcome by the pitying tenderness of her manner, and breaks into a strain of passionate gratitude and enthusiasm:--

Thou art the same pure angel, as when first Thy radiance cross’d my path! Forgive, forgive, If for a moment, in his blind despair, The mortal’s troubled glance hath read thee wrong! Once more he knows thee! His expanding soul Flows forth to worship thee for evermore, And his full heart dissolves in tenderness. ... Is it false light which draws me on to thee? Is it delirium?--Is it thought inspired, And grasping first high truth divinely clear? Yes! ’tis even so--the feeling which alone Can make me bless’d on earth!

The wildness of his ecstasy at last terrifies his gentle protectress from him; he is forsaken by all as a being lost in hopeless delusion, and, being left alone tn the insulting pity of Antonio, his strength of heart is utterly subdued: he passionately bewails his weakness, and even casts down his spirit almost in wondering admiration before the calm self-collectedness of his enemy, who himself seems at last almost melted by the extremity of the poet’s desolation, as thus poured forth:--

Can I then image no high-hearted man Whose pangs and conflicts have surpass’d mine own, That my vex’d soul might win sustaining power From thoughts of him? I cannot!--all is lost! One thing alone remains, one mournful boon: Nature on us, her suffering children, showers The gift of tears--the impassion’d cry of grief, When man can bear no more;--and with my woe, With mine above all others, hath been link’d Sad music, piercing eloquence, to pour All, all its fulness forth! To me a God Hath given strong utterance for mine agony, When others, in their deep despair, are mute! ... Thou standest calm and still, thou noble man! I seem before thee as the troubled wave: But oh! be thoughtful!--in thy lofty strength Exult thou not! By nature’s might alike That rock was fix’d, that quivering wave was made The sensitive of storm! She sends her blasts-- The living water flies--it quakes and swells, And bows down tremblingly with breaking foam; Yet once that mirror gave the bright sun back In calm transparence--once the gentle stars Lay still upon its undulating breast! Now the sweet peace is gone--the glory now Departed from the wave! I know myself No more in these dark perils, and no more I blush to lose that knowledge. From the bark Is wrench’d the rudder, and through all its frame The quivering vessel groans. Beneath my feet The rocking earth gives way--to thee I cling-- I grasp thee with mine arms. In wild despair So doth the struggling sailor clasp the rock Whereon he perishes!

And thus painfully ends this celebrated drama, the catastrophe being that of the spiritual wreck within, unmingled with the terrors drawn from outward circumstances and change. The majestic lines in which Byron has embodied the thoughts of the captive Tasso, will form a fine contrast and relief to the music of despair with which Goethe’s work is closed:--

“All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, But must be borne. I stoop not to despair; For I have baffled with mine agony, And made me wings wherewith to overfly The narrow circus of my dungeon-wall; And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall; And revell’d among men and things divine, And pour’d my spirit over Palestine, In honour of the sacred war for Him, The God who was on earth and is in heaven; For He hath strengthen’d me in heart and limb. That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, I have employ’d my penance to record How Salem’s shrine was won, and how adored.”

SCENES FROM “IPHIGENIA.”

A FRAGMENT.

There is a charm of antique grace, of the majestic repose resulting from a faultless symmetry, about the whole of this composition, which inclines us to rank it as among the most consummate works of art ever achieved by the master-mind of its author. The perfection of its design and finish is analogous to that of a Grecian temple, seen as the crown of some old classic height, with all its pure outlines--all the delicate proportions of its airy pillars--brought into bold relief by the golden sunshine, and against the unclouded blue of its native heavens. Complete within itself, the harmonious edifice is thus also to the mind and eye of the beholder; they are filled, and desire no more--they even feel that more would be but encumbrance upon the fine adjustment of the well-ordered parts constituting the graceful whole. It sends no vague dreams to wander through infinity, such as are excited by a Gothic minster, where the slight pinnacles striving upward, like the free but still baffled thought of the architect--the clustering pillars and high arches imitating the bold combinations of mysterious forests--the many-branching cells, and long visionary aisles, of which waving torchlight or uncertain glimpses of the moon seem the fittest illumination--ever suggest ideas of some conception in the originally moulding mind, far more vast than the means allotted to human accomplishment--of struggling endeavour, and painfully submitted will. Akin to the spirit of such creations is that of the awful but irregular Faust, and other works of Goethe, in which the restless questionings, the lofty aspirations, and dark misgivings of the human soul, are perpetually called up to “come like shadows, so depart,” across the stormy splendours of the scene; and the mind is engaged in ceaseless conflict with the interminable mysteries of life. It is otherwise with the work before us: overshadowed, as it were, by the dark wings of the inflexible Destiny which hovers above the children of Tantalus, the spirit of the imaginary personages, as well as of the reader, here moves acquiescently within the prescribed circle of events, and is seldom tempted beyond, to plunge into the abyss of general speculations upon the lot of humanity.

* * * * *

I.

JOY OF PYLADES ON HEARING HIS NATIVE LANGUAGE.

O sweetest voice! O bless’d familiar sound Of mother-words heard in the stranger’s land! I see the blue hills of my native shore, The far blue hills again! those cordial tones, Before the captive bid them freshly rise For ever welcome! Oh, by this deep joy, Know the true son of Greece!

II.

EXCLAMATIONS OF IPHIGENIA ON SEEING HER BROTHER.

Oh, hear me! look upon me! How my heart, After long desolation, now unfolds Unto this new delight, to kiss thy head, Thou dearest, dearest one of all on earth! To clasp thee with my arms, which were but thrown On the void winds before! Oh, give me way! Give my soul’s rapture way! The eternal fount Leaps not more brightly forth from cliff to cliff Of high Parnassus, down the golden vale, Than the strong joy bursts gushing from my heart, And swells around me to a flood of bliss-- Orestes!--O my brother!

III.

LOT OF MAN AND WOMAN COMPARED BY IPHIGENIA.

Man by the battle’s hour immortalised May fall, yet leave his name to living song; But of forsaken woman’s countless tears, What recks the after-world? The poet’s voice Tells naught of all the slow, sad, weary days, And long, long nights, through which the lonely soul Pour’d itself forth, consumed itself away, In passionate adjurings, vain desires, And ceaseless weepings for the early lost, The loved and vanish’d!

IV.

LONGING OF ORESTES FOR REPOSE.

One draught from Lethe’s flood!--reach me one draught, One last cool goblet fill’d with dewy peace! Soon will the spasm of life departing leave My bosom free! Soon shall my spirit flow Along the deep waves of forgetfulness, Calmly and silently! away to you, Ye dead! Ye dwellers of the eternal cloud! Take home the son of earth, and let him steep His o’erworn senses in your dim repose For evermore.

V.

CONTINUATION OF ORESTES’ SOLILOQUY.

Hark! in the trembling leaves Mysterious whispers: hark! a rushing sound Sweeps through yon twilight depth!--e’en now they come, They throng to greet their guest! And who are they Rejoicing each with each in stately joy, As a king’s children gather’d for the hour Of some high festival! Exultingly, And kindred-like, and godlike, on they pass-- The glorious, wandering shapes! aged and young, Proud men and royal women! Lo! my race-- My sire’s ancestral race!

RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.

[These sonnets, written in the months of April, May, and June, were intended, together with the Records of the Autumn of 1834, to form a continuation of the series entitled “Sonnets, Devotional and Memorial.”]

A VERNAL THOUGHT.

O festal Spring! midst thy victorious glow, Far-spreading o’er the kindled woods and plains, And streams, that bound to meet thee from their chains, Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe For human hearts, and in the exulting flow Of thy rich songs a melancholy tone, Were we of mould all earthly--we alone, Sever’d from thy great spell, and doom’d to go Farther, still farther, from our sunny time, Never to feel the breathings of our prime, Never to flower again! But we, O Spring! Cheer’d by deep spirit-whispers not of earth, Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth, As here thy flowers and birds press on to bloom and sing.

TO THE SKY.

Far from the rustlings of the poplar-bough, Which o’er my opening life wild music made, Far from the green hills with their heathery glow And flashing streams whereby my childhood play’d; In the dim city, midst the sounding flow Of restless life, to thee in love I turn O thou rich Sky! and from thy splendours learn How song-birds come and part, flowers wane and blow. With thee all shapes of glory find their home, And thou hast taught me well, majestic dome! By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rove Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest, That Nature’s God hath left no spot unbless’d With founts of beauty for the eye of love.

ON RECORDS OF IMMATURE GENIUS.[432]

Oh! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those Who, richly dower’d for life, are call’d to die Ere the soul’s flame, through storms, hath won repose In truth’s divinest ether, still and high! Let their mind’s riches claim a trustful sigh! Deem them but sad, sweet fragments of a strain, First notes of some yet struggling harmony, By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain Of many inspirations met, and held From its true sphere,--oh! soon it might have swell’d Majestically forth! Nor doubt that He, Whose touch mysterious may on earth dissolve Those links of music, elsewhere will evolve Their grand consummate hymn, from passion-gusts made free!

[432] Written after reading some of the earlier poems of the late Mrs Tighe, which had been lent her in manuscript.

ON WATCHING THE FLIGHT OF A SKYLARK.

Upward and upward still!--in pearly light The clouds are steep’d! the vernal spirit sighs With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies Woo thee, O bird! to thy celestial height. Bird, piercing heaven with music! thy free flight Hath meaning for all bosoms; most of all For those wherein the rapture and the might Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn, For their high place. O heirs of genius! learn From the sky’s bird your way! No joy may fill Your hearts, no gift of holy strength be won To bless your songs, ye children of the sun! Save by the unswerving flight, upward and upward still!

A THOUGHT OF THE SEA.

My earliest memories to thy shores are bound, Thy solemn shores, thou ever-chanting main! The first rich sunsets, kindling thought profound In my lone being, made thy restless plain As the vast, shining floor of some dread fane, All paved with glass and fire. Yet, O blue deep! Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep, Never to thee did love with silvery chain Draw my soul’s dream, which through all nature sought What waves deny,--some bower of steadfast bliss, A home to twine with fancy, feeling, thought, As with sweet flowers. But chasten’d hope for this Now turns from earth’s green valleys, as from thee, To that sole changeless world, where “there is no more sea.”[433]

[433] [The sight and sound of the sea were always connected in her mind with melancholy associations; with

“Doubt, and something dark. Of the old sea some reverential fear;”

with images of storm and desolation, of shipwreck and sea-burial: the last, indeed, was so often present to her imagination, and has so frequently been introduced into her poetry, that any one inclined to superstitious presentiments might almost have been disposed to fancy it a foreshadowing of some such dark fate in store either for herself or for some one dear to her. These associations, like those awakened by the wind, were perfectly distinct from any thing of personal timidity, and were the more indefinable, as she had never suffered any calamity at all connected with the sea: none of those she loved had been consigned to its reckless waters, nor had she ever seen it in all its terrors, for the coast on which her early years were passed is by no means a rugged or dangerous one, and is seldom visited by disaster.

“Are all these notes in thee, wild wind! these many notes in thee? Far in our own unfathom’d souls their fount must surely be; Yes! buried, but unsleeping there, thought watches, memory lies, From whose deep urn the tones are poured through all earth’s harmonies.”

In one of her later sonnets on this subject, a chord is struck which may perhaps find an echo in other bosoms:--

----“Yet, O blue deep!” etc.

The same feeling is expressed in one of her letters:--“Did you ever observe how strangely sounds and images of waters--rushing torrents, and troubled ocean-waves, are mingled with the visionary distresses of dreams and delirium? To me there is no more perfect emblem of peace than that expressed by the Scriptural phrase, ‘There shall be no more sea.’”

How forcible is the contrast between the essential womanliness of these associations, so full of “the still, sad music of humanity,” and the “stern delight” with which Lord Byron, in his magnificent apostrophe to the Sea, exults in its ministry of wrath, and recounts, as with a fierce joy, its dealings with its victim, man!

----“The vile strength he wields For earth’s destruction, thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send’st him, shivering in thy playful spray, And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth--there let them lay.” Childe Harold.]

DISTANT SOUND OF THE SEA AT EVENING.

Yet, rolling far up some green mountain-dale, Oft let me hear, as ofttimes I have heard, Thy swell, thou deep! when evening calls the bird And bee to rest; when summer-tints grow pale, Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil; And peasant-steps are hastening to repose, And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower-cups close To the last whisper of the falling gale. Then midst the dying of all other sound, When the soul hears thy distant voice profound, Lone worshipping, and knows that through the night ’Twill worship still, then most its anthem-tone Speaks to our being of the Eternal One, Who girds tired nature with unslumbering might.

THE RIVER CLWYD IN NORTH WALES.

O Cambrian river! with slow music gliding By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin’d towers; Now midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding, Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of flowers; Long flow’d the current of my life’s clear hours Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my dream, Tho’ time and change, and other mightier powers, Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, smooth stream! Art winding still thy sunny meads along, Murmuring to cottage and gray hall thy song, Low, sweet, unchanged. My being’s tide hath pass’d Through rocks and storms; yet will I not complain, If, thus wrought free and pure from earthly stain, Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep at last.

ORCHARD-BLOSSOMS.

Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight Of orchard-blooms upon the mossy bough? Doth their sweet household-smile waft back the glow Of childhood’s morn--the wondering, fresh delight In earth’s new colouring, then all strangely bright, A joy of fairyland? Doth some old nook, Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book, Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak’d blossoms white Shower’d o’er the turf, and the lone primrose-knot, And robin’s nest, still faithful to the spot, And the bee’s dreary chime? O gentle friend! The world’s cold breath, not Time’s, this life bereaves Of vernal gifts: time hallows what he leaves, And will for us endear spring-memories to the end. 8th May.

TO A DISTANT SCENE.

Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, O far-off, grassy dell?--and dost thou see, When southern winds first wake their vernal singing, The star-gleam of the wood anemone? Doth the shy ringdove haunt thee yet? the bee Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell To their wild blooms? and, round my beechen tree, Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell? Oh, strange illusion! by the fond heart wrought, Whose own warm life suffuses nature’s face! My being’s tide of many-colour’d thought Hath pass’d from thee; and now, rich, leafy place! I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene, Silent, forsaken, dim, shadow’d by what hath been.

A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE.[434]

O vale and lake, within your mountain-urn Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep! Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return, Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep With light Elysian; for the hues that steep Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote, Isles of the blest; and in our memory keep Their place with holiest harmonies. Fair scene, Most loved by evening and her dewy star! Oh! ne’er may man, with touch unhallow’d, jar The perfect music of thy charm serene! Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayer.

[434] It would have been very dear to her, could she have foreseen the delicate and appropriate commemoration awarded to her by Mr Wordsworth, in the elegiac stanzas which record the high names of some of his most distinguished contemporaries, (Scott, Coleridge, Lamb, Crabbe, and Hogg,) summoned in quick succession “to the land whence none return:”--

“Mourn rather for that holy spirit, Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep, For her who, ere her summer faded, Has sunk into a breathless sleep.”

THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES.

Trees, gracious trees!--how rich a gift ye are, Crown of the earth! to human hearts and eyes! How doth the thought of home, in lands afar, Link’d with your forms and kindly whisperings rise! How the whole picture of a childhood lies Oft midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep! Till, gazing through them up the summer skies, As hush’d we stand, a breeze perchance may creep, And old, sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world Where memory coils--and lo! at once unfurl’d, The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight Spreads clear; while, gushing from their long-seal’d urn, Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers return, And a lost mother’s eye gives back its holy light.

THE SAME.

And ye are strong to shelter!--all meek things, All that need home and covert, love your shade! Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs, And nun-like violets, by the winds betray’d. Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath play’d With his first primrose-wreath: there love hath sought A veiling gloom for his unutter’d thought; And silent grief, of day’s keen glare afraid, A refuge for her tears; and ofttimes there Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer, A native temple, solemn, hush’d, and dim; For wheresoe’er your murmuring tremours thrill The woody twilight, there man’s heart hath still Confess’d a spirit’s breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn.

ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN CHILDHOOD.

O gentle story of the Indian isle! I loved thee in my lonely childhood well On the sea-shore, when day’s last, purple smile Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell And dying cadence lent a deeper spell Unto thine ocean-pictures. Midst thy palms And strange bright birds, my fancy joy’d to dwell, And watch the southern cross through midnight calms, And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless’d Thy vision of sweet love--kind, trustful, true, Lighting the citron groves, a heavenly guest, With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew. Even then my young heart wept o’er this world’s power To reach with blight that holiest Eden-flower.

A THOUGHT AT SUNSET.

Still that last look is solemn! though thy rays, O sun! to-morrow will give back, we know, The joy to nature’s heart. Yet through the glow Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze Tracks thee with love half-fearful: and in days When earth too much adored thee, what a swell Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays, Told how the dying bade thy light farewell, O sun of Greece! O glorious, festal sun! Lost, lost!--for them thy golden hours were done, And darkness lay before them! Happier far Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchain’d, Not thus for thy last parting unsustain’d-- Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star.

IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE.

Calm scenes of patriarch life! how long a power Your unworn pastoral images retain O’er the true heart, which in its childhood’s hour Drank their pure freshness deep! The camels’ train Winding in patience o’er the desert plain-- The tent, the palm-tree, the reposing flock, The gleaming fount, the shadow of the rock-- Oh! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain, And in the influence of its touch how bless’d, Are these things link’d, in many a thoughtful breast, To household-memories, thro’ all change endear’d! --The matin bird, the ripple of a stream Beside our native porch, the hearth-light’s gleam, The voices, earliest by the soul revered!

ATTRACTION OF THE EAST.

What secret current of man’s nature turns Unto the golden East with ceaseless flow? Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns, The pilgrim-spirit would adore and glow; Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint, and slow, Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind, Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know Where pass’d the shepherd-fathers of mankind. Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far Still points to where our alienated home Lay in bright peace? O thou true Eastern star! Saviour! atoning Lord! where’er we roam, Draw still our hearts to thee, else, else how vain Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain!

TO AN AGED FRIEND.[435]

Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard, Servant of God!--thy day is almost done; The charm now lingering in thy look and word Is that which hangs about thy setting sun-- That which the meekness of decay hath won Still from revering love. Yet doth the sense Of life immortal--progress but begun-- Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence, That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline; And the loved flowers which round thee smile farewell Of more than vernal glory seem to tell, By thy pure spirit touch’d with light divine; While we, to whom its parting gleams are given, Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven.

[435] The sonnet “To an aged Friend,” first published in Mrs Hemans’s Poetical Remains, was addressed to Dr Perceval of Dublin. The sonnet “To the Datura Arborea,” in the same volume, was written after seeing a superb specimen of that striking plant in Dr Perceval’s beautiful greenhouse at Annefield.

Dr Perceval died 3d March 1839, equally respected for his talents and virtues.

A HAPPY HOUR.

[“The ‘Thoughts’ were published in the New Monthly Magazine for March 1835. They are intensely individual. One of them, on Retzsch’s design of the Angel of Death, was suggested by an impressive description in Mrs Jameson’s ‘Visits and Sketches.’ In another, she speculates earnestly and reverently upon the direction of the flight of the spirit when the soul and body shall part; in others again, she recurs tenderly to the haunts and pleasures of childhood, which had of late been present to her memory with more than usual force and freshness. To these the following sonnet refers, dated 21st May 1834, which, as far as I am aware, has not hitherto been published.”--Chorley’s Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 339-40.]

Oh! what a joy to feel that, in my breast, The founts of childhood’s vernal fancies lay Still pure, though heavily and long repress’d By early-blighted leaves, which o’er their way Dark summer-storms had heaped. But free, glad play Once more was given them: to the sunshine’s glow, And the sweet wood-song’s penetrating flow, And to the wandering primrose-breath of May, And the rich hawthorn-odours, forth they sprung. Oh! not less freshly bright, that now a thought Of spiritual presence o’er them hung, And of immortal life! a germ, unwrought In childhood’s soul to power--now strong, serene, And full of love and light, colouring the whole blest scene.

FOLIAGE.

Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive The joy of verdure! See! the honey’d lime Showers cool green light o’er banks where wild-flowers weave Thick tapestry, and woodbine-tendrils climb Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme. The rich deep masses of the sycamore Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime; And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar, Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each gale That sweeps the boughs: the chestnut-flowers are past, The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail, But arches of sweet eglantine are cast From every hedge. Oh! never may we lose, Dear friend! our fresh delight in simplest nature’s hues!

2d June.

A PRAYER.

Father in heaven! from whom the simplest flower, On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown, Draws not sweet odour or young life alone, But the deep virtue of an inborn power, To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour With thoughts of Thee--to strengthen, to infuse Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues That speak thy presence! oh, with such a dower Grace thou my song!--the precious gift bestow From thy pure Spirit’s treasury divine, To wake one tear of purifying flow, To soften one wrung heart for thee and thine; So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain Be as the meek wild-flower’s--if transient, yet not vain.

PRAYER CONTINUED.

“What in me is dark, Illumine; what is low, raise and support.”--Milton. Far are the wings of intellect astray That strive not, Father! to thy heavenly seat; They rove, but mount not, and the tempests beat Still on their plumes. O Source of mental day! Chase from before my spirit’s track the array Of mists and shadows, raised by earthly care, In troubled hosts that cross the purer air, And veil the opening of the starry way, Which brightens on to thee! Oh, guide thou right My thought’s weak pinion; clear my inward sight, The eternal springs of beauty to discern, Welling beside thy throne; unseal mine ear, Nature’s true oracles in joy to hear; Keep my soul wakeful still to listen and to learn.

MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION.

Yes! all things tell us of a birthright lost-- A brightness from our nature pass’d away! Wanderers we seem that from an alien coast Would turn to where their Father’s mansion lay; And but by some lone flower, that midst decay Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone, Revealing dimly, with gray moss o’ergrown, The faint, worn impress of its glory’s day, Can trace their once-free heritage, though dreams, Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams Flash o’er their souls. But One, oh! One alone, For us the ruin’d fabric may rebuild, And bid the wilderness again be fill’d With Eden-flowers--One mighty to atone!

27th June.[436]

[436] [For this corrected chronology of these sonnets, we are indebted to the Rev. R. P. Graves, Bowness; as also for some improved readings, and the MS. of “A Happy Hour.”]

RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.

THE RETURN TO POETRY.

Once more the eternal melodies from far Woo me like songs of home: once more discerning, Through fitful clouds, the pure majestic star Above the poet’s world serenely burning, Thither my soul, fresh-wing’d by love, is turning, As o’er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest, For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning, Whence glorious minds o’erlook this earth’s unrest. Now be the Spirit of heaven’s truth my guide Through the bright land!--that no brief gladness, found In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound, May lure my footsteps from their aim aside: Their true, high quest--to seek, if ne’er to gain, The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain.

9th September.

TO SILVIO PELLICO, ON READING HIS “PRIGIONE.”

There are who climb the mountain’s heathery side, Or, in life’s vernal strength triumphant, urge The bark’s fleet rushing through the crested surge, Or spur the courser’s fiery race of pride Over the green savannahs, gleaming wide By some vast lake; yet thus, on foaming sea, Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free Than thou, in that lone dungeon, glorified By thy brave suffering. Thou from its dark cell Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude, Filling the dedicated solitude With God; and where His Spirit deigns to dwell, Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie, There throned in peace divine is liberty!

TO THE SAME, RELEASED.[437]

How flows thy being now?--like some glad hymn One strain of solemn rapture?--doth thine eye Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim O’er the crown’d Alps, that, midst the upper sky, Sleep in the sunlight of thine Italy? Or is thy gaze of reverent love profound Unto these dear, parental faces bound, Which, with their silvery hair, so oft glanced by, Haunting thy prison-dreams? Where’er thou art, Blessings be shed upon thine inmost heart! Joy, from kind looks, blue skies, and flowery sod, For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God!

[437] In reference to these two sonnets, Mrs Hemans thus remarks in a letter to a friend;--“I wrote them only a few days ago (almost the first awakening of my spirit, indeed, after a long silence and darkness,) upon reading that delightful book of Pellico’s,[438] which I borrowed in consequence of what you had told me of it. I know not when I have read any thing which has so deeply impressed me: the gradual brightening of heart and soul into ‘the perfect day’ of Christian excellence through all those fiery trials, presents, I think, one of the most touching, as well as instructing pictures ever contemplated. How beautiful is the scene between him and Oroboni, in which they mutually engage to shrink not from the avowal of their faith, should they ever return into the world! But I could say so much on this subject, which has quite taken hold of my thoughts, that it would lead me to fill up my whole letter.”

In another letter she spoke further of this book, as a “work with which I have been both impressed and delighted, and one which I strongly recommend you to procure. It is the Prigioni of Silvio Pellico, a distinguished young Italian poet, who incurred the suspicions of the Austrian government, and was condemned to the penalty of the carcere duro during ten years, of which this most interesting work contains the narrative. It is deeply affecting, from the heart-springing eloquence with which he details his varied sufferings. What forms, however, the great charm of the work, is the gradual and almost unconsciously-revealed exaltation of the sufferer’s character, spiritualised through suffering, into the purest Christian excellence. It is beautiful to see the lessons of trust in God, and love to mankind, brought out more and more into shining light from the depth of the dungeon-gloom; and all this crowned at last by the release of the noble, all-forgiving captive, and his restoration to his aged father and mother, whose venerable faces seem perpetually to have haunted the solitude of his cell. The book is written in the most classic Italian, and will, I am sure, be one to afford you lasting delight.”

[438] “Le mie Prigioni.”

ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE.[439]

’Twas a bright moment of my life when first, O thou pure stream through rocky portals flowing! That temple-chamber of thy glory burst On my glad sight! Thy pebbly couch lay glowing With deep mosaic hues; and, richly throwing O’er thy cliff-walls a tinge of autumn’s vest, High bloom’d the heath-flowers, and the wild wood’s crest Was touch’d with gold. Flow ever thus, bestowing Gifts of delight, sweet stream! on all who move Gently along thy shores; and oh! if love-- True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow fraught-- Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to thee, Then full of kindness let thy music be, Singing repose to every troubled thought!

[439] A beautiful valley in the county of Wicklow.

ON THE DATURA ARBOREA.

Majestic plant! such fairy dreams as lie, Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip’s bell, Are not thy train. Those flowers of vase-like swell, Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill’d from high, And in their monumental purity Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw Visions link’d strangely with that silent awe Which broods o’er sculpture’s works. A meet ally For those heroic forms, the simply grand Art thou: and worthy, carved by plastic hand, Above some kingly poet’s tomb to shine In spotless marble; honouring one whose strain Soar’d, upon wings of thought that knew no stain, Free through the starry heavens of truth divine.

ON READING COLERIDGE’S EPITAPH,

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.

“Stop, Christian passer-by! stop, child of God! And read with gentle breast:--Beneath this sod A Poet lies, or that which once seem’d he: Oh! lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.! That he, who once in vain, with toil of breath, Found death in life, may here find life in death: Mercy, for praise--to be forgiven, for fame-- He ask’d and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same.”

Spirit! so oft in radiant freedom soaring High through seraphic mysteries unconfined, And oft, a diver through the deep of mind, Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring; And oft such strains of breezy music pouring, As, with the floating sweetness of their sighs, Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring Awhile that freshness left in Paradise; Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal? What the rich fruitage to man’s kindred soul From wealth of thine bequeathed? O strong and high, And sceptred intellect! thy goal confess’d Was the Redeemer’s Cross--thy last bequest One lesson breathing thence profound humility!

DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE.

They float before my soul, the fair designs Which I would body forth to life and power, Like clouds, that with their wavering hues and lines Portray majestic buildings:--dome and tower, Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the shower Points to th’ unchanging stars; and high arcade, Far-sweeping to some glorious altar, made For holiest rites. Meanwhile the waning hour Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o’erwrought, I sink. O friend! O link’d with each high thought! Aid me, of those rich visions to detain All I may grasp; until thou see’st fulfill’d, While time and strength allow, my hope to build For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane!

18th October.

HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH NATURE.

If e’er again my spirit be allow’d Converse with Nature in her chambers deep, Where lone, and mantled with the rolling cloud, She broods o’er new-born waters, as they leap In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep From caves of mystery;--if I roam once more Where dark pines quiver to the torrent’s roar, And voiceful oaks respond;--may I not reap A more ennobling joy, a loftier power, Than e’er was shed on life’s more vernal hour From such communion? Yes! I then shall know That not in vain have sorrow, love, and thought Their long, still work of preparation wrought, For that more perfect sense of God reveal’d below.

DREAMS OF THE DEAD.

Oft in still night-dreams a departed face Bends o’er me with sweet earnestness of eye, Wearing no more of earthly pains a trace, But all the tender pity that may lie On the clear brow of Immortality, Calm, yet profound. Soft rays illume that mien; Th’ unshadow’d moonlight of some far-off sky Around it floats transparently serene As a pure veil of waters. O rich Sleep! The spells are mighty in thy regions deep, To glorify with reconciling breath, Effacing, brightening, giving forth to shine Beauty’s high truth; and how much more divine Thy power when link’d, in this, with thy strong brother--Death!

THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS.

Nobly thy song, O minstrel! rush’d to meet Th’ Eternal on the pathway of the blast, With darkness round him as a mantle cast, And cherubim to waft his flying seat. Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet, With trumpet-voice thy spirit call’d aloud, And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat, And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud. But far more gloriously to earth made known By that high strain, than by the thunder’s tone, The flashing torrents, or the ocean’s roll, Jehovah spake, through thee imbreathing fire, Nature’s vast realms for ever to inspire With the deep worship of a living soul.

DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION.

“Par correr miglior acqua alza le vele, Omai la navicella del mio Intelletto.”--Dante.

My soul was mantled with dark shadows, born Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain; Its phantoms hung around the star of morn, A cloud-like, weeping train: Thro’ the long day they dimm’d the autumn gold On all the glistening leaves, and wildly roll’d, When the last farewell flush of light was glowing Across the sunset sky, O’er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing One melancholy dye.

And when the solemn night Came rushing with her might Of stormy oracles from caves unknown, Then with each fitful blast Prophetic murmurs pass’d, Wakening or answering some deep Sybil-tone Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise With every gusty wail that o’er the wind-harp flies.

“Fold, fold thy wings,” they cried, “and strive no more-- Faint spirit! strive no more: for thee too strong Are outward ill and wrong, And inward wasting fires! Thou canst not soar Free on a starry way, Beyond their blighting sway, At heaven’s high gate serenely to adore! How shouldst thou hope earth’s fetters to unbind! O passionate, yet weak! O trembler to the wind!

“Never shall aught but broken music flow From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe-- Such homeless notes as through the forest sigh, From the reeds’ hollow shaken, When sudden breezes waken Their vague, wild symphony. No power is theirs, and no abiding-place In human hearts; their sweetness leaves no trace-- Born only so to die!

“Never shall aught but perfume, faint and vain, On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour, From thy bruised life again A moment’s essence breathe; Thy life, whose trampled flower Into the blessed wreath Of household-charities no longer bound, Lies pale and withering on the barren ground.

“So fade, fade on! Thy gift of love shall cling A coiling sadness round thy heart and brain-- A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing, All sensitive to pain! And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall O’er thy mind’s world, a daily darkening pall. Fold, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued In cold and unrepining quietude!”

Then my soul yielded: spells of numbing breath Crept o’er it heavy with a dew of death-- Its powers, like leaves before the night-rain, closing; And, as by conflict of wild sea-waves toss’d On the chill bosom of some desert coast, Mutely and hopelessly I lay reposing.

When silently it seem’d As if a soft mist gleam’d Before my passive sight, and, slowly curling, To many a shape and hue Of vision’d beauty grew, Like a wrought banner, fold by fold unfurling. Oh! the rich scenes that o’er mine inward eye Unrolling then swept by With dreamy motion! Silvery seas were there, Lit by large dazzling stars, and arch’d by skies Of southern midnight’s most transparent dyes; And gemm’d with many an island, wildly fair, Which floated past me into orient day, Still gathering lustre on th’ illumin’d way, Till its high groves of wondrous flowering-trees Colour’d the silvery seas.

And then a glorious mountain-chain uprose, Height above spiry height! A soaring solitude of woods and snows, All steep’d in golden light! While as it pass’d, those regal peaks unveiling, I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings, And mighty sounds, as if the vision hailing, From lyres that quiver’d through ten thousand strings-- Or as if waters, forth to music leaping From many a cave, the Alpine Echo’s hall, On their bold way victoriously were sweeping, Link’d in majestic anthems!--while through all That billowy swell and fall, Voices, like ringing crystal, fill’d the air With inarticulate melody, that stirr’d My being’s core; then, moulding into word Their piercing sweetness, bade me rise, and bear In that great choral strain my trembling part, Of tones by love and faith struck from a human heart.

Return no more, vain bodings of the night! A happier oracle within my soul Hath swell’d to power; a clear, unwavering light Mounts through the battling clouds that round me roll; And to a new control Nature’s full harp gives forth rejoicing tones, Wherein my glad sense owns The accordant rush of elemental sound To one consummate harmony profound-- One grand Creation-Hymn, Whose notes the seraphim Lift to the glorious height of music wing’d and crown’d.

Shall not those notes find echoes in my lyre, Faithful though faint? Shall not my spirit’s fire, If slowly, yet unswervingly, ascend Now to its fount and end? Shall not my earthly love, all purified, Shine forth a heavenward guide, An angel of bright power--and strongly bear My being upward into holier air, Where fiery passion-clouds have no abode, And the sky’s temple-arch o’erflows with God?

The radiant hope new-born Expands like rising morn In my life’s life: and as a ripening rose The crimson shadow of its glory throws More vivid, hour by hour, on some pure stream; So from that hope are spreading Rich hues, o’er nature shedding Each day a clearer, spiritual gleam.

Let not those rays fade from me!--once enjoy’d, Father of Spirits! let them not depart-- Leaving the chill’d earth, without form and void, Darken’d by mine own heart! Lift, aid, sustain me! Thou, by whom alone All lovely gifts and pure In the soul’s grasp endure; Thou, to the steps of whose eternal throne All knowledge flows--a sea for evermore Breaking its crested waves on that sole shore-- Oh, consecrate my life! that I may sing Of thee with joy that hath a living spring, In a full heart of music! Let my lays Through the resounding mountains waft thy praise, And with that theme the wood’s green cloisters fill. And make their quivering, leafy dimness thrill To the rich breeze of song! Oh! let me wake The deep religion, which hath dwelt from yore Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake, And wildest river-shore! And let me summon all the voices dwelling Where eagles build, and cavern’d rills are welling, And where the cataract’s organ-peal is swelling, In that one spirit gather’d to adore!

Forgive, O Father! if presumptuous thought Too daringly in aspiration rise! Let not thy child all vainly have been taught By weakness, and by wanderings, and by sighs Of sad confession! Lowly be my heart, And on its penitential altar spread The offerings worthless, till thy grace impart The fire from heaven, whose touch alone can shed Life, radiance, virtue!--let that vital spark Pierce my whole being, wilder’d else and dark!

Thine are all holy things--oh, make me thine! So shall I, too, be pure--a living shrine Unto that Spirit which goes forth from thee, Strong and divinely free, Bearing thy gifts of wisdom on its flight, And brooding o’er them with a dove-like wing, Till thought, word, song, to thee in worship spring, Immortally endow’d for liberty and light.

[This exquisite poem was composed during the Author’s last illness; and the following account of her situation at the time, from the pen of her sister, cannot fail to be read with a deep and painful interest. It is another forcible, visible illustration of “the ruling passion strong in death.” Happy, as in her case, when the direction of the mind is towards all that is high, pure, and excellent!

“A shuddering thrill pervaded her whole frame, and she felt, as she often afterwards declared, a presentiment that from that moment her hours were numbered. The same evening she was attacked by a fit of ague; and this insidious and harassing complaint continued its visitations for several weeks, reducing her poor, wasted form to the most lamentable state of debility, and at length retiring only to make way for a train of symptoms still more fatal and distressing. Yet, while the work of decay was going on thus surely and progressively upon the earthly tabernacle, the bright flame within continued to burn with a pure and holy light, and, at times, even to flash forth with more than wonted brightness. The lyric of ‘Despondency and Aspiration,’ which may be considered as her noblest and highest effort, and in which, from a feeling that it might be her last work, she felt anxious to concentrate all her powers, was written during the few intervals accorded her from acute suffering or powerless languor. And in the same circumstances she wrote, or rather dictated, the series of sonnets called Thoughts during Sickness, which present so interesting a picture of the calm, submissive tone of her mind, whether engaged in tender remembrances of the past, or in solemn and reverential speculations on the future. The one entitled ‘Sickness like Night’ discloses a view, no less affecting than consolatory, of the sweet and blessed peace which hovered round the couch where

‘Mutely and hopelessly she lay reposing.’

“The last sonnet of the series, entitled ‘Recovery,’ was written under temporary appearances of convalescence, which proved as fugitive as they were fallacious.”

THE HUGUENOT’S FAREWELL.

I stand upon the threshold stone Of mine ancestral hall; I hear my native river moan; I see the night o’er my old forests fall.

I look round on the darkening vale That saw my childhood’s plays; The low wind in its rising wail Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days.

But I must rule my swelling breast: A sign is in the sky! Bright o’er yon gray rock’s eagle-nest Shines forth a warning star--it bids me fly.

My father’s sword is in my hand, His deep voice haunts mine ear; He tells me of the noble band Whose lives have left a brooding glory here.

He bids their offspring guard from stain Their pure and lofty faith; And yield up all things, to maintain The cause for which they girt themselves to death.

And I obey. I leave their towers Unto the stranger’s tread, Unto the creeping grass and flowers, Unto the fading pictures of the dead.

I leave their shields to slow decay, Their banners to the dust: I go, and only bear away Their old majestic name--a solemn trust!

I go up to the ancient hills. Where chains may never be, Where leap in joy the torrent-rills, Where man may worship God, alone and free.

There shall an altar and a camp Impregnably arise; There shall be lit a quenchless lamp, To shine, unwavering, through the open skies.

And song shall midst the rocks be heard, And fearless prayer ascend; While, thrilling to God’s holy word, The mountain-pines in adoration bend.

And there the burning heart no more Its deep thought shall suppress, But the long-buried truth shall pour Free currents thence, amidst the wilderness.

Then fare thee well, my mother’s bower! Farewell, my father’s hearth!-- Perish my home! where lawless power Hath rent the tie of love to native earth.

Perish! let deathlike silence fall Upon the lone abode; Spread fast, dark ivy! spread thy pall;-- I go up to the mountains with my God.

ANTIQUE GREEK LAMENT.[440]

By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

I pine for thee through all the joyless day-- Through the long night I pine: the golden sun Looks dim since thou hast left me, and the spring Seems but to weep. Where art thou, my beloved? Night after night, in fond hope vigilant, By the old temple on the breezy cliff, These hands have heap’d the watch-fire, till it stream’d Red o’er the shining columns--darkly red Along the crested billows!--but in vain: Thy white sail comes not from the distant isles-- Yet thou wert faithful ever. Oh! the deep Hath shut above thy head--that graceful head; The sea-weed mingles with thy clustering locks; The white sail never will bring back the loved!

By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

Where art thou?--where? Had I but lingering press’d On thy cold lips the last long kiss--but smooth’d The parted ringlets of thy shining hair With love’s fond touch, my heart’s cry had been still’d Into a voiceless grief: I would have strew’d With all the pale flowers of the vernal woods-- White violets, and the mournful hyacinth, And frail anemone, thy marble brow, In slumber beautiful! I would have heap’d Sweet boughs and precious odours on thy pyre, And with mine own shorn tresses hung thine urn, And many a garland of the pallid rose: But thou liest far away! No funeral chant, Save the wild moaning of the wave, is thine: No pyre--save, haply, some long-buried wreck; Thou that wert fairest--thou that wert most loved!

By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

Come, in the dreamy shadow of the night, And speak to me! E’en though thy voice be changed, My heart would know it still. Oh, speak to me! And say if yet, in some dim, far-off world, Which knows not how the festal sunshine burns, If yet, in some pale mead of asphodel, We two shall meet again! Oh, I would quit The day rejoicingly--the rosy light-- All the rich flowers and fountains musical, And sweet, familiar melodies of earth, To dwell with thee below! Thou answerest not! The powers whom I have call’d upon are mute: The voices buried in old whispery caves, And by lone river-sources, and amidst The gloom and mystery of dark prophet-oaks, The wood-gods’ haunt--they give me no reply! All silent--heaven and earth! For evermore From the deserted mountains thou art gone-- For ever from the melancholy groves, Whose laurels wail thee with a shivering sound! And I--I pine through all the joyous day, Through the long night I pine--as fondly pines The night’s own bird, dissolving her lorn life To song in moonlight woods. Thou hear’st me not! The heavens are pitiless of human tears: The deep sea-darkness is about thy head; The white sail never will bring back the loved!

By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

[440] The original title given to this poem was The Lament of Alcyone, which was altered to its present one, on the suggestion of a friend. It was written in November 1834.

THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS.

INTELLECTUAL POWERS.

O Thought! O Memory! gems for ever heaping High in the illumined chambers of the mind-- And thou, divine Imagination! keeping Thy lamp’s lone star mid shadowy hosts enshrined; How in one moment rent and disentwined, At Fever’s fiery touch, apart they fall, Your glorious combinations! broken all, As the sand-pillars by the desert’s wind Scatter’d to whirling dust! Oh, soon uncrown’d! Well may your parting swift, your strange return, Subdue the soul to lowliness profound, Guiding its chasten’d vision to discern How by meek Faith heaven’s portals must be pass’d, Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast.

SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT.

Thou art like Night, O Sickness! deeply stilling Within my heart the world’s disturbing sound, And the dim quiet of my chamber filling With low, sweet voices by Life’s tumult drown’d. Thou art like awful Night! thou gatherest round The things that are unseen--though close they lie; And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound, Giv’st their dread presence to our mental eye. Thou art like starry, spiritual Night! High and immortal thoughts attend thy way, And revelations, which the common light Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray All outward life:--Be welcome, then, thy rod, Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God.

ON RETZSCH’S DESIGN OF THE ANGEL OF DEATH.[441]

Well might thine awful image thus arise With that high calm upon thy regal brow, And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes, Unto the glorious artist! Who but thou The fleeting forms of beauty can endow For him with permanence? who make those gleams Of brighter life, that colour his lone dreams, Immortal things? Let others trembling bow, Angel of Death! before thee;--not to those Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose, Art thou a fearful shape! And oh! for me, How full of welcome would thine aspect shine, Did not the cords of strong affection twine So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to thee!

[441] This sonnet was suggested by the following passage out of Mrs Jameson’s Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad, in a description she gives of a visit paid to the artist Retzsch, near Dresden:--“Afterwards he placed upon his easel a wondrous face which made me shrink back--not with terror, for it was perfectly beautiful,--but with awe, for it was unspeakably fearful: the hair streamed back from the pale brow--the orbs of sight appeared at first two dark, hollow, unfathomable spaces, like those in a skull; but when I drew nearer and looked attentively, two lovely living eyes looked at me again out of the depth of the shadow, as if from the bottom of an abyss. The mouth was divinely sweet, but sad, and the softest repose rested on every feature. This, he told me, was the Angel of Death.”

REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE.

O Nature! thou didst rear me for thine own, With thy free singing-birds and mountain-brooks; Feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted nooks, With fairy fantasies and wood-dreams lone; And thou didst teach me every wandering tone Drawn from thy many-whispering trees and waves, And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves, And where bright mosses wove thee a rich throne Midst the green hills: and now that, far estranged From all sweet sounds and odours of thy breath, Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged, So glows the love of thee, that not for death Seems that pure passion’s fervour--but ordain’d To meet on brighter shores thy majesty unstain’d.

FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT.

Whither, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way? What solemn region first upon thy sight Shall break, unveil’d for terror or delight? What hosts, magnificent in dread array, My spirit! when thy prison-house of clay, After long strife is rent? Fond, fruitless quest! The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest, Sees but a few green branches o’er him play, And through their parting leaves, by fits reveal’d, A glimpse of summer sky; nor knows the field Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried. Thou art that bird!--of what beyond thee lies Far in the untrack’d, immeasurable skies, Knowing but this--that thou shalt find thy Guide?

FLOWERS.

Welcome, O pure and lovely forms! again Unto the shadowy stillness of my room! For not alone ye bring a joyous train Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom-- Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom, Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells, Of stars that look down on your folded bells Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove Like sudden music: more than this ye bring-- Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing Broods o’er the sufferer drawing fever’d breath, Whether the couch be that of life or death.

RECOVERY.[442]

Back, then, once more to breast the waves of life, To battle on against the unceasing spray, To sink o’erwearied in the stormy strife, And rise to strive again; yet on my way, Oh! linger still, thou light of better day! Born in the hours of loneliness: and you, Ye childlike thoughts! the holy and the true-- Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay, The faith, the insight of life’s vernal morn Back on my soul, a clear, bright sense, new-born, Now leave me not! but as, profoundly pure, A blue stream rushes through a darker lake Unchanged, e’en thus with me your journey take, Wafting sweet airs of heaven thro’ this low world obscure.

[442] Written under the false impression occasioned by a temporary improvement in strength.

SABBATH SONNET.[443]

COMPOSED BY MRS HEMANS A FEW DAYS BEFORE HER DEATH, AND DICTATED TO HER BROTHER.

How many blessed groups this hour are bending, Thro’ England’s primrose meadow-paths, their way Towards spire and tower, midst shadowy elms ascending, Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow’d day! The halls from old heroic ages gray Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow, Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways--to the feverish bed Of sickness bound; yet, O my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath-peace hath fill’d My chasten’d heart, and all its throbbings still’d To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness!

26th April 1835.

[443] After the exhausting vicissitudes of days when it seemed that the night of death was indeed at hand--of nights when it was thought that she could never see the light of morning--wonderful even to those who had witnessed, throughout her illness, the clearness and brightness of the never-dying principle, amidst the desolation and decay of its earthly companion, was the consecrated power and facility with which, on Sunday, the 26th of April, she dictated to her brother the “Sabbath Sonnet,” the last strain of the “sweet singer,” whose harp was henceforth to be hung upon the willows.

Amongst the many tributes of interest and admiration elicited by a poem, so remarkable to all readers--so precious to many hearts--the following expressions, contained in a letter from the late venerable Bishop of Salisbury to Mrs Joanna Baillie, and already published by the latter, are too pleasingly applicable not to be inserted here. “There is something peculiarly touching in the time, the subject, and the occasion of this deathbed sonnet, and in the affecting contrast between the ‘blessed groups’ she describes, and her own (humanly speaking) helpless state of sickness; and that again contrasted with the hopeful state of mind with which the sonnet concludes, expressive both of the quiet comforts of a Christian Sabbath, and the blessed fruits of profitable application. Her ‘Sweet Chimes’ on ‘Sabbath-peace,’ appear to me very characteristic of the writer.”--Memoir, p. 311-12.

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