Chapter XL: Part II (3)

For in the rocky strait beneath,
Lay Suliote sire and son:
They had heap’d high the piles of death
Before the pass was won.

“They have cross’d the torrent, and on they come:
Woe for the mountain hearth and home!
There, where the hunter laid by his spear,
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear,
There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep,
Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!”

And now the horn’s loud blast was heard,
And now the cymbal’s clang,
Till even the upper air was stirr’d,
As cliff and hollow rang.

“Hark! they bring music, my joyous child!
What saith the trumpet to Suli’s wild?
Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire,
As if at a glance of thine armèd sire?
Still!--be thou still!--there are brave men low:
Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now!”

But nearer came the clash of steel,
And louder swell’d the horn,
And farther yet the tambour’s peal
Through the dark pass was borne.

“Hear’st thou the sound of their savage mirth?
Boy! thou wert free when I gave thee birth,--
Free, and how cherish’d, my warrior’s son!
He too hath bless’d thee, as I have done!
Ay, and unchain’d must his loved ones be--
Freedom, young Suliote! for thee and me!”

And from the arrowy peak she sprung,
And fast the fair child bore:--
A veil upon the wind was flung,
A cry--and all was o’er!

THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD.

[The following piece is founded on a beautiful part of the Greek funeral service, in which relatives and friends are invited to embrace the deceased (whose face is uncovered) and to bid their final adieu.--See _Christian Researches in the Mediterranean_.]

“’Tis hard to lay into the earth
A countenance so benign! a form that walk’d
But yesterday so stately o’er the earth!” Wilson.

Come near! Ere yet the dust
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow,
Look on your brother; and embrace him now,
In still and solemn trust!
Come near!--once more let kindred lips be press’d
On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest!

Look yet on this young face!
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone,
Leave of its image, even where most it shone,
Gladdening its hearth and race?
Dim grows the semblance on man’s heart impress’d.
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest!

Ye weep, and it is well!
For tears befit earth’s partings! Yesterday,
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay,
And sunshine seem’d to dwell
Where’er he moved--the welcome and the bless’d.
Now gaze! and bear the silent unto rest!

Look yet on him whose eye
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth.
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth,
The beings born to die?--
But not where death has power may love be bless’d.
Come near! and bear ye the beloved to rest!

How may the mother’s heart
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again?
The spring’s rich promise hath been given in vain--
The lovely must depart!
Is _he_ not gone, our brightest and our best?
Come near! and bear the early-call’d to rest!

Look on him! Is he laid
To slumber from the harvest or the chase?--
Too still and sad the smile upon his face;
Yet that, even that must fade:
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest.
Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest!

His voice of mirth hath ceased
Amidst the vineyards! there is left no place
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace,
At the gay bridal-feast!
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast.
Come near! weep o’er him! bear him to his rest.

Yet mourn ye not as they
Whose spirits’ light is quench’d! For him the past
Is seal’d: he may not fall, he may not cast
His birthright’s hope away!
All is not _here_ of our beloved and bless’d.
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

I GO, SWEET FRIENDS!

I go, sweet friends! yet think of me
When spring’s young voice awakes the flowers;
For we have wander’d far and free
In those bright hours, the violet’s hours.

I go; but when you pause to hear,
From distant hills, the Sabbath-bell
On summer-winds float silvery clear,
Think on me then--I loved it well!

Forget me not around your hearth,
When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze;
For dear hath been its evening mirth
To me, sweet friends, in other days.

And oh! when music’s voice is heard
To melt in strains of parting woe,
When hearts to love and grief are stirr’d,
Think of me then!--I go, I go!

ANGEL VISITS.

“No more of talk where God or angel guest
With man, as with his friend, familiar used
To sit indulgent and with him partake
Rural repast.” Milton.

Are ye for ever to your skies departed?
Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more?
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted
Through Eden’s fresh and flowering shades of yore!
Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot,
And ye--our faded earth beholds you not.

Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken,
Man wander’d from his Paradise away;
Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken,
Came down, high guests! in many a later day,
And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak,
Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke.

From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending,
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper’s eye,
That saw your hosts ascending and descending
On those bright steps between the earth and sky:
Trembling he woke, and bow’d o’er glory’s trace,
And worshipp’d awe-struck, in that fearful place.

By Chebar’s[321] brook ye pass’d, such radiance wearing
As mortal vision might but ill endure;
Along the stream the living chariot bearing,
With its high crystal arch, intensely pure;
And, the dread rushing of your wings that hour
Was like the noise of waters in their power.

But in the Olive Mount, by night appearing,
Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done.
Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering,
Fraught with the breath of God to aid his Son?
--Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains,
Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains.

Yet one more task was Yours! your heavenly dwelling,
Ye left, and by th’ unseal’d sepulchral stone,
In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling,
That _He_ they sought had triumph’d and was gone.
Now have ye left us for the brighter shore;
Your presence lights the lonely groves no more.

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover,
With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet.
Though the fresh glory of those days be over,
When, midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met?
Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high,
When love, by strength, o’ermasters agony?

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining,
Yields up life’s treasures unto Him who gave?
When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning,
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave?
Dreams! But a deeper thought our souls may fill:
One, One is near--a spirit holier still!

[321] Ezekiel, chap. x.

IVY SONG.

WRITTEN ON RECEIVING SOME IVY-LEAVES GATHERED FROM THE RUINED CASTLE OF RHEINFELS, ON THE RHINE.

Oh! how could Fancy crown with _thee_
In ancient days the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine?
_Thy_ home, wild plant! is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o’er,
Where song’s full notes once peal’d around,
But now are heard no more.

The Roman on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee with exulting strains
Around the victor’s tent:
Yet there, though fresh in glossy green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor’s grave.

Where sleeps the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past;
Where, through the halls of glory gone,
Murmurs the wintry blast;
Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair;
Thou, in thy solitary grace,
Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath a blue Italian sky,
Hath naught of beauty left by time,
Save thy wild tapestry!
And, rear’d midst crags and clouds, ’tis thine
To wave where banners waved of yore,
O’er towers that crest the noble Rhine,
Along his rocky shore.

High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish’d race--
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath pass’d, and left no trace.
But there thou art!--thy foliage bright
Unchanged the mountain storm can brave;
Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or deck the humblest grave!

’Tis still the same! Where’er we tread,
The wrecks of human power we see--
The marvels of all ages fled
Left to decay and thee!
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, grace, and strength;
Days pass--thou ivy never sere![322]--
And all is thine at length!

[322] “Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”--Lycidas.

TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR’S CHILDREN ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

Where sucks the bee now? Summer is flying,
Leaves round the elm-tree faded are lying;
Violets are gone from their grassy dell,
With the cowslip cups, where the fairies dwell;
The rose from the garden hath pass’d away--
Yet happy, fair boy, is thy natal day!

For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled
Ever around thee, my gentle child!
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed,
And pouring out joy on thy sunny head.
Roses may vanish, but _this_ will stay--
Happy and bright is thy natal day!

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

Thou wakest from rosy sleep, to play
With bounding heart, my boy!
Before thee lies a long bright day
Of summer and of joy.

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream
To cloud thy fearless eye:
Long be it thus!--life’s early stream
Should still reflect the sky.

Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim
On thy young spirit’s wings,
Now in thy mom forget not Him
From whom each pure thought springs.

So, in the onward vale of tears,
Where’er thy path may be,
When strength hath bow’d to evil years,
_He_ will remember thee!

CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.

Fear was within the tossing bark
When stormy winds grew loud,
And waves came rolling high and dark,
And the tall mast was bow’d.

And men stood breathless in their dread,
And baffled in their skill;
But One was there, who rose and said
To the wild sea--_Be still!_

And the wind ceased--it ceased! that word
Pass’d through the gloomy sky:
The troubled billows knew their Lord,
And fell beneath His eye.

And slumber settled on the deep,
And silence on the blast;
They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep
When sultry day is past.

O Thou! that in its wildest hour
Didst rule the tempest’s mood,
Send thy meek spirit forth in power,
Soft on our souls to brood!

Thou that didst bow the billow’s pride
Thy mandate to fulfil!
Oh, speak to passion’s raging tide,
Speak, and say, “_Peace, be still!_”

EPITAPH

OVER THE GRAVE OF TWO BROTHERS, A CHILD AND A YOUTH.

[Amongst the numerous friends Mrs Hemans was fortunate enough to possess in Scotland, there was one to whom she was linked by so peculiar a bond of union, and whose unwearied kindness is so precious an inheritance to her children, that it is hoped the owner of a name so dear to them, (though it be a part of her nature to shrink from publicity,) will forgive its being introduced into these pages.

This invaluable friend was Lady Wedderburn,[323] the mother of those “two brothers, a child and a youth,” for whose monument Mrs Hemans had written an inscription, which, with its simple pathos, has doubtless sunk deep into the heart of many a mourner, as well as of many a yet rejoicing parent, there called upon to remember that for them, too,

“Speaks the grave,
Where God hath seal’d the fount of hope He gave.”

Into the gentle heart, which has found relief for its own sorrows in soothing the griefs and promoting the enjoyments of others, the author of this sacred tribute was taken with a warmth and loving-kindness which extended its genial influence to all belonging to her; and during their stay in Edinburgh, whither they proceeded from Abbotsford, Mrs Hemans and her children were cherished with a true home welcome at the house of Sir David Wedderburn.--_Memoir_, p. 192.]

Thou, that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy,
And hear his prayer’s low murmur at thy knee,
And o’er his slumber bend in breathless joy,
Come to this tomb!--it hath a voice for thee!
Pray! Thou art blest--ask strength for sorrow’s hour:
Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken flower.

Thou that art gathering from the smile of youth
Thy thousand hopes, rejoicing to behold
All the heart’s depths before thee bright with truth,
All the mind’s treasures silently unfold,
Look on this tomb!--for thee, too, speaks the grave,
Where God hath seal’d the fount of hope He gave.

[323] The lady of Sir David Wedderburn, Bart., and sister of the late Viscountess Hampden. The monument on which the lines are inscribed, is at Glynde, in Sussex, near Lord Hampden’s seat. This excellent lady only survived Mrs Hemans a few years.

MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION.

Earth! guard what here we lay in holy trust,
That which hath left our home a darken’d place,
Wanting the form, the smile, now veil’d with dust,
The light departed with our loveliest face.
Yet from thy bonds our sorrow’s hope is free--
We have but lent the beautiful to thee.

But thou, O heaven! keep, keep what _thou_ hast taken,
And with our treasure keep our hearts on high;
The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken,
The faith, the love, the lofty constancy--
Guide us where these are with our sister flown:
They were of Thee, and thou hast claim’d thine own!

THE SOUND OF THE SEA.

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea!
For ever and the same;
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee--
Those thunders naught can tame.

Oh! many a glorious voice is gone
From the rich bowers of earth,
And hush’d is many a lovely one
Of mournfulness or mirth.

The Dorian flute that sigh’d of yore
Along the wave, is still;
The harp of Judah peals no more
On Zion’s awful hill.

And Memnon’s lyre hath lost the chord
That breathed the mystic tone;
And the songs at Rome’s high triumphs pour’d
Are with her eagles flown.

And mute the Moorish horn that rang
O’er stream and mountain free;
And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang
Hath died in Galilee.

But thou art swelling on, thou deep!
Through many an olden clime,
Thy billowy anthem, ne’er to sleep
Until the close of time.

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice
To every wind and sky,
And all our earth’s green shores rejoice
In that one harmony.

It fills the noontide’s calm profound,
The sunset’s heaven of gold;
And the still midnight hears the sound,
Even as first it roll’d.

Let there be silence, deep and strange,
Where sceptred cities rose!
_Thou_ speak’st of One who doth not change--
So. may our hearts repose.

THE CHILD AND DOVE.

SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY’S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA RUSSELL.

Thou art a thing on our dreams to rise,
Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies,
And to fling bright dew from the morning back,
Fair form! on each image of childhood’s track.

Thou art a thing to recall the hours
When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers,
When a world was our own in some dim sweet grove,
And treasure untold in one captive dove.

Are they gone? can we think it, while _thou_ art there,
Thou joyous child with the clustering hair?
Is it not spring that indeed breathes free
And fresh o’er each thought, while we gaze on thee?

No! never more may we smile as thou
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow;
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine
A memory of beauty undimm’d as thine--

To have met the joy of thy speaking face,
To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace,
To have linger’d before thee, and turn’d, and borne
One vision away of the cloudless morn.

A DIRGE.

[The two first stanzas of this dirge may be found in the last scene of “The Siege of Valencia;” but they are more particularly worthy of the reader’s consideration, as having been selected for inscription on the tablet placed above the vault beneath St Ann’s Church, Dublin, where the remains of the author repose.]

Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Young spirit! rest thee now!
Even while with us thy footstep trod,
His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath!
Soul, to its place on high!--
They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.

Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers,
Whence thy meek smile is gone;
But oh!--a brighter home than ours,
In heaven, is now thine own.

SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE.

“Oh! fondly, fervently, those two had loved,
Had mingled minds in Love’s own perfect trust;
Had watch’d bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful years,
----And thus they met!”

“Haste, with your torches, haste! make firelight round!”--
They speed, they press: what hath the miner found?
Relic or treasure--giant sword of old?
Gems bedded deep--rich veins of burning gold?
--Not so--the dead, the dead! An awe-struck band
In silence gathering round the silent stand,
Chain’d by one feeling, hushing e’en their breath,
Before the thing that, in the might of death,
Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay--
A sleeper, dreaming not!--a youth with hair
Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair!)
O’er his cold brow: no shadow of decay
Had touch’d those pale, bright features--yet he wore
A mien of other days, a garb of yore.
Who could unfold that mystery? From the throng
A woman wildly broke; her eye was dim,
As if through many tears, through vigils long,
Through weary strainings:--all had been for him!
Those two had loved! And there he lay, the dead,
In his youth’s flower--and she, the living, stood
With her gray hair, whence hue and gloss had fled--
And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood
Had long since ebb’d--a meeting sad and strange!
--Oh! are not meetings in this world of change
Sadder than partings oft! She stood there, still,
And mute, and gazing--all her soul to fill
With the loved face once more--the young, fair face,
Midst that rude cavern, touch’d with sculpture’s grace,
By torchlight and by death: until at last
From her deep heart the spirit of the past
Gush’d in low broken tones:--“And there thou art!
And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part
As for a few brief hours! My friend, my friend!
First love, and only one! Is this the end
Of hope deferr’d, youth blighted! Yet thy brow
Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek
Smiles--how unchanged!--while I, the worn, and weak,
And faded--oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now,
If thou couldst look on me!--a wither’d leaf,
Sear’d--though for thy sake--by the blast of grief!
Better to see thee thus! For thou didst go
Bearing my image on thy heart, I know,
Unto the dead. My Ulric! through the night
How have I call’d thee! With the morning light
How have I watch’d for thee!--wept, wander’d, pray’d,
Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay’d,
In search of thee!--bound my worn life to one--
One torturing hope! Now let me die! ’Tis gone.
Take thy betrothed!” And on his breast she fell,
Oh! since their youth’s last passionate farewell,
How changed in all but love!--the true, the strong,
Joining in death whom life had parted long!
They had one grave--one lonely bridal-bed,
No friend, no kinsman there a tear to shed!
_His_ name had ceased--_her_ heart outlived each tie,
Once more to look on that dead face, and die!

ENGLISH SOLDIERS SONG OF MEMORY.

TO THE AIR OF “AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN!”

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed,
Let song and wine be pour’d!
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted,
Our brethren of the sword!

Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices
Have mingled with our own;
Fill high the cup! but when the soul rejoices,
Forget not who are gone.

They that stood with us, midst the dead and dying,
On Albuera’s plain;
They that beside us cheerily track’d the flying,
Far o’er the hills of Spain;

They that amidst us, when the shells were showering
From old Rodrigo’s wall,
The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle towering,
First, first at Victory’s call;

They that upheld the banners, proudly waving,
In Roncesvalles’ dell,
With England’s blood the southern vineyards laving--
Forget not how they fell!

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed,
Let song and wine be pour’d!
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted,
Our brethren of the sword!

HAUNTED GROUND.

“And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever--it may be a sound,
A tone of music, summer eve, or spring,
A flower--the wind--the ocean--which shall wound,
Striking the electric train, wherewith we are darkly bound.”

Byron.

Yes, it _is_ haunted, this quiet scene,
Fair as it looks, and all softly green;
Yet fear not thou--for the spell is thrown,
And the might of the shadow, on me alone.

Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays,
And spirits that dwell where the water plays?
Oh! in the heart there are stronger powers,
That sway, though viewless, this world of ours!

Have I not lived midst these lonely dells,
And loved, and sorrow’d, and heard farewells,
And learn’d in my own deep soul to look,
And tremble before that mysterious book?

Have I not, under these whispering leaves,
Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves?
Shadows--yet unto which life seem’d bound;
And is it not--is it not haunted ground?

Must I not hear what _thou_ hearest not,
Troubling the air of the sunny spot?
Is there not something to rouse but me,
Told by the rustling of every tree?

Song hath been here, with its flow of thought;
Love, with its passionate visions fraught;
Death, breathing stillness and sadness round;
And is it not--is it not haunted ground?

Are there no phantoms, but such as come
By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb?
A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze,
Can summon up mightier far than these!

But I may not linger amidst them here!
Lovely they are, and yet things to fear;
Passing and leaving a weight behind,
And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind.

Away, away!--that my soul may soar
As a free bird of blue skies once more!
Here from its wing it may never cast
The chain by those spirits brought back from the past.

Doubt it not--smile not--but go thou, too,
Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew--
Where thou hast pray’d at thy mother’s knee,
Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free;

Go thou, when life unto thee is changed,
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged;
When from the idols thy heart hath made,
Thou hast seen the colours of glory fade.

Oh! painfully then, by the wind’s low sigh,
By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup’s dye,
By a thousand tokens of sight and sound,
Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground.

THE CHILD OF THE FORESTS.

WRITTEN AFTER READING THE MEMOIRS OF JOHN HUNTER.

[On one occasion, Mrs Hemans was somewhat ludicrously disenchanted, through the medium of a _North American Review_, on the subject of a self-constituted hero, whose history (which suggested her little poem, “The Child of the Forests”) she had read with unquestioning faith and lively interest. This was the redoubtable John Dunn Hunter, whose marvellous adventures amongst the Indians--by whom he represented himself to have been carried away in childhood--were worked up into a plausible narrative, admirably calculated to excite the sympathies of its readers. But how far it was really deserving of them, may be judged by the following extract from a letter to a friend who had been similarly mystified:--“I send you a _North American Review_, which will mortify C. and you with the sad intelligence that John Hunter--even our own John Dunn--the man of the panther’s skin--the adopted of the Kansas--the shooter with the rifle--no, with the long bow--is, I blush to say it, neither more nor less than an impostor; no better than Psalmanazar; no, no better than Carraboo herself. After this, what are we to believe again? Are there any Loo Choo Islands? Was there ever any Robinson Crusoe? Is there any Rammohun Roy? All one’s faith and trust is shaken to its foundations. No one here sympathises with me properly on this annoying occasion; but you, I think, will know how to feel, who have been quite as much devoted to that vile John Dunn as myself.”--_Memoir_, pp. 95-6.]

Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods,
Where the red Indian lays his father’s dust,
And, by the rushing of the torrent floods,
To the Great Spirit bows in silent trust?
Doth not thy soul o’ersweep the foaming main,
To pour itself upon the wilds again?

They are gone forth, the desert’s warrior race,
By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe;
But where art thou, the swift one in the chase,
With thy free footstep and unfailing bow?
Their singing shafts have reach’d the panther’s lair,
And where art thou?--thine arrows are not there.

They rest beside their streams--the spoil is won--
They hang their spears upon the cypress bough;
The night-fires blaze, the hunter’s work is done--
They hear the tales of old--but where art thou?
The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine,
And there a place is fill’d that once was thine.

For thou art mingling with the city’s throng,
And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside;
Child of the forests! thou art borne along,
E’en as ourselves, by life’s tempestuous tide.
But will this be? and canst thou _here_ find rest?
Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert’s breast.

Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear
From the savannah land, the land of streams?
Hear’st thou not murmurs which none else may hear?
Is not the forest’s shadow on thy dreams?
They call--wild voices call thee o’er the main,
Back to thy free and boundless woods again.

Hear them not! hear them not!--thou canst not find
In the far wilderness what once was thine!
Thou hast quaff’d knowledge from the founts of mind,
And gather’d loftier aims and hopes divine.
Thou know’st the soaring thought, the immortal strain--
Seek not the deserts and the woods again!

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF * * *

In the full tide of melody and mirth,
While joy’s bright spirit beams from every eye,
Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from earth,
Seems yet to speak in strains that cannot die.

Forget him not, for many a festal hour,
Charm’d by those strains, for us has lightly flown:
And memory’s visions, mingling with their power,
Wake the heart’s thrill at each familiar tone.

Blest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays
Revive life’s morning dreams, when youth is fled,
And, fraught with images of other days,
Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead.

His the dear art whose spells awhile renew
Hope’s first illusions in their tenderest bloom--
Oh! what were life, unless such moments threw
Bright gleams, “like angel visits,” o’er its gloom?

THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS.

Yes! thou hast met the sun’s last smile
From the haunted hills of Rome;
By many a bright Ægean isle
Thou hast seen the billows foam.

From the silence of the Pyramid,
Thou hast watch’d the solemn flow
Of the Nile, that with its waters hid
The ancient realm below.

Thy heart hath burn’d, as shepherds sung
Some wild and warlike strain,
Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung
Through the pealing hills of Spain.

And o’er the lonely Grecian streams
Thou hast heard the laurels moan,
With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams
Of the glory that is gone.

But go thou to the pastoral vales
Of the Alpine mountains old,
If thou wouldst hear immortal tales
By the wind’s deep whispers told!

Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread
Where man hath nobly striven,
And life, like incense, hath been shed,
An offering unto heaven.

For o’er the snows, and round the pines,
Hath swept a noble flood;
The nurture of the peasant’s vines
Hath been the martyr’s blood!

A spirit, stronger than the sword,
And loftier than despair,
Through all the heroic region pour’d,
Breathes in the generous air.

A memory clings to every steep
Of long-enduring faith,
And the sounding streams glad record keep
Of courage unto death.

Ask of the peasant _where_ his sires
For truth and freedom bled?
Ask, where were lit the torturing fires,
Where lay the holy dead!

And he will tell thee, all around,
On fount, and turf, and stone,
Far as the chamois’ foot can bound,
Their ashes have been sown!

Go, when the Sabbath-bell is heard[324]
Up through the wilds to float,
When the dark old woods and caves are stirr’d
To gladness by the note;

When forth, along their thousand rills,
The mountain people come,
Join thou their worship on those hills
Of glorious martyrdom.

And while the song of praise ascends,
And while the torrent’s voice,
Like the swell of many an organ, blends,
Then let thy soul rejoice.

Rejoice, that human hearts, through scorn,
Through shame, through death, made strong,
Before the rocks and heavens have borne
Witness of God so long!

[324] See Gilly’s _Researches among the Mountains of Piedmont_, for an interesting account of a Sabbath-day among the upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of these Protestant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with their flocks and herds to the summit of the hills during the summer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season of the year assemble on that sacred day to worship in the open air.

SONG OF THE SPANISH WANDERER.

Pilgrim! oh say, hath thy cheek been fann’d
By the sweet winds of my sunny land?
Know’st thou the sound of its mountain pines?
And hast thou rested beneath its vines?

Hast thou heard the music still wandering by,
A thing of the breezes, in Spain’s blue sky,
Floating away o’er hill and heath,
With the myrtle’s whisper, the citron’s breath?

Then say, are there fairer vales than those
Where the warbling of fountains for ever flows?
Are there brighter flowers than mine own, which wave
O’er Moorish ruin and Christian grave?

O sunshine and song! they are lying far
By the streams that look to the western star;
My heart is fainting to hear once more
The water-voices of that sweet shore.

Many were they that have died for thee,
And brave, my Spain! though thou art not free;
But I call them blest--they have rent _their_ chain--
They sleep in thy valleys, my sunny Spain!

THE CONTADINA.

WRITTEN FOR A PICTURE.

Not for the myrtle, and not for the vine,
Though its grape, like a gem, be the sunbeam’s shrine;
And not for the rich blue heaven that showers
Joy on thy spirit, like light on the flowers;
And not for the scent of the citron trees--
Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for _these_.

Not for the beauty spread over thy brow,
Though round thee a gleam, as of spring, it throw;
And not for the lustre that laughs from thine eye,
Like a dark stream’s flash to the sunny sky,
Though the south in its riches naught lovelier sees--
Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for _these_.

But for those breathing and loving things--
For the boy’s fond arm that around thee clings,
For the smiling cheek on thy lap that glows,
In the peace of a trusting child’s repose--
For the hearts whose home is thy gentle breast,
Oh! richly I call thee, and deeply blest!

TROUBADOUR SONG.

The warrior cross’d the ocean’s foam
For the stormy fields of war;
The maid was left in a smiling home
And a sunny land afar.

_His_ voice was heard where javelin showers
Pour’d on the steel-clad line;
_Her_ step was midst the summer flowers,
Her seat beneath the vine.

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven,
And the red blood stain’d his crest;
While she--the gentlest wind of heaven
Might scarcely fan her breast!

Yet a thousand arrows pass’d him by,
And again he cross’d the seas;
But she had died as roses die
That perish with a breeze--

As roses die, when the blast is come
For all things bright and fair:
There was death within the smiling home--
How had death found her there?

THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP.[325]

What hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells,
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main?--
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour’d shells
Bright things which gleam unreck’d of, and in vain.
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!
We ask not such from thee.

Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold,
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies!
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.--
Sweep o’er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!
Earth claims not _these_ again.

Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have roll’d
Above the cities of a world gone by!
Sand hath fill’d up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o’ergrown the halls of revelry.--
Dash o’er them, ocean! in thy scornful play:
Man yields them to decay.

Yet more! the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gather’d to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest.--
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!

Give back the lost and lovely!--those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up through midnight’s breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o’erthrown--
But all is not thine own.

To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o’er manhood’s noble head,
O’er youth’s bright locks, and beauty’s flowery crown:
Yet must thou hear a voice--Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!--
Restore the dead, thou sea!

[325] Originally introduced in the “Forest Sanctuary.”

[“The only public mention that I have made of Mrs Hemans,” says Mr Montgomery of Sheffield, in a letter regarding her, with which we have been favoured by that excellent man and distinguished poet, “was in a series of lectures on the principal British Poets, delivered at the Royal Institution from ten to twelve years ago. In one of these, having to notice very briefly the ‘Female Poets,’ I said, ‘Mrs Hemans, in many of her lyrics, has struck out a new and attractive style of mingling the picturesque and the sentimental with such grace and beauty that, in her best pieces, she is better than almost any poet of either sex in that sprightly, yet pathetic vein, which she has exercised.’ I gave ‘The Treasures of the Deep’ as an example; and, indeed, I know nothing in our language--of the kind and the character I mean--comparable with it, either in conception or execution, for wealth of thought, felicity of diction, and commanding address:--The Ocean summoned to give an account of all that it has been doing through six thousand years, and the answers dictated by the questioner, till all the secrets of the abyss are revealed in the light by which poetry alone, of the purest order, can discover them. The last stanza is a crown of glory to the perfect whole.”

We beg to remind the author of “The World before the Flood,” and “The Pelican Island,” that the lectures to which he alludes have never been published. They were flatteringly successful, both when delivered at the Royal Institution, and before the literary societies of several of the principal provincial towns of England; and could not fail being acceptable to the great reading public, as the recorded opinions concerning the leading poets of Great Britain of past and present times, deliberately formed by one of their own number, who has himself written so much and so well, and who, in popularity as a lyrist, has no superior among contemporaries.]

BRING FLOWERS.

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreath the cup ere the wine is pour’d!
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale:
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror’s path!
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath:
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crush’d in his chariot’s track,
The turf looks red where he won the day.
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror’s way!

Bring flowers to the captive’s lonely cell!
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell--
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And the dream of his youth. Bring him flowers, wild flowers!

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood’s mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father’s hearth,
Her place is now by another’s side.
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o’er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!
For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nursed!
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love’s last gift. Bring ye flowers, pale flowers!

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer--
They are nature’s offering, their place is _there_!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory. Bring flowers, bright flowers!

THE CRUSADER’S RETURN.

“Alas! the mother that him bare,
If she had been in presence there,
In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair
She had not known her child.”
Marmion.

Rest, pilgrim, rest! Thou’rt from the Syrian land,
Thou’rt from the wild and wondrous East, I know
By the long-wither’d palm-branch in thy hand,
And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow.
Alas! the bright, the beautiful, who part
So full of hope, for that far country’s bourne!
Alas! the weary and the changed in heart,
And dimm’d in aspect, who like thee return!

Thou’rt faint--stay, rest thee from thy toils at last:
Through the high chestnuts lightly plays the breeze,
The stars gleam out, the _Ave_ hour is past,
The sailor’s hymn hath died along the seas.
Thou’rt faint and worn--hear’st thou the fountain welling
By the gray pillars of yon ruin’d shrine?
Seest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelling?
--He that hath left me train’d that loaded vine!

He was a child when thus the bower he wove,
(Oh! hath a day fled since his childhood’s time?)
That I might sit and hear the sound I love,
Beneath its shade--the convent’s vesper-chime.
And sit _thou_ there!--for he was gentle ever,
With his glad voice he would have welcomed thee,
And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parch’d lips’ fever.
There in his place thou’rt resting--where is he?

If I could hear that laughing voice again,
But once again! How oft it wanders by,
In the still hours, like some remember’d strain,
Troubling the heart with its wild melody!--
Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim! hast thou seen
In that far land, the chosen land of yore,
A youth--my Guido--with the fiery mien
And the dark eye of this Italian shore?

The dark, clear, lightning eye! On heaven and earth
It smiled--as if man were not dust it smiled!
The very air seem’d kindling with his mirth,
And I--my heart grew young before my child!
My blessed child!--I had but him--yet he
Fill’d all my home even with o’erflowing joy,
Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free.
Where is he now?--my pride, my flower, my boy!

His sunny childhood melted from my sight,
Like a spring dew-drop. Then his forehead wore
A prouder look--his eye a keener light:
I knew these woods might be his world no more!
He loved me--but he left me! Thus they go
Whom we have rear’d, watch’d, bless’d, too much adored!
He heard the trumpet of the Red Cross blow,
And bounded from me with his father’s sword!

Thou weep’st--I tremble! Thou hast seen the slain
Pressing a bloody turf--the young and fair,
With their pale beauty strewing o’er the plain
Where hosts have met: speak! answer!--was _he_ there?
Oh! hath his smile departed? Could the grave
Shut o’er those bursts of bright and tameless glee?
No! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave!----
That look gives hope--I knew it could not be!

Still weep’st thou, wanderer? Some fond mother’s glance
O’er thee, too, brooded in thine early years--
Think’st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance,
Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears?
Speak, for thy tears disturb me!--what art thou?
Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on?
Look up! Oh! is it--that wan cheek and brow!--
Is it--alas! yet joy!--my son, my son!

THEKLA’S SONG; OR, THE VOICE OF A SPIRIT.

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

----“’Tis not merely
The human being’s pride that peoples space
With life and mystical predominance;
Since likewise for the stricken heart of love
This visible nature, and this common world,
Are all too narrow.”--Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

[This song is said to have been composed by Schiller in answer to the inquiries of a friend respecting the fate of _Thekla_, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the tragedy of _Wallenstein’s Death_, after her resolution to visit the grave of her lover is made known.]

Ask’st thou my home?--my pathway wouldst thou know,
When from thine eye my floating shadow pass’d?
Was not my work fulfill’d and closed below?
Had I not lived and loved? My lot was cast.

Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone,
That, melting into song her soul away,
Gave the spring-breeze what witch’d thee in its tone?
But while she loved, she lived, in that deep lay!

Think’st thou my heart its lost one hath not found?
Yes! we are one: oh! trust me, we have met,
Where naught again may part what love hath bound,
Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret.

There shalt _thou_ find us, there with us be blest,
If, as _our_ love, _thy_ love is pure and true!
There dwells my father,[326] sinless and at rest,
Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue.

And well he feels, no error of the dust
Drew to the stars of heaven his mortal ken;
There it is with us even as is our trust--
He that believes is near the holy _then_.

There shall each feeling, beautiful and high,
Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day.
Oh! fear thou not to dream with waking eye!
There lies deep meaning oft in childish play.

[326] Wallenstein.

THE REVELLERS.

Ring, joyous chords!--ring out again!
A swifter, and a wilder strain!
They are here--the fair face and the careless heart,
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.----
But I met a dimly mournful glance,
In a sudden turn of the flying dance;
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh
In a pause of the thrilling melody!
And it is not well that woe should breathe
On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath!--
Ye that to thought or to grief belong,
Leave, leave the hall of song!

Ring, joyous chords!----But who art _thou_
With the shadowy locks o’er thy pale young brow,
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes?
Thou hast loved, fair girl! thou hast loved too well!
Thou art mourning now o’er a broken spell;
Thou hast pour’d thy heart’s rich treasures forth,
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth!
Mourn on!--yet come thou not _here_ the while,
It is but a pain to see thee smile!
There is not a tone in our songs for thee--
Home with thy sorrows flee!

Ring, joyous chords!--ring out again!----
But what dost thou with the revel’s train?
A silvery voice through the soft air floats,
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes;
There are bright young faces that pass thee by,
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye!
Away! there’s a void in thy yearning breast,
Thou weary man! wilt thou _here_ find rest!
Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of _thy_ spirit is with the dead:
Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth--
Back to thy silent hearth!

Ring, joyous chords!--ring forth again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!----
But _thou_, though a reckless mien be thine,
And thy cup be crown’d with the foaming wine,
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud,
By thine eye’s quick flash through its troubled cloud,
I know thee! it is but the wakeful fear
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here!
I know thee!--thou fearest the solemn night,
With her piercing stars and her deep wind’s might!
There’s a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst shun,
For it asks what the secret soul hath done!
And thou--there’s a dark weight on thine--away!--
Back to thy home, and pray!

Ring, joyous chords!--ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
And bring fresh wreaths!--we will banish all
Save the free in heart from our festive hall.
On! through the maze of the fleet dance, on!--
But where are the young and the lovely gone?
Where are the brows with the Red Rose crown’d,
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound?
And the waving locks and the flying feet,
That still should be where the mirthful meet?--
They are gone--they are fled--they are parted all:
Alas! the forsaken hall!

THE CONQUEROR’S SLEEP.

Sleep midst thy banners furl’d!
Yes! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying,
With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing,
Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the world!
Sleep, while the babe sleeps on its mother’s breast.
Oh! strong is night--for thou too art at rest!

Stillness hath smooth’d thy brow,
And now might love keep timid vigils by thee,
Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh thee,
Alike unconscious and defenceless thou!
Tread lightly, watchers! Now the field is won,
Break not the rest of nature’s weary son!

Perchance some lovely dream
Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing,
To the green places of thy boyish daring,
And all the windings of thy native stream.
Why, this were joy! Upon the tented plain,
Dream on, thou Conqueror!--be a child again!

But thou wilt wake at morn,
With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping,
And thy dark troubled thoughts all earth o’ersweeping;
So wilt thou rise, O thou of woman born!
And put thy terrors on, till none may dare
Look upon thee--the tired one, slumbering there!

Why, so the peasant sleeps
Beneath his vine!--and man must kneel before thee,
And for his birthright vainly still implore thee!
Shalt thou be stay’d because thy brother weeps?--
Wake! and forget that midst a dreaming world,
Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furl’d!

Forget that thou, even thou,
Hast feebly shiver’d when the wind pass’d o’er thee,
And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee,
And felt the night-dew chill thy fever’d brow!
Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press on!--
Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son.

OUR LADY’S WELL.[327]

Fount of the woods! thou art hid no more
From heaven’s clear eye, as in time of yore.
For the roof hath sunk from thy mossy walls,
And the sun’s free glance on thy slumber falls;
And the dim tree-shadows across thee pass,
As the boughs are sway’d o’er thy silvery glass;
And the reddening leaves to thy breast are blown,
When the autumn wind hath a stormy tone;
And thy bubbles rise to the flashing rain--
Bright Fount! thou art nature’s own again!

Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more
By the pilgrim’s foot, as in time of yore,
When he came from afar, his beads to tell,
And to chant his hymn at Our Lady’s Well.
There is heard no _Ave_ through thy bowers,
Thou art gleaming lone midst thy water-flowers!
But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave,
And there may the reaper his forehead lave,
And the woodman seeks thee not in vain--
Bright Fount! thou art nature’s own again!

Fount of the Virgin’s ruin’d shrine!
A voice that speaks of the past is thine!
It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh
With the notes that ring through the laughing sky;
Midst the mirthful song of the summer bird,
And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard!--
Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee,
To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free?
’Tis that all on earth is of _Time’s_ domain--
He hath made thee nature’s own again!

Fount of the chapel with ages gray!
Thou art springing freshly amidst decay;
Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low,
And the changeful hours breathe o’er thee now.
Yet if at thine altar one holy thought
In man’s deep spirit of old hath wrought;
If peace to the mourner hath here been given,
Or prayer, from a chasten’d heart, to heaven--
Be the spot still hallow’d while Time shall reign,
Who hath made thee nature’s own again!

[327] A beautiful spring in the woods near St Asaph, formerly covered in with a chapel, now in ruins. It was dedicated to the Virgin, and, according to Pennant, much the resort of pilgrims.

[Those who only know the neighbourhood of St Asaph from travelling along its highways, can be little aware how much delightful scenery is attainable within walks of two or three miles’ distance from Mrs Hemans’s residence. The placid beauty of the Clwyd, and the wilder graces of the sister stream, the Elwy, particularly in the vicinity of “Our Lady’s Well,” and the interesting rocks and caves at Cefn, are little known to general tourists; though, by the lovers of her poetry, it will be remembered how sweetly she has apostrophised the

“Fount of the chapel with ages gray;”

and how tenderly, amid far different scenes, her thoughts reverted to the

“Cambrian river with slow music gliding, By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin’d towers.”

--(Sonnet to the River Clwyd.) --_Memoir_, p. 92-3.]

THE PARTING OF SUMMER.

Thou’rt bearing hence thy roses,
Glad summer, fare thee well!
Thou’rt singing thy last melodies
In every wood and dell.

But ere the golden sunset
Of thy latest lingering day,
Oh! tell me, o’er this checker’d earth,
How hast thou pass’d away?

Brightly, sweet Summer! brightly
Thine hours have floated by,
To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs,
The rangers of the sky;

And brightly in the forests,
To the wild deer wandering free;
And brightly, ’midst the garden flowers,
To the happy murmuring bee:

But how to human bosoms,
With all their hopes and fears,
And thoughts that make them eagle-wings,
To pierce the unborn years?

Sweet Summer! to the captive
Thou hast flown in burning dreams
Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves,
And the blue rejoicing streams;--

To the wasted and the weary
On the bed of sickness bound,
In swift delirious fantasies,
That changed with every sound;--

To the sailor on the billows,
In longings, wild and vain,
For the gushing founts and breezy hills,
And the homes of earth again!

And unto me, glad Summer!
How hast thou flown to me?
_My_ chainless footstep naught hath kept
From thy haunts of song and glee.

Thou hast flown in wayward visions,
In memories of the dead--
In shadows from a troubled heart,
O’er thy sunny pathway shed:

In brief and sudden strivings
To fling a weight aside--
Midst these thy melodies have ceased,
And all thy roses died.

But oh! thou gentle Summer!
If I greet thy flowers once more,
Bring me again the buoyancy
Wherewith my soul should soar!

Give me to hail thy sunshine
With song and spirit free;
Or in a purer air than this
May that next meeting be!

THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.

----“Sing aloud
Old songs, the precious music of the heart.”
Wordsworth

Sing them upon the sunny hills,
When days are long and bright,
And the blue gleam of shining rills
Is loveliest to the sight!
Sing them along the misty moor,
Where ancient hunters roved,
And swell them through the torrent’s roar,
The songs our fathers loved!--