Chapter LVII: Introduction (3)

_Father._ Nay, my child,
_We_ walk in clearer light. But yet, even now,
With something of a lingering love, I read
The characters, by that mysterious hour,
Stamp’d on the reverential soul of man
In visionary days; and thence thrown back
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign
Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven,
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so!
_They_ do not wisely that, with hurried hand,
Would pluck these salutary fancies forth
From their strong soil within the peasant’s breast,
And scatter them--far, far too fast!--away
As worthless weeds. Oh! little do we know
_When_ they have soothed, when saved!
But come, dear boy!
My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee.
Come--let us search for violets.

_Child._ Know you not
More of the legends which the woodmen tell
Amidst the trees and flowers?

_Father._ Wilt thou know more?
Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-brown stains
There--by the mossy roots of yon old beech,
Midst the rich tuft of cowslips--see’st thou not?
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree
Just bending o’er it with a wild bee’s weight.

_Child._ The Arum leaf?

_Father._ Yes. These deep inwrought marks,
The villager will tell thee, (and with voice
Lower’d in his true heart’s reverent earnestness,)
Are the flower’s portion from th’ atoning blood
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew;
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf,
Catching from that dread shower of agony
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus
Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains,
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind
Never to waft away!
And hast thou seen
The passion-flower? It grows not in the woods,
But midst the bright things brought from other climes.

_Child._ What! the pale star-shaped flower, with purple streaks,
And light green tendrils?

_Father._ Thou hast mark’d it well.
Yes! a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower,
As from a land of spirits! To mine eye
Those faint, wan petals--colourless, and yet
Not white, but shadowy--with the mystic lines
(As letters of some wizard language gone)
Into their vapour-like transparence wrought,
Bear something of a strange solemnity,
Awfully lovely!--and the Christian’s thought
Loves, in their cloudy penciling, to find
Dread symbols of his Lord’s last mortal pangs
Set by God’s hand--the coronal of thorns--
The cross, the wounds--with other meanings deep
Which I will teach thee when we meet again
That flower, the chosen for the martyr’s wreath,
The Saviour’s holy flower.
But let us pause:
Now have we reach’d the very inmost heart
Of the old wood. How the green shadows close
Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round,
A luxury of gloom! Scarce doth one ray,
Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal
O’er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades;
Or if it doth, ’tis with a mellow’d hue
Of glow-worm colour’d light.
Here, in the days
Of pagan visions, would have been a place
For worship of the wood-nymphs! Through these oaks
A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown
The quivering image of its Dorian shafts
On the stream’s bosom, or a sculptured form,
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom,
Have bow’d its head o’er that dark crystal down,
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops
Under bright rain. But _we_, my child, are here
With God, our God, a Spirit, who requires
Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth;
And this high knowledge--deep, rich, vast enough
To fill and hallow all the solitude--
Makes consecrated earth where’er we move,
Without the aid of shrines.
What! dost thou feel
The solemn whispering influence of the scene
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand
Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child!
’Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here,
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope
With dark exuberance; and beneath these plumes
Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds
In its pure, crimson goblets, fresh and bright,
The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile,
And let me hear once more the woodland verse
I taught thee late--’twas made for such a scene.
_Child speaks._

[421] “It is not often we find the superstitions of dark and ignorant ages dealt with in so gentle and agreeable a manner as by Mrs Hemans. She seizes, in common with others, the poetic aspect these present, but diffuses over them, at the same time, a refinement of sentiment gathered entirely from her own feelings. A subject which, from another pencil, would have been disagreeable and offensive to us, is made by her graceful touches to win upon our imagination. Witness the poem called ‘The Wood Walk and Hymn;’ we will quote the commencement of it--

‘There are the aspens with their silvery leaves,’” etc.
_Blackwood’s Magazine_, Dec. 1848.

WOOD HYMN.

Broods there some spirit here?
The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud;
And o’er the pools, all still and darkly clear,
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow’d;
And something of a tender cloistral gloom
Deepens the violet’s bloom.

The very light that streams
Through the dim, dewy veil of foliage round
Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams--
As if it knew the place were holy ground;
And would not startle, with too bright a burst,
Flowers, all divinely nursed.

_Wakes_ there some spirit here?
A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by;
And leaves and waters, in its wild career,
Shed forth sweet voices--each a mystery!
Surely some awful influence must pervade
These depths of trembling shade!

Yes! lightly, softly move!
There _is_ a power, a presence in the woods;
A viewless being that, with life and love,
Informs the reverential solitudes:
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod--
Thou--_thou_ art here, my God!

And if with awe we tread
The minster-floor, beneath the storied pane,
And, midst the mouldering banners of the dead,
Shall the green, voiceful wild seem _less_ thy fane,
Where thou alone hast built?--where arch and roof
Are of thy living woof?

The silence and the sound,
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee;
The temple-twilight of the gloom profound,
The dew-cup of the frail anemone,
The reed by every wandering whisper thrill’d--
All, all with thee are fill’d!

Oh! purify mine eyes,
More and yet more, by love and lowly thought,
Thy presence, holiest One! to recognise
In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought
And, midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear
Ever thy voice to hear!

And sanctify my heart
To meet the awful sweetness of that tone
With no faint thrill or self-accusing start,
But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own--
Joy, such as dwelt in Eden’s glorious bowers
Ere sin had dimm’d the flowers.

Let me not know the change
O’er nature thrown by guilt!--the boding sky,
The hollow leaf-sounds ominous and strange,
The weight wherewith the dark tree-shadows lie!
Father! oh! keep my footsteps pure and free,
To walk the woods with thee!

PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT.

“Soul of our souls! and safeguard of the world!
Sustain--Thou only canst--the sick at heart;
Restore their languid spirits, and recall
Their lost affections unto thee and thine.”--Wordsworth.

Night--holy night--the time
For mind’s free breathings in a purer clime!
Night!--when in happier hour the unveiling sky
Woke all my kindled soul
To meet its revelations, clear and high,
With the strong joy of immortality!
Now hath strange sadness wrapp’d me, strange and deep--
And my thoughts faint, and shadows o’er them roll,
E’en when I deem’d them seraph-plumed, to sweep
Far beyond earth’s control.

Wherefore is this? I see the stars returning,
Fire after fire in heaven’s rich temple burning:
Fast shine they forth--my spirit-friends, my guides,
Bright rulers of my being’s inmost tides;
They shine--but faintly, through a quivering haze:
Oh! is the dimness _mine_ which clouds those rays?
They from whose glance my childhood drank delight!
A joy unquestioning--a love intense--
They that, unfolding to more thoughtful sight
The harmony of their magnificence,
Drew silently the worship of my youth
To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth;
Shall they shower blessing, with their beams divine,
Down to the watcher on the stormy sea,
And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine
Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine,
And to the wanderer lone
On wastes of Afric thrown,
And not to _me_?
Am I a thing forsaken?
And is the gladness taken
From the bright-pinion’d nature which hath soar’d
Through realms by royal eagle ne’er explored,
And, bathing there in streams of fiery light,
Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite?

And now an alien! Wherefore must this be?
How shall I rend the chain?
How drink rich life again
From those pure urns of radiance, welling free?
--Father of Spirits! let me turn to thee!

Oh! if too much exulting in her dower,
My soul, not yet to lowly thought subdued,
Hath stood without thee on her hill of power--
A fearful and a dazzling solitude!
And therefore from that haughty summit’s crown
To dim desertion is by thee cast down;
Behold! thy child submissively hath bow’d--
Shine on him through the cloud!

Let the now darken’d earth and curtain’d heaven
Back to his vision with thy face be given!
Bear him on high once more,
But in thy strength to soar,
And wrapt and still’d by that o’ershadowing might,
Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chasten’d sight.

Or if it be that, like the ark’s lone dove,
My thoughts go forth, and find no resting-place,
No sheltering home of sympathy and love
In the responsive bosoms of my race,
And back return, a darkness and a weight,
Till my unanswer’d heart grows desolate--
_Yet_, yet sustain me, Holiest!--I am vow’d
To solemn service high;
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow’d,
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary,
Fainting beneath the burden of the day,
Because no human tone
Unto the altar-stone
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate,
Where it should make eternal truth its mate,
May cheer the sacred, solitary way?

Oh! be the whisper of thy voice within
Enough to strengthen! Be the hope to win
A more deep-seeing homage for thy name,
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame!
Make me thine only!--Let me add but one
To those refulgent steps all undefiled,
Which glorious minds have piled
Through bright self-offering, earnest, childlike, lone,
For mounting to thy throne!
And let my soul, upborne
On wings of inner morn,
Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense
Of that bless’d work, its own high recompense.

The dimness melts away
That on your glory lay,
O ye majestic watchers of the skies!
Through the dissolving veil,
Which made each aspect pale,
Your gladdening fires once more I recognise;
And once again a shower
Of hope, and joy, and power,
Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes.
And if that splendour to my sober’d sight
Come tremulous, with more of pensive light--
Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught
With more that pierces through each fold of thought
Than I was wont to trace
On heaven’s unshadow’d face--
Be it e’en so!--be mine, though set apart
Unto a radiant ministry, yet still
A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart,
Bow’d before thee, O Mightiest! whose bless’d will
All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil.[422]

[422] Written after hearing the introductory Lecture on Astronomy delivered in Trinity College, Dublin, by Sir William Hamilton, royal astronomer of Ireland, on the 8th November 1832.

THE TRAVELLER’S EVENING SONG.

Father! guide me! Day declines,
Hollow winds are in the pines;
Darkly waves each giant bough
O’er the sky’s last crimson glow:
Hush’d is now the convent’s bell,
Which erewhile with breezy swell
From the purple mountains bore
Greeting to the sunset-shore.
Now the sailor’s vesper-hymn
Dies away.
Father! in the forest dim,
Be my stay!

In the low and shivering thrill
Of the leaves that late hung still;
In the dull and muffled tone
Of the sea-wave’s distant moan;
In the deep tints of the sky,
There are signs of tempests nigh.
Ominous, with sullen sound,
Falls the closing dusk around.
Father! through the storm and shade
O’er the wild,
Oh! be _Thou_ the lone one’s aid--
Save thy child!

Many a swift and sounding plume
Homewards, through the boding gloom,
O’er my way hath flitted fast
Since the farewell sunbeam pass’d
From the chestnut’s ruddy bark,
And the pools, now lone and dark,
Where the wakening night-winds sigh
Through the long reeds mournfully.
Homeward, homeward, all things haste--
God of might!
Shield the homeless midst the waste!
Be his light!

In his distant cradle-nest,
Now my babe is laid to rest;
Beautiful its slumber seems
With a glow of heavenly dreams--
Beautiful, o’er that bright sleep.
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep,
Where his mother bends to pray
For the loved and far away.
Father! guard that household bower,
Hear that prayer!
Back, through thine all-guiding power,
Lead me there!

Darker, wilder grows the night;
Not a star sends quivering light
Through the massy arch of shade
By the stern, old forest made.
Thou! to whose unslumbering eyes
All my pathway open lies,
By thy Son who knew distress
In the lonely wilderness,
Where no roof to that bless’d head
Shelter gave--
Father! through the time of dread,
Save--oh, save!

BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT’S CHILD IN THE FORESTS.

Scene.--_The banks of a solitary river in an American forest. A tent under pine-trees in the foreground._ Agnes _sitting before the tent, with a child in her arms apparently sleeping._

_Agnes._ Surely ’tis all a dream--a fever-dream!
The desolation and the agony--
The strange, red sunrise, and the gloomy woods,
So terrible with their dark giant boughs,
And the broad, lonely river!--all a dream!
And my boy’s voice will wake me, with its clear,
Wild singing tones, as they were wont to come
Through the wreath’d sweetbrier at my lattice-panes
In happy, happy England! Speak to me!
Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch’d
All the dread night beside thee, till her brain
Is darken’d by swift waves of fantasies,
And her soul faint with longing for thy voice.
Oh! I _must_ wake him with one gentle kiss
On his fair brow!
(_Shudderingly._) The strange, damp, thrilling touch!
The marble chill! Now, now it rushes back--
Now I know all!--dead--_dead!_--a fearful word!
My boy hath left me in the wilderness,
To journey on without the blessed light
In his deep, loving eyes. He’s gone!--he’s gone!

_Her_ Husband _enters_.

_Husband._ Agnes! my Agnes! hast thou look’d thy last
On our sweet slumberer’s face? The hour is come--
The couch made ready for his last repose.

_Agnes._ Not yet! thou canst not take him from me yet!
If he but left me for a few short days,
This were too brief a gazing time to draw
His angel image into my fond heart,
And fix its beauty there. And now--oh! _now_,
Never again the laughter of his eye
Shall send its gladdening summer through my soul
--Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay!
Thou canst not take him from me.

_Husband._ My beloved!
Is it not God hath taken him? the God
That took our first-born, o’er whose early grave
Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and say,
“His will be done!”

_Agnes._ Oh! that near household grave,
Under the turf of England, seem’d not half--
Not half so much to part me from my child
As these dark woods. It lay beside our home,
And I could watch the sunshine, through all hours,
Loving and clinging to the grassy spot;
And I could dress its greensward with fresh flowers,
Familiar meadow-flowers. O’er _thee_, my babe!
The primrose will not blossom! Oh! that now,
Together, by thy fair young sister’s side,
We lay midst England’s valleys!

_Husband._ Dost thou grieve,
Agnes! that thou hast follow’d o’er the deep
An exile’s fortunes? If it _thus_ can be,
Then, after many a conflict cheerily met,
My spirit sinks at last.

_Agnes._ Forgive! forgive!
My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild--
Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount
Of unknown bitterness! Thou art my home!
Mine only and my blessed one! Where’er
Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness,
_There_ is my country! _there_ my head shall rest,
And throb no more. Oh! still, by thy strong love,
Bear up the feeble reed!

(_Kneeling with the child in her arms._)

And thou, my God!
Hear my soul’s cry from this dread wilderness!
Oh! hear, and pardon me! If I have made
This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark
Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness,
Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume,
Oh, pardon me!
If nature hath rebell’d,
And from thy light turn’d wilfully away,
Making a midnight of her agony,
When the despairing passion of her clasp
Was from its idol stricken at one touch
Of thine Almighty hand--oh, pardon me!
By thy Son’s anguish, pardon! In the soul
The tempests and the waves will know thy voice--
Father! say, “Peace, be still!”

(_Giving the child to her husband._)

Farewell, my babe!
Go from my bosom now to other rest!
With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow,
And on thy pale, calm cheek these contrite tears,
I yield thee to thy Maker!

_Husband._ Now, my wife!
Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more
A light upon my path. Now shall I bear,
From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose--
With a calm, trustful heart.

_Agnes._ My Edmund! where--
Where wilt thou lay him?

_Husband._ See’st thou where the spire
Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun
To burning gold?--there--o’er yon willow-tuft?
Under that native desert monument
Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn,
With the gray mosses of the wilderness
Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth,
E’en from the fulness of his own pure heart,
A wild, sad forest hymn--a song of tears,
Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy
Chanting it o’er his solitary task,
As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves,
Perchance unconsciously.

_Agnes._ My gentle son!
The affectionate, the gifted! With what joy--
Edmund, rememberest thou?--with what bright joy
His baby brother ever to his arms
Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair
In that kind, useful breast! Oh! now no more!
But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart,
Even to a well-spring of adoring tears,
For many a blessing left.
(_Bending over the child._) Once more, farewell!
Oh, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look!
How can it be sustain’d? Away, away!

(_After a short pause._)

Edmund! my woman’s nature still is weak--
I cannot see thee render dust to dust!
Go thou, my husband! to thy solemn task;
I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer
Till thy return.

_Husband._ Then strength be with thy prayer!
Peace on thy bosom! Faith and heavenly hope
Unto thy spirit! Fare thee well a while!
We must be pilgrims of the woods again,
After this mournful hour.

(_He goes out with the child._--Agnes, _kneels in prayer.--After a time, voices without are heard singing._)

FUNERAL HYMN.

Where the long reeds quiver,
Where the pines make moan,
By the forest-river,
Sleeps our babe alone.
England’s field-flowers may not deck his grave,
Cypress shadows o’er him darkly wave.

Woods unknown receive him,
Midst the mighty wild;
Yet with God we leave him,
Blessed, blessed child!
And our tears gush o’er his lovely dust,
Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust.

Though his eye hath brighten’d
Oft our weary way,
And his clear laugh lighten’d
Half our hearts’ dismay;
Still in hope we give back what was given,
Yielding up the beautiful to heaven.

And to her who bore him,
Her who long must weep,
Yet shall heaven restore him
From his pale, sweet sleep!
Those blue eyes of love and peace again
Through her soul will shine, undimm’d by pain.

Where the long reeds quiver,
Where the pines make moan,
Leave we by the river
Earth to earth alone!
God and Father! may our journeyings on
Lead to where the blessed boy is gone!

From the exile’s sorrow,
From the wanderer’s dread
Of the night and morrow,
Early, brightly fled;
Thou hast call’d him to a sweeter home
Than our lost one o’er the ocean’s foam.

Now let thought behold him,
With his angel look,
Where those arms enfold him,
Which benignly took
Israel’s babes to their Good Shepherd’s breast
When his voice their tender meekness blest.

Turn thee now, fond mother!
From thy dead, oh, turn!
Linger not, young brother,
Here to dream and mourn:
Only kneel once more around the sod,
Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God!

EASTER-DAY IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD.

There is a wakening on the mighty hills,
A kindling with the spirit of the morn!
Bright gleams are scatter’d from the thousand rills,
And a soft visionary hue is born
On the young foliage, worn
By all the embosom’d woods--a silvery green,
Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously serene.

And lo! where, floating through a glory, sings
The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky!
Lo! where the darkness of his buoyant wings,
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high,
Trembles with melody!
While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice
To the rich laugh of music in that voice.

But purer light than of the early sun
Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth!
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark’s mirth,
By this glad morning’s birth!
And gifts more precious by its breath are shed
Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet’s head.

Gifts for the _soul_, from whose illumined eye
O’er nature’s face the colouring glory flows;
Gifts from the fount of immortality,
Which, fill’d with balm, unknown to human woes,
Lay hush’d in dark repose,
Till thou, bright dayspring! madest its waves our own,
By thine unsealing of the burial stone.

Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills!
And let a full victorious tone be given,
By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills
Your urn-like depths with sound! The tomb is riven,
The radiant gate of heaven
Unfolded--and the stern, dark shadow cast
By death’s o’ersweeping wing, from the earth’s bosom past.

And you, ye graves! upon whose turf I stand,
Girt with the slumber of the hamlet’s dead,
Time, with a soft and reconciling hand,
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread
O’er every narrow bed:
But not by time, and not by nature sown
Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown.

Christ hath arisen! Oh, not one cherish’d head
Hath, midst the flowery sods, been pillow’d here
Without a hope, (howe’er the heart hath bled
In its vain yearnings o’er the unconscious bier,)
A hope, upspringing clear
From those majestic tidings of the morn,
Which lit the living way to all of woman born.

Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love!
E’en on this greensward: night hath heard thy cry,
Heart-stricken one! thy precious dust above--
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply
Unto thine agony!
But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide,
Christ hath arisen, O love! thy tears shall all be dried.

Dark must have been the gushing of those tears,
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb
On thine impassion’d soul, in elder years,
When, burden’d with the mystery of its doom,
Mortality’s thick gloom
Hung o’er the sunny world, and with the breath
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death.

By thee, sad Love! and by thy sister, Fear,
Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought
To vail that haunting shadow, still too near,
Still ruling secretly the conqueror’s thought,
And where the board was fraught
With wine and myrtles in the summer bower,
Felt, e’en when disavow’d, a presence and a power.

But that dark night is closed: and o’er the dead,
_Here_, where the gleamy primrose-tufts have blown,
And where the mountain-heath a couch has spread,
And, settling oft on some gray, letter’d stone,
The redbreast warbles lone;
And the wild-bee’s deep drowsy murmurs pass,
Like a low thrill of harp-strings, through the grass:

Here, midst the chambers of the Christian’s sleep,
_We_ o’er death’s gulf may look with trusting eye;
For Hope sits, dove-like, on the gloomy deep,
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie
Seem all one sanctuary
Of holiest thought--nor needs their fresh, bright sod,
Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God.

Christ hath arisen! O mountain-peaks! attest--
Witness, resounding glen and torrent-wave!
The immortal courage in the human breast
Sprung from that victory--tell how oft the brave
To camp midst rock and cave,
Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne,
Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn!

The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day--
Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone
Have thrill’d their pines, when those that knelt to pray
Rose up to arm! The pure, high snows have known
A colouring not their own,
But from true hearts, which, by that crimson stain,
Gave token of a trust that call’d no suffering vain.

Those days are past--the mountains wear no more
The solemn splendour of the martyr’s blood;
And may that awful record, as of yore,
Never again be known to field or flood!
E’en though the faithful stood,
A noble army, in the exulting sight
Of earth and heaven, which bless’d their battle for the right!

But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken
Is yet home silently in homes obscure;
And many a bitter cup is meekly taken;
And, for the strength whereby the just and pure
Thus steadfastly endure,
Glory to Him whose victory won that dower!
Him from whose rising stream’d that robe of spirit-power.

Glory to Him! Hope to the suffering breast!
Light to the nations! He hath roll’d away
The mists which, gathering into deathlike rest,
Between the soul and heaven’s calm ether lay--
His love hath made it day
With those that sat in darkness. Earth and sea!
Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made free!

THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.

“A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, to waylay.
...
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death.” Wordsworth.

I saw him at his sport erewhile,
The bright, exulting boy!
Like summer’s lightning came the smile
Of his young spirit’s joy--
A flash that, wheresoe’er it broke,
To life undreamt-of beauty woke.

His fair locks waved in sunny play,
By a clear fountain’s side,
Where jewel-colour’d pebbles lay
Beneath the shallow tide;
And pearly spray at times would meet
The glancing of his fairy feet.

He twined him wreaths of all spring-flowers,
Which drank that streamlet’s dew;
He flung them o’er the wave in showers,
Till, gazing, scarce I knew
Which seem’d more pure, or bright, or wild,
The singing fount or laughing child.

To look on all that joy and bloom
Made earth one festal scene,
Where the dull shadow of the tomb
Seem’d as it ne’er had been.
How could one image of decay
Steal o’er the dawn of such clear day?

I saw once more that aspect bright--
The boy’s meek head was bow’d
In silence o’er the Book of Light,
And, like a golden cloud--
The still cloud of a pictured sky--
His locks droop’d round it lovingly.

And if my heart had deem’d him fair,
When, in the fountain-glade,
A creature of the sky and air,
Almost on wings he play’d;
Oh! how much holier beauty now
Lit the young human being’s brow!

The being born to toil, to die,
To break forth from the tomb
Unto far nobler destiny
Than waits the skylark’s plume!
I saw him, in that thoughtful hour,
Win the first knowledge of his dower.

The _soul_, the awakening _soul_ I saw--
My watching eye could trace
The shadows of its new-born awe
Sweeping o’er that fair face:
As o’er a flower might pass the shade
By some dread angel’s pinion made!

The soul, the mother of deep fears,
Of high hopes infinite,
Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears,
Of sleepless inner sight;
Lovely, but solemn, it arose,
Unfolding what no more might close.

The red-leaved tablets,[423] undefiled,
As yet, by evil thought--
Oh! little dream’d the brooding child
Of what within me wrought,
While _his_ young heart first burn’d and stirr’d,
And quiver’d to the eternal word.

And reverently my spirit caught
The reverence of _his_ gaze--
A sight with dew of blessing fraught
To hallow after-days;
To make the proud heart meekly wise,
By the sweet faith in those calm eyes.

It seem’d as if a temple rose
Before me brightly there;
And in the depths of its repose
My soul o’erflow’d with prayer,
Feeling a solemn presence nigh--
The power of infant sanctity!

O Father! mould my heart once more
By thy prevailing breath!
Teach me, oh! teach me to adore
E’en with that pure one’s faith--
A faith, all made of love and light,
Child-like, and therefore full of might!

[423] “All this, and more than this, is now engraved upon the _red-leaved tablets_ of my heart.”--Haywood.

A POET’S DYING HYMN.

“Be mute who will, who can,
Yet I will praise thee with impassion’d voice!
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine
In such a temple as we now behold,
Rear’d for thy presence; therefore am I bound
To worship, here and every where.”--Wordsworth.

The blue, deep, glorious heavens!--I lift mine eye,
And bless thee, O my God! that I have met
And own’d thine image in the majesty
Of their calm temple still!--that, never yet,
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night:
I bless thee, O my God!

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse,
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine,
Touching death’s features with a lovely glance
Of light, serenely, solemnly divine,
And lending to each holy star a ray
As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away:
I bless thee, O my God!

That I have heard thy voice nor been afraid,
In the earth’s garden--midst the mountains old,
And the low thrillings of the forest-shade,
And the wild sound of waters uncontroll’d--
And upon many a desert plain and shore--
No solitude--for there I felt _thee_ more:
I bless thee, O my God!

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed
The gift, the vision of the unseal’d eye,
To pierce the mist o’er life’s deep meanings spread,
To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie
Far in man’s heart--if I have kept it free
And pure, a consecration unto thee:
I bless thee, O my God!

If my soul’s utterance hath by thee been fraught
With an awakening power--if thou hast made
Like the wing’d seed, the breathings of my thought,
And by the swift winds bid them be convey’d
To lands of other lays, and there become
Native as early melodies of home:
I bless thee, O my God!

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,
Not for a place midst kingly minstrels dead,
But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,
A still small whisper, in my song hath led
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne,
Or but one hope, one prayer,--for this alone
I bless thee, O my God!

That I have loved--that I have known the love
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs,
Yet, with a colouring halo from above,
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things,
Whate’er its anguish or its woe may be,
Still weaving links for intercourse with thee:
I bless thee, O my God!

That by the passion of its deep distress,
And by the o’erflowing of its mighty prayer,
And by the yearning of its tenderness,
Too full for words upon their stream to bear,
I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine,
Well-spring of love, the unfathom’d, the divine,
I bless thee, O my God!

That hope hath ne’er my heart or song forsaken,
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread,
Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken
Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed:
That passing storms have only fann’d the fire
Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire,
I bless thee, O my God!

Now art thou calling me in every gale,
Each sound and token of the dying day;
Thou leav’st me not--though early life grows pale,
I am not darkly sinking to decay;
But, hour by hour, my soul’s dissolving shroud
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud.
I bless thee, O my God!

And if this earth, with all its choral streams,
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies,
And mountain sanctuaries for poet’s dreams,
Be lovely still in my departing eyes--
’Tis not that fondly I would linger here,
But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear:
I bless thee, O my God!

And that the tender shadowing I behold,
The tracery veining every leaf and flower,
Of glories cast in more consummate mould,
No longer vassals to the changeful hour;
That life’s last roses to my thoughts can bring
Rich visions of imperishable spring:
I bless thee, O my God!

Yes! the young, vernal voices in the skies
Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear,
Seem heralds of th’ eternal melodies,
The spirit-music, imperturb’d and clear--
The full of soul, yet passionate no more:
Let _me_, too, joining those pure strains, adore!
I bless thee, O my God!

Now aid, sustain me still. To thee I come--
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are,
And for the hope of that immortal home,
And for thy Son, the bright and morning star,
The sufferer and the victor-king of death,
I bless thee with my glad song’s dying breath!
I bless thee, O my God!

[“I have lately written what I consider one of my best pieces--‘A Poet’s Dying Hymn.’ It appeared in the last number of _Blackwood_,” (April 1832.)--_Letter from Mrs Hemans._

“It is impossible to read this affecting poem without feeling how distinctly it breathes the inward echoes of the soul to the frequent warnings of the Summoner; those presentiments which must have long silently possessed her, here for the first time finding utterance. Still more strongly does it evidence that subdued and serene frame of mind, into which her once vivacious temperament and painfully vibrating sensibilities were now so gently and happily subsiding.”--_Memoir_, p. 254.]

THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

“Many an eye
May wail the dimming of our shining star.”--_Shakspeare._

A glorious voice hath ceased!
Mournfully, reverently--the funeral chant
Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound,
A hollow murmur of the dying year,
In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad!
A more Æolian, melancholy tone
Than ever wail’d o’er bright things perishing!
For _that_ is passing from the darken’d land,
Which the green summer will not bring us back--
Though all her songs return. The funeral chant
Breathe reverently! They bear the mighty forth,
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind;
They bear him through the household paths, the groves,
Where every tree had music of its own
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love--
And he is silent! Past the living stream
They bear him now; the stream whose kindly voice,
On alien shores, his true heart burn’d to hear--
And he is silent! O’er the heathery hills,
Which his own soul had mantled with a light
Richer than autumn’s purple, now they move--
And he is silent!--he, whose flexile lips
Were but unseal’d, and lo! a thousand forms,
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height,
In glowing life upsprang,--vassal and chief,
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal,
Fast-rushing through the brightly troubled air,
Like the Wild Huntsman’s band. And still they live,
To those fair scenes imperishably bound,
And, from the mountain-mist still flashing by,
Startle the wanderer who hath listen’d there
To the seer’s voice: phantoms of colour’d thought,
Surviving him who raised. O eloquence!
O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead!
Who shall wake _thee_? lord of the buried past!
And art thou _there_--to those dim nations join’d,
Thy subject-host so long? The wand is dropp’d,
The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand
Touch’d, and the genii came! Sing reverently
The funeral chant! The mighty is borne home,
And who shall be his mourners? Youth and age,
For each hath felt his magic--love and grief,
For he hath communed with the heart of each:
Yes--the free spirit of humanity
May join the august procession, for to him
Its mysteries have been tributary things,
And all its accents known. From field or wave,
Never was conqueror on his battle-bier,
By the veil’d banner and the muffled drum,
And the proud drooping of the crested head,
More nobly follow’d home. The last abode,
The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach’d:
A still, majestic spot, girt solemnly
With all th’ imploring beauty of decay;
A stately couch midst ruins! meet for him
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant
Over the honour’d grave! The _grave_!--oh, say
Rather the shrine!--an altar for the love,
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths
Of years unborn--a place where leaf and flower,
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead,
Shall be made holy things, where every weed
Shall have its portion of th’ inspiring gift
From buried glory breathed. And now what strain
Making victorious melody ascend
High above sorrow’s dirge, befits the tomb
Where he that sway’d the nations thus is laid--
The crown’d of men?
A lowly, lowly song.

Lowly and solemn be
Thy children’s cry to thee,
Father divine!
A hymn of suppliant breath,
Owning that life and death
Alike are thine!

A spirit on its way,
Sceptred the earth to sway,
From thee was sent:
Now call’st thou back thine own--
Hence is that radiance flown--
To earth but lent.

Watching in breathless awe,
The bright head bow’d we saw,
Beneath thy hand!
Fill’d by one hope, one fear,
Now o’er a brother’s bier
Weeping we stand.

How hath he pass’d!--the lord
Of each deep bosom-chord,
To meet thy sight,
Unmantled and alone,
On thy bless’d mercy thrown,
O Infinite!

So, from his harvest-home,
Must the tired peasant come;
So, in one trust,
Leader and king must yield
The naked soul reveal’d
To thee, All Just!

The sword of many a fight--
What _then_ shall be its might?
The lofty lay
That rush’d on eagle wing--
What shall its memory bring?
What hope, what stay?

O Father! in that hour,
When earth all succouring power
Shall disavow;
When spear, and shield, and crown
In faintness are cast down--
Sustain us, Thou!

By Him who bow’d to take
The death-cup for our sake,
The thorn, the rod;
From whom the last dismay
Was not to pass away--
Aid us, O God!

Tremblers beside the grave,
We call on thee to save,
Father divine!
Hear, hear our suppliant breath!
Keep us, in life and death,
Thine, only thine!

THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGGIO’S.

In the deep wilderness unseen she pray’d,
The daughter of Jerusalem; alone
With all the still, small whispers of the night,
And with the searching glances of the stars,
And with her God, alone: she lifted up
Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o’er her head,
The dark leaves thrill’d with prayer--the tearful prayer
Of woman’s quenchless, yet repentant love.

Father of Spirits, hear!
Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal’d,
Look on the fountain of the burning tear,
Before thy sight in solitude unseal’d!

Hear, Father! hear, and aid!
If I have loved too well, if I have shed,
In my vain fondness, o’er a mortal head,
Gifts on thy shrine, my God! more fitly laid;

If I have sought to live
But in _one_ light, and made a human eye
The lonely star of mine idolatry,
Thou that art Love! oh, pity and forgive!

Chasten’d and school’d at last,
No more, no more my struggling spirit burns,
But, fix’d on thee, from that wild worship turns--
What have I said?--the deep dream is not past!

Yet hear!--if _still_ I love,
Oh! still too fondly--if, for ever seen,
An earthly image comes my heart between
And thy calm glory, Father! throned above;

If still a voice is near,
(E’en while I strive these wanderings to control,)
An earthly voice disquieting my soul
With its deep music, too intensely dear;

O Father! draw to thee
My lost affections back!--the dreaming eyes
Clear from their mist--sustain the heart that dies,
Give the worn soul once more its pinions free!

I must love on, O God!
This bosom must love on!--but let thy breath
Touch and make pure the flame that knows not death,
Bearing it up to heaven--love’s own abode!

Ages and ages past, the wilderness,
With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night,
With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds,
That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers.
How many such hath woman’s bursting heart
_Since then_, in silence and in darkness breathed,
Like the dim night-flower’s odour, up to God!

PRISONERS’ EVENING SERVICE.

A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.[424]

“From their spheres
The stars of human glory are cast down.
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms
Of all the mighty, wither’d and consumed!
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence
Long to protect her own.” Wordsworth.

Scene--_Prison of the Luxembourg in Paris, during the Reign of Terror._

D’Aubigné, _an aged Royalist_--Blanche, _his daughter, a young girl._

_Blanche._ What was your doom, my father? In thine arms
I lay unconsciously through that dread hour.
Tell me the sentence! Could our judges look,
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair?
Was there not mercy, father? Will they not
Restore us to our home?

_D’Aubigné._ Yes, my poor child!
They send us home.

_Blanche._ Oh! shall we gaze again
On the bright Loire? Will the old hamlet spire,
And the gray turret of our own chateau,
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,
The loving laughter in their children’s eyes,
Welcome us back at last? But how is this?
Father! thy glance is clouded--on thy brow
There sits no joy!

_D’Aubigné._ Upon my brow, dear girl!
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace
As may befit the Christian who receives,
And recognises in submissive awe,
The summons of his God.

_Blanche._ Thou dost not mean----
No, no! it cannot be! Didst thou not say
They sent us _home_?

_D’Aubigné._ Where is the spirit’s home?
Oh! most of all, in these dark, evil days,
Where should it be--but in that world serene,
Beyond the sword’s reach and the tempest’s power,
--Where, but in heaven?

_Blanche._ My father!

_D’Aubigné._ _We must die._
We must look up to God, and calmly die.
Come to my heart, and weep there! For awhile
Give nature’s passion way; then brightly rise
In the still courage of a woman’s heart.
Do I not know thee? Do I ask too much
From mine own noble Blanche?

_Blanche_, (_falling on his bosom._) Oh! clasp me fast!
Thy trembling child! Hide, hide me in thine arms--
Father!

_D’Aubigné._ Alas! my flower, thou’rt young to go--
Young, and so fair! Yet were it worse, methinks,
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave,
The loyal-hearted and the chivalrous,
And they that loved their God, have all been swept,
Like the sere leaves, away. For them no hearth
Through the wide land was left inviolate,
No altar holy; therefore did they fall,
Rejoicing to depart. The soil is steep’d
In noble blood; the temples are gone down;
The voice of prayer is hush’d, or fearfully
Mutter’d, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would live
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee,
To quit for ever the dishonour’d soil,
The burden’d air! Our God upon the cross--
Our king upon the scaffold[425]--let us think
Of _these_--and fold endurance to our hearts,
And bravely die!

_Blanche._ A dark and fearful way!
An evil doom for thy dear, honour’d head!
O thou, the kind, the gracious! whom all eyes
Bless’d as they look’d upon! Speak yet again--
Say, will they part us?

_D’Aubigné._ No, my Blanche; in death,
We shall not be divided.

_Blanche._ Thanks to God!
He, by thy glance, will aid me--I shall see
His light before me to the last. And when--
Oh, pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child!--
When shall the hour befall?

_D’Aubigné._ Oh! swiftly now,
And suddenly, with brief, dread interval,
Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that hour
As yet I know not. Each low throbbing pulse
Of the quick pendulum may usher in
Eternity!

_Blanche_, (_kneeling before him._) My father! lay thy hand
On thy poor Blanche’s head, and once again
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness--
Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul,
Ere we are call’d.

_D’Aubigné._ If I may speak through tears!--
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently,
Child of my heart!--thou who dost look on me
With thy lost mother’s angel eyes of love!
Thou, that hast been a brightness in my path,
A guest of heaven unto my lonely soul,
A stainless lily in my widow’d house,
There springing up, with soft light round thee shed,
For immortality! Meek child of God!
I bless thee--He will bless thee! In his love
He calls thee now from this rude stormy world
To thy Redeemer’s breast! And thou wilt die,
As thou hast lived--my duteous, holy Blanche!
In trusting and serene submissiveness,
Humble, yet full of heaven.

_Blanche_, (_rising._) Now is there strength
Infused through all my spirit. I can rise
And say, “Thy will be done!”

_D’Aubigné_, (_pointing upwards._) See’st thou, my child!
Yon faint light in the west? The signal star
Of our due vesper-service, gleaming in
Through the close dungeon-grating! Mournfully
It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass,
_This_ night alone, without the lifted voice
Of adoration in our narrow cell,
As if unworthy fear or wavering faith
Silenced the strain? No! let it waft to heaven
The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality,
In its dark hour once more! And we will sleep,
Yes--calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed.

[_They sing together._

[424] The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her _Letters from France_, gave rise to this little scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, which they sang together in a low and restrained voice every night.

[425] A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and hearing some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamentations, turned towards the sufferer, and thus addressed him:--“My friend, whoever you may be, remember that your God expired upon the cross--your king upon the scaffold--and he who now speaks to you has had his limbs shot from under him. Meet your fate as becomes a man.”

PRISONER’S EVENING SONG.

We see no more in thy pure skies,
How soft, O God! the sunset dies;
How every colour’d hill and wood
Seems melting in the golden flood:
Yet, by the precious memories won
From bright hours now for ever gone,
Father! o’er all thy works, we know,
Thou still art shedding beauty’s glow;
Still touching every cloud and tree
With glory, eloquent of thee;
Still feeding all thy flowers with light,
Though man hath barr’d it from our sight.
We know thou reign’st, the Unchanging One, the All-just!
And bless thee still with free and boundless trust!

We read no more, O God! thy ways
On earth, in these wild, evil days.
The red sword in the oppressor’s hand
Is ruler of the weeping land;
Fallen are the faithful and the pure,
No shrine is spared, no hearth secure.
Yet, by the deep voice from the past,
Which tells us these things cannot last--
And by the hope which finds no ark
Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark--
We trust thee! As the sailor knows
That in its place of bright repose
His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud
May veil it with a midnight shroud,
We know thou reign’st, All-holy One, All-just!
And bless thee still with love’s own boundless trust.

We feel no more that aid is nigh,
When our faint hearts within us die.
We suffer--and we know our doom
Must be one suffering till the tomb.
Yet, by the anguish of thy Son
When his last hour came darkly on;
By his dread cry, the air which rent
In terror of abandonment;
And by his parting word, which rose
Through faith victorious o’er all woes--
We know that thou may’st wound, may’st break
The spirit, but wilt ne’er forsake!
Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn,
In our deep need to thee we turn!
To whom but thee? All-merciful, All-just!
In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust!

HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION.

“Thanks be to God for the mountains!”
Howitt’s “Book of the Seasons.”

For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers’ God!
Thou hast made thy children mighty,
By the touch of the mountain-sod.
Thou hast fix’d our ark of refuge
Where the spoiler’s foot ne’er trod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers’ God!

We are watchers of a beacon
Whose light must never die;
We are guardians of an altar
Midst the silence of the sky:
The rocks yield founts of courage,
Struck forth as by thy rod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers’ God!

For the dark, resounding caverns,
Where thy still, small voice is heard;
For the strong pines of the forests,
That by thy breath are stirr’d;
For the storms, on whose free pinions
Thy spirit walks abroad;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers’ God!

The royal eagle darteth
On his quarry from the heights,
And the stag that knows no master,
Seeks there his wild delights;
But we, for _thy_ communion,
Have sought the mountain-sod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers’ God!

The banner of the chieftain
Far, far below us waves;
The war-horse of the spearman
Cannot reach our lofty caves:
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold
Of freedom’s last abode;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers’ God!

For the shadow of thy presence,
Round our camp of rock outspread;
For the stern defiles of battle,
Bearing record of our dead;
For the snows and for the torrents,
For the free heart’s burial-sod;
For the strength of the hills we bless thee,
Our God, our fathers’ God!

PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY.

“The land shall never rue,
So England to herself do prove but true.”--Shakspeare.

Through evening’s bright repose
A voice of prayer arose,
When the sea-fight was done:
The sons of England knelt,
With hearts that now could melt,
For on the wave her battle had been won.

Round their tall ship, the main
Heaved with a dark red stain,
Caught not from sunset’s cloud;
While with the tide swept past
Pennon and shiver’d mast,
Which to the Ocean-Queen that day had bow’d.

But free and fair on high,
A native of the sky,
_Her_ streamer met the breeze;
It flow’d o’er fearless men,
Though, hush’d and child-like then,
Before their God they gather’d on the seas.

Oh! did not thoughts of home
O’er each bold spirit come,
As from the land sweet gales?
In every word of prayer
Had not some hearth a share,
Some bower, inviolate midst England’s vales?

Yes! bright, green spots that lay
In beauty far away,
Hearing no billow’s roar,
Safer from touch of spoil,
For that day’s fiery toil,
Rose on high hearts, that now with love gush’d o’er.

A solemn scene and dread!
The victors and the dead,
The breathless burning sky!
And, passing with the race
Of waves that keep no trace,
The wild, brief signs of human victory!

A stern, yet holy scene!
Billows, where strife hath been,
Sinking to awful sleep;
And words, that breathe the sense
Of God’s omnipotence,
Making a minster of that silent deep.

Borne through such hours afar,
Thy flag hath been a star,
Where eagle’s wings ne’er flew:
England! the unprofaned,
Thou of the earth unstain’d,
Oh! to the banner and the shrine be true!

THE INDIAN’S REVENGE.

SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY.

[Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is founded are recorded in Carne’s Narrative of the Moravian Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch.]

“But by my wrongs and by my wrath,
To-morrow Areouski’s breath
That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light me to the foe!”
Indian Song in “Gertrude of Wyoming.”

Scene.--_The shore of a Lake surrounded by deep woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, overshadowed by maple and sycamore trees._ Herrmann, _the missionary, seated alone before the cabin. The hour is evening twilight._