Chapter XLVIII: Part II (11)

How many hopes were borne upon thy bier,
O bride of stricken love! in anguish hither!
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year,
Pluck’d on the bosom of the dead to wither;
Hopes from their source all holy, though of earth,
All brightly gathering round affection’s hearth.
Of mingled prayer they told; of Sabbath hours;
Of morn’s farewell, and evening’s blessed meeting;
Of childhood’s voice, amidst the household bowers;
And bounding step, and smile of joyous greeting;--
But thou, young mother! to thy gentle heart
Did’st take thy babe, and meekly so depart.

How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence!
Their trace yet lights the dust where thou art sleeping!
A solemn joy comes o’er me, and a sense
Of triumph, blent with nature’s gush of weeping,
As, kindling up the silent stone, I see
The glorious vision, caught by faith, of thee.

Slumberer! love calls thee, for the night is past;
Put on the immortal beauty of thy waking!
Captive! and hear’st thou not the trumpet’s blast,
The long, victorious note, thy bondage breaking?
Thou hear’st, thou answer’st, “God of earth and heaven!
Here am I, with the child whom thou hast given!”

THE EXILE’S DIRGE.

“Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta’en thy wages.” Cymbeline.

[“I attended a funeral where there were a number of the German settlers present. After I had performed such service as is usual on similar occasions, a most venerable-looking old man came forward, and asked me if I were willing that they should perform some of their peculiar rites. He opened a very ancient version of Luther’s Hymns, and they all began to sing, in German, so loud that the woods echoed the strain. There was something affecting in the singing of these ancient people, carrying one of their brethren to his last home, and using the language and rites which they had brought with them over the sea from the _Vaterland_, a word which often occurred in this hymn. It was a long, slow, and mournful air, which they sung as they bore the body along: the words ‘_mein Gott_,’ ‘_mein Bruder_,’ and ‘_Vaterland_,’ died away in distant echoes amongst the woods. I shall long remember that funeral hymn.”--Flint’s _Recollections of the Valley of the Mississippi_.]

There went a dirge through the forest’s gloom.
--An exile was borne to a lonely tomb.

“Brother!” (so the chant was sung
In the slumberer’s native tongue,)
“Friend and brother! not for thee
Shall the sound of weeping be:
Long the exile’s woe hath lain
On thy life a withering chain;
Music from thine own blue streams
Wander’d through thy fever-dreams;
Voices from thy country’s vines
Met thee midst the alien pines;
And thy time heart died away,
And thy spirit would not stay.”

So swell’d the chant; and the deep wind’s moan,
Seem’d through the cedars to murmur--“_Gone!_”

“Brother! by the rolling Rhine
Stands the home that once was thine;
Brother! now thy dwelling lies
Where the Indian arrow flies!
He that bless’d thine infant head
Fills a distant greensward bed;
She that heard thy lisping prayer
Slumbers low beside him there;
They that earliest with thee play’d
Rest beneath their own oak-shade,
Far, far hence!--yet sea nor shore
Haply, brother! part ye more;
God hath call’d thee to that band
In the immortal Fatherland!”

“The _Fatherland_!”--with that sweet word
A burst of tears midst the strain was heard.

“Brother! were we there with thee
Rich would many a meeting be!
Many a broken garland bound,
Many a mourn’d and lost one found!
But our task is still to bear,
Still to breathe in changeful air;
Loved and bright things to resign,
As even now this dust of thine;
Yet to hope!--to hope in heaven,
Though flowers fall, and ties be riven--
Yet to pray! and wait the hand
Beckoning to the Fatherland!”

And the requiem died in the forest’s gloom;
They had reach’d the exile’s lonely tomb.

THE DREAMING CHILD.

“Alas! what kind of grief should thy years know?
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be
When no breath troubles them.”
Beaumont and Fletcher.

And is there sadness in _thy_ dreams, my boy?
What should the cloud be made of? Blessed child!
Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy,
All day hath ranged through sunshine clear, yet mild:

And now thou tremblest!--wherefore?--in _thy_ soul
There lies no past, no future. Thou hast heard
No sound of presage from the distance roll,
Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word.

From thee no love hath gone; thy mind’s young eye
Hath look’d not into death’s, and thence become
A questioner of mute eternity,
A weary searcher for a viewless home:

Nor hath thy sense been quicken’d unto pain
By feverish watching for some step beloved:
Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train,
Glancing like dewdrops, and as lightly moved.

Yet now, on billows of strange passion toss’d,
How art thou wilder’d in the cave of sleep!
My gentle child! midst what dim phantoms lost,
Thus in mysterious anguish dost thou weep?

Awake! they sadden me--those early tears,
First gushings of the strong, dark river’s flow,
That must o’ersweep thy soul with coming years,
Th’ unfathomable flood of human woe!

Awful to watch, even rolling through a dream,
Forcing wild spray-drops but from childhood’s eyes!
Wake, wake! as yet _thy_ life’s transparent stream
Should wear the tinge of none but summer skies.

Come from the shadow of those realms unknown,
Where now thy thoughts dismay’d and darkling rove;
Come to the kindly region all thine own,
The home still bright for thee with guardian love.

Happy, fair child! that yet a mother’s voice
Can win thee back from visionary strife!--
Oh, shall _my_ soul, thus waken’d to rejoice,
Start from the dreamlike wilderness of life?

THE CHARMED PICTURE.

“Oh! that those lips had language! Life hath pass’d
With me but roughly since I saw thee last.”
Cowper.

Thine eyes are charm’d--thine earnest eyes--
Thou image of the dead!
A spell within their sweetness lies,
A virtue thence is shed.

Oft in their meek blue light enshrined
A blessing seems to be,
And sometimes there my wayward mind
A still reproach can see:

And sometimes pity--soft and deep,
And quivering through a tear;
Even as if love in heaven could weep
For grief left drooping here.

And oh, my spirit needs that balm!
Needs it midst fitful mirth!
And in the night-hour’s haunted calm,
And by the lonely hearth.

Look on me _thus_, when hollow praise
Hath made the weary pine
For one true tone of other days,
One glance of love like thine!

Look on me _thus_, when sudden glee
Bears my quick heart along,
On wings that struggle to be free,
As bursts of skylark song.

In vain, in vain!--too soon are felt
The wounds they cannot flee:
Better in childlike tears to melt,
Pouring my soul on thee!

Sweet face, that o’er my childhood shone!
Whence is thy power of change,
Thus ever shadowing back my own,
The rapid and the strange?

Whence are they charm’d--those earnest eyes?
--I know the mystery well!
In mine own trembling bosom lies
The spirit of the spell!

Of Memory, Conscience, Love, ’tis born--
Oh! change no longer, thou!
For ever be the blessing worn
On thy pure thoughtful brow!

PARTING WORDS.

“One struggle more, and I am free.”--Byron.

Leave me! oh, leave me! Unto all below
Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell;
Thou makest those mortal regions, whence I go,
Too mighty in their loveliness. Farewell,
That I may part in peace!

Leave me!--thy footstep, with its lightest sound,
The very shadow of thy waving hair,
Wakes in my soul a feeling too profound,
Too strong for aught that loves and dies, to bear--
Oh! bid the conflict cease!

I hear thy whisper--and the warm tears gush
Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart;
Thou bid’st the peace, the reverential hush,
The still submission, from my thoughts depart:
Dear one! this must not be.

The past looks on me from thy mournful eye,
The beauty of our free and vernal days;
Our communings with sea, and hill, and sky--
Oh! take that bright world from my spirit’s gaze!
Thou art all earth to me!

Shut out the sunshine from my dying room,
The jasmine’s breath, the murmur of the bee;
Let not the joy of bird-notes pierce the gloom!
They speak of love, of summer, and of thee,
Too much--and death is here!

Doth our own spring make happy music now,
From the old beech-roots flashing into day?
Are the pure lilies imaged in its flow?
Alas! vain thoughts! that fondly thus can stray
From the dread hour so near!

If I could but draw courage from the light
Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless!
--Not now! ’twill not be now!--my aching sight,
Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness,
Bearing all strength away!

Leave me!--thou com’st between my heart and Heaven;
I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die!--
Why must our souls thus love, and then be riven?
Return! thy parting wakes mine agony!
Oh, yet awhile delay!

THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD.

Thou’rt passing hence, my brother!
O my earliest friend, farewell!
Thou’rt leaving me, without thy voice,
In a lonely home to dwell;
And from the hills, and from the hearth,
And from the household tree,
With thee departs the lingering mirth,
The brightness goes with thee.[373]

But thou, my friend, my brother!
Thou’rt speeding to the shore
Where the dirge-like tone of parting words
Shall smite the soul no more!
And thou wilt see our holy dead,
The lost on earth and main:
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts,
Thou wilt be bound again!

Tell, then, our friend of boyhood
That yet his name is heard
On the blue mountains, whence his youth
Pass’d like a swift, bright bird.
The light of his exulting brow,
The vision of his glee,
Are on me still--oh! still I trust
That smile again to see.

And tell our fair young sister,
The rose cut down in spring,
That yet my gushing soul is fill’d
With lays she loved to sing.
Her soft deep eyes look through my dreams,
Tender and sadly sweet;--
Tell her my heart within me burns
Once more that gaze to meet.

And tell our white-hair’d father,
That in the paths be trode,
The child he loved, the last on earth,
Yet walks and worships God.
Say, that his last fond blessing yet
Rests on my soul like dew,
And by its hallowing might I trust
Once more his face to view.

And tell our gentle mother,
That on her grave I pour
The sorrows of my spirit forth,
As on her breast of yore.
Happy thou art that soon, how soon,
Our good and bright will see!--
O brother, brother! may I dwell,
Ere long, with them and thee!

[373] “Messages from the living to the dead are not uncommon in the Highlands. The Gaels have such a ceaseless consciousness of immortality, that their departed friends are considered as merely absent for a time, and permitted to relieve the hours of separation by occasional intercourse with the objects of their earliest affections.”--See the Notes to Mrs Brunton’s Works.

THE TWO HOMES.

“Oh, if the soul immortal be,
Is not its love immortal too?”

See’st thou my home? ’Tis where yon woods are waving,
In their dark richness, to the summer air,
Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks laving,
Leads down the hills a vein of light,--’tis there!

Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies gleaming,
Fringed with the violet, colour’d with the skies!
My boyhood’s haunt, through days of summer dreaming,
Under young leaves that shook with melodies.

My home! The spirit of its love is breathing
In every wind that blows across my track;
From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing,
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back.

There am I loved--there pray’d for--there my mother
Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye;
There my young sisters watch to greet their brother--
Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly.

There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending,
All the home-voices meet at day’s decline;
One are those tones, as from one heart ascending,
There laughs _my_ home--sad stranger! where is thine?

Ask’st thou of mine? In solemn peace ’tis lying,
Far o’er the deserts and the tombs away;
’Tis where _I_, too, am loved with love undying,
And fond hearts wait my step--But where are they?

Ask where the earth’s departed have their dwelling;
Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air!
I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling
My lonely heart that love unchanged is there.

And what is home, and where, but with the loving
Happy _thou_ art, that so canst gaze on thine!
My spirit feels but, in its weary roving,
That with the dead, where’er they be, is mine,

Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother!
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene!
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother,
I well believe--but dark seas roll between.

THE SOLDIER’S DEATH-BED.

“Wie herrlich die Sonne dort untergeht! da ich noch ein Bube war--war’s mein Lieblingsgedanke, wie sie zu leben, wie sie zu sterben!”

Die Rauber.

_Like thee to die, thou sun!_--My boyhood’s dream
Was this; and now my spirit, with thy beam,
Ebbs from a field of victory!--yet the hour
Bears back upon me, with a torrent’s power,
Nature’s deep longings. Oh! for some kind eye
Wherein to meet love’s fervent farewell gaze;
Some breast to pillow life’s last agony,
Some voice, to speak of home and better days,
Beyond the pass of shadows! But I go,
I that have been so loved, go hence alone;
And ye, now gathering round my own hearth’s glow,
Sweet friends! it may be that a softer tone,
Ev’n in this moment, with your laughing glee,
Mingles its cadence while you speak of me--
Of me, your soldier, midst the mountains lying,
On the red banner of his battles dying,
Far, far away! And oh! your parting prayer--
Will not his name be fondly murmur’d there?
It will!--A blessing on that holy hearth!
Though clouds are darkening to o’ercast its mirth.
Mother! I may not hear thy voice again;
Sisters! ye watch to greet my step in vain;
Young brother, fare thee well!--on each dear head
Blessing and love a thousandfold be shed,
My soul’s last earthly breathings! May your home
Smile for you ever!--May no winter come,
No _world_, between your hearts! May ev’n your tears,
For my sake, full of long-remember’d years,
Quicken the true affections that entwine
Your lives in one bright bond! I may not sleep
Amidst our fathers, where those tears might shine
Over my slumbers; yet your love will keep
My memory living in th’ ancestral halls,
Where shame hath never trod. The dark night falls,
And I depart. The brave are gone to rest,
The brothers of my combats, on the breast
Of the red field they reap’d:--their work is done--
_Thou_, too, art set!--farewell, farewell, thou sun!
The last lone watcher of the bloody sod
Offers a trusting spirit up to God.

THE IMAGE IN THE HEART.

TO * * *

“True, indeed, it is,
That they whom death has hidden from our sight,
Are worthiest of the mind’s regard; with them
The future cannot contradict the past--
Mortality’s last exercise and proof
Is undergone.” Wordsworth.

“The love where death hath set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow.” Byron.

I call thee bless’d!--though now the voice be fled
Which to thy soul brought dayspring with its tone,
And o’er the gentle eyes though dust be spread,
Eyes that ne’er look’d on thine but light was thrown
Far through thy breast:

And though the music of thy life be broken,
Or changed in every chord since he is gone--
Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token,
O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone!
I call thee bless’d!

For in thy heart there is a holy spot,
As mid the waste an isle of fount and palm,
For ever green!--the world’s breath enters not,
The passion-tempests may not break its calm:
’Tis thine, all thine!

Thither, in trust unbaffled, may’st thou turn
From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes,
Quenching thy soul’s thirst at the hidden urn
That, fill’d with waters of sweet memory, lies
In its own shrine.

Thou hast thy _home_!--there is no power in change
To reach that temple of the past; no sway,
In all time brings of sudden, dark, or strange,
To sweep the still transparent peace away
From its hush’d air!

And oh! that glorious image of the dead!
Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest,
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed
Its high gifts fearlessly! I call thee bless’d,
If only _there_.

Bless’d, for the beautiful within thee dwelling
Never to fade!--a refuge from distrust,
A spring of purer life, still freshly welling,
To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust
With flowers divine.

And thou hast been beloved!--it is no dream,
No false mirage for _thee_, the fervent love,
The rainbow still unreach’d, the ideal gleam,
That ever seems before, beyond, above,
Far off to shine.

But thou, from all the daughters of the earth
Singled and mark’d, hast _known_ its home and place;
And the high memory of its holy worth
To this our life a glory and a grace
For thee hath given.

And art thou not _still_ fondly, truly loved?
Thou art!--the love his spirit bore away
Was not for death!--a treasure but removed,
A bright bird parted for a clearer day,--
Thine still in heaven!

THE LAND OF DREAMS.

“And dreams, in their development, have breath,
And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They make us what we were not--what they will,
And shake us with the vision that’s gone by.”

Byron.

O spirit-land! thou land of dreams!
A world thou art of mysterious gleams,
Of startling voices, and sounds at strife--
A world of the dead in the hues of life.

Like a wizard’s magic glass thou art,
When the wavy shadows float by, and part:
Visions of aspects, now loved, now strange,
Glimmering and mingling in ceaseless change.

Thou art like a city of the past,
With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast,
Amidst whose ruins there glide and play
Familiar forms of the world’s to-day.

Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth,
Rich with the wealth that is lost from earth,--
All the sere flowers of our days gone by,
And the buried gems in thy bosom lie.

Yes! thou art like those dim sea-caves,
A realm of treasures, a realm of graves!
And the shapes through thy mysteries that come and go,
Are of beauty and terror, of power and woe.

But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep!
Thou art all one world of affections deep,--
And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye
That sweeps o’er thy chambers of imagery.

And thy bowers are fair--even as Eden fair:
All the beloved of my soul are there!
The forms my spirit most pines to see,
The eyes whose love hath been life to me:

They are there--and each blessed voice I hear,
Kindly, and joyous, and silvery clear;
But under-tones are in each, that say,--
“It is but a dream; it will melt away!”

I walk with sweet friends in the sunset’s glow;
I listen to music of long ago;
But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint through the lay,--
“It is but a dream; it will melt away!”

I sit by the hearth of my early days;
All the home-faces are met by the blaze,--
And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say,
“It is but a dream; it will melt away!”

And away, like a flower’s passing breath, ’tis gone,
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone!
Oh! a haunted heart is a weight to bear,--
Bright faces, kind voices! where are ye, where?

Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams,
The past, as it fled by my own blue streams!
Make not my spirit within me burn
For the scenes and the hours that may ne’er return!

Call out from the _future_ thy visions bright,
From the world o’er the grave, take thy solemn light,
And oh! with the loved whom no more I see,
Show me my home, as it yet may be!

As it yet may be in some purer sphere,
No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear;
So my soul may bear on through the long, long day
Till I go where the beautiful melts not away!

WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

“Where hath not woman stood
Strong in affection’s might? a reed, upborne
By an o’ermastering current!”

Gentle and lovely form!
What didst thou here,
When the fierce battle-storm
Bore down the spear?

Banner and shiver’d crest,
Beside thee strown,
Tell that amidst the best
Thy work was done!

Yet strangely, sadly fair,
O’er the wild scene,
Gleams, through its golden hair,
That brow serene.

Low lies the stately head,--
Earth-bound the free;
How gave those haughty dead
A place to thee?

Slumberer! _thine_ early bier
Friends should have crown’d,
Many a flower and tear
Shedding around;--

Soft voices, clear and young,
Mingling their swell,
Should o’er thy dust have sung
Earth’s last farewell;--

Sisters, above the grave
Of thy repose,
Should have bid violets wave
With the white rose.

Now must the trumpet’s note,
Savage and shrill,
For requiem o’er thee float,
Thou fair and still!

And the swift charger sweep
In full career,
Trampling thy place of sleep--
Why cam’st thou here?

Why? Ask the true heart why
Woman hath been
Ever where brave men die,
Unshrinking seen?

Unto this harvest ground
Proud reapers came,--
Some, for that stirring sound,
A warrior’s name;

Some for the stormy play
And joy of strife;
And some to fling away
A weary life;--

But thou, pale sleeper! thou
With the slight frame,
And the rich locks, whose glow
Death cannot tame;

Only one thought, one power,
_Thee_ could have led,
So, through the tempest’s hour,
To lift thy head!

Only the true, the strong,
The love, whose trust
Woman’s deep soul too long
Pours on the dust!

THE DESERTED HOUSE.

Gloom is upon thy lonely hearth,
O silent house! once fill’d with mirth;
Sorrow is in the breezy sound
Of thy tall poplars whispering round.

The shadow of departed hours
Hangs dim upon thine early flowers;
Ev’n in thy sunshine seems to brood
Something more deep than solitude.

Fair art thou, fair to a stranger’s gaze,
Mine own sweet home of other days!
My children’s birthplace!--yet for me
It is too much to look on thee.

Too much! for all about thee spread,
I feel the memory of the dead,
And almost linger for the feet
That never more my step shall meet.

The looks, the smiles, all vanish’d now,
Follow me where thy roses blow;
The echoes of kind household-words
Are with me midst thy singing-birds.

Till my heart dies, it dies away
In yearnings for what might not stay;
For love which ne’er deceived my trust,
For all which went with “dust to dust!”

What now is left me, but to raise
From thee, lorn spot! my spirit’s gaze,
To lift through tears my straining eye
Up to my Father’s house on high?

Oh! many are the mansions there,[374]
But not in one hath grief a share!
No haunting shade from things gone by
May there o’ersweep th’ unchanging sky.

And _they_ are there, whose long-loved mien
In earthly home no more is seen;
Whose places, where they smiling sate,
Are left unto us desolate.

We miss them when the board is spread;
We miss them when the prayer is said;
Upon our dreams their dying eyes
In still and mournful fondness rise.

But they are where these longings vain
Trouble no more the heart and brain;
The sadness of this aching love
Dims not our Father’s house above.

Ye are at rest, and I in tears,[375]
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres!
Under the poplar boughs I stand,
And mourn the broken household band.

But, by your life of lowly faith,
And by your joyful hope in death,
Guide me, till on some brighter shore
The sever’d wreath is bound once more!

Holy ye were, and good, and true!
No change can cloud my thoughts of you;
Guide me, like you to live and die,
And reach my Father’s house on high!

[374] “In my father’s house there are many mansions.”--_John_, chap. xiv.

[375] From an ancient Hebrew dirge:

“Mourn for the mourner, and not for the dead. For he is at rest, and we in tears!”

THE STRANGER’S HEART.

The stranger’s heart! Oh, wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;
In the green shadow of thy tree,
The stranger finds no rest with thee.

Thou think’st the vine’s low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow’s tone--
The stranger’s heart is with his own.

Thou think’st thy children’s laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;
Then are the stranger’s thoughts oppress’d--
His mother’s voice comes o’er his breast.

Thou think’st it sweet when friend with friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger’s eye grow dim--
Far, far are those who pray’d with him.

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage-land,
The voices of thy kindred band--
Oh! midst them all when bless’d thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger’s heart!

TO A REMEMBERED PICTURE.

[She was singularly impressed by the picture at Holyrood House, shown as that of Rizzio. The authenticity of this designation is more than doubtful; but hers was not a mind for question or cavil on points of this nature. The “local habitation and the name” were in themselves sufficient to awaken her fancy, and to satisfy her faith. As Rizzio’s portrait, it took its place in her imagination; and the train of deep and mournful thoughts it suggested, imbued, as was her wont, with the colouring of her own individual feelings, was embodied in the lines “To a Remembered Picture.”--_Memoir_, p. 197-8.]

They haunt me still--those calm, pure, holy eyes!
Their piercing sweetness wanders through my dreams;
The soul of music that within them lies
Comes o’er _my_ soul in soft and sudden gleams:
Life--spirit-life--immortal and divine--
Is there; and yet how dark a death was thine!

Could it--oh! _could_ it be--meek child of song?
The might of gentleness on that fair brow--
Was the celestial gift no shield from wrong?
Bore it no talisman to ward the blow?
Ask if a flower, upon the billows cast,
Might brave their strife--a flute-note hush the blast!

Are there not deep, sad oracles to read
In the clear stillness of that radiant face?
Yes! even like thee must gifted spirits bleed,
Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no place!
Bright, exiled birds that visit alien skies,
Pouring on storms their suppliant melodies.

And seeking ever some true, gentle breast,
Whereon their trembling plumage might repose,
And their free song-notes, from that happy nest,
Gush as a fount that forth from sunlight flows:
Vain dream!--the love whose precious balms might save
Still, still denied--they struggle to the grave.

Yet my heart shall not sink!--another doom,
Victim! hath set its promise in thine eye:
A light is there, too quenchless for the tomb,
Bright earnest of a nobler destiny;
Telling of answers, in some far-off sphere,
To the deep souls that find no echo here.

COME HOME!

Come home! There is a sorrowing breath
In music since ye went,
And the early flower-scents wander by
With mournful memories blent.
The tones in every household voice
Are grown more sad and deep;
And the sweet word--_brother_--wakes a wish
To turn aside and weep.

O ye beloved! come home! The hour
Of many a greeting tone,
The time of hearth-light and of song
Returns--and ye are gone!
And darkly, heavily it falls
On the forsaken room,
Burdening the heart with tenderness,
That deepens midst the gloom.

Where finds it _you_, ye wandering ones!
With all your boyhood’s glee
Untamed? Beneath the desert’s palm,
Or on the lone mid-sea?
By stormy hills of battles old?
Or where dark rivers foam?--
Oh! life is dim where ye are not--
Back, ye beloved, come home!

Come with the leaves and winds of spring,
And swift birds, o’er the main!
Our love is grown too sorrowful--
Bring us its youth again!
Bring the glad tones to music back!
Still, still your home is fair,
The spirit of your sunny life
Alone is wanting there!

THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.

“Implora pace!”[376]

One draught, kind fairy! from that fountain deep,
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast;
And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep
In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest;
And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave--
One draught of that sweet wave!

Yet, mortal! pause! Within thy mind is laid
Wealth, gather’d long and slowly; thoughts divine
Heap that full treasure-house; and thou hast made
The gems of many a spirit’s ocean thine;--
Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear
A pyramid so fair?

Pour from the fount! and let the draught efface
All the vain lore by memory’s pride amass’d,
So it but sweep along the torrent’s trace,
And fill the hollow channels of the past;
And from the bosom’s inmost folded leaf,
Rase the one master-grief!

Yet pause once more! All, _all_ thy soul hath known,
Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade!
Is there no voice whose kind, awakening tone
A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made?
No eye whose glance thy daydreams would recall?
--Think--wouldst thou part with all?

Fill with forgetfulness! There are, there _are_
Voices whose music I have loved too well--
Eyes of deep gentleness; but they are far--
Never! oh never, in my home to dwell!
Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul--
Fill high th’ oblivious bowl!

Yet pause again! With memory wilt thou cast
The undying hope away, of memory born?
Hope of reunion, heart to heart at last,
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn?
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight
That make such visions bright?

Fill with forgetfulness, fill high!----Yet stay--
Tis from the past we shadow forth the land
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way,
And the soul’s friends be wreath’d in one bright band.
Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill--
I _must_ remember still.

For their sake, for the dead--whose image naught
May dim within the temple of my breast--
For their love’s sake, which now no earthly thought
May shake or trouble with its own unrest,
Though the past haunt me as a spirit--yet
I ask not to forget.

[376] Quoted from a letter of Lord Byron’s. He describes the impression produced upon him by some tombs at Bologna, bearing this simple inscription, and adds, “When I die, I could wish that some friend would see these words, and no other, placed above my grave,--‘_Implora pace!_’”

[“The ‘Songs of the Affections’ were published in the summer of 1830. This collection of lyrics has been, perhaps, less popular than other of Mrs Hemans’s later works. It was hardly, indeed, to be expected that the principal poem, ‘A Spirit’s Return,’ the origin and subject of which we have already described, should appeal to the feelings of so large a circle as had borne witness to the truth of the tales of actual life and sacrifice and suffering contained in the ‘Records of Woman.’ But there are parts of the poem solemnly and impressively powerful. The passages in which the speaker describes her youth--the disposition born with her to take pleasure in spiritual contemplations, and to listen to that voice in nature which speaks of another state of being beyond this visible world--prepare us most naturally for the agony of her desire--when he, in whom she had devotedly embarked all her earthly hopes and affections--

‘----till the world held naught
Save the one being to my centred thought,’

was taken away from her for ever--to see him, if but for a moment--to speak with him only once again!

* * * * *

As the crisis of interest approaches, the variety given by alternate rhymes to the heroic measure in which the tale was written, is wisely laid aside, and it proceeds with a resistless energy--

‘Hast thou been told, that from the viewless bourne
The dark way never hath allow’d return?’ etc.

“The conclusion of this fine poem is far from fulfilling the promise of its commencement; but it was impossible to imagine any events, or give utterance to any feelings, succeeding those so awful and exciting, which should not appear feeble, and vague, and exhausted. Mrs Hemans would sometimes regret that she had not bestowed more labour upon the close of her work: this, it is true, might have been more carefully elaborated, but, from the nature of her subject, I doubt the possibility of its having been substantially improved.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 101-5.]

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE BRIDAL-DAY.

[On a monument in a Venetian church is an epitaph, recording that the remains beneath are those of a noble lady, who expired suddenly while standing as a bride at the altar.]

“We bear her home! we bear her home!
Over the murmuring salt sea’s foam;
One who has fled from the war of life,
From sorrow, pain, and the fever strife.”
Barry Cornwall.

Bride! upon thy marriage-day,
When thy gems in rich array
Made the glistening mirror seem
As a star-reflecting stream;
When the clustering pearls lay fair
Midst thy braids of sunny hair,
And the white veil o’er thee streaming,
Like a silvery halo gleaming,
Mellow’d all that pomp and light
Into something meekly bright;
Did the fluttering of thy breath
Speak of joy or woe beneath?
And the hue that went and came
O’er thy cheek, like wavering flame,
Flow’d that crimson from th’ unrest
Or the gladness of thy breast?
--Who shall tell us? From thy bower,
Brightly didst thou pass that hour;
With the many-glancing oar,
And the cheer along the shore,
And the wealth of summer flowers
On thy fair head cast in showers,
And the breath of song and flute,
And the clarion’s glad salute,
Swiftly o’er the Adrian tide
Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride!
Mirth and music, sun and sky,
Welcomed thee triumphantly!
Yet, perchance, a chastening thought
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, as untold it blent
With the sounds of merriment--
“From the home of childhood’s glee,
From the days of laughter free,
From the love of many years,
Thou art gone to cares and fears;
To another path and guide,
To a bosom yet untried!
Bright one! oh, there well may be
Trembling midst our joy for thee!”

Bride! when through the stately fane,
Circled with thy nuptial train,
Midst the banners hung on high
By thy warrior-ancestry,
Midst those mighty fathers dead,
In soft beauty thou wast led;
When before the shrine thy form
Quiver’d to some bosom-storm,
When, like harp-strings with a sigh
Breaking in mid-harmony,
On thy lip the murmurs low
Died with love’s unfinish’d vow;
When, like scatter’d rose-leaves, fled
From thy cheek each tint of red,
And the light forsook thine eye,
And thy head sunk heavily;
Was that drooping but th’ excess
Of thy spirit’s blessedness?
Or did some deep feeling’s might,
Folded in thy heart from sight,
With a sudden tempest-shower
Earthward bear thy life’s young flower?
--Who shall tell us? On _thy_ tongue
Silence, and for ever, hung!
Never to thy lip and cheek
Rush’d again the crimson streak;
Never to thine eye return’d
That which there had beam’d and burn’d!
With the secret none might know,
With thy rapture or thy woe,
With thy marriage robe and wreath,
Thou wert fled, young bride of death!
One, one lightning moment there
Struck down triumph to despair;
Beauty, splendour, hope, and trust,
Into darkness--terror--dust!

There were sounds of weeping o’er thee,
Bride! as forth thy kindred bore thee,
Shrouded in thy gleaming veil,
Deaf to that wild funeral wail.
Yet perchance a chastening thought
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, while the stern, sad knell
On the air’s bright stillness fell--
“From the power of chill and change
Souls to sever and estrange;
From love’s wane--a death in life,
But to watch--a mortal strife;
From the secret fevers known
To the burning heart alone,
Thou art fled--afar, away--
Where these blights no more have sway!
Bright one! oh, there well may be
Comfort midst our tears for thee!”

THE ANCESTRAL SONG.

“A long war disturb’d your mind--
Here your perfect peace is sign’d;
’Tis now full tide ’twixt night and day--
End your moan, and come away!”
Webster, “Duchess of Malfy.”

There were faint sounds of weeping; fear and gloom
And midnight vigil in a stately room
Of Lusignan’s old halls. Rich odours there
Fill’d the proud chamber as with Indian air,
And soft light fell from lamps of silver, thrown
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone
Over a gorgeous couch: there emeralds gleam’d,
And deeper crimson from the ruby stream’d
Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set,
Hiding from sunshine. Many a carcanet
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain,
And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath
Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death,
Hung drooping solemnly,--for there one lay.
Passing from all earth’s glories fast away,
Amidst those queenly treasures. They had been
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands;
And for _his_ sake, upon their orient sheen
She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands
Had press’d them to her languid heart once more,
Melting in childlike tears. But this was o’er--
Love’s last, vain clinging unto life; and now
A mist of dreams was hovering o’er her brow;
Her eye was fix’d, her spirit seem’d removed,
Though not from earth, from all it knew or loved,
Far, far away! Her handmaids watch’d around,
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound
A might, a mystery; and the quivering light
Of wind-sway’d lamps made spectral in their sight
The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair,
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair,
Long in the dust grown dim; and she, too, saw,
But with the spirit’s eye of raptured awe,
Those pictured shapes!--a bright, yet solemn train
Beckoning, they floated o’er her dreamy brain,
Clothed in diviner hues; while on her ear
Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear,
--Sweet, yet profoundly mournful, as the sigh
Of winds o’er harp-strings through a midnight sky;
And thus it seem’d, in that low, thrilling tone,
Th’ ancestral shadows call’d away their own.

Come, come, come!
Long thy fainting soul hath yearn’d
For the step that ne’er return’d;
Long thine anxious ear hath listen’d,
And thy watchful eye hath glisten’d
With the hope, whose parting strife
Shook the flower-leaves from thy life.
Now the heavy day is done:
Home awaits thee, wearied one!
Come, come, come!

From the quenchless thoughts that burn
In the seal’d heart’s lonely urn;
From the coil of memory’s chain
Wound about the throbbing brain;
From the veins of sorrow deep,
Winding through the world of sleep;
From the haunted halls and bowers,
Throng’d with ghosts of happier hours!
Come, come, come!

On our dim and distant shore
Aching love is felt no more!
_We_ have loved with earth’s excess--
Past is now that weariness!
_We_ have wept, that weep not now--
Calm is each once-beating brow!
We have known the dreamer’s woes--
All is now one bright repose!
Come, come, come!

Weary heart that long hast bled,
Languid spirit, drooping head,
Restless memory, vain regret,
Pining love whose light is set,
Come away!--’tis hush’d, ’tis well,
Where by shadowy founts we dwell,
All the fever-thirst is still’d,
All the air with peace is fill’d,--
Come, come, come!

And with her spirit wrapt in that wild lay.
She pass’d, as twilight melts to night, away!

THE MAGIC GLASS.

“How lived, how loved, how died they?”--Byron.

“The dead! the glorious dead!--and shall they rise?
Shall they look on thee with their proud bright eyes?
Thou ask’st a fearful spell!
Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall,
What kingly vision shall obey my call?
The deep grave knows it well!

“Wouldst thou behold earth’s conquerors? shall they pass
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass
With triumph’s long array?
Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn,
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return,
As on their proudest day.

“Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song?
O’er the dark mirror that immortal throng
Shall waft a solemn gleam!
Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows,
Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs,
But silent as a dream.”

“Not these, O mighty master!--though their lays
Be unto man’s free heart, and tears, and praise,
Hallow’d for evermore!
And not the buried conquerors--let them sleep,
And let the flowery earth her sabbaths keep
In joy, from shore to shore!

“But, if the narrow house may so be moved,
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved
Back from their couch of rest!
That I may learn if _their_ meek eyes be fill’d
With peace, if human love hath ever still’d
The yearning human breast.”

“Away, fond youth!--an idle quest is thine:
_These_ have no trophy, no memorial shrine;
I know not of their place!
Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow,
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low,
Have pass’d, and left no trace.

“Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills,
And the wild sounds of melancholy rills,
Their covering turf may bloom;
But ne’er hath fame made relics of its flowers--
Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers,
Or poet hail’d their tomb.”

“Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell!
Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may tell
That which I pine to know!
I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep,
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep,
Records of joy and woe.”

CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.

“Les femmes doivent penser qu’il est dans cette carriere bien peu de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie d’une femme aimee et d’une mere heureuse.” Madame de Stael.

Daughter of th’ Italian heaven!
Thou to whom its fires are given,
Joyously thy car hath roll’d
Where the conqueror’s pass’d of old;
And the festal sun that shone
O’er three hundred triumphs gone,[377]
Makes thy day of glory bright
With a shower of golden light.

Now thou tread’st th’ ascending road
Freedom’s foot so proudly trode;
While, from tombs of heroes borne,
From the dust of empire shorn,
Flowers upon thy graceful head,
Chaplets of all hues, are shed,
In a soft and rosy rain,
Touch’d with many a gem-like stain.

Thou hast gain’d the summit now!
Music hails thee from below;
Music, whose rich notes might stir
Ashes of the sepulchre;
Shaking with victorious notes
All the bright air as it floats.
Well may woman’s heart beat high
Unto that proud harmony!

Now afar it rolls--it dies--
And thy voice is heard to rise
With a low and lovely tone,
In its thrilling power alone;
And thy lyre’s deep silvery string,
Touch’d as by a breeze’s wing,
Murmurs tremblingly at first,
Ere the tide of rapture burst.

All the spirit of thy sky
Now hath lit thy large dark eye,
And thy cheek a flush hath caught
From the joy of kindled thought;
And the burning words of song
From thy lip flow fast and strong,
With a rushing stream’s delight
In the freedom of its might.
Radiant daughter of the sun!
Now thy living wreath is won.
Crown’d of Rome!--oh! art thou not
Happy in that glorious lot?--
Happier, happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow,
She that makes the humblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth!

[377] “The trebly hundred triumphs.”--Byron.

THE RUIN.

“Oh! ’tis the heart that magnifies this life,
Making a truth and beauty of its own.”
Wordsworth.

“Birth has gladden’d it: death has sanctified it.”
Guesses at Truth.

No dower of storied song is thine,
O desolate abode!
Forth from thy gates no glittering line
Of lance and spear hath flow’d.
Banners of knighthood have not flung
Proud drapery o’er thy walls,
Nor bugle-notes to battle rung
Through thy resounding halls.

Nor have rich bowers of _pleasaunce_ here
By courtly hands been dress’d,
For princes, from the chase of deer,
Under green leaves to rest:
Only some rose, yet lingering bright
Beside thy casements lone,
Tells where the spirit of delight
Hath dwelt, and now is gone.

Yet minstrel-tale of harp and sword,
And sovereign beauty’s lot,
House of quench’d light and silent board!
For me thou needest not.
It is enough to know that _here_,
Where thoughtfully I stand,
Sorrow and love, and hope and fear,
Have link’d one kindred band.

Thou bindest me with mighty spells!
--A solemnising breath,
A presence all around thee dwells
Of human life and death.
I need but pluck yon garden flower
From where the wild weeds rise,
To wake, with strange and sudden power,
A thousand sympathies.

Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth!
Deserted now by all!
Voices at eve here met in mirth
Which eve may ne’er recall.
Youth’s buoyant step, and woman’s tone,
And childhood’s laughing glee,
And song and prayer, have all been known,
Hearth of the dead! to thee.

Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour’d
Upon the infant head,
As if in every fervent word
The living soul were shed;
Thou hast seen partings, such as bear
The bloom from life away--
Alas! for love in changeful air,
Where naught beloved can stay!

Here, by the restless bed of pain,
The vigil hath been kept,
Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain,
Burst forth on eyes that wept;
Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom,
The breathless influence, shed
Through the dim dwelling, from the room
Wherein reposed the dead.

The seat left void, the missing face,
Have here been mark’d and mourn’d,
And time hath fill’d the vacant place,
And gladness hath return’d;
Till from the narrowing household chain
The links dropp’d one by one!
And homewards hither, o’er the main,
Came the spring-birds alone.

Is there not cause, then--cause for thought,
Fix’d eye and lingering tread,
Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught,
Even lowliest hearts have bled?
Where, in its ever-haunting thirst
For draughts of purer day,
Man’s soul, with fitful strength, hath burst
The clouds that wrapt its way?

Holy to human nature seems
The long-forsaken spot--
To deep affections, tender dreams,
Hopes of a brighter lot!
Therefore in silent reverence here,
Hearth of the dead! I stand,
Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear,
Have link’d one household band.

THE MINSTER.

Speak low! The place is holy to the breath
Of awful harmonies, of whisper’d prayer:
Tread lightly!--for the sanctity of death
Broods with a voiceless influence on the air,
Stern, yet serene!--a reconciling spell,
Each troubled billow of the soul to quell.

Leave me to linger silently awhile!
--Not for the light that pours its fervid streams
Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle,
Kindling old banners into haughty gleams,
Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior’s tomb
Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom:

Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing,
Mighty as forest-sounds when winds are high;
Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing
Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry,--
Though o’er the spirit each hath charm and power,
Yet not for _these_ I ask one lingering hour.

But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord
Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound;
Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have pour’d
Their anguish forth, are with me and around;
I look back on the pangs, the burning tears,
Known to these altars of a thousand years.

Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse!
That here hast bow’d with ashes on thy head;
And thou, still battling with the tempest’s force--
Thou, whose bright spirit through all time has bled--
Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer,
Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair?

No voice, no breath!--of conflicts past, no trace!
--Doth not this hush give answer to my quest?
Surely the dread religion of the place
By every grief hath made its might confest!--
Oh! that within my heart I could but keep
Holy to heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and deep!

THE SONG OF NIGHT.[378]

“O night,
And storm, and darkness! ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength!” Byron.

I come to thee, O Earth!
With all my gifts!--for every flower sweet dew
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew
The glory of its birth.

Not one which glimmering lies
Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves,
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives
A spirit of fresh dyes.

I come with every star;
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track,
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of worlds afar.

I come with peace,--I shed
Sleep through thy wood-walks, o’er the honey-bee,
The lark’s triumphant voice, the fawn’s young glee,
The hyacinth’s meek head.

On my own heart I lay
The weary babe; and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.

I come with mightier things!
Who calls me silent? I have many tones--
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans,
Borne on my sweeping wings.

I waft them not alone
From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades
Till the bright day is done;

But in the human breast
A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past:
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crush’d affections, which, though long o’erborne,
Make their tones heard at last.

I bring them from the tomb:
O’er the sad couch of late repentant love
They pass--though low as murmurs of a dove--
Like trumpets through the gloom.

I come with all my train:
Who calls me lonely? Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead--
Phantoms of heart and brain!

Looks from departed eyes,
These are my lightnings!--fill’d with anguish vain,
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,
They smite with agonies.

I, that with soft control,
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am the avenging one!--the arm’d, the strong--
The searcher of the soul!

I, that shower dewy light
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms--the tempest birth
Of memory, thought, remorse! Be holy, Earth!
I am the solemn Night![379]

[The howling of the wind at night had a very peculiar effect on her nerves--nothing in the least approaching to the sensation of fear, as few were more exempt from that class of alarms usually called nervous; but working upon her imagination to a degree which was always succeeded by a reaction of fatigue and exhaustion. The solemn influences thus mysteriously exercised are alluded to in many of her poems, particularly “The Song of the Night,” and “The Voice of the Wind.”--_Memoir_, p. 84.]

[378] Suggested by Thorwaldsen’s bas-relief of Night, represented under the form of a winged female figure, with two infants asleep in her arms.

[379] Pietro Mulier, called Il Tempesta, from his surprising pictures of storms. “His compositions,” says Lanzi, “inspire a real horror, presenting to our eyes death-devoted ships overtaken by tempests and darkness--fired by lightning--now rising on the mountain-wave, and again submerged in the abyss of ocean.” During an imprisonment of five years in Genoa, the pictures which he painted in his dungeon were marked by additional power and gloom.--See Lanzi’s _History of Painting_, translated by Roscoe.

THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON.

“Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal?
Are ye like those that shake the human breast?
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?”
Childe Harold.

Midnight, and silence deep!
--The air is fill’d with sleep,
With the stream’s whisper, and the citron’s breath;
The fix’d and solemn stars
Gleam through my dungeon-bars--
Wake, rushing winds! this breezeless calm is death!

Ye watch-fires of the skies!
The stillness of your eyes
Looks too intensely through my troubled soul;
I feel this weight of rest
An earth-load on my breast--
Wake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll!

I am your own, _your_ child,
O ye, the fierce, and wild,
And kingly tempests!--will ye not arise?
Hear the bold spirit’s voice,
That knows not to rejoice
But in the peal of your strong harmonies.

By sounding ocean-waves,
And dim Calabrian caves,
And flashing torrents, I have been your mate;
And with the rocking pines
Of the olden Apennines,
In your dark path stood fearless and elate.

Your lightnings were as rods,
That smote the deep abodes
Of thought and vision--and the stream gush’d free;
Come! that my soul again
May swell to burst its chain--
Bring me the music of the sweeping sea!

Within me dwells a flame,
An eagle caged and tame,
Till call’d forth by the harping of the blast;
_Then_ is its triumph’s hour,
It springs to sudden power,
As mounts the billow o’er the quivering mast.