Chapter LVI: Introduction (2)

From land, from sunny land it comes,
From hills with murmuring trees,
From paths by still and happy homes--
That sweet sound on the breeze.

Why should its faint and passing sigh
Thus bid my quick pulse leap?
No part in earth’s glad melody
Is mine upon the deep.

Yet blessing, blessing on the spot
Whence those rich breathings flow!
Kind hearts, although they know me not,
Like mine there beat and glow.

And blessing, from the bark that roams
O’er solitary seas,
To those that far in happy homes
Give sweet sounds to the breeze!

LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS EYES.

Look on me with thy cloudless eyes,
Truth in their dark transparence lies;
Their sweetness gives me back the tears
And the free trust of early years,
My gentle child!

The spirit of my infant prayer
Shines in the depths of quiet there;
And home and love once more are mine.
Found in that dewy calm divine,
My gentle child!

Oh! heaven is with thee in thy dreams,
Its light by day around thee gleams--
Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies:
Look on me with thy cloudless eyes,
My gentle child!

IF THOU HAST CRUSH’D A FLOWER.

“Oh, cast thou not
Affection from thee! In this bitter world
Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast;
Watch--guard it--suffer not a breath to dim
The bright gem’s purity!”

If thou hast crush’d a flower,
The root may not be blighted;
If thou hast quench’d a lamp,
Once more it may be lighted:
But on thy harp, or on thy lute,
The string which thou hast broken
Shall never in sweet sound again
Give to thy touch a token!

If thou hast loosed a bird
Whose voice of song could cheer thee,
Still, still he may be won
From the skies to warble near thee:
But if upon the troubled sea
Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded,
Hope not that wind or wave will bring
The treasure back when needed.

If thou hast bruised a vine,
The summer’s breath is healing,
And its clusters yet may glow
Through the leaves their bloom revealing:
But if thou hast a cup o’erthrown
With a bright draught fill’d--oh! never
Shall earth give back that lavish’d wealth
To cool thy parch’d lip’s fever!

The heart is like that cup,
If thou waste the love it bore thee;
And like that jewel gone,
Which the deep will not restore thee;
And like that string of harp or lute
Whence the sweet sound is scatter’d,--
Gently, oh! gently touch the chords,
So soon for ever shatter’d!

BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED.

Brightly, brightly hast thou fled!
Ere one grief had bow’d thy head!
Brightly didst thou part!
With thy young thoughts pure from spot,
With thy fond love wasted not,
With thy bounding heart.

Ne’er by sorrow to be wet,
Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet,
Ere with dust o’erspread:
Lilies ne’er by tempest blown,
White rose which no stain hath known,
Be about thee shed!

So we give thee to the earth,
And the primrose shall have birth
O’er thy gentle head;
Thou that, like a dewdrop borne
On a sudden breeze of morn,
Brightly thus hast fled!

THE BED OF HEATH.

“Soldier, awake! the night is past;
Hear’st thou not the bugle’s blast?
Feel’st thou not the dayspring’s breath?
Rouse thee from thy bed of heath!
Arm, thou bold and strong!
Soldier! what deep spell hath bound thee?
Fiery steeds are neighing round thee--
Banners to the fresh wind play:
Rise, and arm--’tis day,’tis day!
And thou hast slumber’d long.”

“Brother! on the heathery lea
Longer yet my sleep must be;
Though the morn of battle rise,
Darkly night rolls o’er my eyes--
Brother, this is death!
Call me not when bugles sound,
Call me not when wine flows round;
Name me but amidst the brave,
Give me but a soldier’s grave--
But my bed of heath!”

FAIRY SONG.

Have ye left the greenwood lone,
Are your steps for ever gone?
Fairy King and Elfin Queen,
Come ye to the sylvan scene,
From your dim and distant shore,
Never more?

Shall the pilgrim never hear
With a thrill of joy and fear,
In the hush of moonlight hours,
Voices from the folded flowers,
Faint, sweet flute-notes as of yore,
Never more?

“Mortal! ne’er shall bowers of earth
Hear again our midnight mirth:
By our brooks and dingles green
Since unhallow’d steps have been,
Ours shall thread the forests hoar
Never more.

“Ne’er on earth-born lily’s stem
Will we hang the dewdrop’s gem;
Ne’er shall reed or cowslip’s head
Quiver to our dancing tread,
By sweet fount or murmuring shore--
Never more!”

WHAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND.

What woke the buried sound that lay
In Memnon’s harp of yore?
What spirit on its viewless way
Along the Nile’s green shore?
Oh! not the night, and not the storm,
And not the lightning’s fire;
But sunlight’s torch, the kind, the warm--
This, this awoke the lyre.

What wins the heart’s deep chords to pour
Thus music forth on life--
Like a sweet voice prevailing o’er
The truant sounds of strife?
Oh! not the conflict midst the throng,
Not e’en the trumpet’s hour;
Love is the gifted and the strong,
To wake that music’s power!

SING TO ME, GONDOLIER!

Sing to me, Gondolier!
Sing words from Tasso’s lay;
While blue, and still, and clear,
Night seems but softer day.
The gale is gently falling,
As if it paused to hear
Some strain the past recalling--
Sing to me, Gondolier!

“Oh, ask me not to wake
The memory of the brave;
Bid no high numbers break
The silence of the wave.
Gone are the noble-hearted,
Closed the bright pageants here;
And the glad song is departed
From the mournful Gondolier!”

LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE.

It is thy pity makes me weep,
My soul was strong before;
Silent, yet strong its griefs to keep
From vainly gushing o’er.
Turn from me, turn those gentle eyes!
In this fond gaze my spirit dies:
Look on me thus no more!

Too late that softness comes to bless,
My heart’s glad life is o’er;
It will but break with tenderness,
Which cannot now restore!
The lyre-strings have been jarr’d too long,
Winter hath touch’d the source of song!
Look on me thus no more!

O’ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS.

O’er the far blue mountains,
O’er the white sea-foam,
Come, thou long-parted one!
Back to thine home.

When the bright fire shineth,
Sad looks thy place,
While the true heart pineth
Missing thy face.

Music is sorrowful
Since thou art gone;
Sisters are mourning thee--
Come to thine own!

Hark! the home-voices call
Back to thy rest;
Come to thy father’s hall,
Thy mother’s breast!

O’er the far blue mountains,
O’er the white sea-foam,
Come, thou long-parted one!
Back to thine home.

O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING!

O thou breeze of spring,
Gladdening sea and shore!
Wake the woods to sing,
Wake my heart no more!
Streams have felt the sighing
Of thy scented wing,
Let each fount replying
Hail thee, breeze of spring!
Once more!

O’er long-buried flowers
Passing not in vain,
Odours in soft showers
Thou hast brought again.
Let the primrose greet thee,
Let the violet pour
Incense forth to meet thee--
Wake my heart no more!
No more!

From a funeral urn
Bower’d in leafy gloom,
Even _thy_ soft return
Calls not song or bloom.
Leave my spirit sleeping
Like that silent thing;
Stir the founts of weeping
_There_, O breeze of spring!
No more!

COME TO ME, DREAMS OF HEAVEN!

Come to me, dreams of heaven!
My fainting spirit bear
On your bright wings, by morning given,
Up to celestial air.
Away--far, far away,
From bowers by tempests riven,
Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day,
O blessed dreams of heaven!

Come but for one brief hour,
Sweet dreams! and yet again
O’er burning thought and memory shower
Your soft effacing rain!
Waft me where gales divine,
With dark clouds ne’er have striven,
Where living founts for ever shine--
O blessed dreams of heaven!

GOOD-NIGHT.

Day is past!
Stars have set their watch at last;
Founts that through the deep woods flow
Make sweet sounds, unheard till now;
Flowers have shut with fading light--
Good-night!

Go to rest!
Sleep sit dove-like on thy breast!
If within that secret cell
One dark form of memory dwell,
Be it mantled from thy sight--
Good-night!

Joy be thine!
Kind looks o’er thy slumbers shine!
Go, and in the spirit-land
Meet thy home’s long-parted band;
Be their eyes all love and light--
Good-night!

Peace to all!
Dreams of heaven on mourners fall!
Exile! o’er thy couch may gleams
Pass from thine own mountain-streams;
Bard! away to worlds more bright--
Good-night!

LET HER DEPART.

Her home is far, oh! far away!
The clear light in her eyes
Hath naught to do with earthly day--
’Tis kindled from the skies.
Let her depart!

She looks upon the things of earth,
Even as some gentle star
Seems gazing down on grief or mirth,
How softly, yet how far!
Let her depart!

Her spirit’s hope--her bosom’s love--
Oh! could they mount and fly!
She never sees a wandering dove,
But for its wings to sigh.
Let her depart!

She never hears a soft wind bear
Low music on its way,
But deems it sent from heavenly air
For her who cannot stay.
Let her depart!

Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams,
She breathes and moves alone,
Pining for those bright bowers and streams
Where her beloved is gone.
Let her depart!

HOW CAN THAT LOVE SO DEEP, SO LONE.

How can that love so deep, so lone,
So faithful unto death,
Thus fitfully in laughing tone,
In airy word, find breath?

Nay! ask how on the dark wave’s breast,
The lily’s cup may gleam,
Though many a mournful secret rest
Low in the unfathom’d stream.

That stream is like my hidden love,
In its deep current’s power;
And like the play of words above,
That lily’s trembling flower.

WATER-LILIES.

A FAIRY SONG.

Come away, elves!--while the dew is sweet,
Come to the dingles where fairies meet!
Know that the lilies have spread their bells
O’er all the pools in our forest dells;
Stilly and lightly their vases rest
On the quivering sleep of the water’s breast,
Catching the sunshine through leaves that throw
To their scented bosoms an emerald glow;
And a star from the depth of each pearly cup,
A golden star unto heaven looks up,
As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie,
Set in the blue of the summer sky.
Come away! Under arching boughs we’ll float,
Making those urns each a fairy boat;
We’ll row them with reeds o’er the fountains free,
And a tall flag-leaf shall our streamer be;
And we’ll send out wild music so sweet and low,
It shall seem from the bright flower’s heart to flow,
As if ’twere a breeze with a flute’s low sigh,
Or water-drops train’d into melody.
Come away! for the midsummer sun grows strong,
And the life of the lily may not be long.

THE BROKEN FLOWER.

Oh! wear it on thy heart, my love!
Still, still a little while!
Sweetness is lingering in its leaves,
Though faded be their smile.
Yet, for the sake of what hath been,
Oh, cast it not away!
’Twas born to grace a summer scene,
A long, bright, golden day,
My love!
A long, bright, golden day!

A little while around thee, love!
Its fragrance yet shall cling,
Telling, that on thy heart hath lain
A fair, though faded thing.
But not even that warm heart hath power
To win it back from fate,--
Oh! _I_ am like thy broken flower,
Cherish’d too late, too late,
My love!
Cherish’d alas! too late!

I WOULD WE HAD NOT MET AGAIN.

I would we had not met again!
I had a dream of thee,
Lovely, though sad, on desert-plain--
Mournful on midnight sea.

What though it haunted me by night,
And troubled through the day?
It touch’d all earth with spirit-light,
It glorified my way!

Oh! what shall now my faith restore
In holy things and fair?
We met--I saw thy soul once more--
The world’s breath had been there!

Yes! it was sad on desert-plain,
Mournful on midnight sea;
Yet would I buy with life again
That one deep dream of thee!

FAIRIES’ RECALL.

While the blue is richest
In the starry sky,
While the softest shadows
On the greensward lie,
While the moonlight slumbers
In the lily’s urn,
Bright elves of the wild-wood!
Oh! return, return!

Round the forest-fountain,
On the river-shore,
Let your silvery laughter
Echo yet once more;
While the joyous bounding
Of your dewy feet
Rings to that old chorus--
“The daisy is so sweet!”[419]

Oberon! Titania!
Did your starlight mirth
With the song of Avon
Quit this work-day earth?
Yet, while green leaves glisten,
And while bright stars burn,
By that magic memory,
Oh! return, return!

[419] See the fairies’ chorus in Chaucer’s “Flower and the Leaf.”

THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA.

Oh! tell me not the woods are fair
Now Spring is on her way!
Well, well I know how brightly there
In joy the young leaves play;
How sweet on winds of morn or eve
The violet’s breath may be;--
Yet ask me, woo me not to leave
My lone rock by the sea.

The wild wave’s thunder on the shore,
The curlew’s restless cries,
Unto my watching heart are more
Than all earth’s melodies.
Come back, my ocean rover! come!
There’s but one place for me,
Till I can greet thy swift sail home--
My lone rock by the sea!

O YE VOICES GONE!

O ye voices gone!
Sounds of other years!
Hush that haunting tone,
Melt me not to tears!
All around forget,
All who loved you well;
Yet, sweet voices! yet
O’er my soul ye swell.
With the winds of spring,
With the breath of flowers,
Floating back, ye bring
Thoughts of vanished hours.
Hence your music take,
O ye voices gone!
This lonely heart ye make
But more deeply lone.

BY A MOUNTAIN-STREAM AT REST.

By a mountain-stream at rest,
We found the warrior lying,
And around his noble breast
A banner clasp’d in dying:
Dark and still
Was every hill,
And the winds of night were sighing.

Last of his noble race
To a lonely bed we bore him--
’Twas a green, still, solemn place.
Where the mountain-heath waves o’er him,
Woods alone
Seem to moan,
Wild streams to deplore him.

Yet, from festive hall and lay
Our sad thoughts oft are flying
To those dark hills far away,
Where in death we found him lying;
On his breast
A banner press’d,
And the night-wind o’er him sighing.

IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING?

Is there some Spirit sighing
With sorrow in the air?
Can weary hearts be dying,
Vain love repining _there_?
If not, then how can that wild wail,
O sad Æeolian lyre!
Be drawn forth by the wandering gale
From thy deep thrilling wire?

No, no!--thou dost not borrow
That sadness from the wind,
Nor are those tones of sorrow
In thee, O harp! enshrined;
But in our own hearts deeply set
Lies the true quivering lyre,
Whence love, and memory, and regret
Wake answers from thy wire.

THE NAME OF ENGLAND.

The trumpet of the battle
Hath a high and thrilling tone;
And the first, deep gun of an ocean-fight
Dread music all its own.

But a mightier power, my England!
Is in that name of thine,
To strike the fire from every heart
Along the banner’d line.

Proudly it woke the spirits
Of yore, the brave and true,
When the bow was bent on Cressy’s field,
And the yeoman’s arrow flew.

And proudly hath it floated
Through the battles of the sea,
When the red-cross flag o’er smoke-wreaths play’d
Like the lightning in its glee.

On rock, on wave, on bastion,
Its echoes have been known;
By a thousand streams the hearts lie low
That have answer’d to its tone.

A thousand ancient mountains
Its pealing note hath stirr’d,--
Sound on, and on, for evermore,
O thou victorious word!

OLD NORWAY.

A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG.

[“To a Norwegian, the words _Gamlé Norgé_ (Old Norway) have a spell in them immediate and powerful; they cannot be resisted. _Gamlé Norgé_ is heard, in an instant, repeated by every voice; the glasses are filled, raised, and drained--not a drop is left; and then bursts forth the simultaneous chorus ‘_For Norgé!_’ the national song of Norway. Here, (at Christiansand,) and in a hundred other instances in Norway, I have seen the character of a company entirely changed by the chance introduction of the expression _Gamlé Norgé_. The gravest discussion is instantly interrupted; and one might suppose for the moment that the party was a party of patriots, assembled to commemorate some national anniversary of freedom.”--Derwent Conway’s _Personal Narrative of a Journey through Norway and Sweden_.

The following words have been published, as arranged to the spirited national air of Norway, by Charles Graves, Esq.]

Arise! Old Norway sends the word
Of battle on the blast;
Her voice the forest pines hath stirr’d,
As if a storm went past;
Her thousand hills the call have heard,
And forth their fire-flags cast.

Arm, arm, free hunters! for the chase,
The kingly chase of foes!
’Tis not the bear or wild wolf’s race
Whose trampling shakes the snows:
Arm, arm! ’tis on a nobler trace
The northern spearman goes.

Our hills have dark and strong defiles,
With many an icy bed;
Heap there the rocks for funeral piles
Above the invader’s head!
Or let the seas, that guard our isles,
Give burial to his dead!

COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP!

[“Mrs Hemans writes for all tastes and for all ages, as well as for all nations, and therefore she may do well to write in all sorts of style and manner. And, at all events, she who pleases others so well, may be allowed at times to please herself. Such strains as the following might soothe the ear of Rhadamanthus, and charm Cerberus to slumber.”--_Eclectic Review_, 1834.]

Come to me, gentle Sleep!
I pine, I pine for thee;
Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep,
And set my spirit free!
Each lonely, burning thought
In twilight languor steep--
Come to the full heart, long o’erwrought,
O gentle, gentle Sleep!

Come with thine urn of dew,
Sleep, gentle Sleep! yet bring
No voice, love’s yearning to renew,
No vision on thy wing!
Come, as to folding flowers,
To birds in forests deep--
Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours,
O gentle, gentle Sleep!

SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE,

TO

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ.,

IN TOKEN OF DEEP RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND FERVENT GRATITUDE FOR MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL BENEFIT DERIVED FROM REVERENTIAL COMMUNION WITH THE SPIRIT OF HIS POETRY, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY FELICIA HEMANS.[420]

Preface.--I trust I shall not be accused of presumption for the endeavour which I have here made to enlarge, in some degree, the sphere of religious poetry, by associating with its themes more of the emotions, the affections, and even the purer imaginative enjoyments of daily life, than may have been hitherto admitted within the hallowed circle.

It has been my wish to portray the religious spirit, not alone in its meditative joys and solitary aspirations, (the poetic embodying of which seems to require from the reader a state of mind already separated and exalted,) but likewise in those active influences upon human life, so often called into victorious energy by trial and conflict, though too often also, like the upward-striving flame of a mountain watch-fire, borne down by tempest-showers, or swayed by the current of opposing winds.

I have sought to represent that spirit as penetrating the gloom of the prison and the deathbed, bearing “healing on its wings” to the agony of parting love--strengthening the heart of the wayfarer for “perils in the wilderness”--gladdening the domestic walk through field and woodland--and springing to life in the soul of childhood, along with its earliest rejoicing perceptions of natural beauty.

Circumstances not altogether under my own control have, for the present, interfered to prevent the fuller development of a plan which I yet hope more worthily to mature; and I lay this little volume before the public with that deep sense of deficiency which cannot be more impressively taught to human powers than by their reverential application to things divine.--Felicia Hemans.

1834.

[420] The long-contemplated collection of _Scenes and Hymns of Life_ was published soon after the two little volumes above alluded to. In her original dedication of this work to Mr Wordsworth, Mrs Hemans had given free scope to the expression of her sentiments, not only of veneration for the poet, but of deep and grateful regard for the friend. From a fear, however, that delicacy on Mr Wordsworth’s part might prevent his wishing to receive, in a public form, a testimonial of so much private feeling from a living individual, the intended letter was suppressed, and its substantial ideas conveyed in the brief inscription which was finally prefixed to the volume. It is now hoped that all such objections to its publication have vanished, and that the revered friend to whom it was addressed will receive it as the heart-tribute of one to whom flattery was unknown--as consecrated by the solemn truth of a voice from the grave.

_Intended Dedication of the “Scenes and Hymns of Life,” to William Wordsworth, Esq._

“My dear Sir,

“I earnestly wish that the little volume here inscribed to you, in token of affectionate veneration, were pervaded by more numerous traces of those strengthening and elevating influences which breathe from all your poetry ‘a power to virtue friendly.’ I wish, too, that such a token could more adequately convey my deep sense of gratitude for moral and intellectual benefit long derived from the study of that poetry--for the perpetual fountains of ‘serious faith and inward glee’ which I have never failed to discover amidst its pure and lofty regions--for the fresh green places of refuge which it has offered me in many an hour, when

‘The fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart;’

and when I have found in your thoughts and images such relief as the vision of your ‘Sylvan Wye’ may, at similar times, have afforded to yourself.

“May I be permitted, on the present occasion, to record my unfading recollections of enjoyment from your society--of delight in having heard from your own lips, and amidst your own lovely mountain-land, many of those compositions, the remembrance of which will ever spread over its hills and waters a softer colouring of spiritual beauty? Let me also express to you, as to a dear and most honoured friend, my fervent wishes for your long enjoyment of a widely-extended influence, which cannot but be blessed--of a domestic life, encircling you with yet nearer and deeper sources of happiness; and of those eternal hopes, on whose foundation you have built, as a Christian poet, the noble structure of your works.

“I rely upon your kindness, my dear Sir, for an indulgent reception of my offering, however lowly, since you will feel assured of the sincerity with which it is presented by your ever grateful and affectionate Felicia Hemans.”

THE ENGLISH MARTYRS;

A SCENE OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY.

“Thy face
Is all at once spread over with a calm
More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy!
I am no more disconsolate.” Wilson.

Scene I.--_A Prison._

Edith _alone_.

_Edith._ Morn once again! Morn in the lone, dim cell,
The cavern of the prisoner’s fever-dream;
And morn on all the green, rejoicing hills,
And the bright waters round the prisoner’s home,
Far, far away! Now wakes the early bird,
That in the lime’s transparent foliage sings,
Close to my cottage-lattice--he awakes,
To stir the young leaves with his gushing soul,
And to call forth rich answers of delight
From voices buried in a thousand trees
Through the dim, starry hours. Now doth the lake
Darken and flash in rapid interchange
Unto the matin breeze; and the blue mist
Rolls, like a furling banner, from the brows
Of the forth-gleaming hills and woods that rise
As if new-born. Bright world! and I am here!
And thou, O thou! the awakening thought of whom
Was more than dayspring, dearer than the sun,
Herbert! the very glance of whose clear eye
Made my soul melt away to one pure fount
Of living, bounding gladness!--where art _thou_?
My friend! my only and my blessed love!
Herbert, my soul’s companion!

Gomez, _a Spanish Priest, enters_.

_Gom._ Daughter, hail!
I bring thee tidings.

_Ed._ Heaven will aid my soul
Calmly to meet whate’er thy lips announce.

_Gom._ Nay, lift a song of thanksgiving to heaven,
And bow thy knee down for deliverance won!
Hast thou not pray’d for life? and wouldst thou not
Once more be free!

_Ed._ Have I not pray’d for life?
I, that am so beloved! that love again
With such a heart of tendrils? Heaven! _thou_ know’st
The gushings of my prayer! And would I not
Once more be free? I that have been a child
Of breezy hills, a playmate of the fawn
In ancient woodlands from mine infancy!
A watcher of the clouds and of the stars,
Beneath the adoring silence of the night;
And a glad wanderer with the happy streams,
Whose laughter fills the mountains! Oh! to hear
Their blessed sounds again!

_Gom._ Rejoice, rejoice!
Our queen hath pity, maiden! on thy youth;
She wills not thou shouldst perish. I am come
To loose thy bonds.

_Ed._ And shall I see _his_ face,
And shall I listen to _his_ voice again,
And lay my head upon his faithful breast,
Weeping there in my gladness? _Will_ this be?
Blessings upon thee, father! my quick heart
Hath deem’d thee stern--say, wilt thou not forgive
The wayward child, too long in sunshine rear’d--
Too long unused to chastening? Wilt thou not?
But Herbert, Herbert! Oh, my soul hath rush’d
On a swift gust of sudden joy away,
Forgetting all beside! Speak, father! speak!
Herbert--is he, too, free?

_Gom._ His freedom lies
In his own choice--a boon like thine.

_Ed._ Thy words
Fall changed and cold upon my boding heart.
Leave not this dim suspense o’ershadowing me;
Let all be told.

_Gom._ The monarchs of the earth
Shower not their mighty gifts without a claim
Unto some token of true vassalage,
Some mark of homage.

_Ed._ Oh! unlike to _Him_
Who freely pours the joy of sunshine forth,
And the bright, quickening rain, on those who serve
And those who heed Him not!

_Gom._ (_laying a paper before her._) Is it so much
That thine own hand should set the crowning seal
To thy deliverance? Look, thy task is here!
Sign but these words for liberty and life.

_Ed._ (_examining and then throwing it from her._)
Sign but these words! and wherefore saidst thou not
--“Be but a traitor to God’s light within?”
Cruel, oh cruel! thy dark sport hath been
With a young bosom’s hope! Farewell, glad life!
Bright opening path to love and home, farewell!
And thou--now leave me with my God alone!

_Gom._ Dost thou reject heaven’s mercy?

_Ed._ Heaven’s! doth _heaven_
Woo the free spirit for dishonour’d breath
To sell its birthright?--doth _heaven_ set a price
On the clear jewel of unsullied faith,
And the bright calm of conscience? Priest, away!
God hath been with me midst the holiness
Of England’s mountains. Not in sport alone
I trod their heath-flowers; but high thoughts rose up
From the broad shadow of the enduring rocks,
And wander’d with me into solemn glens,
Where my soul felt the beauty of His word.
I have heard voices of immortal truth,
Blent with the everlasting torrent-sounds
That make the deep hills tremble.--Shall I quail?
Shall England’s daughter sink? No! He who there
Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm,
Will not forsake His child!

_Gom._ (_turning from her._) Then perish! lost
In thine own blindness!

_Ed._ (_suddenly throwing herself at his feet._)
Father! hear me yet!
Oh! if the kindly touch of human love
Hath ever warm’d thy breast----

_Gom._ Away--away!
I know not love.

_Ed._ Yet hear! if thou hast known
The tender sweetness of a mother’s voice--
If the true vigil of affection’s eye
Hath watch’d thy childhood--if fond tears have e’er
Been shower’d upon thy head--if parting words
E’er pierced thy spirit with their tenderness--
Let me but look upon _his_ face once more,
Let me but say--Farewell, my soul’s beloved!
And I will bless thee still!

_Gom._ (_aside._) Her soul may yield,
Beholding him in fetters; woman’s faith
Will bend to woman’s love.
Thy prayer is heard;
Follow, and I will guide thee to his cell.

_Ed._ O stormy hour of agony and joy!
But I shall see him--I shall hear his voice!

[_They go out._

Scene II.--_Another part of the Prison._

Herbert, Edith.

_Ed._ Herbert! my Herbert! is it thus we meet?

_Her._ The voice of my own Edith! Can such joy
Light up this place of death! And do I feel
Thy breath of love once more upon my cheek,
And the soft floating of thy gleamy hair,
My blessed Edith? Oh, so pale! so changed!
My flower, my blighted flower! thou that wert made
For the kind fostering of sweet, summer airs,
How hath the storm been with thee? Lay thy head
On this true breast again, my gentle one!
And tell me all.

_Ed._ Yes! take me to thy heart,
For I am weary, weary! Oh! that heart!
The kind, the brave, the tender!--how my soul
Hath sicken’d in vain yearnings for the balm
Of rest on that warm heart!--full, deep repose!
One draught of dewy stillness after storm!
And God hath pitied me, and I am here--
Yet once before I die.

_Her._ They _cannot_ slay
One young, and meek, and beautiful as thou,
My broken lily! Surely the long days
Of the dark cell have been enough for _thee_!
Oh! thou shalt live, and raise thy gracious head
Yet in calm sunshine.

_Ed._ Herbert! I have cast
The snare of proferr’d mercy from my soul,
This very hour. God to the weak hath given
Victory o’er life and death. The tempter’s price
Hath been rejected--Herbert, I must die.

_Her._ O Edith! Edith! I, that led thee first
From the old path wherein thy fathers trod--
I, that received it as an angel’s task,
To pour the fresh light on thine ardent soul,
Which drank it as a sunflower--_I_ have been
Thy guide to death.

_Ed._ To heaven! my guide to heaven,
My noble and my blessed! Oh! look up,
Be strong, rejoice, my Herbert! But for _thee_,
How could my spirit have sprung up to God
Through the dark cloud which o’er its vision hung,
The night of fear and error?--thy dear hand
First raised that veil, and show’d the glorious world
My heritage beyond. Friend! love, and friend!
It was as if thou gavest me mine own soul
In those bright days! Yes! a new earth and heaven,
And a new sense for all their splendours born--
These were thy gifts; and shall I not rejoice
To die, upholding their immortal worth,
Even for _thy_ sake? Yes! fill’d with nobler life
By thy pure love, made holy to the truth,
Lay me upon the altar of thy God,
The first fruits of thy ministry below--
_Thy_ work, thine own!

_Her._ My love, my sainted love!
Oh! I _can_ almost yield thee unto heaven;
Earth would but sully thee! Thou must depart,
With the rich crown of thy celestial gifts
Untainted by a breath. And yet, alas!
Edith! what dreams of holy happiness,
Even for _this_ world, were ours!--the low sweet home,
The pastoral dwelling, with its ivied porch,
And lattice gleaming through the leaves--and thou
My life’s companion! Thou, beside my hearth,
Sitting with thy meek eyes, or greeting me
Back from brief absence with thy bounding step,
In the green meadow-path, or by my side
Kneeling--thy calm uplifted face to mine,
In the sweet hush of prayer! And now--oh, now!--
How have we loved--how fervently! how long!
And _this_ to be the close!

_Ed._ Oh! bear me up
Against the unutterable tenderness
Of earthly love, my God!--in the sick hour
Of dying human hope, forsake me not!
Herbert, my Herbert! even from that sweet home
Where it had been too much of Paradise
To dwell with thee--even thence the oppressor’s hand
Might soon have torn us; or the touch of death
Might one day there have left a widow’d heart,
Pining alone. We will go hence, beloved!
To the bright country where the wicked cease
From troubling, where the spoiler hath no sway;
Where no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs
The Sabbath-peace of love. We will go hence,
Together with our wedded souls, to heaven:
No solitary lingering, no cold void,
No dying of the heart! Our lives have been
Lovely through faithful love, and in our deaths
We will not be divided.

_Her_. Oh! the peace
Of God is lying far within thine eyes,
Far underneath the mist of human tears
Lighting those blue, still depths, and sinking thence
On my worn heart. Now am I girt with strength,
Now I can bless thee, my true bride for heaven!

_Ed._ And let me bless _thee_, Herbert!--in this hour
Let my soul bless thee with prevailing might!
Oh! thou hast loved me nobly! thou didst take
An orphan to thy heart--a thing unprized
And desolate; and thou didst guard her there,
That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl
Of richest price; and thou didst fill her soul
With the high gifts of an immortal wealth.
I bless, I bless thee! Never did thine eye
Look on me but in glistening tenderness,
My gentle Herbert! Never did thy voice
But in affection’s deepest music speak
To thy poor Edith! Never was thy heart
Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine,
My faithful, generous Herbert! Woman’s peace
Ne’er on a breast so tender and so true
Reposed before. Alas! thy showering tears
Fall fast upon my cheek--forgive, forgive!
I should not melt thy noble strength away
In such an hour.

_Her._ Sweet Edith, no! my heart
Will fail no more. God bears me up through thee,
And by thy words, and by thy heavenly light
Shining around thee, through thy very tears,
Will yet sustain me! Let us call on Him!
Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft,
Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him,
Th’ all-pitying One, to aid.
[_They kneel._
Oh, look on us,
Father above!--in tender mercy look
On us, thy children!--through th’ o’ershadowing cloud
Of sorrow and mortality, send aid--
Save, or we perish! We would pour our lives
Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth;
But we are weak--we, the bruised reeds of earth,
Are sway’d by every gust. Forgive, O God!
The blindness of our passionate desires,
The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts
Which cleave to dust! Forgive the strife; accept
The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears,
From mortal pangs wrung forth! And if our souls,
In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess,
Of their long-clasping love, have wander’d not,
Holiest! from thee--oh! take them to thyself,
After the fiery trial--take them home
To dwell, in that imperishable bond
Before thee link’d, for ever. Hear!--thro’ Him
Who meekly drank the cup of agony,
Who pass’d through death to victory, hear and save!
Pity us, Father! we are girt with snares:
Father in Heaven! we have no help but thee.
[_They rise._
Is thy soul strengthen’d, my beloved one?
O Edith! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice,
And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn
We loved in happier days--the strain which tells
Of the dread conflict in the olive shade?

Edith _sings_.

He knelt, the Saviour knelt and pray’d,
When but his Father’s eye
Look’d through the lonely garden’s shade
On that dread agony;
The Lord of all above, beneath,
Was bow’d with sorrow unto death.

The sun set in a fearful hour,
The stars might well grow dim,
When this mortality had power
So to o’ershadow Him!
That He who gave man’s breath, might know
The very depths of human woe.

He proved them all!--the doubt, the strife,
The faint perplexing dread,
The mists that hang o’er parting life,
All gather’d round his head;
And the Deliverer knelt to pray--
Yet pass’d it not, that cup, away!

It pass’d not--though the stormy wave
Had sunk beneath his tread;
It pass’d not--though to Him the grave
Had yielded up its dead.
But there was sent him from on High
A gift of strength for man to die.

And was the Sinless thus beset
With anguish and dismay?
How may _we_ meet our conflict yet,
In the dark, narrow way?
Through Him--through Him that path who trod.
--Save, or we perish, Son of God!

Hark, hark! the parting signal.

[_Prison attendants enter._

Fare thee well!
O thou unutterably loved, farewell!
Let our hearts bow to God!

_Her._ One last embrace--
On earth the last! We have eternity
For love’s communion yet! Farewell!--farewell!

[_She is led out._

’Tis o’er!--the bitterness of death is past!

FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.

“Once when I look’d along the laughing earth,
Up the blue heavens and through the middle air,
Joyfully ringing with the skylark’s song,
I wept! and thought how sad for one so young
To bid farewell to so much happiness.
But Christ hath call’d me from this lower world,
Delightful though it be.” Wilson.

_Apartment in an English country-house._--Lilian _reclining, as sleeping on a couch. Her mother watching beside her. Her sister enters with flowers._

_Mother._ Hush! lightly tread! Still tranquilly she sleeps,
As when a babe I rock’d her on my heart.
I’ve watch’d, suspending e’en my breath, in fear
To break the heavenly spell. Move silently!
And oh! those flowers! Dear Jessy! bear them hence--
Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears
That shook her trembling frame, when last we brought
The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know
What sudden longings for the woods and hills,
Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly,
These leaves and odours with strange influence wake
In her fast-kindled soul?

_Jessy._ Oh! she would pine,
Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld,
Mother! far more than _now_ her spirit yearns
For the blue sky, the singing birds and brooks,
And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome spring
Their blooms recall.

_Lilian_, (_raising herself_.) Is that my Jessy’s voice
It woke me not, sweet mother! I had lain
Silently, visited by waking dreams,
Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness,
Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought flowers?
Nay, fear not now thy fond child’s waywardness,
My thoughtful mother!--in her chasten’d soul
The passion-colour’d images of life,
Which, with their sudden, startling flush, awoke
So oft those burning tears, have died away;
And night is there--still, solemn, holy night!
With all her stars, and with the gentle tune
Of many fountains, low and musical,
By day unheard.

_Mother._ And wherefore _night_, my child?
Thou art a creature all of life and dawn,
And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise,
And walk forth with the dayspring.

_Lilian._ Hope it not!
Dream it no more, my mother!--there are things
Known but to God, and to the parting soul,
Which feels His thrilling summons.
But my words
Too much o’ershadow those kind, loving eyes.
Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step,
Well do I see, hath not alone explored
The garden bowers, but freely visited
Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet
Is from the cool, green, shadowy river-nook,
Where the stream chimes around th’ old mossy stones
With sounds like childhood’s laughter. Is that spot
Lovely as when our glad eyes hail’d it first?
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep
The clear brown wave with every passing wind?
And through the shallower waters, where they lie
Dimpling in light, do the vein’d pebbles gleam
Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies,
From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still
Among the poplar-boughs?

_Jessy._ All, all is there
Which glad midsummer’s wealthiest hours can bring;
All, save the _soul_ of all, thy lightning-smile!
Therefore I stood in sadness midst the leaves,
And caught an under-music of lament
In the stream’s voice. But Nature waits thee still,
And for thy coming piles a fairy throne
Of richest moss.

_Lilian._ Alas! it may not be!
My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly
To all these blessed haunts of song and thought;
Yet not the less I love to look on these,
Their dear memorials,--strew them o’er my couch
Till it grow like a forest-bank in spring,
All flush’d with violets and anemones.
Ah! the pale brier-rose! touch’d so tenderly,
As a pure ocean-shell, with faintest red,
Melting away to pearliness! I know
How its long, light festoons o’erarching hung
From the gray rock that rises altar-like,
With its high, waving crown of mountain-ash,
Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough
Of honey’d woodbine tells me of the oak,
Whose deep, midsummer gloom sleeps heavily,
Shedding a verdurous twilight o’er the face
Of the glade’s pool. Methinks I see it now;
I look up through the stirring of its leaves
Unto the intense blue, crystal firmament.
The ringdove’s wing is flitting o’er my head,
Casting at times a silvery shadow down
Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful!
How beautiful is all this fair, free world
Under God’s open sky!

_Mother._ Thou art o’erwrought
Once more, my child! The dewy, trembling light
Presaging tears, again is in thine eye.
Oh, hush, dear Lilian! turn thee to repose.

_Lilian._ Mother! I cannot. In my soul the thoughts
Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire;
Importunately to my lips they throng,
And with their earthly kindred seek to blend
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone--
(For I _must_ go)--then the remember’d words
Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth,
Will to thy fond heart be as amulets
Held there, with life and love. And weep not thus,
Mother! dear sister!--kindest, gentlest ones!
Be comforted that now _I_ weep no more
For the glad earth and all the golden light
Whence I depart.
No! God hath purified my spirit’s eye,
And in the folds of this consummate rose
I read bright prophecies. I see not there,
Dimly and mournfully, the word “_farewell_”
On the rich petals traced. No--in soft veins
And characters of beauty, I can read--
“_Look up, look heavenward!_”
Blessed God of Love!
I thank Thee for these gifts, the precious links
Whereby my spirit unto Thee is drawn!
I thank Thee that the loveliness of earth
Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these
But germs of things unperishing, that bloom
Beside th’ immortal streams? Shall I not find
The lily of the field, the Saviour’s flower,
In the serene and never-moaning air,
And the clear starry light of angel eyes,
A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far
Will not the violet’s dusky purple glow,
When it hath ne’er been press’d to broken hearts,
A record of lost love?

_Mother._ My Lilian! thou
Surely in _thy_ bright life hast little known
Of lost things or of changed!

_Lilian._ Oh! little yet,
For _thou_ hast been my shield! But had it been
My lot on this world’s billows to be thrown
Without thy love, O mother! there are hearts
So perilously fashion’d, that for them
God’s touch alone hath gentleness enough
To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!--
We will not speak of this!
By what strange spell
Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers,
I dream of music? Something in their hues,
All melting into colour’d harmonies,
Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords,
Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die
In tenderest falls away. Oh, bring thy harp,
Sister! A gentle heaviness at last
Hath touch’d mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep
Will come again.

_Jessy._ What wouldst thou hear?--the Italian peasant’s lay,
Which makes the desolate Campagna ring
With “_Roma! Roma!_” or the madrigal
Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily?
Or the old ditty left by troubadours
To girls of Languedoc?

_Lilian._ Oh, no! not these.

_Jessy._ What then?--the Moorish melody still known
Within the Alhambra city? or those notes
Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile’s heart
Even unto death?

_Lilian._ No, sister! nor yet these--
Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret,
Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes
In the caressing sweetness of their tones,
For one who dies. They would but woo me back
To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds--
And vainly, vainly. No! a loftier strain,
A deeper music!--something that may bear
The spirit upon slow yet mighty wings,
Unsway’d by gusts of earth; something all fill’d
With solemn adoration, tearful prayer.
Sing me that antique strain which once I deem’d
Almost too sternly simple, too austere
In its grave majesty! I love it now--
_Now_ it seems fraught with holiest power to hush
All billows of the soul, e’en like His voice
That said of old--“Be still!” Sing me that strain,
“The Saviour’s dying hour.”

Jessy _sings to the Harp_.

O Son of Man!
In thy last mortal hour
Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully!
All that on us is laid,
All the deep gloom,
The desolation and the abandonment,
The dark amaze of death--
All upon _thee_ too fell,
Redeemer! Son of Man!

But the keen pang
Wherewith the silver cord
Of earth’s affection from the soul is wrung;
The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown
Into the quick, strong heart;
This, _this_--the passion and the agony
Of battling love and death,
Surely was not for _thee_,
Holy One! Son of God!

Yes, my Redeemer!
E’en this cup was thine!
Fond, wailing voices call’d thy spirit back:
E’en midst the mighty thoughts
Of that last crowning hour--
E’en on thine awful way to victory,
Wildly they call’d thee back!
And weeping eyes of love
Unto thy heart’s deep core
Pierced through the folds of death’s mysterious veil.
Suffer! thou Son of Man!

Mother-tears were mingled
With thy costly blood-drops,
In the shadow of the atoning cross;
And the friend, the faithful,
He that on thy bosom
Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain--
He, a pale sad watcher,
Met with looks of anguish
All the anguish in _thy_ last meek glance--
Dying Son of Man!

Oh! therefore unto thee,
Thou that hast known all woes
Bound in the girdle of mortality!
Thou that wilt lift the reed
Which storms have bruised,
To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry,
And, in that tempest-hour, when love and life
Mysteriously must part,
When tearful eyes
Are passionately bent
To drink earth’s last fond meaning from our gaze,
Then, then forsake us not!
Shed on our spirits then
The faith and deep submissiveness of thine!
Thou that didst love
Thou that didst weep and die--
Thou that didst rise a victor glorified;
Conqueror! thou Son of God!

CATHEDRAL HYMN.

“They dreamt not of a perishable home
Who thus could build. Be mine in hours of fear
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here.”
Wordsworth.

A dim and mighty minster of old time!
A temple shadowy with remembrances
Of the majestic past! The very light
Streams with a colouring of heroic days
In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle
A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back
To other years!--and the rich fretted roof,
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves,
Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose--
The tenderest image of mortality--
Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts
Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves;--all these things
Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly,
On their heart’s worship pour’d a wealth of love!
Honour be with the dead! The people kneel
Under the helms of antique chivalry,
And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown,
And midst the forms, in pale, proud slumber carved,
Of warriors on their tombs. The people kneel
Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell’d crowns
On the flush’d brows of conquerors have been set;
Where the high anthems of old victories
Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain thoughts!
Memories of power and pride, which long ago,
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk
In twilight-depths away. Return, my soul!
The Cross recalls thee. Lo! the blessed Cross!
High o’er the banners and the crests of earth,
Fix’d in its meek and still supremacy!
And lo! the throng of beating human hearts,
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief,
All their full treasures of immortal hope,
Gather’d before their God! Hark! how the flood
Of the rich organ-harmony bears up
Their voice on its high waves!--a mighty burst!
A forest-sounding music! Every tone
Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings
From gulfs of tossing foliage, there is blent:
And the old minster--forest-like itself--
With its long avenues of pillar’d shade,
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain
O’erflows its dim recesses, leaving not
One tomb unthrill’d by the strong sympathy
Answering the electric notes. Join, join, my soul!
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness,
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.

Rise like an altar-fire!
In solemn joy aspire,
Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain!
On thy strong rushing wind
Bear up from humankind
Thanks and implorings--be they not in vain!

Father, which art on high!
Weak is the melody
Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear,
Unless the heart be there,
Winging the words of prayer
With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.

Let, then, thy Spirit brood
Over the multitude--
Be thou amidst them, thro’ that heavenly Guest!
So shall their cry have power
To win from thee a shower
Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.

What griefs that make no sign,
That ask no aid but thine,
Father of mercies! here before thee swell!
As to the open sky,
All their dark waters lie
To thee reveal’d, in each close bosom-cell.

The sorrow for the dead,
Mantling its lonely head
From the world’s glare, is, in thy sight, set free;
And the fond, aching love,
Thy minister to move
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.

And doth not thy dread eye
Behold the agony
In that most hidden chamber of the heart,
Where darkly sits remorse,
Beside the secret source
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?

Yes! here before thy throne
Many--yet each alone--
To thee that terrible unveiling make:
And still, small whispers clear
Are startling many an ear,
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake.

How dreadful is this place!
The glory of thy face
Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight.
Where shall the guilty flee?
Over what far-off sea?
What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light?

Not to the cedar-shade
Let his vain flight be made;
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;
What, but the Cross, can yield
The hope--the stay--the shield?
_Thence_ may the Atoner lead him up to thee!

Be thou, be thou his aid!
Oh, let thy love pervade
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought!
There let the living stone
Be cleft--the seed be sown--
The song of fountains from the silence brought!

So shall thy breath once more
Within the soul restore
Thine own first image--Holiest and Most High!
As a clear lake is fill’d
With hues of heaven, instill’d
Down to the depths of its calm purity.

And if, amidst the throng
Link’d by the ascending song,
There are whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar;
Thanks, Father! that the power
Of joy, man’s early dower,
Thus, e’en midst tears, can fervently adore!

Thanks for each gift divine!
Eternal praise be thine,
Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer!
Let the hymn pierce the sky,
And let the tombs reply!
For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there.

WOOD WALK AND HYMN.[421]

“Move along these shades
In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand
Touch--for there is a spirit in the woods.”--Wordsworth.

Father--Child.

_Child._ There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves
Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime
And chestnut boughs, and those long arching sprays
Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood
Were all one picture!

_Father._ Hast thou heard, my boy,
The peasant’s legend of that quivering tree?

_Child._ No, father: doth he say the fairies dance
Amidst the branches?

_Father._ Oh! a cause more deep,
More solemn far, the rustic doth assign
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves!
The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon
The meek Redeemer bow’d his head to death,
Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze
Disturbs the airy thistle-down, or shakes
The light lines of the shining gossamer.

_Child._, (_after a pause._) Dost thou believe it, father?