Chapter L: Part II (13)

[In the autumn of 1827, at the urgent request of Mr Alaric Watts, who was then forming a gallery of portraits of the living authors of Great Britain, Mrs Hemans was prevailed upon to sit for her picture. The artist selected on this occasion was Mr W. E. West, an American by birth, who had passed some time in Italy, and painted the last likeness ever taken of Lord Byron, and also one of Madame Guiccioli, which was engraved in one of the annuals. During his stay at Rhyllon, where he remained for some weeks, he finished three several portraits of Mrs Hemans--one for Mr Alaric Watts, one which is now in the possession of Professor Norton, and a third, which he most courteously presented to Mrs Hemans’ sister, to whom it was even then a treasure, and is now become one of inestimable value. This likeness, considered by her family as the best ever taken of her, is the one which suggested Mrs Hemans’s affecting lines, “To my own Portrait.” ... It is, however, only fair to repeat the remark already made, and in which all those who were accustomed to study the play of her features must concur--that there never was a countenance more difficult to transfer to canvass; so varying were its expressions, and so impossible is it to be satisfied with the _one_ which can alone be perpetuated by the artist. The great charm of Mr West’s picture is its perfect freedom from any thing set or constrained in the air; and the sweet, serious expression, so accordant with her maternal character, which recalls her own lines--

“Mother! with thine earnest eye
Ever following silently;”

and which made one of her children remark, in glancing from it to the bust, executed some years after by Mr Angus Fletcher[386]--“The bust is the poetess, but the picture is _all mother_.”--_Memoir_, p. 129-130.]

[386] An engraving from Mr Fletcher’s admirable bust forms the frontispiece to the present volume.

NO MORE.

_No more!_ A harp-string’s deep and breaking tone,
A last, low, summer breeze, a far-off swell,
A dying echo of rich music gone,
Breathe through those words--those murmurs of farewell--
No more!

To dwell in peace, with home-affections bound,
To know the sweetness of a mother’s voice,
To feel the spirit of her love around,
And in the blessing of her eye rejoice--
No more!

A dirge-like sound! To greet the early friend
Unto the hearth, his place of many days;
In the glad song with kindred lips to blend,
Or join the household laughter by the blaze--
No more!

Through woods that shadow’d our first years to rove
With all our native music in the air;
To watch the sunset with the eyes we love,
And turn, and read our own heart’s answer _there_--
No more!

Words of despair!--yet earth’s, all earth’s the woe
Their passion breathes--the desolately deep!
That sound in heaven--oh! image then the flow
Of gladness in its tones--to part, to weep--
No more!

To watch, in dying hope, affection’s wane,
To see the beautiful from life depart,
To wear impatiently a secret chain,
To waste the untold riches of the heart--
No more!

Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn
For human love[387]--and never quench that thirst;
To pour the soul out, winning no return,
O’er fragile idols, by delusion nursed--
No more!

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean,
To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead;
To send our troubled spirits through the unseen,
Intensely questioning for treasures fled--
No more!

Words of triumphant music! Bear we on
The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air;
Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done,
To learn in joy,--to struggle, to despair--
No more!

[387] “_Jamais, jamais, je ne serai aimé comme j’aime_!” was a mournful expression of Madame de Staël’s.

THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN POET.

Where shall I find, in all this fleeting earth,
This world of changes and farewells, a friend
That will not fail me in his love and worth,
Tender and firm, and faithful to the end?

Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest--
Long on vain idols its devotion shed;
Some have forsaken, whom I loved the best,
And some deceived, and some are with the dead.

But _thou_, my Saviour! thou, my hope and trust,
Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart;
Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust,
And fix on thee, th’ Unchanging One, my heart!

PASSING AWAY.

“‘Passing away’ is written on the world, and all the world contains.”

It is written on the rose,
In its glory’s full array;
Read what those buds disclose--
“Passing away.”

It is written on the skies
Of the soft blue summer day;
It is traced in sunset’s dyes--
“Passing away.”

It is written on the trees,
As their young leaves glistening play,
And on brighter things than these--
“Passing away.”

It is written on the brow
Where the spirit’s ardent ray
Lives, burns, and triumphs now--
“Passing away.”

It is written on the _heart_;
Alas! that _there_ Decay
Should claim from Love a part--
“Passing away.”

Friends, friends!--oh! shall we meet
In a land of purer day,
Where lovely things and sweet
Pass not away?

Shall we know each other’s eyes,
And the thoughts that in them lay
When we mingled sympathies
“Passing away?”

Oh! if this may be so,
Speed, speed, thou closing day!
How blest from earth’s vain show
To pass away!

THE ANGLER.[388]

“I in these flowery meads would be;
These crystal streams should solace me;
To whose harmonious bubbling noise
I with my angle would rejoice;
...
And angle on, and beg to have
A quiet passage to a welcome grave.”
Isaac Walton.

Thou that hast loved so long and well
The vale’s deep, quiet streams,
Where the pure water-lilies dwell,
Shedding forth tender gleams;
And o’er the pool the May-fly’s wing
Glances in golden eves of spring!

Oh, lone and lovely haunts are thine!
Soft, soft the river flows,
Wearing the shadow of thy line,
The gloom of alder-boughs;
And in the midst a richer hue,
One gliding vein of heaven’s own blue.

And there but low sweet sounds are heard--
The whisper of the reed,
The plashing trout, the rustling bird,
The scythe upon the mead;
Yet, through the murmuring osiers near,
There steals a step which mortals fear.

’Tis not the stag, that comes to lave
At noon his panting breast;
’Tis not the bittern, by the wave
Seeking her sedgy nest;
The air is fill’d with summer’s breath,
The young flowers laugh--yet look! ’tis Death!

But if, where silvery currents rove,
Thy heart, grown still and sage,
Hath learn’d to read the words of love
That shine o’er nature’s page;
If holy thoughts thy guests have been
Under the shade of willows green;

Then, lover of the silent hour
By deep lone waters pass’d!
Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power,
To cheer thee through the last;
And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell,
May’st calmly bid thy streams farewell.

[388] This, and the following poem, were originally written for a work entitled _Death’s Doings_, edited by Mr Alaric Watts.

DEATH AND THE WARRIOR.

“Ay, warrior, arm! and wear thy plume
On a proud and fearless brow!
I am the lord of the lonely tomb,
And a mightier one than thou!

“Bid thy soul’s love farewell, young chief--
Bid her a long farewell!
Like the morning’s dew shall pass that grief:
Thou comest with me to dwell!

“Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep,
Thy steed o’er the breezy hill;
But they bear thee on to a place of sleep,
Narrow, and cold, and chill!”

“Was the voice I heard _thy_ voice, O Death!
And is thy day so near?
Then on the field shall my life’s last breath
Mingle with victory’s cheer!

“Banners shall float, with the trumpet’s note,
Above me as I die!
And the palm-tree wave o’er my noble grave,
Under the Syrian sky.

“High hearts shall burn in the royal hall,
When the minstrel names that spot;
And the eyes I love shall weep my fall.--
Death, Death, I fear thee not!”

“Warrior! thou bear’st a haughty heart,
But I can bend its pride!
How shouldst thou know that thy soul will part
In the hour of victory’s tide?

“It may be far from thy steel-clad bands
That I shall make thee mine;
It may be lone on the desert sands,
Where men for fountains pine!

“It may be deep amidst heavy chains,
In some deep Paynim hold;
I have slow, dull steps and lingering pains
Wherewith to tame the bold!”

“Death, Death! I go to a doom unblest,
If this indeed must be;
But the Cross is bound upon my breast,
And I may not shrink for thee!

“Sound, clarion! sound!--for my vows are given
To the cause of the holy shrine;
I bow my soul to the will of heaven,
O Death!--and not to thine!”

SONG FOR AN AIR BY HUMMEL.

Oh! if thou wilt not give thine heart,
Give back my own to me;
For if in thine I have no part,
Why should mine dwell with thee?[389]

Yet no! this mournful love of mine
I will not from me cast;
Let me but dream ’twill win me thine
By its deep truth at last!

Can aught so fond, so faithful, live
Through years without reply?
--Oh! if thy heart thou wilt not give,
Give me a thought, a sigh!

[389] The first verse of this song is a literal translation from the German.

TO THE

MEMORY OF LORD CHARLES MURRAY,

SON OF THE DUKE OF ATHOLL, WHO DIED IN THE CAUSE AND LAMENTED BY THE PEOPLE OF GREECE.

“Time cannot teach forgetfulness,
When grief’s full heart is fed by fame.”--Byron.

Thou shouldst have slept beneath the stately pines,
And with th’ ancestral trophies of thy race;
Thou that hast found, where alien tombs and shrines
Speak of the past, a lonely dwelling-place!
Far from thy brethren hath thy couch been spread,
Thou bright young stranger midst the mighty dead!

Yet to thy name a noble rite was given,
Banner and dirge met proudly o’er thy grave,
Under that old and glorious Grecian heaven,
Which unto death so oft hath lit the brave:
And thy dust blends with mould heroic there,
With all that sanctifies the inspiring air.

Vain voice of fame! sad sound for those that weep!
For her, the mother, in whose bosom lone
Thy childhood dwells--whose thoughts a record keep
Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone;
Of all thine early grace and gentle worth--
A vernal promise, faded now from earth!

But a bright memory claims a proud regret--
A lofty sorrow finds its own deep springs
Of healing balm; and she hath treasures yet
Whose soul can number with love’s holy things,
A name like thine! Now, past all cloud or spot,
A gem is hers, laid up where change is not.

THE BROKEN CHAIN.

I am free!--I have burst through my galling chain,
The life of young eagles is mine again;
I may cleave with my bark the glad sounding sea,
I may rove where the wind roves--my path is free!

The streams dash in joy down the summer hill,
The birds pierce the depths of the sky at will,
The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze,--
And is not my spirit as one of these?

Oh! the green earth with its wealth of flowers,
And the voices that ring through its forest bowers,
And the laughing glance of the founts that shine,
Lighting the valleys--all, all are mine!

I may urge through the desert my foaming steed,
The wings of the morning shall lend him speed;
I may meet the storm in its rushing glee--
Its blasts and its lightnings are not more free!

Captive! and hast thou then rent thy chain?
Art thou free in the wilderness, free on the main?
Yes! there thy spirit may proudly soar,
But must thou not mingle with throngs the more?

The bird when he pineth, may hush his song,
Till the hour when his heart shall again be strong;
But thou--canst thou turn in thy woe aside,
And weep, midst thy brethren? No, not for pride.

May the fiery word from thy lip find way,
When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring to day?
May the care that sits in thy weary breast
Look forth from thine aspect, the revel’s guest?

No! with the shaft in thy bosom borne,
Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn;
Thou must fold thy mantle that none may see,
And mask thee with laughter, and say thou art free.

No! thou art chain’d till thy race is run,
By the power of all in the soul of one;
On thy heart, on thy lip, must the fetter be--
Dreamer! fond dreamer! oh, who is free?

THE SHADOW OF A FLOWER.

“La voila telle que la mort nous l’a faite.”--Bossuet.

[“Never was a philosophical imagination more beautiful than that exquisite one of Kircher, Digby, and others, who discovered in the ashes of plants their primitive forms, which were again raised up by the power of heat. The ashes of roses, say they, will again revive in roses, unsubstantial and unodoriferous; they are not roses which grow on rose-trees, but their delicate apparitions, and, like apparitions, they are seen but for a moment.”--_Curiosities of Literature._]

’Twas a dream of olden days
That Art, by some strange power,
The visionary form could raise
From the ashes of a flower.

That a shadow of the rose,
By its own meek beauty bow’d,
Might slowly, leaf by leaf, unclose,
Like pictures in a cloud.

Or the hyacinth, to grace,
As a second rainbow, spring;
Of summer’s path a dreary trace,
A fair, yet mournful thing!

For the glory of the bloom
That a flush around it shed,
And the soul within, the rich perfume,
Where were they? Fled, all fled!

Naught but the dim, faint line
To speak of vanish’d hours.--
Memory! what are joys of thine?
--Shadows of buried flowers!

LINES TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL.

Creature of air and light!
Emblem of that which will not fade or die!
Wilt thou not speed thy flight,
To chase the south wind through the glowing sky?
What lures thee thus to stay
With silence and decay,
Fix’d on the wreck of cold mortality?

The thoughts once chamber’d there,
Have gather’d up their treasures and are gone;--
Will the dust tell thee where
That which hath burst the prison-house is flown?
Rise, nursling of the day!
If thou wouldst trace its way--
Earth has no voice to make the secret known.

Who seeks the vanish’d bird
Near the deserted nest and broken shell?
Far thence, by us unheard,
He sings, rejoicing in the woods to dwell:
Thou of the sunshine born,
Take the bright wings of morn!
_Thy_ hope springs heavenward from yon ruin’d cell.

THE BELL AT SEA.

[The dangerous islet called the Bell Rock, on the coast of Forfarshire, used formerly to be marked only by a bell, which was so placed as to be swung by the motion of the waves, when the tide rose above the rock. A lighthouse has since been erected there.]

When the tide’s billowy swell
Had reach’d its height,
Then toll’d the rock’s lone bell
Sternly by night.

Far over cliff and surge
Swept the deep sound,
Making each wild wind’s dirge
Still more profound.

Yet that funereal tone
The sailor bless’d,
Steering through darkness on
With fearless breast.

E’en so may we, that float
On life’s wide sea,
Welcome each warning note,
Stern though it be![390]

[390] It may be scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that the stealing of this bell by a Pirate forms the subject of Southey’s spirited ballad, “The Inchcape Rock.”

THE SUBTERRANEAN STREAM.

“Thou stream,
Whose source is inaccessibly profound,
Whither do thy mysterious waters tend?
--Thou imagest my life.”

Darkly thou glidest onward,
Thou deep and hidden wave!
The laughing sunshine hath not look’d
Into thy secret cave.

Thy current makes no music--
A hollow sound we hear,
A muffled voice of mystery,
And know that thou art near.

No brighter line of verdure
Follows thy lonely way;
No fairy moss, or lily’s cup
Is freshen’d by thy play.

The halcyon doth not seek thee,
Her glorious wings to lave;
Thou know’st no tint of the summer sky,
Thou dark and hidden wave!

Yet once will day behold thee,
When to the mighty sea,
Fresh bursting from their cavern’d veins,
Leap thy lone waters free.

There wilt thou greet the sunshine
For a moment, and be lost,
With all thy melancholy sounds,
In the ocean’s billowy host.

Oh! art thou not, dark river!
Like the fearful thoughts untold
Which haply, in the hush of night,
O’er many a soul have roll’d?

Those earth-born strange misgivings--
Who hath not felt their power?
Yet who hath breathed them to his friend,
E’en in his fondest hour?

They hold no heart-communion,
They find no voice in song,
They dimly follow far from earth
The grave’s departed throng.

Wild is their course and lonely,
And fruitless in man’s breast;
They come and go, and leave no trace
Of their mysterious guest.

Yet surely must their wanderings
At length be like thy way;
Their shadows, as thy waters, lost
In one bright flood of day!

THE SILENT MULTITUDE.

“For we are many in our solitudes.”--Lament of Tasso.

A mighty and a mingled throng
Were gather’d in one spot;
The dwellers of a thousand homes--
Yet midst them voice was not.

The soldier and his chief were there--
The mother and her child:
The friends, the sisters of one hearth--
None spoke--none moved--none smiled.

There lovers met, between whose lives
Years had swept darkly by;
After that heart-sick hope deferr’d,
They met--but silently.

You might have heard the rustling leaf,
The breeze’s faintest sound,
The shiver of an insect’s wing,
On that thick-peopled ground.

Your voice to whispers would have died
For the deep quiet’s sake;
Your tread the softest moss have sought,
Such stillness not to break.

What held the countless multitude
Bound in that spell of peace?
How could the ever-sounding life
Amid so many cease?

Was it some pageant of the air--
Some glory high above,
That link’d and hush’d those human souls
In reverential love?

Or did some burdening passion’s weight
Hang on their indrawn breath?
Awe--the pale awe that freezes words?
Fear--the strong fear of death?

A mightier thing--Death, Death himself
Lay on each lonely heart!
Kindred were there--yet hermits all,
Thousands--but each apart.

THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE.[391]

[“Les sarcophages même chez les anciens, ne rapellent que des idées guerrières ou riantes: on voit des jeux, des danses, représentés en bas-relief sur les tombeaux.”--_Corinne._

O ever-joyous band
Of revellers amidst the southern vines!
On the pale marble, by some gifted hand,
Fix’d in undying lines!

Thou, with the sculptured bowl,
And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath,
And thou, from whose young lip and flute the soul
Of music seems to breathe;

And ye, luxuriant flowers!
Linking the dancers with your graceful ties,
And cluster’d fruitage, born of sunny hours,
Under Italian skies:

Ye, that a thousand springs,
And leafy summers with their odorous breath,
May yet outlast,--what do ye there, bright things!
Mantling the place of death?

Of sunlight and soft air,
And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green,
Unto the heart a glowing thought ye bear;--
Why thus, where dust hath been?

Is it to show how slight
The bound that severs festivals and tombs,
Music and silence, roses and the blight,
Crowns and sepulchral glooms?

Or, when the father laid
Haply his child’s pale ashes here to sleep,
When the friend visited the cypress shade
Flowers o’er the dead to heap;

Say if the mourners sought,
In these rich images of summer mirth,
These wine-cups and gay wreaths, to lose the thought
Of our last hour on earth?

Ye have no voice, no sound,
Ye flutes and lyres! to tell me what I seek:
Silent ye are, light forms with vine-leaves crown’d,
Yet to my soul ye speak.

Alas! for those that lay
Down in the dust without their hope of old!
Backward they look’d on life’s rich banquet-day,
But all beyond was cold.

Every sweet wood-note then,
And through the plane-trees every sunbeam’s glow,
And each glad murmur from the homes of men,
Made it more hard to go.

But we, when life grows dim,
When its last melodies float o’er our way,
Its changeful hues before us faintly swim,
Its flitting lights decay;--

E’en though we bid farewell
Unto the spring’s blue skies and budding trees,
Yet may we lift our hearts in hope to dwell
Midst brighter things than these;

And think of deathless flowers,
And of bright streams to glorious valleys given,
And know the while, how little dream of ours
Can shadow forth of heaven.

[391] Transcriber’s Note: Footnote not found on original page 493 footnote 1.

EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.[392]

Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman’s axe lies free,
And the reaper’s work is done.

The twilight star to heaven,
And the summer dew to flowers,
And rest to us, is given
By the cool, soft evening hours.

Sweet is the hour of rest!
Pleasant the wind’s low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,
And the turf whereon we lie;

When the burden and the heat
Of labour’s task are o’er,
And kindly voices greet
The tired one at his door.

Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman’s axe lies free,
And the reaper’s work is done.

Yes! tuneful is the sound
That dwells in whispering boughs;
Welcome the freshness round,
And the gale that fans our brows!

But rest more sweet and still
Than ever nightfall gave,
Our yearning hearts shall fill
In the world beyond the grave.

There shall no tempest blow,
No scorching noontide heat;
There shall be no more snow,[393]
No weary, wandering feet.

So we lift our trusting eyes
From the hills our fathers trode,
To the quiet of the skies,
To the Sabbath of our God.

Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman’s axe lies free,
And the reaper’s work is done.

[392] “The loved hour of repose is striking. Let us come to the sunset tree.”--See Captain Sherer’s interesting _Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany_.

[393]

“Wohl ihm, er ist hingegangen
Wo _kein Schnee_ mehr ist.”
Schiller’s _Nadowessiche Todtenklage_.

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

Forget them not!--though now their name
Be but a mournful sound,
Though by the hearth its utterance claim
A stillness round.

Though for their sake this earth no more
As it hath been may be,
And shadows, never mark’d before,
Brood o’er each tree;

And though their image dim the sky,
Yet, yet forget them not!
Nor, where their love and life went by,
Forsake the spot!

They have a breathing influence there,
A charm, not elsewhere found;
Sad--yet it sanctifies the air,
The stream, the ground.

Then, though the wind an alter’d tone
Through the young foliage bear,
Though every flower, of something gone
A tinge may wear;

Oh! fly it not! No _fruitless_ grief,
Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf
There, where they dwelt.

Still trace the path which knew their tread,
Still tend their garden-bower,
Still commune with the holy dead
In each lone hour!

The _holy_ dead!--oh! bless’d we are,
That we may call them so,
And to their image look afar
Through all our woe!

Bless’d, that the things they loved on earth
As relics we may hold,
That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth
By springs untold!

Bless’d, that a deep and chastening power
Thus o’er our souls is given,
If but to bird, or song, or flower,
Yet all for heaven!

HE WALKED WITH GOD.

GENESIS, V. XXIV.

[“These two little pieces,” (“He walked with God,” and “The Rod of Aaron,”) says the author in one of her letters, “are part of a collection I think of forming, to be called Sacred Lyrics. They are all to be on scriptural subjects, and to go through the most striking events of the Old Testament, to those far more deeply affecting ones of the New.” Two others (“The Voice of God” and “The Fountain of Marah”) are subjoined, as having been probably intended to form a part of the same series.]

He walk’d with God, in holy joy,
While yet his days were few;
The deep, glad spirit of the boy
To love and reverence grew.
Whether, each nightly star to count,
The ancient hills he trode,
Or sought the flowers by stream and fount--
Alike he walk’d with God.

The graver noon of manhood came,
The full of cares and fears;
One voice was in his heart--the same
It heard through childhood’s years.
Amidst fair tents, and flocks, and swains,
O’er his green pasture-sod,
A shepherd-king on Eastern plains--
The patriarch walk’d with God.

And calmly, brightly, that pure life
Melted from earth away;
No cloud it knew, no parting strife,
No sorrowful decay:
He bow’d him not, like all beside,
Unto the spoiler’s rod,
But join’d at once the glorified,
Where angels walk with God!

So let _us_ walk! The night must come
To us that comes to all;
We through the darkness must go home,
Hearing the trumpet’s call.
Closed is the path for ever more
Which without death he trode;
Not so that way, wherein of yore
His footsteps walk’d with God!

THE ROD OF AARON.

NUMBERS, XVII. VIII.

Was it the sigh of the southern gale
That flush’d the almond bough?
Brightest and first the young spring to hail,
Still its red blossoms glow.

Was it the sunshine that woke its flowers
With a kindling look of love?
Oh! far and deep, and through hidden bowers,
That smile of heaven can rove!

No! from the breeze and the living light
Shut was the sapless rod;
But it felt in the stillness a secret might,
And thrill’d to the breath of God.

E’en so may that breath, like the vernal air,
O’er our glad spirits move;
And all such things as are good and fair
Be the blossoms, its track that prove!

THE VOICE OF GOD.

“I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid.”--Gen. iii. 10.

Amidst the thrilling leaves, Thy voice
At evening’s fall drew near;
Father! and did not man rejoice
That blessed sound to hear?

Did not his heart within him burn,
Touch’d by the solemn tone?
Not so!--for, never to return,
Its purity was gone.

Therefore, midst holy stream and bower,
His spirit shook with dread,
And call’d the cedars, in that hour,
To veil his conscious head.

Oh! in each wind, each fountain-flow,
Each whisper of the shade,
Grant me, my God! thy voice to know,
And not to be afraid!

THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH.

“And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter.

“And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall we drink?

“And he cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree, which when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet.”--Exodus, xv. 23-25.

Where is the tree the prophet threw
Into the bitter wave?
Left it no scion where it grew,
The thirsting soul to save?

Hath nature lost the hidden power
Its precious foliage shed?
Is there no distant Eastern bower
With such sweet leaves o’erspread?

Nay, wherefore ask?--since gifts are ours
Which yet may well imbue
Earth’s many troubled founts with showers
Of heaven’s own balmy dew.

Oh! mingled with the cup of grief
Let faith’s deep spirit be!
And every prayer shall win a leaf
From that bless’d healing tree!

THE PENITENT’S OFFERING.

ST LUKE, VII. XXXVII.-IX.

Thou that with pallid cheek,
And eyes in sadness meek,
And faded locks that humbly swept the ground,
From thy long wanderings won,
Before the all-healing Son,
Did’st bow thee to the earth--O lost and found!

When thou wouldst bathe his feet
With odours richly sweet,
And many a shower of woman’s burning tear,
And dry them with that hair,
Brought low the dust to wear,
From the crown’d beauty of its festal year.

Did He reject thee then,
While the sharp scorn of men
On thy once bright and stately head was cast?
No! from the Saviour’s mien,
A solemn light serene
Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last.

For thee, their smiles no more
Familiar faces wore;
Voices, once kind, had learn’d the stranger’s tone:
Who raised thee up, and bound
Thy silent spirit’s wound?--
He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone!

But which, O erring child,
From home so long beguiled!--
Which of thine offerings won those words of heaven,
That o’er the bruisèd reed,
Condemn’d of earth to bleed,
In music pass’d, “Thy sins are all forgiven?”

Was it that perfume, fraught
With balm and incense, brought
From the sweet woods of Araby the Blest?
Or that fast-flowing rain
Of tears, which not in vain,
To Him who scorn’d not tears, thy woes confess’d?

No! not by these restored
Unto thy Father’s board,
Thy peace, that kindled joy in heaven, was made;
But, costlier in his eyes,
By that bless’d sacrifice,
Thy heart, thy full deep heart, before Him laid.

THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN.

ON CHANTREY’S MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL.

[“The monument by Chantrey in Lichfield Cathedral, to the memory of the two children of Mrs Robinson, is one of the most affecting works of art ever executed. He has given a pathos to marble which one who trusts to his natural feelings, and admires and is touched only at their bidding, might have thought, from any previous experience, that it was out of the power of statuary to attain. The monument is executed with all his beautiful simplicity and truth. The two children, two little girls, are represented as lying in each other’s arms, and, at first glance, appear to be sleeping:--

‘But something lies
Too deep and still on those soft-sealed eyes.’

It is while lying in the helplessness of innocent sleep that infancy and childhood are viewed with the most touching interest; and this, and the loveliness of the children, the uncertainty of the expression at first view, the dim shadowing forth of that sleep from which they cannot be awakened--their hovering, as it were, upon the confines of life, as if they might still be recalled--all conspire to render the last feeling, that death is indeed before us, most deeply affecting. They were the only children of their mother, and she was a widow. A tablet commemorative of their father hangs over the monument. This stands at the end of one of the side-aisles of the choir, where there is nothing to distract the attention from it, or weaken its effect. It may be contemplated in silence and alone. The inscription, in that subdued tone of strong feeling which seeks no relief in words, harmonizes with the character of the whole. It is as follows:--

‘Sacred to the Memory of
Ellen Jane and Marianne, only children
Of the late Rev. William Robinson, and Ellen Jane, his wife,
Their affectionate Mother,
In fond remembrance of their heaven-loved innocence,
Consigns their resemblance to this sanctuary,
In humble gratitude for the glorious assurance
That ‘of such is the kingdom of God.’[394] A. N.”]

Fair images of sleep,
Hallow’d, and soft, and deep,
On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies,
Like moonlight on shut bells
Of flowers in mossy dells,
Fill’d with the hush of night and summer skies!

How many hearts have felt
Your silent beauty melt
Their strength to gushing tenderness away!
How many sudden tears,
From depths of buried years
All freshly bursting, having confess’d your sway!

How many eyes will shed
Still, o’er your marble bed,
Such drops from memory’s troubled fountains wrung!
While hope hath blights to bear,
While love breathes mortal air,
While roses perish ere to glory sprung!

Yet from a voiceless home,
If some sad mother come
Fondly to linger o’er your lovely rest,
As o’er the cheek’s warm glow,
And the sweet breathings low,
Of babes that grew and faded on her breast;

If then the dove-like tone
Of those faint murmurs gone,
O’er her sick sense too piercingly return;
If for the soft bright hair,
And brow and bosom fair,
And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn;

O gentle forms, entwined
Like tendrils, which the wind
May wave, so clasp’d, but never can unlink!
Send from your calm profound
A still, small voice--a sound
Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink!

By all the pure, meek mind
In your pale beauty shrined,
By childhood’s love--too bright a bloom to die
O’er her worn spirit shed,
O fairest, holiest dead!
The faith, trust, joy, of immortality!

[394] From _The Offering_, an American annual.

WOMAN AND FAME.

Thou hast a charmèd cup, O Fame!
A draught that mantles high,
And seems to lift this earthly frame
Above mortality.
Away! to me--a woman--bring
Sweet waters from affection’s spring!

Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine
Into so proud a wreath,
For that resplendent gift of thine
Heroes have smiled in death:
Give _me_ from some kind hand a flower,
The record of one happy hour!

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone
Can bid each life-pulse beat,
As when a trumpet’s note hath blown,
Calling the brave to meet:
But mine, let mine--a woman’s breast,
By words of home-born love be bless’d.

A hollow sound is in thy song,
A mockery in thine eye,
To the sick heart that doth but long
For aid, for sympathy--
For kindly looks to cheer it on,
For tender accents that are gone.

Fame! Fame! thou canst not be the stay
Unto the drooping reed,
The cool, fresh fountain in the day
Of the soul’s feverish need:
Where must the lone one turn or flee!--
Not unto thee--oh! not to thee!

A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE.

Dreamer! and wouldst thou know
If love goes with us to the viewless bourne?
Wouldst thou bear hence th’ unfathom’d source of woe
In thy heart’s lonely urn?

What hath it been to thee,
That power, the dweller of thy secret breast?
A dove sent forth across a stormy sea,
Finding no place of rest:

A precious odour cast
On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by;
A voice of music utter’d to the blast,
And winning no reply.

Even were such answer thine,
Wouldst thou be bless’d? Too sleepless, too profound,
Are the soul’s hidden springs; there is no line
Their depth of love to sound.

Do not words faint and fail
When thou wouldst fill them with that ocean’s power?
As thine own cheek, before high thoughts grows pale
In some o’erwhelming hour.

Doth not thy frail form sink
Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot,
When thy heart strives, held down by many a link,
Where thy beloved are not?

Is not thy very soul
Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed,
Till a vain tenderness, beyond control,
Bows down thy weary head?

And wouldst thou bear all _this_--
The burden and the shadow of thy life--
To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss
With earthly feelings’ strife?

Not thus, not thus--oh, no!
Not veil’d and mantled with dim clouds of care,
That spirit of my soul should with me go
To breathe celestial air.

But as the skylark springs
To its own sphere, where night afar is driven,
As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings,
So must love mount to heaven!

Vainly it shall not strive
There on weak words to pour a stream of fire;
Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give,
As light might wake a lyre.

And oh! its blessings _there_,
Shower’d like rich balsam forth on some dear head,
Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear,
A joy of sunlight shed.

Let me, then--let me dream
That love goes with us to the shore unknown;
So o’er its burning tears a heavenly gleam
In mercy shall be thrown!

THE VOICE OF MUSIC.

“Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.”
Childe Harold.

Whence is the might of thy master-spell?
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound! and tell:
How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath,
Passionate visions of love and death?

How call’st thou back, with a note, a sigh,
Words and low tones from the days gone by--
A sunny glance, or a fond farewell?--
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound! and tell.

What is thy power, from the soul’s deep spring
In sudden gushes the tears to bring?
Even midst the swells of thy festal glee,
Fountains of sorrow are stirr’d by thee!

Vain are those tears!--vain and fruitless all--
Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall;
For a purer bliss while the full heart burns,
For a brighter home while the spirit yearns!

Something of mystery there surely dwells,
Waiting thy touch, in our bosom-cells;
Something that finds not its answer here--
A chain to be clasp’d in another sphere.

Therefore a current of sadness deep
Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep,
Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky--
Like a name of the dead when the wind foams high!

Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught
With vain remembrance and troubled thought;
Speak! for thou tellest my soul that its birth
Links it with regions more bright than earth.

THE ANGEL’S GREETING.

“Hark!--they whisper!--Angels say,
Sister spirit! come away.” Pope.

Come to the land of peace!
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway,
The shadow passes from the soul away,
The sounds of weeping cease.

Fear hath no dwelling there!
Come to the mingling of repose and love,
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove
Through the celestial air.

Come to the bright, and blest,
And crown’d for ever! Midst that shining band,
Gather’d to heaven’s own wreath from every land,
Thy spirit shall find rest!

Thou hast been long alone:
Come to thy mother! On the Sabbath shore,
The heart that rock’d thy childhood, back once more
Shall take its wearied one.

In silence wert thou left:
Come to thy sisters! Joyously again
All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain,
Shall greet their long bereft.

Over thine orphan head
The storm hath swept, as o’er a willow’s bough:
Come to thy father! It is finish’d now;
Thy tears have all been shed.

In thy divine abode,
Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace,
And, oh! bright victory--death by love no place.
Come, spirit! to thy God.

A FAREWELL TO WALES,

FOR THE MELODY CALLED “THE ASH GROVE,” ON LEAVING THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDREN.

The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear--
Farewell, and a blessing be with thee, green land!
On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air,
On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel’s free hand,
From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed,
As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead!

I bless thee!--yet not for the beauty which dwells
In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy shore;
And not for the memory set deep in thy dells,
Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore;
And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled--
Green land, poet-land of my home and my dead!

I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat
Where’er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies;
For thy cottage-hearths burning the stranger to greet,
For the soul that shines forth from thy children’s kind eyes!
May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be spread,
Green land of my childhood, my home, and my dead!

[“It was about this time (1828) that ‘The Farewell to Wales’ was written.

‘I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat
Where’er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies;
For thy cottage-hearths burning the stranger to greet,
For the soul that shines forth from thy children’s kind eyes.’

Mrs Hemans always spoke of this ‘land of her childhood, her home, and her dead,’ with interest and affection. When she sailed from its shore, she covered her face in her cloak, desiring her boys to tell her when the hills were out of sight, that she might then look up. She would often, too, refer to the pain she had suffered--in addition to the sorrow of parting from her kindred and friends, for the first time since her birth, to make actual acquaintance with the daily cares of life--upon taking leave of the simple and homely peasantry of the neighbourhood, by whom she was beloved with that old-fashioned heartiness which yet lingers in some of the nooks and remote places of England. Many of them rushed forward to touch the posts of the gate through which the poetess had passed; and when, three years afterwards, she paid a visit to St Asaph, came and wept over her, and entreated her to return and make her home among them again.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 206-7.]

IMPROMPTU LINES,

ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVING FROM HER SOME FLOWERS WHEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS.

Ye tell me not of birds and bees,
Not of the summer’s murmuring trees,
Not of the streams and woodland bowers--
A sweeter tale is yours, fair flowers!
Glad tidings to my couch ye bring,
Of one still bright, still flowing spring--
A fount of kindness ever new,
In a friend’s heart, the good and true.

A PARTING SONG.

“O mes amis! rapellez-vous quelquefois mes vers! mon ame y est empreinte.”--Corinne.

When will ye think of me, my friends?
When will ye think of me?--
When the last red light, the farewell of day,
From the rock and the river is passing away--
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught,
And the heart grows burden’d with tender thought,
Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, kind friends?
When will ye think of me?--
When the rose of the rich midsummer-time
Is fill’d with the hues of its glorious prime--
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread--
Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, sweet friends?
When will ye think of me?--
When the sudden tears o’erflow your eye
At the sound of some olden melody--
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream,
When ye feel the charm of a poet’s dream--
Then let it be!

Thus let my memory be with you, friends!
Thus ever think of me!
Kindly and gently, but as of one
For whom ’tis well to be fled and gone--
As of a bird from a chain unbound,
As of a wanderer whose home is found--
So let it be.

[“The description of her feelings, when the actual parting took place, proves that there was no exaggeration in the affectionate sadness of her ‘Farewell to Wales,’ and the blessing she thus fondly left with it:--

‘The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear--
Farewell! and a blessing be with thee, green land!
On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air,
On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel’s free hand,
From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed,
As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead!

‘Oh! that Tuesday morning!’ (thus she wrote in her first letter to St Asaph.) ‘I literally covered my face all the way from Bronwylfa, until the boys told me we had passed the Clwyd range of hills. Then something of the bitterness was over.

‘Miss P. met me at Bagillt, and on board the packet we found Mr D., who was kinder to me than I can possibly tell you. He really watched over me all the way with a care I shall not soon forget; and notwithstanding all you may say of _female_ protection, I felt that of a gentleman to be a great comfort, for we had a difficult and disagreeable landing. As we entered the port, a vessel, coming out, struck against ours, and caused a great concussion: there was no danger, I imagine, but it gave one a faint notion of what the meeting must have been between the Comet and the Aire. We had a pretty sight on the water; another packet, loaded, clustered all over with blue-coat boys, sailed past. It was their annual holiday, on which they have a water excursion; and as they went by, all the little fellows waved their hats, and sent forth three cheers, which made our vessel ring again. Only imagine a ship-load of happiness! That word reminds me of my own boys, who are enjoying themselves greatly. Of myself, what can I say to you?... When I look back on the short time that has elapsed since I left this place, I am astonished; I seem in it to have lived an age of deep, strong, vain feeling.” --_Memoir_, p. 151-3.]

WE RETURN NO MORE![395]

“When I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
And saw around me the wide field revive
With fruits and fertile promise; and the Spring
Come forth, her work of gladness to contrive,
With all her reckless birds upon the wing,
I turn’d from all she brought to all she could not bring.”
Childe Harold.

“We return!--we return!--we return no more!”
So comes the song to the mountain shore,
From those that are leaving their Highland home
For a world far over the blue sea’s foam:
“We return no more!” and through cave and dell
Mournfully wanders that wild farewell.

“We return!--we return!--we return no more!”
So breathe sad voices our spirits o’er;
Murmuring up from the depths of the heart,
Where lovely things with their light depart:
And the inborn sound hath a prophet’s tone,
And we feel that a joy is for ever gone.

“We return!--we return!--we return no more!”
Is it heard when the days of flowers are o’er?
When the passionate soul of the night-bird’s lay
Hath died from the summer woods away?
When the glory from sunset’s robe hath pass’d,
Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast?

No! It is not the rose that returns no more;--
A breath of spring shall its bloom restore;
And it is not the voice that o’erflows the bowers
With a stream of love through the starry hours;
Nor is it the crimson of sunset hues,
Nor the frail flush’d leaves which the wild wind strews.

“We return!--we return!--we return no more!”
Doth the bird sing thus from a brighter shore?
Those wings that follow the southern breeze,
Float they not homeward o’er vernal seas?
Yes! from the lands of the vine and palm
They come, with the sunshine, when waves grow calm.

“But we!--we return!--we return no more!”
The heart’s young dreams, when their spring is o’er;
The love it hath pour’d so freely forth--
The boundless trust in ideal worth;
The faith in affection--deep, fond, yet vain--
_These_ are the lost that return not again!

[395] _Ha til!--ha til!--ha til mi tulidle!_--“we return!--we return!--we return no more!”--the burden of the Highland song of emigration.

TO A WANDERING FEMALE SINGER.

Thou hast loved and thou hast suffer’d!
Unto feeling deep and strong,
Thou hast trembled like a harp’s frail string--
I know it by thy song!

Thou hast loved--it may be vainly--
But well--oh, but too well!
Thou hast suffer’d all that woman’s breast
May bear--but must not tell.

Thou hast wept, and thou hast parted,
Thou hast been forsaken long,
Thou hast watch’d for steps that came not back--
I know it by thy song!

By the low, clear silvery gushing
Of its music from thy breast;
By the quivering of its flute-like swell--
A sound of the heart’s unrest;

By its fond and plaintive lingering
On each word of grief so long.
Oh! thou hast loved and suffer’d much--
I know it by thy song!

LIGHTS AND SHADES.

The gloomiest day hath gleams of light;
The darkest wave hath light foam near it;
And twinkles through the cloudiest night
Some solitary star to cheer it.

The gloomiest soul is not all gloom;
The saddest heart is not all sadness;
And sweetly o’er the darkest doom
There shines some lingering beam of gladness.

Despair is never _quite_ despair;
Nor life nor death the future closes;
And round the shadowy brow of Care
Will Hope and Fancy twine their roses.

[These spirited and graceful stanzas appeared in the “For-get-me-Not” for 1829, and are here for the first time admitted into the general collection of the author’s works. In all probability, they are an early effusion, and poured forth when the poetry of Moore was fresh in her mind.]

THE PALMER.

“The faded palm-branch in his hand
Show’d pilgrim from the Holy Land.” Scott.

Art thou come from the far-off land at last?
Thou that hast wander’d long!
Thou art come to a home whence the smile hath pass’d
With the merry voice of song.

For the sunny glance and the bounding heart
Thou wilt seek--but all are gone;
They are parted, e’en as waters part,
To meet in the deep alone!

And thou--from thy lip is fled the glow,
From thine eye the light of morn;
And the shades of thought o’erhang thy brow,
And thy cheek with life is worn.

Say what hast thou brought from the distant shore
For thy wasted youth to pay?
Hast thou treasure to win thee joys once more?
Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way?

“I have brought but the palm-branch in my hand,
Yet I call not my bright youth lost!
I have won but high thought in the Holy Land,
Yet I count not too dear the cost!

“I look on the leaves of the deathless tree--
These records of my track;
And better than youth in its flush of glee,
Are the memories they give me back!

“They speak of toil, and of high emprise,
As in words of solemn cheer;
They speak of lonely victories
O’er pain, and doubt, and fear.

“They speak of scenes which have now become
Bright pictures in my breast;
Where my spirit finds a glorious home,
And the love of my heart can rest.

“The colours pass not from _these_ away,
Like tints of shower or sun;
Oh! beyond all treasures that know decay,
Is the wealth my soul hath won!

“A rich light thence o’er my life’s decline,
An inborn light is cast;
For the sake of the palm from the holy shrine,
I bewail not my bright days past!”

THE CHILD’S FIRST GRIEF.

Oh! call my brother back to me!
I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flower and bee--
Where is my brother gone?

“The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam’s track;
I care not now to chase its flight--
Oh! call my brother back!

“The flowers run wild--the flowers we sow’d
Around our garden tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load--
Oh! call him back to me!”

“He would not hear thy voice, fair child!
He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smiled,
On earth no more thou’lt see.

“A rose’s brief, bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given:
Go--thou must play alone, my boy!
Thy brother is in heaven.”

“And has he left his birds and flowers;
And must I call in vain?
And through the long, long summer hours,
Will he not come again?

“And by the brook and in the glade
Are all our wanderings o’er?
Oh! while my brother with me play’d,
_Would I had loved him more_!”

TO THE NEW-BORN.[396]

A blessing on thy head, thou child of many hopes and fears!
A rainbow-welcome thine hath been, of mingled smiles and tears.
Thy father greets thee unto life with a full and chasten’d heart,
For a solemn gift from God thou comest, all precious as thou art!

I see thee not asleep, fair boy! upon thy mother’s breast,
Yet well I know how guarded there shall be thy rosy rest;
And how her soul with love, and prayer, and gladness, will o’erflow,
While bending o’er thy soft-seal’d eyes, thou dear one! well I know.

A blessing on thy gentle head! and bless’d thou _art_ in truth,
For a home where God is felt awaits thy childhood and thy youth:
Around thee pure and holy thoughts shall dwell as light and air,
And steal unto thine heart, and wake the germs now folded there.

Smile on thy mother! while she feels that unto her is given,
In that young day-spring glance, the pledge of a soul to rear for
heaven!
Smile! and sweet peace be o’er thy sleep, joy o’er thy wakening
shed!
Blessings and blessings evermore, fair boy! upon thy head!

[396] Addressed to the child of her eldest brother.

THE DEATH-SONG OF ALCESTIS.