Chapter LII: Part II (15)

But he, the last and noblest
Of that high Norman race,
With a few brief words of soldier-love
Was gather’d to his place;

In the shadow of the Pyramid,
Where his youthful form we laid,
When the battle-day was done,
And the desert’s parting sun
A field of death survey’d.

But let him, let him slumber
By the old Egyptian wave!
It is well with those who bear their fame
Unsullied to the grave!

When brightest names are breathed on,
When loftiest fall so fast,
We would not call our brother back
On dark days to be cast,--

From the shadow of the Pyramid,
Where his noble heart we laid,
When the battle-day was done,
And the desert’s parting sun
A field of death survey’d.

[“Mrs Hemans’ funeral poems are among her most impressive works: the music of her verse, through which an under-current of sadness may always be traced, was never more happily employed than in lamenting the beloved and early called, or in bidding

‘Hope to the world to look beyond the tombs.’

I need only mention a few lyrics, ‘The Farewell to the Dead,’ (in the Lays of Many Lands;) ‘The Exile’s Dirge,’ (in the Songs of the Affections;) ‘The Burial of an Emigrant’s Child in the Forest,’ (in the Scenes and Hymns of Life;) and the ‘Burial in the Desert,’ a noble poem, published among her poetical remains. The introduction of the two following stanzas of a more concise and monumental character,[399] though they have already appeared in print, will not, I am sure, be objected to as illustrating the above remark.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 26-7.]

[399] Vide “Monumental Inscription,” p. 356.

TO A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA.

“Ave Maria! May our spirits dare
Look up to thine, and to thy Son’s above?” Byron.

Fair vision! thou’rt from sunny skies,
Born where the rose hath richest dyes;
To thee a southern heart hath given
That glow of love, that calm of heaven,
And round thee cast th’ ideal gleam,
The light that is but of a dream.

Far hence, where wandering music fills
The haunted air of Roman hills,
Or where Venetian waves of yore
Heard melodies, they hear no more,
Some proud old minster’s gorgeous aisle
Hath known the sweetness of thy smile.

Or haply, from a lone, dim shrine
Mid forests of the Apennine,
Whose breezy sounds of cave and dell
Pass like a floating anthem-swell,
Thy soft eyes o’er the pilgrim’s way
Shed blessings with their gentle ray.

Or gleaming through a chestnut wood,
Perchance thine island-chapel stood,
Where from the blue Sicilian sea
The sailor’s hymn hath risen to thee,
And bless’d thy power to guide, to save,
Madonna! watcher of the wave!

Oh! might a voice, a whisper low,
Forth from those lips of beauty flow!
Couldst thou but speak of all the tears,
The conflicts, and the pangs of years,
Which, at thy secret shrine reveal’d,
Have gush’d from human hearts unseal’d!

Surely to thee hath woman come,
As a tired wanderer back to home!
Unveiling many a timid guest
And treasured sorrow of her breast,
A buried love--a wasting care--
Oh! did those griefs win peace from prayer?

And did the poet’s fervid soul
To thee lay bare its inmost scroll?
Those thoughts, which pour’d their quenchless fire
And passion o’er th’ Italian lyre,
Did they to still submission die
Beneath thy calm, religious eye?

And hath the crested helmet bow’d
Before thee, midst the incense-cloud?
Hath the crown’d leader’s bosom lone
To thee its haughty griefs made known?
Did thy glance break their frozen sleep,
And win th’ unconquer’d one to weep?

Hush’d is the anthem, closed the vow,
The votive garland wither’d now;
Yet holy still to me thou art,
Thou that hath soothed so many a heart!
And still must blessed influence flow
From the meek glory of thy brow.

Still speak to suffering woman’s love,
Of rest for gentle hearts above;
Of hope, that hath its treasure there,
Of home, that knows no changeful air.
Bright form! lit up with thoughts divine,
Ave! such power be ever thine!

A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE.

How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom,
Rose! ever wearing beauty for thy dower!
The bridal-day--the festival--the tomb--
Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower!

Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by
A thousand images of love and grief,
Dreams, fill’d with tokens of mortality,
Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief.

Not such thy spells o’er those that hail’d thee first,
In the clear light of Eden’s golden day!
There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst,
Link’d with no dim remembrance of decay.
Rose! for the banquet gather’d, and the bier;
Rose! colour’d now by human hope and pain
Surely where death is not--nor change, nor fear,
Yet may we meet thee, joy’s own flower again!

DREAMS OF HEAVEN.

“We colour heaven with our own human thoughts,
Our vain aspirings, fond remembrances,
Our passionate love, that seems unto itself
An Immortality.”

Dream’st _thou_ of heaven? What dreams are thine?
Fair child, fair gladsome child?
With eyes that like the dewdrop shine,
And bounding footsteps wild!

Tell me what hues th’ immortal shore
Can wear, my bird! to thee?
Ere yet one shadow hath pass’d o’er
Thy glance and spirit free?

“Oh! beautiful is heaven, and bright
With long, long summer days;
I see its lilies gleam in light
Where many a fountain plays.

“And there uncheck’d, methinks, I rove,
And seek where young flowers lie,
In vale and golden-fruited grove--
Flowers that are not to die!”

Thou poet of the lonely thought,
Sad heir of gifts divine!
Say with what solemn glory fraught
Is heaven in dreams of thine?

“Oh! where the living waters flow
Along that radiant shore,
My soul, a wanderer here, shall know
The exile-thirst no more.

“The burden of the stranger’s heart
Which here alone I bear,
Like the night-shadow shall depart,
With my first wakening _there_.

“And borne on eagle wings afar,
Free thought shall claim its dower,
From every realm, from every star,
Of glory and of power.”

O woman! with the soft sad eye,
Of spiritual gleam,
Tell me of those bright worlds on high,
How doth _thy_ fond heart dream?

By the sweet mournful voice I know,
On thy pale brow I see,
That thou hast loved, in fear, and woe--
Say what is heaven to thee?

“Oh! heaven is where no secret dread
May haunt love’s meeting hour,
Where from the past no gloom is shed
O’er the heart’s chosen bower:

“Where every sever’d wreath is bound--
Where none have heard the knell
That smites the heart with that deep sound--
_Farewell, beloved!--farewell!_”

THE WISH.

Come to me, when my soul
Hath but a few dim hours to linger here;
When earthly chains are as a shrivel’d scroll,
Oh! let me feel thy presence! be but near!

That I may look once more
Into thine eyes, which never changed for me;
That I may speak to thee of that bright shore
Where, with our treasure, we have long’d to be.

Thou friend of many days!
Of sadness and of joy, of home and hearth!
Will not thy spirit aid me then to raise
The trembling pinions of my hope from earth?

By every solemn thought
Which on our hearts hath sunk in days gone by,
From the deep voices of the mountains caught,
O’er all th’ adoring silence of the sky;

By every lofty theme
Whereon, in low-toned reverence we have spoken;
By our communion in each fervent dream
That sought from realms beyond the grave a token;

And by our tears for those
Whose loss hath touch’d our world with hues of death;
And by the hopes that with their dust repose,
As flowers await the south-wind’s vernal breath;

Come to me in that day--
The one--the sever’d from all days--O friend!
Even then, if human thought may then have sway
My soul with thine shall yet rejoice to blend.

Nor then, nor _there_ alone:
I ask my heart if all indeed must die--
All that of holiest feelings it hath known?
And my heart’s voice replies--Eternity?

WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB,

NEAR WOODSTOCK, IN THE COUNTY OF KILKENNY.[400]

“Yes! hide beneath the mouldering heap,
The undelighted, slighted thing;
There in the cold earth, buried deep,
In silence let it wait the Spring.”
Mrs Tighe’s “Poem on the Lily.”

I stood where the lip of song lay low,
Where the dust had gather’d on Beauty’s brow;
Where stillness hung on the heart of Love,
And a marble weeper kept watch above.

I stood in the silence of lonely thought,
Of deep affections that inly wrought,
Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear--
They knew themselves exiled spirits here!

Then didst _thou_ pass me in radiance by,
Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly!
Thou that dost bear, on thy fairy wings,
No burden of mortal sufferings.

Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb,
Over a bright world of joy and bloom;
And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine,
The all that sever’d _thy_ life and _mine_.

_Mine_, with its inborn mysterious things,
Of love and grief its unfathom’d springs;
And quick thoughts wandering o’er earth and sky,
With voices to question eternity!

_Thine_, in its reckless and joyous way,
Like an embodied breeze at play!
Child of the sunlight!--thou wing’d and free!
One moment, _one_ moment, I envied thee!

Thou art not lonely, though born to roam,
Thou hast no longings that pine for home;
Thou seek’st not the haunts of the bee and bird,
To fly from the sickness of hope deferr’d:

In thy brief being no strife of mind,
No boundless passion, is deeply shrined;
While I, as I gazed on thy swift flight by,
One hour of my soul seem’d infinity!

And she, that voiceless below me slept,
Flow’d not her song from a heart that wept?
--O Love and Song! though of heaven your powers,
Dark is your fate in this world of ours.

Yet, ere I turn’d from that silent place,
Or ceased from watching thy sunny race,
Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings,
Didst waft me visions of brighter things!

Thou that dost image the freed soul’s birth,
And its flight away o’er the mists of earth,
Oh! fitly thy path is through flowers that rise
Round the dark chamber where Genius lies!

[400] See the “Grave of a Poetess,” p. 411, on the same subject, and written several years previously to visiting the scene.

EPITAPH.

Farewell, beloved and mourn’d! We miss awhile
Thy tender gentleness of voice and smile,
And that bless’d gift of heaven, to cheer us lent--
That thrilling touch, divinely eloquent,
Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent, high,
Through thy rich strains of sacred harmony.
Yet from those very memories there is born
A soft light, pointing to celestial morn:
Oh! bid it guide us where _thy_ footsteps trode,
To meet at last “the pure in heart” with God!