Mrs. Hemans

“ Wert wont to call
On the departed! Art thou bless’d and free?
—Alas! the lips earth covers, even to thee
Were silent all!
Yet shall our hope rise fann’d by quenchless faith,
As a flame, foster’d by some warm wind’s breath,
In light upsprings:
Freed soul of song! yes, thou hast found the sought;
Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought,
On morning’s wings.
And we will dream it is thy joy we hear,
When life’s young music, ringing far and clear,
O’erflows the sky.
No tears for thee! the lingering gloom is ours—
Thou art for converse with all glorious powers,
Never to die! ”

“ DIRGE, (heard without.)
Thou to thy rest art gone,
High heart! and what are we,
While o’er our heads the storm sweeps on,
That we should mourn for thee?
Free grave and peaceful bier
To the buried son of Spain!
To those that live, the lance and spear,
And well if not the chain!
Be theirs to weep the dead,
As they sit beneath their vines,
Whose flowery land hath borne no tread
Of spoilers o’er its shrines!
Thou hast thrown off the load
Which we must yet sustain,
And pour our blood where thine hath flow’d,
Too blest if not in vain!
We give thee holy rite,
Slow knell, and chanted strain! ”

“ Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea,
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye—
Speak to him, lorn one! deeply, mournfully,
Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throw
Into thy frame a voice—a sweet, and low,
And thrilling voice of song! when he came nigh,
To send the passion of its melody
Through his pierced bosom—on its tones to bear
My life’s deep feeling, as the southern air
Wafts the faint myrtle’s breath—to rise, to swell,
To sink away in accents of farewell,
Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow
Surely my parted spirit yet might know,
If love be strong as death! ”

“ Thou shouldst be look’d on when the starlight falls
Through the blue stillness of the summer air,
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls—
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare!
And thou!—thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams.
Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead
Were crown’d of old, with pale spring-flowers like these:
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze:
And the pine-boughs o’ershadow thee with gloom,
Which of the grove seems breathing—not the tomb. ”

“ It came, the hour of wrath, the hour of woe,
Which to deep solitude and tears consign’d
The peopled realm, the realm of joy and mirth.
A gloom was on the heavens, no mantling glow
Announced the morn—it seem’d as nature pined,
And boding clouds obscured the sunbeam’s birth;
While, startling the pale earth,
Bursting upon the mighty and the proud
With visitation dread,
Their crests the Eternal, in his anger, bow’d,
And raised barbarian nations o’er their head,
The inflexible, the fierce, who seek not gold,
But vengeance on their foes, relentless, uncontroll’d. ”

“ Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear,
Still murmuring ‘vengeance!’—nor in vain the call,
Few, few shall triumph in a hero’s fall!
Cold as thine own to glory and to fame,
Within my heart there lives one only aim;
There, till th’ oppressor for thy fate atone,
Concentring every thought, it reigns alone.
I will not weep—revenge, not grief, must be,
And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee;
But the dark hour of stern delight will come,
And thou shalt triumph, warrior! in thy tomb.
“Thou, too, my brother! thou art pass’d away,
Without thy fame, in life’s fair dawning day. ”

“ Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
Day is for mortal care,
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer—
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.
The banquet hath its hour—
Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day for grief’s o’erwhelming power,
A time for softer tears—but all are thine.
Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee—but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen’d bloom to seize their prey. ”

“ With the gather’d grapes, and the lyre in tune,
Thy homeward step to greet.
Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child,
Lay tones of love so deep,
Whose eye o’er all my youth hath smiled—
I leave thee! let me weep!
Mother! I leave thee! On thy breast
Pouring out joy and woe,
I have found that holy place of rest
Still changeless—yet I go!
Lips, that have lull’d me with your strain!
Eyes, that have watch’d my sleep!
Will earth give love like yours again?—
Sweet mother! let me weep!
And like a slight young tree, that throws
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs,
Once more she wept. ”

“ O’er the wild Harp, renown’d in song;
And Inspiration, hovering round,
Swells the full energies of sound.
Now Grandeur, pealing in the tone,
Could rouse the warrior’s kindling fire,
And now, ’tis like the breeze’s moan,
That murmurs o’er th’ Eolian lyre:
As if some sylph, with viewless wing,
Were sighing o’er the magic string.
Long, long, fair Conway! boast the skill
That soothes, inspires, commands, at will!
And oh! while rapture hails the lay,
Far distant be the closing day,
When Genius, Taste, again shall weep,
And Cambria’s Harp lie hush’d in sleep! ”

“ The bright work grows
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose,
Leaf after leaf, to beauty—line by line,
Through the pale marble’s veins. It grows!—and now
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine:
I give my own life’s history to thy brow,
Forsaken Ariadne!—thou shalt wear
My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair,
Touch’d into lovelier being by the glow
Which in me dwells, as by the summer light
All things are glorified. From thee my woe
Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight,
When I am pass’d away. ”

“ In its own dread abyss of darkness chain’d,
If the Deliverer, in his might at last,
Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast,
The beam of truth o’erpowers its dazzled sight,
Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light.
But this will pass away: that spark of mind,
Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined,
Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray,
Born to be foster’d with ethereal day.
Then wilt thou bless the hour when o’er thee pass’d,
On wing of flame, the purifying blast,
And sorrow’s voice, through paths before untrod,
Like Sinai’s trumpet, call’d thee to thy God! ”

“ Eagle! this is not thy sphere!
Warrior-bird! what seek’st thou here?
Wherefore by the fountain’s brink
Doth thy royal pinion sink?
Wherefore on the violet’s bed
Lay’st thou thus thy drooping head?
Thou, that hold’st the blast in scorn,
Thou, that wear’st the wings of morn!
Eagle! wilt thou not arise?
Look upon thine own bright skies!
Lift thy glance! the fiery sun
There his pride of place hath won!
And the mountain lark is there,
And sweet sound hath fill’d the air;
Hast thou left that realm on high?
—Oh! it can be but to die!
Eagle! eagle! thou hast bow’d
From thine empire o’er the cloud! ”

“ The flame which dimly might have linger’d yet
A little while, hath gather’d all its rays
Brightly to sink at once. And it is well!
The shadows are around me: to thy heart
Fold me, that I may die.
Elm. My child! what dream
Is on thy soul? Even now thine aspect wears
Life’s brightest inspiration!
Xim. Death’s!
Elm. Away!
Thine eye hath starry clearness; and thy cheek
Doth glow beneath it with a richer hue,
Than tinged its earliest flower!
Xim. It well may be!
There are far deeper and far warmer hues
Than those which draw their colouring from the founts
Of youth, or health, or hope. ”

“ Oh! not alone, those haunted groves among,
Of conquering hosts, of empires crush’d, ye sung,
But of that spirit destined to explore,
With the bright day-spring, every distant shore,
To dry the tear, to bind the broken reed,
To make the home of peace in hearts that bleed;
With beams of hope to pierce the dungeon’s gloom.
And pour eternal starlight o’er the tomb.
And bless’d and hallow’d be its haunts! for there
Hath man’s high soul been rescued from despair!
There hath th’ immortal spark for heaven been nursed;
There from the rock the springs of life have burst
Quenchless and pure! ”

“ Thou weary man! wilt thou here find rest!
Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead:
Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth—
Back to thy silent hearth!
Ring, joyous chords!—ring forth again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!——
But thou, though a reckless mien be thine,
And thy cup be crown’d with the foaming wine,
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud,
By thine eye’s quick flash through its troubled cloud,
I know thee! it is but the wakeful fear
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here! ”

“ The gates of a minster old and vast;
And a king to his crowning-place was led,
Through a sculptured line of the warrior-dead.
I saw, far gleaming, the long array
Of trophies, on those high tombs that lay,
And the colour’d light, that wrapp’d them all,
Rich, deep, and sad, as a royal pall.
But a lowlier grave soon won mine eye
Away from th’ ancestral pageantry—
A grave by the lordly minster’s gate,
Unhonour’d, and yet not desolate.
It was a dewy greensward bed,
Meet for the rest of a peasant head;
But Love—oh, lovelier than all beside!—
That lone place guarded and glorified. ”

“ Hath stain’d the trophies of a glorious race;
Not him I loved—but one whose youthful name
Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame.
Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonour’s cloud
O’er that young name had gather’d as a shroud,
I then had mourn’d thee proudly, and my grief
In its own loftiness had found relief;
A noble sorrow, cherish’d to the last,
When every meaner woe had long been past.
Yes! let affection weep—no common tear
She sheds when bending o’er a hero’s bier.
Let nature mourn the dead—a grief like this,
To pangs that rend my bosom, had been bliss! ”

“ Oh! ’tis not well, this earthly love’s excess!
On thy weak child is laid
The burden of too deep a tenderness.
Too much o’er him is pour’d
My being’s hope—scarce leaving heaven a part;
Too fearfully adored,
Oh! make not him the chastener of my heart!
I tremble with a sense
Of grief to be; I hear a warning low—
Sweet mother! call me hence!
This wild idolatry must end in woe.
The troubled joy of life,
Love’s lightning happiness, my soul hath known;
And, worn with feverish strife,
Would fold its wings: take back, take back thine own! ”

“ Oh! strong is faith, if woe like this be borne.
For there is hush’d on earth
A voice of gladness—there is veil’d a face,
Whose parting leaves a dark and silent place
By the once-joyous hearth;
A smile hath pass’d, which fill’d its home with light,
A soul, whose beauty made that smile so bright!
But there is power with faith!
Power, e’en though nature o’er the untimely grave
Must weep, when God resumes the gem He gave;
For sorrow comes of Death,
And with a yearning heart we linger on,
When they, whose glance unlock’d its founts, are gone! ”

“ Which to thy soul brought dayspring with its tone,
And o’er the gentle eyes though dust be spread,
Eyes that ne’er look’d on thine but light was thrown
Far through thy breast:
And though the music of thy life be broken,
Or changed in every chord since he is gone—
Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token,
O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone!
I call thee bless’d!
For in thy heart there is a holy spot,
As mid the waste an isle of fount and palm,
For ever green!—the world’s breath enters not,
The passion-tempests may not break its calm:
’Tis thine, all thine! ”

“ Thou hast left in our shades with the spring’s wild flowers.
“Under the arch by our mingling made,
Thou and thy brother have gaily play’d;
Ye may meet again where ye roved of yore,
But as ye have met there—oh! never more!”
On rode the youth—and the boughs among,
Thus the free birds o’er his pathway sung:
“Wherefore so fast unto life away?
Thou art leaving for ever thy joy in our lay!
“Thou may’st come to the summer woods again,
And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain;
Afar from the foliage its love will dwell—
A change must pass o’er thee. Farewell, farewell!” ”

“ Yet holy still to me thou art,
Thou that hath soothed so many a heart!
And still must blessed influence flow
From the meek glory of thy brow.
Still speak to suffering woman’s love,
Of rest for gentle hearts above;
Of hope, that hath its treasure there,
Of home, that knows no changeful air.
Bright form! lit up with thoughts divine,
Ave! such power be ever thine! A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE.
How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom,
Rose! ever wearing beauty for thy dower!
The bridal-day—the festival—the tomb—
Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower! ”

“ Bird of the sun! dread eagle! born on high,
A creature of the empyreal—thou, whose eye
Was lightning to the earth—whose pinion waved
In haughty triumph o’er a world enslaved;
Sink from thy heavens! for glory’s noon is o’er,
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more!
Closed is thy regal course—thy crest is torn,
And thy plume banish’d from the realms of morn.
The shaft hath reach’d thee!—rest with chiefs and kings,
Who conquer’d in the shadow of thy wings;
Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey,
And share thy glorious heritage of day! ”

“ I walk with sweet friends in the sunset’s glow;
I listen to music of long ago;
But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint through the lay,—
“It is but a dream; it will melt away!”
I sit by the hearth of my early days;
All the home-faces are met by the blaze,—
And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say,
“It is but a dream; it will melt away!”
And away, like a flower’s passing breath, ’tis gone,
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone!
Oh! a haunted heart is a weight to bear,—
Bright faces, kind voices! where are ye, where? ”

“ Hast thou a scene that is not spread
With records of thy glory fled?
A monument that doth not tell
The tale of liberty’s farewell?
Italia! thou art but a grave
Where flowers luxuriate o’er the brave,
And nature gives her treasures birth
O’er all that hath been great on earth.
Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled
When thou wert freedom’s favour’d child:
Though fane and tomb alike are low,
Time hath not dimm’d thy sunbeam’s glow;
And, robed in that exulting ray,
Thou seem’st to triumph o’er decay—
Oh, yet, though by thy sorrows bent,
In nature’s pomp magnificent! ”

“ Thou think’st it much
To mourn the early dead; but there are tear’s
Heavy with deeper anguish! We endow
Those whom we love, in our fond passionate blindness,
With power upon our souls, too absolute
To be a mortal’s trust! Within their hands
We lay the flaming sword, whose stroke alone
Can reach our hearts; and they are merciful,
As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us!
Ay, fear them! fear the loved! Had I but wept
O’er my son’s grave, or o’er a babe’s, where tears
Are as spring dew-drops, glittering in the sun,
And brightening the young verdure, I might still
Have loved and trusted! ”

“ Are not as those the shepherd loves,
Nor look they down on shining streams,
By Naiads haunted in their laurel groves.
Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep,
In shadowy quiet, midst its vines;
No temple gleaming from the steep,
Midst the gray olives or the mountain pines:
But o’er a dim and boundless waste,
Thy rays, e’en like a tomb-lamp’s, brood,
Where man’s departed steps are traced
But by his dust, amidst the solitude.
And be it thus!—What slave shall tread
O’er freedom’s ancient battle-plains?
Let deserts wrap the glorious dead
When their bright Land sits weeping o’er her chains. ”