Chapter XLI: Part II (4)

The songs their souls rejoiced to hear
When harps were in the hall,
And each proud note made lance and spear
Thrill on the banner’d wall:
The songs that through our valleys green,
Sent on from age to age,
Like his own river’s voice, have been
The peasant’s heritage.

The reaper sings them when the vale
Is fill’d with plumy sheaves;
The woodman, by the starlight pale,
Cheer’d homeward through the leaves:
And unto them the glancing oars
A joyous measure keep,
Where the dark rocks that crest our shores
Dash back the foaming deep.

So let it be! a light they shed
O’er each old fount and grove;
A memory of the gentle dead,
A lingering spell of love.
Murmuring the names of mighty men,
They bid our streams roll on,
And link high thoughts to every glen
Where valiant deeds were done.

Teach them your children round the hearth,
When evening fires burn clear,
And in the fields of harvest mirth,
And on the hills of deer.
So shall each unforgotten word,
When far those loved ones roam,
Call back the hearts which once it stirr’d,
To childhood’s holy home.

The green woods of their native land
Shall whisper in the strain,
The voices of their household band
Shall breathe their names again;
The heathery heights in vision rise,
Where, like the stag, they roved.
Sing to your sons those melodies,
The songs your fathers loved!

THE WORLD IN THE OPEN AIR.

Come, while in freshness and dew it lies,
To the world that is under the free blue skies!
Leave ye man’s home, and forget his care--
There breathes no sigh on the dayspring’s air.

Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells
A light, all made for the poet dwells--
A light, colour’d softly by tender leaves,
Whence the primrose a mellower glow receives.

The stock-dove is there in the beechen tree,
And the lulling tone of the honey-bee;
And the voice of cool waters midst feathery fern,
Shedding sweet sounds from some hidden urn.

There is life, there is youth, there is tameless mirth,
Where the streams, with the lilies they wear, have birth;
There is peace where the alders are whispering low:
Come from man’s dwellings with all their woe!

Yes! we will come--we will leave behind
The homes and the sorrows of human kind.
It is well to rove where the river leads
Its bright blue vein along sunny meads:

It is well through the rich wild woods to go,
And to pierce the haunts of the fawn and doe;
And to hear the gushing of gentle springs,
When the heart has been fretted by worldly stings;

And to watch the colours that flit and pass,
With insect-wings, through the wavy grass;
And the silvery gleams o’er the ash-tree’s bark,
Borne in with a breeze through the foliage dark.

Joyous and far shall our wanderings be,
As the flight of birds o’er the glittering sea:
To the woods, to the dingles where violets blow,
We will bear no memory of earthly woe.

But if, by the forest-brook, we meet
A line like the pathway of former feet;
If, midst the hills, in some lonely spot,
We reach the gray ruins of tower or cot;--

If the cell, where a hermit of old hath pray’d,
Lift up its cross through the solemn shade;
Or if some nook, where the wild flowers wave,
Bear token sad of a mortal grave,--

Doubt not but _there_ will our steps be stay’d,
There our quick spirits awhile delay’d;
There will thought fix our impatient eyes,
And win back our hearts to their sympathies.

For what though the mountains and skies be fair,
Steep’d in soft hues of the summer air?
’Tis the soul of man, by its hopes and dreams,
That lights up all nature with living gleams.

Where it hath suffer’d and nobly striven,
Where it hath pour’d forth its vows to heaven;
Where to repose it hath brightly pass’d,
O’er this green earth there is glory cast.

And by that soul, midst groves and rills,
And flocks that feed on a thousand hills,
Birds of the forest, and flowers of the sod,
_We_, only _we_, may be link’d to God!

KINDRED HEARTS.

Oh! ask not, hope thou not too much
Of sympathy below!
Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountains flow--
Few, and by still conflicting powers
Forbidden here to meet:
Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother’s eye
Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky,
Where the rich sunset burns:
It may be that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,
A rapture o’er thy soul can bring--
A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times--
A sorrowful delight!
The melody of distant chimes,
The sound of waves by night,
The wind that, with so many a tone,
Some chord within can thrill,--
These may have language all thine own,
To _him_ a mystery still.

Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true
And steadfast love of years;
The kindly, that from childhood grew,
The faithful to thy tears!
If there be one that o’er the dead
Hath in thy grief borne part,
And watch’d through sickness by thy bed,--
Call _his_ a kindred heart!

But for those bonds all perfect made,
Wherein bright spirits blend,
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade
With the same breeze that bend--
For that full bliss of thought allied
Never to mortals given,
Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside,
Or lift them unto heaven.

THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF THE NILE.

In sunset’s light, o’er Afric thrown,
A wanderer proudly stood
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone,
Of Egypt’s awful flood--
The cradle of that mighty birth,
So long a hidden thing to earth!

He heard its life’s first murmuring sound,
A low mysterious tone--
A music sought, but never found
By kings and warriors gone.
He listen’d--and his heart beat high:
That was the song of victory!

The rapture of a conqueror’s mood
Rush’d burning through his frame,--
The depths of that green solitude
Its torrents could not tame;
Though stillness lay, with eve’s last smile,
Round those far fountains of the Nile.

Night came with stars. Across his soul
There swept a sudden change:
E’en at the pilgrim’s glorious goal,
A shadow dark and strange
Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall
O’er triumph’s hour--_and is this all_?[328]

No more than this! What seem’d it now
First by that spring to stand?
A thousand streams of lovelier flow
Bathed his own mountain-land!
Whence, far o’er waste and ocean track,
Their wild, sweet voices, call’d him back.

They call’d him back to many a glade,
His childhood’s haunt of play,
Where brightly through the beechen shade
Their waters glanced away;
They call’d him, with their sounding waves,
Back to his father’s hills and graves.

But, darkly mingling with the thought
Of each familiar scene,
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught
With all that lay between--
The Arab’s lance, the desert’s gloom,
The whirling sands, the red simoom!

Where was the glow of power and pride?
The spirit born to roam?
His alter’d heart within him died
With yearnings for his home!
All vainly struggling to repress
That gush of painful tenderness.

He wept! The stars of Afric’s heaven
Beheld his bursting tears,
E’en on that spot where fate had given
The meed of toiling years!--
O Happiness! how far we flee
Thine own sweet paths in search of thee!

[328] Bruce’s mingled feelings on arriving at the source of the Nile, are thus portrayed by him:--“I was, at that very moment, in possession of what had for many years been the principal object of my ambition and wishes; indifference, which, from the usual infirmity of human nature, follows, at least for a time, complete enjoyment, had taken place of it. The marsh and the fountains of the Nile, upon comparison with the rise of many of our rivers, became now a trifling object in my sight. I remembered that magnificent scene in my own native country, where the Tweed, Clyde, and Annan, rise in one hill. I began, in my sorrow, to treat the inquiry about the source of the Nile as a violent effort of a distempered fancy.”

CASABIANCA.[329]

The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm--
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.

The flames roll’d on--he would not go
Without his father’s word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

He call’d aloud:--“Say, father! say
If yet my task is done!”
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

“Speak, father!” once again he cried,
“If I may yet be gone!”
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll’d on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And look’d from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,
“My father! must I stay?”
While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And stream’d above the gallant child
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder-sound--
The boy--oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strew’d the sea!--

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing which perish’d there
Was that young faithful heart!

[329] Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.

THE DIAL OF FLOWERS.[330]

’Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours,
As they floated in light away,
By the opening and the folding flowers,
That laugh to the summer’s day.

Thus had each moment its own rich hue,
And its graceful cup and bell,
In whose colour’d vase might sleep the dew,
Like a pearl in an ocean-shell.

To such sweet signs might the time have flow’d
In a golden current on,
Ere from the garden, man’s first abode,
The glorious guests were gone.

So might the days have been brightly told--
Those days of song and dreams--
When shepherds gather’d their flocks of old
By the blue Arcadian streams.

So in those isles of delight, that rest
Far off in a breezeless main,
Which many a bark, with a weary quest,
Has sought, but still in vain.

Yet is not life, in its real flight,
Mark’d thus--even thus--on earth,
By the closing of one hope’s delight,
And another’s gentle birth?

Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower,
Shutting in turn, may leave
A lingerer still for the sunset hour,
A charm for the shaded eve.

[330] This dial was, I believe, formed by Linnæus, and marked the hours by the opening and closing, at regular intervals, of the flowers arranged in it.

OUR DAILY PATHS.[331]

“Naught shall prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings.” Wordsworth.

There’s beauty all around our paths, if but our watchful eyes
Can trace it midst familiar things, and through their lowly guise;
We may find it where a hedgerow showers its blossoms o’er our way,
Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red light of day.

We may find it where a spring shines clear beneath an aged tree,
With the foxglove o’er the water’s glass, borne downwards by the
bee;
Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen stems is thrown,
As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses green and lone.

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross the cold blue
sky,
While soft on icy pool and stream their pencil’d shadows lie,
When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work bound,
Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of crystals to the
ground.

Yes! beauty dwells in all our paths--but sorrow too is there:
How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, still summer air!
When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the joyous things,
That through the leafy places glance on many-colour’d wings,

With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland shades,
And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in the glades;
And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo’s plaintive tone
Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone.

But are we free to do even thus--to wander as we will,
Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o’er the breezy hill?
No! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind us fast,
While from their narrow round we see the golden day fleet past.

They hold us from the woodlark’s haunts, and violet dingles, back,
And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining river’s
track;
They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, hope, and mirth,
And weigh our burden’d spirits down with the cumbering dust of
earth.

Yet should this be? Too much, too soon, despondingly we yield!
A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field!
A sweeter by the birds of heaven--which tell us, in their flight,
Of One that through the desert air for ever guides them right.

Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain conflicts
cease?
Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy hours of peace,
And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our pathway
lies,
By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the skies!

[331] This little poem derives an additional interest from being affectingly associated with a name no less distinguished than that of the late Mr Dugald Stewart. The admiration he always expressed for Mrs Hemans’s poetry, was mingled with regret that she so generally made choice of melancholy subjects; and on one occasion, he sent her, through a mutual friend, a message suggestive of his wish that she would employ her fine talents in giving more consolatory views of the ways of Providence, thus infusing comfort and cheer into the bosoms of her readers, in a spirit of Christian philosophy, which, he thought, would be more consonant with the pious mind and loving heart displayed in every line she wrote, than dwelling on what was painful and depressing, however beautifully and touchingly such subjects might be treated of. This message was faithfully transmitted, and almost by return of post, Mrs Hemans (who was then residing in Wales) sent to the kind friend to whom it had been forwarded, the poem of “Our Daily Paths,” requesting it might be given to Mr Stewart, with an assurance of her gratitude for the interest he took in her writings, and alleging as the reason of the mournful strain which pervaded them, “that a cloud hung over her life which she could not always rise above.”

The letter reached Mr Stewart just as he was stepping into the carriage, to leave his country residence (Kinneil House, the property of the Duke of Hamilton) for Edinburgh--the last time, alas! his presence was ever to gladden that happy home, as his valuable life was closed very shortly afterwards. The poem was read to him by his daughter, on his way to Edinburgh, and he expressed himself in the highest degree charmed and gratified with the result of his suggestions; and some of the lines which pleased him more particularly were often repeated to him during the few remaining weeks of his life.

THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS.

Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief,
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb;
His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief,
And his arms folded in majestic gloom;
And his bow lay unstrung, beneath the mound
Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around.

For a pale cross above its greensward rose,
Telling the cedars and the pines that there
Man’s heart and hope had struggled with his woes,
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer.
Now all was hush’d--and eve’s last splendour shone
With a rich sadness on th’ attesting stone.

There came a lonely traveller o’er the wild,
And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave,
Asking the tale of its memorial, piled
Between the forest and the lake’s bright wave;
Till, as a wind might stir a wither’d oak,
On the deep dream of age his accents broke.

And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said--
“I listen’d for the words, which, years ago,
Pass’d o’er these waters. Though the voice is fled
Which made them as a singing fountain’s flow,
Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track,
Sometimes the forest’s murmur gives them back.

“Ask’st thou of him whose house is lone beneath?
I was an eagle in my youthful pride,
When o’er the seas he came, with summer’s breath,
To dwell amidst us, on the lake’s green side.
Many the times of flowers have been since then--
Many, but bringing naught like _him_ again!

“Not with the hunter’s bow and spear he came,
O’er the blue hills to chase the flying roe;
Not the dark glory of the woods to tame,
Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low;
But to spread tidings of all holy things,
Gladdening our souls, as with the morning’s wings.

“Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met,
I and my brethren that from earth are gone,
Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet
Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone?
He told of One the grave’s dark bonds who broke,
And our hearts burn’d within us as he spoke.

“He told of far and sunny lands, which lie
Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell:
Bright must they be! for _there_ are none that die,
And none that weep, and none that say ‘Farewell!’
He came to guide us thither; but away
The Happy call’d him, and he might not stay.

“We saw him slowly fade--athirst, perchance,
For the fresh waters of that lovely clime;
Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance,
And on his gleaming hair no touch of time--
Therefore we hoped: but now the lake looks dim,
For the green summer comes--and finds not him!

“We gather’d round him in the dewy hour
Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree;
From his clear voice, at first, the words of power
Came low, like moanings of a distant sea;
But swell’d and shook the wilderness ere long,
As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong.

“And then once more they trembled on his tongue,
And his white eyelids flutter’d, and his head
Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hung----
Know’st thou not how we pass to join the dead?
It is enough! he sank upon my breast--
Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest!

“We buried him where he was wont to pray,
By the calm lake, e’en here, at eventide;
We rear’d this cross in token where he lay,
For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died!
Now hath he surely reach’d, o’er mount and wave,
That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave.

“But I am sad! I mourn the clear light taken
Back from my people, o’er whose place it shone,
The pathway to the better shore forsaken,
And the true words forgotten, save by one,
Who hears them faintly sounding from the past,
Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast.”

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye:
“Son of the wilderness! despair thou not,
Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by,
And the cloud settled o’er thy nation’s lot!
Heaven darkly works--yet, where the seed hath been,
There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen.

“Hope on, hope ever!--by the sudden springing
Of green leaves which the winter hid so long;
And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing,
After cold silent months the woods among;
And by the rending of the frozen chains,
Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains.

“Deem not the words of light that here were spoken,
But as a lovely song, to leave no trace;
Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken,
And the full dayspring rise upon thy race!
And fading mists the better path disclose,
And the wide desert blossom as the rose.”

So by the cross they parted, in the wild,
Each fraught with musings for life’s after day,
Memories to visit _one_, the forest’s child,
By many a blue stream in its lonely way;
And upon _one_, midst busy throngs to press
Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness.

[“‘The Cross in the Wilderness,’ by Mrs Hemans, is in every way worthy of her delightful genius; and nothing but want of room prevents us from quoting it entire. Mrs Hemans is, indeed, the star that shines most brightly in the hemisphere; and in every thing she writes, there is, along with a fine spirit of poetry, a still finer spirit of moral and religious truth. Of all the female poets of the day, Mrs Hemans is, in the best sense of the word, the most truly feminine--no false glitter about her--no ostentatious display--no gaudy and jingling ornaments--but, as an English matron ought to be, simple, sedate, cheerful, elegant, and religious.”--Professor Wilson in _Blackwood’s Magazine_. Dec. 1826.

LAST RITES.

By the mighty minster’s bell,
Tolling with a sudden swell;
By the colours half-mast high,
O’er the sea hung mournfully;
Know, a prince hath died!

By the drum’s dull muffled sound,
By the arms that sweep the ground,
By the volleying muskets’ tone,
Speak ye of a soldier gone
In his manhood’s pride.

By the chanted psalm that fills
Reverently the ancient hills,[332]
Learn, that from his harvests done,
Peasants hear a brother on
To his last repose.

By the pall of snowy white
Through the yew-trees gleaming bright;
By the garland on the bier,
Weep! a maiden claims thy tear--
Broken is the rose!

Which is the tenderest rite of all?--
Buried virgin’s coronal,
Requiem o’er the monarch’s head,
Farewell gun for warrior dead,
Herdsman’s funeral hymn?

Tells not each of human woe?
Each of hope and strength brought low?
Number each with holy things,
If one chastening thought it brings
Ere life’s day grow dim!

[332] A custom still retained at rural funerals in some parts of England and Wales.

THE HEBREW MOTHER.[333]

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon’s plain,
When a young mother, with her first-born, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow’d
Unto the Temple service. By the hand
She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful was hers,
To bring before her God. So pass’d they on
O’er Judah’s hills; and wheresoe’er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs,
With their cool dimness, cross’d the sultry blue
Of Syria’s heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weigh’d their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o’er his cheek’s repose,
As at a red flower’s heart. And where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades,
Making its bank green gems along the wild,
There, too, she linger’d, from the diamond wave
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips,
And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reach’d,
The earth’s one sanctuary--and rapture hush’d
Her bosom, as before her, through the day,
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep’d
In light like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear,
Turn’d from the white-robed priest, and round her arm
Clung even as joy clings--the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swell’d high, and o’er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song. “Alas!” she cried,--

“Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes;
And now fond thoughts arise,
And silver cords again to earth have won me,
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart--
How shall I hence depart?

“How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing
So late, along the mountains, at my side?
And I, in joyous pride,
By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, e’en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,
Beholding thee so fair!

“And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted,
Will it not seem as if the sunny day
Turn’d from its door away?
While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted,
I languish for thy voice, which past me still
Went like a singing rill?

“Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me,
When from the fount at evening I return,
With the full water-urn;
Nor will thy sleep’s low dove-like breathings greet me,
As midst the silence of the stars I wake,
And watch for thy dear sake.

“And thou, will slumber’s dewy cloud fall round thee,
Without thy mother’s hand to smooth thy bed?
Wilt thou not vainly spread
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee,
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,
A cry which none shall hear?

“What have I said, my child! Will _He_ not hear thee,
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?
Shall He not guard thy rest,
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o’er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy.

“I give thee to thy God--the God that gave thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!
And, precious as thou art,
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!
And thou shalt be His child.

“Therefore, farewell! I go--my soul may fail me,
As the hart panteth for the water brooks,
Yearning for thy sweet looks.
But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me;
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,
The Rock of Strength.--Farewell!”

[333] “It is long since we have read any thing more beautiful than the following poem by Mrs Hemans.”--_Blackwood’s Magazine._ Jan. 1826.

[“It would be wearisomely superfluous to enumerate the long series of lyrics which she now poured forth with increasing earnestness and rapidity, and without which none of the lighter periodicals of the day made its appearance. One or two, however, must be mentioned, as certain to survive so long as the short poem shall be popular in England. ‘The Treasures of the Deep,’ ‘The Hour of Death,’ ‘The Graves of a Household,’ ‘The Cross in the Wilderness,’ are all admirable. With these, too, may be mentioned those poems in which a short descriptive recitative (to borrow a word from the opera) introduces a lyrical burst of passion or regret, or lamentation. This form of composition became so especially popular in America, that hardly a poet has arisen, since the influence of Mrs Hemans’ genius made itself felt on the other side of the Atlantic, who has not attempted something of a similar subject and construction. ‘The Hebrew Mother’ has been followed by an infinite number of sketches from Scripture: this lyric, too, should be particularised as having made friends for its authoress among those of the ancient faith in England. Among the last strangers who visited her, eager to thank her for the pleasure her writings had afforded them, were a Jewish gentleman and lady, who entreated to be admitted by the author of the ‘Hebrew Mother.’”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 114-15.

“Her ‘Voice of Spring,’ her ‘Hour of Death,’ her ‘Treasures of the Deep,’ her ‘Graves of a Household,’ her ‘England’s Dead,’ her ‘Trumpet,’ her ‘Hebrew Mother,’ and a host of similar pieces--these are the undying lays, the lumps of pure gold. We do not think thus with reference to Mrs Hemans’ lyrics only; it strikes us that nearly all our present poets must depend for future fame on their shorter pieces.”--_Literary Magnet_, 1826.]

THE WRECK.

All night the booming minute-gun
Had peal’d along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun
Look’d o’er the tide-worn steep.
A bark from India’s coral strand,
Before the raging blast,
Had vail’d her topsails to the sand,
And bow’d her noble mast.

The queenly ship!--brave hearts had striven,
And true ones died with her!
We saw her mighty cable riven,
Like floating gossamer.
We saw her proud flag struck that morn--
A star once o’er the seas,--
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn,
And sadder things than these!

We saw her treasures cast away,
The rocks with pearls were sown;
And, strangely sad, the ruby’s ray
Flash’d out o’er fretted stone.
And gold was strewn the wet sands o’er,
Like ashes by a breeze;
And gorgeous robes--but oh! that shore
Had sadder things than these!

We saw the strong man still and low,
A crush’d reed thrown aside;
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,
Not without strife he died.
And near him on the sea-weed lay--
Till then we had not wept--
But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a _mother_ slept!

For her pale arms a babe had press’d
With such a wreathing grasp,
Billows had dash’d o’er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp.
Her very tresses had been flung
To wrap the fair child’s form,
Where still their wet long streamers hung
All tangled by the storm.

And beautiful, midst that wild scene,
Gleam’d up the boy’s dead face,
Like slumber’s, trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.
Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet-eye--
_He_ had known little of her dread,
Naught of her agony!

O human love! whose yearning heart,
Through all things vainly true,
So stamps upon thy mortal part
Its passionate adieu--
Surely thou hast another lot:
There is some home for thee,
Where thou shalt rest, remembering not
The moaning of the sea!

THE TRUMPET.[334]

The trumpet’s voice hath roused the land--
Light up the beacon pyre!
A hundred hills have seen the brand,
And waved the sign of fire.
A hundred banners to the breeze
Their gorgeous folds have cast--
And, hark! was that the sound of seas?
A king to war went past.

The chief is arming in his hall,
The peasant by his hearth;
The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth.
The mother on her first-born son
Looks with a boding eye--
_They_ come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side;
E’en, for the marriage altar crown’d,
The lover quits his bride.
And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By _earthly_ clarion spread!--
How will it be when kingdoms hear
The blast that wakes the dead?

[334] “We cannot refrain quoting another poem by the same distinguished writer. It has something sublime.”--_Blackwood’s Magazine_, Jan. 1826.

EVENING PRAYER, AT A GIRLS’ SCHOOL.

“Now in thy youth, beseech of Him
Who giveth, upbraiding not,
That His light in thy heart become not dim,
And his love be unforgot;
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee.”
Bernard Barton.

Hush! ’tis a holy hour. The quiet room
Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds
A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom
And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads,
With all their clustering locks, untouch’d by care,
And bow’d, as flowers are bow’d with night, in prayer.

Gaze on--’tis lovely! Childhood’s lip and cheek,
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought!
Gaze--yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?--
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity!

O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done
As birds with slumber’s honey-dew opprest,
Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun--
Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts th’ untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where’er ye tread,
And o’er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman’s tenderness--how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you--silent tears to weep,
And patient smiles to wear through suffering’s hour,
And sumless riches, from affection’s deep,
To pour on broken reeds--a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship. Therefore pray!

Her lot is on you--to be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain;
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And, oh! to love through all things. Therefore pray!

And take the thought of this calm vesper time,
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!
Earth will forsake--Oh! happy to have given
Th’ unbroken heart’s first fragrance unto heaven.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

“Il est dans la Nature d’aimer à se livrer à l’idée même qu’on redoute.”--Corinne.

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath,
And stars to set--but all,
Thou hast _all_ seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer--
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour--
Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day for grief’s o’erwhelming power,
A time for softer tears--but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee--but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen’d bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath,
And stars to set--but all,
Thou hast _all_ seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn’s hue shall tinge the golden grain--
But who shall teach us when to look for thee!

Is it when spring’s first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?--
They have _one_ season--_all_ are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,
Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth--and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest--
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath,
And stars to set--but all--
Thou hast _all_ seasons for thine own, O Death!

THE LOST PLEIAD.

“Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below.”--Byron.

And is there glory from the heavens departed?
O void unmark’d!--thy sisters of the sky
Still hold their place on high,
Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started,
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye!

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night?
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exiled thence--
No desert seems to part those urns of light,
Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning--
The shepherd greets them on his mountains free;
And from the silvery sea
To them the sailor’s wakeful eye is turning--
Unchanged they rise, they have not mourn’d for thee.

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place,
Even as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray,
Swept by the wind away?
Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,
And was there power to smite them with decay?

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven?
Bow’d be our hearts to think on what we are,
When from its height afar
A world sinks thus--and yon majestic heaven
Shines not the less for that one vanish’d star!

THE CLIFFS OF DOVER.

“The inviolate Island of the sage and free.”--Byron.

Rocks of my country! let the cloud
Your crested heights array,
And rise ye like a fortress proud
Above the surge and spray!

My spirit greets you as ye stand,
Breasting the billow’s foam:
Oh! thus for ever guard the land,
The sever’d land of home!

I have left rich blue skies behind,
Lighting up classic shrines,
And music in the southern wind,
And sunshine on the vines.

The breathings of the myrtle flowers
Have floated o’er my way;
The pilgrim’s voice, at vesper hours,
Hath soothed me with its lay.

The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain,
The purple heavens of Rome--
Yes, all are glorious,--yet again
I bless thee, land of home!

For thine the Sabbath peace, my land!
And thine the guarded hearth;
And thine the dead--the noble band,
That make thee holy earth.

Their voices meet me in thy breeze,
Their steps are on thy plains;
Their names, by old majestic trees,
Are whisper’d round thy fanes.

Their blood hath mingled with the tide
Of thine exulting sea;
Oh, be it still a joy, a pride,
To live and die for thee!

THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS.

The kings of old have shrine and tomb
In many a minster’s haughty gloom;
And green, along the ocean side,
The mounds arise where heroes died;
But show me, on thy flowery breast,
Earth! where thy _nameless_ martyrs rest!

The thousands that, uncheer’d by praise,
Have made one offering of their days;
For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom’s sake,
Resign’d the bitter cup to take;
And silently, in fearless faith,
Bowing their noble souls to death.

Where sleep they, Earth? By no proud stone
Their narrow couch of rest is known;
The still sad glory of their name
Hallows no fountain unto Fame;
No--not a tree the record bears
Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.

Yet haply all around lie strew’d
The ashes of that multitude:
It may be that each day we tread
Where thus devoted hearts have bled;
And the young flowers our children sow,
Take root in holy dust below.

Oh, that the many-rustling leaves,
Which round our homes the summer weaves,
Or that the streams, in whose glad voice
Our own familiar paths rejoice,
Might whisper through the starry sky,
To tell where those blest slumberers lie!

Would not our inmost hearts be still’d,
With knowledge of their presence fill’d,
And by its breathings taught to prize
The meekness of self-sacrifice?
--But the old woods and sounding waves
Are silent of those hidden graves.

Yet what if no light footstep there
In pilgrim-love and awe repair,
So let it be! Like him, whose clay
Deep buried by his Maker lay,
They sleep in secret,--but their sod,
Unknown to man, is mark’d of God!

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

“Pregar, pregar, pregar,
Ch’ altro ponno i mortali al pianger nati?” Alfieri.

Child, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve
Call’d thy harvest-work to leave--
Pray: ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Traveller, in the stranger’s land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor on the darkening sea--
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o’er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial-plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven’s first star alike ye see--
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRODIGAL.

“Von Baumen, aus Wellen, aus Mauern,
Wie ruft es dir freundlich und lind;
Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauern?
Komm’ spielen, du freundliches Kind!”
La Motte Fouque.

Oh! when wilt thou return
To thy spirit’s early loves?
To the freshness of the morn,
To the stillness of the groves?

The summer birds are calling
Thy household porch around,
And the merry waters falling
With sweet laughter in their sound.

And a thousand bright-vein’d flowers,
From their banks of moss and fern,
Breathe of the sunny hours--
But when wilt thou return?

Oh! thou hast wander’d long
From thy home without a guide;
And thy native woodland song
In thine alter’d heart hath died.

Thou hast flung the wealth away,
And the glory of thy spring;
And to thee the leaves’ light play
Is a long-forgotten thing.

But when wilt thou return?--
Sweet dews may freshen soon
The flower, within whose urn
Too fiercely gazed the noon.

O’er the image of the sky,
Which the lake’s clear bosom wore,
Darkly may shadows lie--
But not for evermore.

Give back thy heart again
To the freedom of the woods,
To the birds’ triumphant strain,
To the mountain solitudes!

But when wilt thou return?
Along thine own pure air
There are young sweet voices borne--
Oh! should not thine be there?

Still at thy father’s board
There is kept a place for thee;
And, by thy smile restored,
Joy round the hearth shall be.

Still hath thy mother’s eye,
Thy coming step to greet,
A look of days gone by,
Tender and gravely sweet.

Still, when the prayer is said,
For thee kind bosoms yearn,
For thee fond tears are shed--
Oh! when wilt thou return?

THE WAKENING.

How many thousands are wakening now!
Some to the songs from the forest bough,
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice pane,
To the chiming fall of the early rain.

And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the ship’s tall side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.

And some--oh, well may _their_ hearts rejoice!--
To the gentle sound of a mother’s voice:
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth ’tis gone.

And some, in the camp, to the bugle’s breath,
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath,
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,
Which tells that a field must ere night be won.

And some, in the gloomy convict cell,
To the dull deep note of the warning bell,
As it heavily calls them forth to die,
When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.

And some to the peal of the hunter’s horn,
And some to the din from the city borne,
And some to the rolling of torrent floods,
Far midst old mountains and solemn woods.

So are we roused on this checker’d earth:
Each unto light hath a daily birth;
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet,
Are the voices which first our upspringing meet.

But _one_ must the sound be, and _one_ the call,
Which from the dust shall awaken us all:
One!--but to sever’d and distant dooms,
How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs?

THE BREEZE FROM SHORE.

[“Poetry reveals to us the loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness of youthful feeling, revives the relish of simple pleasures, keeps unquenched the enthusiasm which warmed the spring-time of our being, refines youthful love, strengthens our interest in human nature, by vivid delineations of its tenderest and loftiest feelings; and, through the brightness of its prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the future life.”--Channing.]

Joy is upon the lonely seas,
When Indian forests pour
Forth, to the billow and the breeze,
Their odours from the shore;
Joy, when the soft air’s fanning sigh
Bears on the breath of Araby.

Oh! welcome are the winds that tell
A wanderer of the deep
Where, far away, the jasmines dwell,
And where the myrrh-trees weep!
Blest on the sounding surge and foam
Are tidings of the citron’s home!

The sailor at the helm they meet,
And hope his bosom stirs,
Upspringing, midst the waves, to greet
The fair earth’s messengers,
That woo him, from the moaning main,
Back to her glorious bowers again.

They woo him, whispering lovely tales
Of many a flowering glade,
And fount’s bright gleam, in island vales
Of golden-fruited shade:
Across his lone ship’s wake they bring
A vision and a glow of spring.

And, O ye masters of the lay!
Come not even thus your songs
That meet us on life’s weary way,
Amidst her toiling throngs?
Yes! o’er the spirit thus they bear
A current of celestial air.

Their power is from the brighter clime
That in our birth hath part;
Their tones are of the world, which time
Sears not within the heart:
They tell us of the living light
In its green places ever bright.

They call us, with a voice divine,
Back to our early love,--
Our vows of youth at many a shrine,
Whence far and fast we rove.
Welcome high thought and holy strain
That make us Truth’s and Heaven’s again!

THE DYING IMPROVISATORE.[335]

“My heart shall be pour’d over thee--and break.”
Prophecy of Dante.

The spirit of my land,
It visits me once more!--though I must die
Far from the myrtles which thy breeze hath fann’d,
My own bright Italy!

It is, it is thy breath,
Which stirs my soul e’en yet, as wavering flame
Is shaken by the wind,--in life and death
Still trembling, yet the same!

Oh! that love’s quenchless power
Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky,
And through thy groves its dying music shower,
Italy! Italy!

The nightingale is there,
The sunbeam’s glow, the citron flower’s perfume,
The south wind’s whisper in the scented air--
It will not pierce the tomb!

Never, oh! never more,
On thy Rome’s purple heaven mine eye shall dwell,
Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore--
My Italy! farewell!

Alas!--thy hills among
Had I but left a memory of my name,
Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song,
Unto immortal fame!

But like a lute’s brief tone,
Like a rose-odour on the breezes cast,
Like a swift flush of dayspring, seen and gone,
So hath my spirit pass’d--

Pouring itself away
As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns
That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns,
Into a fleeting lay;

That swells, and floats, and dies,
Leaving no echo to the summer woods
Of the rich breathings and impassion’d sighs
Which thrill’d their solitudes.

Yet, yet remember me!
Friends! that upon its murmurs oft have hung,
When from my bosom, joyously and free,
The fiery fountain sprung.

Under the dark rich blue
Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea,
And when woods kindle into spring’s first hue,
Sweet friends! remember me!

And in the marble halls,
Where life’s full glow the dreams of beauty wear,
And poet-thoughts embodied light the walls,
Let me be with you there!

Fain would I bind, for you,
My memory with all glorious things to dwell!
Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew--
Sweet friends! bright land! farewell!

[335] Sestini, the Roman Improvisatore, when on his deathbed at Paris, is said to have poured forth a Farewell to Italy, in his most impassioned poetry.

MUSIC OF YESTERDAY.

“O! mein Geist, ich fuhle es in mir, strebt nach etwas Ueberirdischem, das keinem Menschen gegonnt ist.”--Tieck

The chord, the harp’s full chord is hush’d,
The voice hath died away,
Whence music, like sweet waters, gush’d
But yesterday.

Th’ awakening note, the breeze-like swell.
The full o’ersweeping tone,
The sounds that sigh’d “Farewell, farewell!”
Are gone--all gone!

The love, whose fervent spirit pass’d
With the rich measure’s flow;
The grief, to which it sank at last--
Where are they now?

They are with the scents by summer’s breath
Borne from a rose now shed:
With the words from lips long seal’d in death--
For ever fled.

The sea-shell of its native deep
A moaning thrill retains;
But earth and air no record keep
Of parted strains.

And all the memories, all the dreams,
They woke in floating by;
The tender thoughts, th’ Elysian gleams--
Could these too die?

They died! As on the water’s breast
The ripple melts away,
When the breeze that stirr’d it sinks to rest--
So perish’d they!

Mysterious in their sudden birth,
And mournful in their close,
Passing, and finding not on earth
Aim or repose.

Whence were they?--like the breath of flowers
Why thus to come and go?
A long, long journey must be ours
Ere this we know!

THE FORSAKEN HEARTH.

“Was mir fehlt?--Mir fehlt ja alles,
Bin so ganz verlassen hier!”
Tyrolese Melody.

The Hearth, the Hearth is desolate! the fire is quench’d and gone
That into happy children’s eyes once brightly laughing shone;
The place where mirth and music met is hush’d through day and night.
Oh! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there made light!

But scatter’d are those pleasant smiles afar by mount and shore,
Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed to meet no more.
Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other’s joy or mirth,
Unbound is that sweet wreath of home--alas! the lonely hearth!

The voices that have mingled here now speak another tongue,
Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs their mother sung.
Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound each household
tone:
The hearth, the hearth is desolate! the bright fire quench’d and
gone!

But _are_ they speaking, singing yet, as in their days of glee?
Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on earth or sea?
Oh! some are hush’d, and some are changed, and never shall one
strain
Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again.

And of the hearts that here were link’d by long-remember’d years,
Alas! the brother knows not now when fall the sister’s tears!
One haply revels at the feast, while one may droop alone:
For broken is the household chain, the bright fire quench’d and
gone!

Not so--’tis _not_ a broken chain: thy memory binds them still,
Thou holy hearth of other days! though silent now and chill.
The smiles, the tears, the rites, beheld by thine attesting stone,
Have yet a living power to mark thy children for thine own.

The father’s voice, the mother’s prayer, though call’d from earth
away,
With music rising from the dead, their spirits yet shall sway;
And by the past, and by the grave, the parted yet are one,
Though the loved hearth be desolate, the bright fire quench’d and
gone!

THE DREAMER.

“There is no such thing as forgetting, possible to the mind; a thousand accidents may, and will, interpose a veil between our present consciousness and the secret inscription on the mind; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains for ever.”

English Opium-Eater.

“Thou hast been call’d, O sleep! the friend of woe,
But ’tis the happy who have call’d thee so.” Southey.

Peace to thy dreams! thou art slumbering now--
The moonlight’s calm is upon thy brow;
All the deep love that o’erflows thy breast
Lies midst the hush of thy heart at rest--
Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell,
When eve through the woodlands hath sigh’d farewell.

Peace! The sad memories that through the day
With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay,
The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead,
That bow’d thee as winds bow the willow’s head,
The yearnings for faces and voices gone--
All are forgotten! Sleep on, sleep on!

_Are_ they forgotten? It is not so!
Slumber divides not the heart from its woe.
E’en now o’er thine aspect swift changes pass,
Like lights and shades over wavy grass:
Tremblest thou, Dreamer? O love and grief!
Ye have storms that shake e’en the closed-up leaf!

On thy parted lips there’s a quivering thrill,
As on a lyre ere its chords are still;
On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye,
There’s a large tear gathering heavily--
A rain from the clouds of thy spirit press’d:
Sorrowful Dreamer! this is not rest!

It is Thought at work amidst buried hours--
It is Love keeping vigil o’er perish’d flowers.
--Oh, we bear within us mysterious things!
Of Memory and Anguish, unfathom’d springs;
And Passion--those gulfs of the heart to fill
With bitter waves, which it ne’er may still.

Well might we pause ere we gave them sway,
Flinging the peace of our couch away!
Well might we look on our souls in fear--
They find no fount of oblivion here!
They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath--
How know we if under the wings of death?

THE WINGS OF THE DOVE.