Part 2 — MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. (continued 2)

He walk’d with God, in holy joy, While yet his days were few; The deep, glad spirit of the boy To love and reverence grew. Whether, each nightly star to count, The ancient hills he trode, Or sought the flowers by stream and fount— Alike he walk’d with God. The graver noon of manhood came, The full of cares and fears; One voice was in his heart—the same It heard through childhood’s years. Amidst fair tents, and flocks, and swains, O’er his green pasture-sod, A shepherd-king on Eastern plains— The patriarch walk’d with God. And calmly, brightly, that pure life Melted from earth away; No cloud it knew, no parting strife, No sorrowful decay: He bow’d him not, like all beside, Unto the spoiler’s rod, But join’d at once the glorified, Where angels walk with God! So let us walk! The night must come To us that comes to all; We through the darkness must go home, Hearing the trumpet’s call. Closed is the path for ever more Which without death he trode; Not so that way, wherein of yore His footsteps walk’d with God!

Was it the sigh of the southern gale That flush’d the almond bough? Brightest and first the young spring to hail, Still its red blossoms glow. Was it the sunshine that woke its flowers With a kindling look of love? Oh! far and deep, and through hidden bowers, That smile of heaven can rove! No! from the breeze and the living light Shut was the sapless rod; But it felt in the stillness a secret might, And thrill’d to the breath of God. E’en so may that breath, like the vernal air, O’er our glad spirits move; And all such things as are good and fair Be the blossoms, its track that prove!

Amidst the thrilling leaves, Thy voice At evening’s fall drew near; Father! and did not man rejoice That blessed sound to hear? Did not his heart within him burn, Touch’d by the solemn tone? Not so!—for, never to return, Its purity was gone. Therefore, midst holy stream and bower, His spirit shook with dread, And call’d the cedars, in that hour, To veil his conscious head. Oh! in each wind, each fountain-flow, Each whisper of the shade, Grant me, my God! thy voice to know, And not to be afraid!

Where is the tree the prophet threw Into the bitter wave? Left it no scion where it grew, The thirsting soul to save? Hath nature lost the hidden power Its precious foliage shed? Is there no distant Eastern bower With such sweet leaves o’erspread? Nay, wherefore ask?—since gifts are ours Which yet may well imbue Earth’s many troubled founts with showers Of heaven’s own balmy dew. Oh! mingled with the cup of grief Let faith’s deep spirit be! And every prayer shall win a leaf From that bless’d healing tree!

Thou that with pallid cheek, And eyes in sadness meek, And faded locks that humbly swept the ground, From thy long wanderings won, Before the all-healing Son, Did’st bow thee to the earth—O lost and found! When thou wouldst bathe his feet With odours richly sweet, And many a shower of woman’s burning tear, And dry them with that hair, Brought low the dust to wear, From the crown’d beauty of its festal year. Did He reject thee then, While the sharp scorn of men On thy once bright and stately head was cast? No! from the Saviour’s mien, A solemn light serene Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last. For thee, their smiles no more Familiar faces wore; Voices, once kind, had learn’d the stranger’s tone: Who raised thee up, and bound Thy silent spirit’s wound?— He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone! But which, O erring child, From home so long beguiled!— Which of thine offerings won those words of heaven, That o’er the bruisèd reed, Condemn’d of earth to bleed, In music pass’d, “Thy sins are all forgiven?” Was it that perfume, fraught With balm and incense, brought From the sweet woods of Araby the Blest? Or that fast-flowing rain Of tears, which not in vain, To Him who scorn’d not tears, thy woes confess’d? No! not by these restored Unto thy Father’s board, Thy peace, that kindled joy in heaven, was made; But, costlier in his eyes, By that bless’d sacrifice, Thy heart, thy full deep heart, before Him laid.

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

Fair images of sleep, Hallow’d, and soft, and deep, On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies, Like moonlight on shut bells Of flowers in mossy dells, Fill’d with the hush of night and summer skies! How many hearts have felt Your silent beauty melt Their strength to gushing tenderness away! How many sudden tears, From depths of buried years All freshly bursting, having confess’d your sway! How many eyes will shed Still, o’er your marble bed, Such drops from memory’s troubled fountains wrung! While hope hath blights to bear, While love breathes mortal air, While roses perish ere to glory sprung! Yet from a voiceless home, If some sad mother come Fondly to linger o’er your lovely rest, As o’er the cheek’s warm glow, And the sweet breathings low, Of babes that grew and faded on her breast; If then the dove-like tone Of those faint murmurs gone, O’er her sick sense too piercingly return; If for the soft bright hair, And brow and bosom fair, And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn; O gentle forms, entwined Like tendrils, which the wind May wave, so clasp’d, but never can unlink! Send from your calm profound A still, small voice—a sound Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink! By all the pure, meek mind In your pale beauty shrined, By childhood’s love—too bright a bloom to die O’er her worn spirit shed, O fairest, holiest dead! The faith, trust, joy, of immortality!

Thou hast a charmèd cup, O Fame! A draught that mantles high, And seems to lift this earthly frame Above mortality. Away! to me—a woman—bring Sweet waters from affection’s spring! Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine Into so proud a wreath, For that resplendent gift of thine Heroes have smiled in death: Give me from some kind hand a flower, The record of one happy hour! Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone Can bid each life-pulse beat, As when a trumpet’s note hath blown, Calling the brave to meet: But mine, let mine—a woman’s breast, By words of home-born love be bless’d. A hollow sound is in thy song, A mockery in thine eye, To the sick heart that doth but long For aid, for sympathy— For kindly looks to cheer it on, For tender accents that are gone. Fame! Fame! thou canst not be the stay Unto the drooping reed, The cool, fresh fountain in the day Of the soul’s feverish need: Where must the lone one turn or flee!— Not unto thee—oh! not to thee!

Dreamer! and wouldst thou know If love goes with us to the viewless bourne? Wouldst thou bear hence th’ unfathom’d source of woe In thy heart’s lonely urn? What hath it been to thee, That power, the dweller of thy secret breast? A dove sent forth across a stormy sea, Finding no place of rest: A precious odour cast On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by; A voice of music utter’d to the blast, And winning no reply. Even were such answer thine, Wouldst thou be bless’d? Too sleepless, too profound, Are the soul’s hidden springs; there is no line Their depth of love to sound. Do not words faint and fail When thou wouldst fill them with that ocean’s power? As thine own cheek, before high thoughts grows pale In some o’erwhelming hour. Doth not thy frail form sink Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot, When thy heart strives, held down by many a link, Where thy beloved are not? Is not thy very soul Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed, Till a vain tenderness, beyond control, Bows down thy weary head? And wouldst thou bear all this— The burden and the shadow of thy life— To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss With earthly feelings’ strife? Not thus, not thus—oh, no! Not veil’d and mantled with dim clouds of care, That spirit of my soul should with me go To breathe celestial air. But as the skylark springs To its own sphere, where night afar is driven, As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings, So must love mount to heaven! Vainly it shall not strive There on weak words to pour a stream of fire; Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give, As light might wake a lyre. And oh! its blessings there, Shower’d like rich balsam forth on some dear head, Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear, A joy of sunlight shed. Let me, then—let me dream That love goes with us to the shore unknown; So o’er its burning tears a heavenly gleam In mercy shall be thrown!

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

Whence is the might of thy master-spell? Speak to me, voice of sweet sound! and tell: How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath, Passionate visions of love and death? How call’st thou back, with a note, a sigh, Words and low tones from the days gone by— A sunny glance, or a fond farewell?— Speak to me, voice of sweet sound! and tell. What is thy power, from the soul’s deep spring In sudden gushes the tears to bring? Even midst the swells of thy festal glee, Fountains of sorrow are stirr’d by thee! Vain are those tears!—vain and fruitless all— Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall; For a purer bliss while the full heart burns, For a brighter home while the spirit yearns! Something of mystery there surely dwells, Waiting thy touch, in our bosom-cells; Something that finds not its answer here— A chain to be clasp’d in another sphere. Therefore a current of sadness deep Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep, Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky— Like a name of the dead when the wind foams high! Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught With vain remembrance and troubled thought; Speak! for thou tellest my soul that its birth Links it with regions more bright than earth.

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

Come to the land of peace! Come where the tempest hath no longer sway, The shadow passes from the soul away, The sounds of weeping cease. Fear hath no dwelling there! Come to the mingling of repose and love, Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove Through the celestial air. Come to the bright, and blest, And crown’d for ever! Midst that shining band, Gather’d to heaven’s own wreath from every land, Thy spirit shall find rest! Thou hast been long alone: Come to thy mother! On the Sabbath shore, The heart that rock’d thy childhood, back once more Shall take its wearied one. In silence wert thou left: Come to thy sisters! Joyously again All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain, Shall greet their long bereft. Over thine orphan head The storm hath swept, as o’er a willow’s bough: Come to thy father! It is finish’d now; Thy tears have all been shed. In thy divine abode, Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace, And, oh! bright victory—death by love no place. Come, spirit! to thy God.

The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear— Farewell, and a blessing be with thee, green land! On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air, On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel’s free hand, From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed, As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead! I bless thee!—yet not for the beauty which dwells In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy shore; And not for the memory set deep in thy dells, Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore; And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled— Green land, poet-land of my home and my dead! I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat Where’er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies; For thy cottage-hearths burning the stranger to greet, For the soul that shines forth from thy children’s kind eyes! May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be spread, Green land of my childhood, my home, and my dead!

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

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

When will ye think of me, my friends? When will ye think of me?— When the last red light, the farewell of day, From the rock and the river is passing away— When the air with a deepening hush is fraught, And the heart grows burden’d with tender thought, Then let it be! When will ye think of me, kind friends? When will ye think of me?— When the rose of the rich midsummer-time Is fill’d with the hues of its glorious prime— When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled, From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread— Then let it be! When will ye think of me, sweet friends? When will ye think of me?— When the sudden tears o’erflow your eye At the sound of some olden melody— When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, When ye feel the charm of a poet’s dream— Then let it be! Thus let my memory be with you, friends! Thus ever think of me! Kindly and gently, but as of one For whom ’tis well to be fled and gone— As of a bird from a chain unbound, As of a wanderer whose home is found— So let it be.

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

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

“We return!—we return!—we return no more!” So comes the song to the mountain shore, From those that are leaving their Highland home For a world far over the blue sea’s foam: “We return no more!” and through cave and dell Mournfully wanders that wild farewell. “We return!—we return!—we return no more!” So breathe sad voices our spirits o’er; Murmuring up from the depths of the heart, Where lovely things with their light depart: And the inborn sound hath a prophet’s tone, And we feel that a joy is for ever gone. “We return!—we return!—we return no more!” Is it heard when the days of flowers are o’er? When the passionate soul of the night-bird’s lay Hath died from the summer woods away? When the glory from sunset’s robe hath pass’d, Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast? No! It is not the rose that returns no more;— A breath of spring shall its bloom restore; And it is not the voice that o’erflows the bowers With a stream of love through the starry hours; Nor is it the crimson of sunset hues, Nor the frail flush’d leaves which the wild wind strews. “We return!—we return!—we return no more!” Doth the bird sing thus from a brighter shore? Those wings that follow the southern breeze, Float they not homeward o’er vernal seas? Yes! from the lands of the vine and palm They come, with the sunshine, when waves grow calm. “But we!—we return!—we return no more!” The heart’s young dreams, when their spring is o’er; The love it hath pour’d so freely forth— The boundless trust in ideal worth; The faith in affection—deep, fond, yet vain— These are the lost that return not again!

Thou hast loved and thou hast suffer’d! Unto feeling deep and strong, Thou hast trembled like a harp’s frail string— I know it by thy song! Thou hast loved—it may be vainly— But well—oh, but too well! Thou hast suffer’d all that woman’s breast May bear—but must not tell. Thou hast wept, and thou hast parted, Thou hast been forsaken long, Thou hast watch’d for steps that came not back— I know it by thy song! By the low, clear silvery gushing Of its music from thy breast; By the quivering of its flute-like swell— A sound of the heart’s unrest; By its fond and plaintive lingering On each word of grief so long. Oh! thou hast loved and suffer’d much— I know it by thy song!

The gloomiest day hath gleams of light; The darkest wave hath light foam near it; And twinkles through the cloudiest night Some solitary star to cheer it. The gloomiest soul is not all gloom; The saddest heart is not all sadness; And sweetly o’er the darkest doom There shines some lingering beam of gladness. Despair is never quite despair; Nor life nor death the future closes; And round the shadowy brow of Care Will Hope and Fancy twine their roses.

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

Art thou come from the far-off land at last? Thou that hast wander’d long! Thou art come to a home whence the smile hath pass’d With the merry voice of song. For the sunny glance and the bounding heart Thou wilt seek—but all are gone; They are parted, e’en as waters part, To meet in the deep alone! And thou—from thy lip is fled the glow, From thine eye the light of morn; And the shades of thought o’erhang thy brow, And thy cheek with life is worn. Say what hast thou brought from the distant shore For thy wasted youth to pay? Hast thou treasure to win thee joys once more? Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way? “I have brought but the palm-branch in my hand, Yet I call not my bright youth lost! I have won but high thought in the Holy Land, Yet I count not too dear the cost! “I look on the leaves of the deathless tree— These records of my track; And better than youth in its flush of glee, Are the memories they give me back! “They speak of toil, and of high emprise, As in words of solemn cheer; They speak of lonely victories O’er pain, and doubt, and fear. “They speak of scenes which have now become Bright pictures in my breast; Where my spirit finds a glorious home, And the love of my heart can rest. “The colours pass not from these away, Like tints of shower or sun; Oh! beyond all treasures that know decay, Is the wealth my soul hath won! “A rich light thence o’er my life’s decline, An inborn light is cast; For the sake of the palm from the holy shrine, I bewail not my bright days past!”

Oh! call my brother back to me! I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flower and bee— Where is my brother gone? “The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam’s track; I care not now to chase its flight— Oh! call my brother back! “The flowers run wild—the flowers we sow’d Around our garden tree; Our vine is drooping with its load— Oh! call him back to me!” “He would not hear thy voice, fair child! He may not come to thee; The face that once like spring-time smiled, On earth no more thou’lt see. “A rose’s brief, bright life of joy, Such unto him was given: Go—thou must play alone, my boy! Thy brother is in heaven.” “And has he left his birds and flowers; And must I call in vain? And through the long, long summer hours, Will he not come again? “And by the brook and in the glade Are all our wanderings o’er? Oh! while my brother with me play’d, Would I had loved him more!”

A blessing on thy head, thou child of many hopes and fears! A rainbow-welcome thine hath been, of mingled smiles and tears. Thy father greets thee unto life with a full and chasten’d heart, For a solemn gift from God thou comest, all precious as thou art! I see thee not asleep, fair boy! upon thy mother’s breast, Yet well I know how guarded there shall be thy rosy rest; And how her soul with love, and prayer, and gladness, will o’erflow, While bending o’er thy soft-seal’d eyes, thou dear one! well I know. A blessing on thy gentle head! and bless’d thou art in truth, For a home where God is felt awaits thy childhood and thy youth: Around thee pure and holy thoughts shall dwell as light and air, And steal unto thine heart, and wake the germs now folded there. Smile on thy mother! while she feels that unto her is given, In that young day-spring glance, the pledge of a soul to rear for heaven! Smile! and sweet peace be o’er thy sleep, joy o’er thy wakening shed! Blessings and blessings evermore, fair boy! upon thy head!

She came forth in her bridal robes array’d, And midst the graceful statues, round the hall Shedding the calm of their celestial mien, Stood pale yet proudly beautiful as they: Flowers in her bosom, and the star-like gleam Of jewels trembling from her braided hair, And death upon her brow!—but glorious death! Her own heart’s choice, the token and the seal Of love, o’ermastering love; which, till that hour, Almost an anguish in the brooding weight Of its unutterable tenderness, Had burden’d her full soul. But now, oh! now, Its time was come—and from the spirit’s depths, The passion and the mighty melody Of its immortal voice in triumph broke, Like a strong rushing wind! The soft pure air Came floating through that hall—the Grecian air, Laden with music—flute-notes from the vales, Echoes of song—the last sweet sounds of life And the glad sunshine of the golden clime Stream’d, as a royal mantle, round her form— The glorified of love! But she—she look’d Only on him for whom ’twas joy to die, Deep—deepest, holiest joy! Or if a thought Of the warm sunlight, and the scented breeze, And the sweet Dorian songs, o’erswept the tide Of her unswerving soul—’twas but a thought That own’d the summer loveliness of life For him a worthy offering! So she stood, Wrapt in bright silence, as entranced awhile; Till her eye kindled, and her quivering frame With the swift breeze of inspiration shook, As the pale priestess trembles to the breath Of inborn oracles! Then flush’d her cheek, And all the triumph, all the agony, Borne on the battling waves of love and death, All from her woman’s heart, in sudden song, Burst like a fount of fire. “I go, I go! Thou sun! thou golden sun! I go Far from thy light to dwell: Thou shalt not find my place below, Dim is that world—bright sun of Greece, farewell! “The laurel and the glorious rose Thy glad beam yet may see; But where no purple summer glows, O’er the dark wave I haste from them and thee. “Yet doth my spirit faint to part? —I mourn thee not, O sun! Joy, solemn joy, o’erflows my heart: Sing me triumphal songs!—my crown is won! “Let not a voice of weeping rise— My heart is girt with power! Let the green earth and festal skies Laugh, as to grace a conqueror’s closing hour! “For thee, for thee, my bosom’s lord! Thee, my soul’s loved! I die; Thine is the torch of life restored, Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory! “Now may the boundless love, that lay Unfathom’d still before, In one consuming burst find way— In one bright flood all, all its riches pour! “Thou know’st, thou know’st what love is now! Its glory and its might— Are they not written on my brow? And will that image ever quit thy sight? “No! deathless in thy faithful breast, There shall my memory keep Its own bright altar-place of rest, While o’er my grave the cypress branches weep. “Oh, the glad light!—the light is fair, The soft breeze warm and free; And rich notes fill the scented air, And all are gifts—my love’s last gifts to thee! “Take me to thy warm heart once more! Night falls—my pulse beats low: Seek not to quicken, to restore— Joy is in every pang. I go, I go! “I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath, I meet thy fond look still; Keen is the strife of love and death; Faint and yet fainter grows my bosom’s thrill. “Yet swells the tide of rapture strong, Though mists o’ershade mine eye! —Sing, Pæan! sing a conqueror’s song! For thee, for thee, my spirit’s lord, I die!”

Thou mov’st in visions, Love! Around thy way, E’en through this world’s rough path and changeful day, For ever floats a gleam— Not from the realms of moonlight or the morn, But thine own soul’s illumined chambers born— The colouring of a dream! Love! shall I read thy dream? Oh! is it not All of some sheltering wood-embosom’d spot— A bower for thee and thine? Yes! lone and lowly is that home; yet there Something of heaven in the transparent air Makes every flower divine. Something that mellows and that glorifies, Breathes o’er it ever from the tender skies, As o’er some blessed isle; E’en like the soft and spiritual glow Kindling rich woods, whereon th’ ethereal bow Sleeps lovingly awhile. The very whispers of the wind have there A flute-like harmony, that seems to bear Greeting from some bright shore, Where none have said farewell!—where no decay Lends the faint crimson to the dying day; Where the storm’s might is o’er. And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest, In the deep sanctuary of one true breast Hidden from earthly ill: There wouldst thou watch the homeward step, whose sound Wakening all nature to sweet echoes round, Thine inmost soul can thrill. There by the hearth should many a glorious page, From mind to mind the immortal heritage, For thee its treasures pour; Or music’s voice at vesper hours be heard, Or dearer interchange of playful word, Affection’s household lore. And the rich unison of mingled prayer, The melody of hearts in heavenly air, Thence duly should arise; Lifting th’ eternal hope, th’ adoring breath, Of spirits, not to be disjoin’d by death, Up to the starry skies. There, dost thou well believe, no storm should come To mar the stillness of that angel-home; There should thy slumbers be Weigh’d down with honey-dew, serenely bless’d, Like theirs who first in Eden’s grove took rest Under some balmy tree. Love! Love! thou passionate in joy and woe! And canst thou hope for cloudless peace below— Here, where bright things must die? O thou! that, wildly worshipping, dost shed On the frail altar of a mortal head Gifts of infinity! Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love! Danger seems gathering from beneath, above, Still round thy precious things; Thy stately pine-tree, or thy gracious rose, In their sweet shade can yield thee no repose, Here, where the blight hath wings. And as a flower, with some fine sense imbued, To shrink before the wind’s vicissitude, So in thy prescient breast Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill To the low footstep of each coming ill: Oh! canst thou dream of rest? Bear up thy dream! thou mighty and thou weak! Heart, strong as death, yet as a reed to break— As a flame, tempest-sway’d! He that sits calm on high is yet the source Whence thy soul’s current hath its troubled course, He that great deep hath made! Will He not pity?—He whose searching eye Reads all the secrets of thine agony?— Oh! pray to be forgiven Thy fond idolatry, thy blind excess, And seek with Him that bower of blessedness. Love! thy sole home is heaven!

Come! let me make a sunny realm around thee Of thought and beauty! Here are books and flowers, With spells to loose the fetter which hath bound thee The ravel’d coil of this world’s feverish hours. The soul of song is in these deathless pages, Even as the odour in the flower enshrined; Here the crown’d spirits of departed ages Have left the silent melodies of mind. Their thoughts, that strove with time, and change, and anguish, For some high place where faith her wing might rest, Are burning here—a flame that may not languish— Still pointing upward to that bright hill’s crest! Their grief, the veil’d infinity exploring For treasures lost, is here;—their boundless love, Its mighty streams of gentleness outpouring On all things round, and clasping all above. And the bright beings, their own heart’s creations, Bright, yet all human, here are breathing still; Conflicts, and agonies, and exultations Are here, and victories of prevailing will! Listen! oh, listen! let their high words cheer thee! Their swan-like music ringing through all woes; Let my voice bring their holy influence near thee— The Elysian air of their divine repose! Or would’st thou turn to earth? Not earth all furrow’d By the old traces of man’s toil and care, But the green peaceful world that never sorrow’d, The world of leaves, and dews, and summer air! Look on these flowers! as o’er an altar shedding, O’er Milton’s page, soft light from colour’d urns! They are the links, man’s heart to nature wedding, When to her breast the prodigal returns. They are from lone wild places, forest dingles, Fresh banks of many a low-voiced hidden stream, Where the sweet star of eve looks down and mingles Faint lustre with the water-lily’s gleam. They are from where the soft winds play in gladness, Covering the turf with flowery blossom-showers; —Too richly dower’d, O friend! are we for sadness— Look on an empire—mind and nature—ours!

“How rich that forehead’s calm expanse! How bright that heaven-directed glance! —Waft her to glory, winged powers! Ere sorrow be renew’d, And intercourse with mortal hours Bring back a humbler mood!” Wordsworth.

How can that eye, with inspiration beaming, Wear yet so deep a calm? O child of song! Is not the music-land a world of dreaming, Where forms of sad, bewildering beauty throng? Hath it not sounds from voices long departed? Echoes of tones that rung in childhood’s ear? Low haunting whispers, which the weary-hearted, Stealing midst crowds away, have wept to hear? No, not to thee! Thy spirit, meek, yet queenly, On its own starry height, beyond all this, Floating triumphantly and yet serenely, Breathes no faint under-tone through songs of bliss. Say by what strain, through cloudless ether swelling, Thou hast drawn down those wanderers from the skies? Bright guests! even such as left of yore their dwelling For the deep cedar-shades of Paradise! What strain? Oh! not the nightingale’s, when, showering Her own heart’s life-drops on the burning lay, She stirs the young woods in the days of flowering, And pours her strength, but not her grief, away: And not the exile’s—when, midst lonely billows, He wakes the Alpine notes his mother sung, Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows, Where, murmuring to the wind, his harp is hung: And not the pilgrim’s—though his thoughts be holy, And sweet his avè-song when day grows dim; Yet, as he journeys, pensively and slowly, Something of sadness floats through that low hymn. But thou!—the spirit which at eve is filling All the hush’d air and reverential sky— Founts, leaves, and flowers, with solemn rapture thrilling— This is the soul of thy rich harmony. This bears up high those breathings of devotion Wherein the currents of thy heart gush free; Therefore no world of sad and vain emotion Is the dream-haunted music-land for thee.

Dark chieftain of the heath and height! Wild feaster on the hills by night! See’st thou the stormy sunset’s glow Flung back by glancing spears below? Now for one strife of stern despair! The foe hath track’d thee to thy lair. Thou, against whom the voice of blood Hath risen from rock and lonely wood; And in whose dreams a moan should be, Not of the water, nor the tree; Haply thine own last hour is nigh,— Yet shalt thou not forsaken die. There’s one that pale beside thee stands, More true than all thy mountain-bands! She will not shrink in doubt and dread When the balls whistle round thy head: Nor leave thee, though thy closing eye No longer may to hers reply. Oh! many a soft and quiet grace Hath faded from her form and face; And many a thought, the fitting guest Of woman’s meek, religious breast, Hath perish’d in her wanderings wide, Through the deep forests by thy side. Yet, mournfully surviving all, A flower upon a ruin’s wall— A friendless thing, whose lot is cast Of lovely ones to be the last— Sad, but unchanged through good and ill, Thine is her lone devotion still. And oh! not wholly lost the heart Where that undying love hath part; Not worthless all, though far and long From home estranged, and guided wrong; Yet may its depths by heaven be stirr’d, Its prayer for thee be pour’d and heard!

“All good and guiltless as thou art, Some transient griefs will touch thy heart— Griefs that along thy alter’d face Will breathe a more subduing grace, Than even those looks of joy that lie On the soft cheek of infancy.” Wilson.

Hast thou been in the woods with the honey-bee? Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free? With the hare through the copses and dingles wild? With the butterfly over the heath, fair child? Yes! the light fall of thy bounding feet Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat: Yet hast thou ranged the green forest-dells, And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. Thou know’st not the sweetness, by antique song Breathed o’er the names of that flowery throng: The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim, The lily that gleams by the fountain’s brim; These are old words, that have made each grove A dreaming haunt for romance and love— Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie, A place for the gushings of poesy. Thou know’st not the light wherewith fairy lore Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o’er: Enough for thee are the dews that sleep Like hidden gems in the flower-urns deep; Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell Midst the gold of the cowslip’s perfumed cell; And the scent by the blossoming sweetbriers shed, And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth’s head. O happy child! in thy fawn-like glee, What is remembrance or thought to thee? Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring, O’er thy green pathway their colours fling; Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon— What if to droop and to perish soon? Nature hath mines of such wealth—and thou Never will prize its delights as now! For a day is coming to quell the tone That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one! And to dim thy brow with a touch of care, Under the gloss of its clustering hair; And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes Into the stillness of autumn skies; And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part Midst the hidden things of each human heart. Yet shall we mourn, gentle child! for this? Life hath enough of yet holier bliss! Such be thy portion!—the bliss to look, With a reverent spirit, through nature’s book; By fount, by forest, by river’s line, To track the paths of a love divine; To read its deep meanings—to see and hear God in earth’s garden—and not to fear!

Thou hast watch’d beside the bed of death, O fearless human Love! Thy lip received the last, faint breath, Ere the spirit fled above. Thy prayer was heard by the parting bier, In a low and farewell tone; Thou hast given the grave both flower and tear— —O Love! thy task is done. Then turn thee from each pleasant spot Where thou wert wont to rove; For there the friend of thy soul is not, Nor the joy of thy youth, O Love! Thou wilt meet but mournful Memory there; Her dreams in the grove she weaves, With echoes filling the summer air, With sighs the trembling leaves. Then turn thee to the world again, From those dim, haunted bowers, And shut thine ear to the wild, sweet strain That tells of vanish’d hours. And wear not on thine aching heart The image of the dead; For the tie is rent that gave thee part In the gladness its beauty shed. And gaze on the pictured smile no more That thus can life outlast: All between parted souls is o’er.— Love! Love! forget the past! “Voice of vain boding! away, be still! Strive not against the faith That yet my bosom with light can fill, Unquench’d, and undim’d by death. “From the pictured smile I will not turn, Though sadly now it shine; Nor quit the shades that in whispers mourn For the step once link’d with mine; “Nor shut mine ear to the song of old, Though its notes the pang renew. —Such memories deep in my heart I hold, To keep it pure and true. “By the holy instinct of my heart, By the hope that bears me on, I have still my own undying part In the deep affection gone. “By the presence that about me seems Through night and day to dwell, Voice of vain bodings and fearful dreams! —I have breathed no last farewell!”

She sleeps!—but not the free and sunny sleep That lightly on the brow of childhood lies: Though happy be her rest, and soft, and deep, Yet, ere it sank upon her shadow’d eyes, Thoughts of past scenes and kindred graves o’erswept Her soul’s meek stillness—she had pray’d and wept. And now in visions to her couch they come, The early lost—the beautiful—the dead! That unto her bequeath’d a mournful home, Whence with their voices all sweet laughter fled They rise—the sisters of her youth arise, As from the world where no frail blossom dies. And well the sleeper knows them not of earth— Not as they were when binding up the flowers, Telling wild legends round the winter-hearth, Braiding their long, fair hair for festal hours: These things are past—a spiritual gleam, A solemn glory, robes them in that dream. Yet, if the glee of life’s fresh budding years In those pure aspects may no more be read, Thence, too, hath sorrow melted—and the tears Which o’er their mother’s holy dust they shed, Are all effaced. There earth hath left no sign Save its deep love, still touching every line. But oh! more soft, more tender—breathing more A thought of pity, than in vanish’d days! While, hovering silently and brightly o’er The lone one’s head, they meet her spirit’s gaze With their immortal eyes, that seem to say, “Yet, sister! yet we love thee—come away!” ’Twill fade, the radiant dream! And will she not Wake with more painful yearning at her heart? Will not her home seem yet a lonelier spot, Her task more sad, when those bright shadows part? And the green summer after them look dim, And sorrow’s tone be in the bird’s wild hymn? But let her hope be strong, and let the dead Visit her soul in heaven’s calm beauty still; Be their names utter’d, be their memory spread Yet round the place they never more may fill! All is not over with earth’s broken tie— Where, where should sisters love, if not on high?

Home of the gifted! fare thee well, And a blessing on thee rest! While the heather waves its purple bell O’er moor and mountain-crest; While stream to stream around thee calls, And braes with broom are drest, Glad be the harping in thy halls— A blessing on thee rest! While the high voice from thee sent forth Bids rock and cairn reply, Wakening the spirits of the North Like a chieftain’s gathering-cry; While its deep master-tones hold sway As a king’s o’er every breast, Home of the Legend and the Lay! A blessing on thee rest! Joy to thy hearth, and board, and bower! Long honours to thy line! And hearts of proof, and hands of power, And bright names worthy thine! By the merry step of childhood, still May thy free sward be prest! —While one proud pulse in the land can thrill, A blessing on thee rest!

“I fled the home of grief At Connocht Moran’s tomb to fall, I found the helmet of my chief, His bow still hanging on our wall; And took it down, and vow’d to rove This desert place a huntress bold; Nor would I change my buried love For any heart of living mould.” Campbell.

The sleep of storms is dark upon the skies, The weight of omens heavy in the cloud:— Bid the lorn huntress of the desert rise, And gird the form whose beauty grief hath bow’d, And leave the tomb, as tombs are left—alone, To the star’s vigil, and the wind’s wild moan. Tell her of revelries in bower and hall, Where gems are glittering, and bright wine is pour’d; Where to glad measures chiming footsteps fall, And soul seems gushing from the harp’s full chord; And richer flowers amid fair tresses wave, Than the sad Love-lies-bleeding of the grave. Oh! little know’st thou of th’ o’ermastering spell Wherewith love binds the spirit, strong in pain, To the spot hallow’d by a wild farewell, A parting agony,—intense, yet vain, A look—and darkness when its gleam hath flown, A voice—and silence when its words are gone! She hears thee not: her full, deep, fervent heart Is set in her dark eyes;—and they are bound Unto that cross, that shrine, that world apart, Where faithful blood hath sanctified the ground; And love with death striven long by tear and prayer, And anguish frozen into still despair. Yet on her spirit hath arisen at last A light, a joy, of its own wanderings born; Around her path a vision’s glow is cast, Back, back her lost one comes in hues of morn![397] For her the gulf is fill’d—the dark night fled, Whose mystery parts the living and the dead. And she can pour forth in such converse high All her soul’s tide of love, the deep, the strong. Oh! lonelier far, perchance, thy destiny, And more forlorn, amidst the world’s gay throng, Than hers—the queen of that majestic gloom, The tempest, and the desert, and the tomb!

O sunshine and fair earth! Sweet is your kindly mirth; Angel of death! yet, yet awhile delay! Too sad it is to part, Thus in my spring of heart, With all the light and laughter of the day. For me the falling leaf Touches no chord of grief, No dark void in the rose’s bosom lies: Not one triumphal tone, One hue of hope, is gone From song or bloom beneath the summer skies. Death, Death! ere yet decay, Call me not hence away! Over the golden hours no shade is thrown: The poesy that dwells Deep in green woods and dells Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone. Yet not for this, O Death! Not for the vernal breath Of winds that shake forth music from the trees: Not for the splendour given To night’s dark, regal heaven, Spoiler! I ask thee not reprieve for these. But for the happy love Whose light, where’er I rove, Kindles all nature to a sudden smile, Shedding on branch and flower A rainbow-tinted shower Of richer life—spare, spare me yet awhile. Too soon, too fast thou’rt come! Too beautiful is home— A home of gentle voices and kind eyes! And I the loved of all, On whom fond blessings fall From every lip. Oh! wilt thou rend such ties? Sweet sisters! weave a chain My spirit to detain: Hold me to earth with strong affection back; Bind me with mighty love Unto the stream, the grove, Our daily paths—our life’s familiar track. Stay with me! gird me round! Your voices bear a sound Of hope—a light comes with you and departs; Hush my soul’s boding swell, That murmurs of farewell. How can I leave this ring of kindest hearts? Death! grave!—and are there those That woo your dark repose Midst the rich beauty of the glowing earth? Surely about them lies No world of loving eyes. Leave me, oh! leave me unto home and hearth!

Thou art welcome, O thou warning voice! My soul hath pined for thee; Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from shore To wanderer on the sea. I hear thee in the rustling woods, In the sighing vernal airs; Thou call’st me from the lonely earth With a deeper tone than theirs. The lonely earth! Since kindred steps From its green paths are fled, A dimness and a hush have lain O’er all its beauty spread. The silence of th’ unanswering soul Is on me and around; My heart hath echoes but for thee, Thou still, small, warning sound! Voice after voice hath died away, Once in my dwelling heard; Sweet household name by name hath changed To grief’s forbidden word! From dreams of night on each I call, Each of the far removed; And waken to my own wild cry— “Where are ye, my beloved?” Ye left me! and earth’s flowers were dim With records of the past; And stars pour’d down another light Than o’er my youth they cast. Birds will not sing as once they sung, When ye were at my side, And mournful tones are in the wind Which I heard not till ye died! Thou art welcome, O thou summoner! Why should the last remain? What eye can reach my heart of hearts, Bearing in light again? E’en could this be, too much of fear O’er love would now be thrown.— Away! away! from time, from change, Once more to meet my own!

“De tout ce qui t’aimoit n’est-il plus rien qui t’aime?” Lamartine.

Mighty ones, Love and Death! Ye are the strong in this world of ours; Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell midst the flowers, —Which hath the conqueror’s wreath? Thou art the victor, Love! Thou art the fearless, the crown’d, the free, The strength of the battle is given to thee— The spirit from above! Thou hast look’d on Death, and smiled! Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form Through the waves of the fight, through the rush of the storm, On field, and flood, and wild! No!—Thou art the victor, Death! Thou comest, and where is that which spoke, From the depths of the eye, when the spirit woke? —Gone with the fleeting breath! Thou comest—and what is left Of all that loved us, to say if aught Yet loves—yet answers the burning thought Of the spirit lone and reft? Silence is where thou art! Silently there must kindred meet, No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet, No bounding of heart to heart! Boast not thy victory, Death! It is but as the cloud’s o’er the sunbeam’s power, It is but as the winter’s o’er leaf and flower, That slumber the snow beneath. It is but as a tyrant’s reign O’er the voice and the lip which he bids be still; But the fiery thought and the lofty will Are not for him to chain! They shall soar his might above! And thus with the root whence affection springs, Though buried, it is not of mortal things— Thou art the victor, Love!

Oh! lightly tread through these deep chestnut-bowers, Where a sweet spirit once in beauty moved! And touch with reverent hand these leaves and flowers— Fair things, which well a gentle heart hath loved! A gentle heart, of love and grief th’ abode, Whence the bright stream of song in tear-drops flow’d. And bid its memory sanctify the scene! And let th’ ideal presence of the dead Float round, and touch the woods with softer green, And o’er the streams a charm, like moonlight, shed, Through the soul’s depths in holy silence felt— A spell to raise, to chasten, and to melt!

“How perfect was the calm! It seem’d no sleep, No mood which season takes away or brings; I could have fancied that the mighty deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. ... But welcome fortitude and patient cheer, And frequent sights of what is to be borne.” Wordsworth.

Answer, ye chiming waves That now in sunshine sweep! Speak to me from thy hidden caves, Voice of the solemn deep! Hath man’s lone spirit here With storms in battle striven? Where all is now so calmly clear, Hath anguish cried to heaven? —Then the sea’s voice arose Like an earthquake’s under-tone: “Mortal! the strife of human woes Where hath not nature known? “Here to the quivering mast Despair hath wildly clung; The shriek upon the wind hath pass’d, The midnight sky hath rung. “And the youthful and the brave, With their beauty and renown, To the hollow chambers of the wave In darkness have gone down. “They are vanish’d from their place— Let their homes and hearths make moan! But the rolling waters keep no trace Of pang or conflict gone.” —Alas! thou haughty deep! The strong, the sounding far! My heart before thee dies,—I weep To think on what we are! To think that so we pass— High hope, and thought, and mind— Even as the breath-stain from the glass, Leaving no sign behind! Saw’st thou naught else, thou main? Thou and the midnight sky? Naught save the struggle, brief and vain, The parting agony! —And the sea’s voice replied: “Here nobler things have been! Power, with the valiant when they died, To sanctify the scene: “Courage, in fragile form, Faith, trusting to the last, Prayer, breathing heavenwards thro’ the storm: But all alike have pass’d.” Sound on, thou haughty sea! These have not pass’d in vain; My soul awakes, my hope springs free On victor wings again. Thou, from thine empire driven, May’st vanish with thy powers; But, by the hearts that here have striven, A loftier doom is ours!

“I seem like one who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead, And all but me departed.” Moore.

See’st thou yon gray, gleaming hall, Where the deep elm-shadows fall? Voices that have left the earth Long ago, Still are murmuring round its hearth, Soft and low: Ever there;—yet one alone Hath the gift to hear their tone. Guests come thither, and depart, Free of step, and light of heart; Children, with sweet visions bless’d, In the haunted chambers rest; One alone unslumbering lies When the night hath seal’d all eyes, One quick heart and watchful ear, Listening for those whispers clear. See’st thou where the woodbine-flowers O’er yon low porch hang in showers? Startling faces of the dead, Pale, yet sweet, One lone woman’s entering tread There still meet! Some with young, smooth foreheads fair, Faintly shining through bright hair; Some with reverend locks of snow— All, all buried long ago! All, from under deep sea-waves, Or the flowers of foreign graves, Or the old and banner’d aisle, Where their high tombs gleam the while; Rising, wandering, floating by, Suddenly and silently, Through their earthly home and place, But amidst another race. Wherefore, unto one alone, Are those sounds and visions known? Wherefore hath that spell of power Dark and dread, On her soul, a baleful dower, Thus been shed? Oh! in those deep-seeing eyes, No strange gift of mystery lies! She is lone where once she moved Fair, and happy, and beloved! Sunny smiles were glancing round her, Tendrils of kind hearts had bound her. Now those silver chords are broken, Those bright looks have left no token— Not one trace on all the earth, Save her memory of their mirth. She is lone and lingering now, Dreams have gather’d o’er her brow, Midst gay songs and children’s play, She is dwelling far away, Seeing what none else may see— Haunted still her place must be!

“God gave him reverence of laws, Yet stirring blood in freedom’s cause— A spirit to his rocks akin, The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein!” Coleridge.

Singing of the free blue sky, And the wild-flower glens that lie Far amidst the ancient hills, Which the fountain-music fills; Singing of the snow-peaks bright, And the royal eagle’s flight, And the courage and the grace Foster’d by the chamois-chase; In his fetters, day by day, So the Shepherd-poet lay. Wherefore, from a dungeon-cell Did those notes of freedom swell, Breathing sadness not their own Forth with every Alpine tone? Wherefore!—can a tyrant’s ear Brook the mountain-winds to hear, When each blast goes pealing by With a song of liberty? Darkly hung th’ oppressor’s hand O’er the Shepherd-poet’s land; Sounding there the waters gush’d, While the lip of man was hush’d; There the falcon pierced the cloud, While the fiery heart was bow’d. But this might not long endure, Where the mountain-homes were pure; And a valiant voice arose, Thrilling all the silent snows; His—now singing far and lone, Where the young breeze ne’er was known; Singing of the glad blue sky, Wildly—and how mournfully! Are none but the Wind and the Lammer-Geyer To be free where the hills unto heaven aspire? Is the soul of song from the deep glens past, Now that their poet is chain’d at last?— Think of the mountains, and deem not so! Soon shall each blast like a clarion blow! Yes! though forbidden be every word Wherewith that spirit the Alps hath stirr’d, Yet even as a buried stream through earth Rolls on to another and brighter birth, So shall the voice that hath seem’d to die Burst forth with the anthem of liberty! And another power is moving In a bosom fondly loving: Oh! a sister’s heart is deep, And her spirit strong to keep Each light link of early hours, All sweet scents of childhood’s flowers! Thus each lay by Erni sung, Rocks and crystal caves among, Or beneath the linden-leaves, Or the cabin’s vine-hung eaves, Rapid though as bird-notes gushing, Transient as a wan cheek’s flushing, Each in young Teresa’s breast Left its fiery words impress’d; Treasured there lay every line, As a rich book on a hidden shrine. Fair was that lone girl, and meek, With a pale, transparent cheek, And a deep-fringed violet eye Seeking in sweet shade to lie, Or, if raised to glance above, Dim with its own dews of love; And a pure Madonna brow, And a silvery voice and low, Like the echo of a flute, Even the last, ere all be mute. But a loftier soul was seen In the orphan sister’s mien, From that hour when chains defiled Him, the high Alps’ noble child. Tones in her quivering voice awoke, As if a harp of battle spoke; Light, that seem’d born of an eagle’s nest, Flash’d from her soft eyes unrepress’d; And her form, like a spreading water-flower, When its frail cup swells with a sudden shower, Seem’d all dilated with love and pride, And grief for that brother, her young heart’s guide. Well might they love!—those two had grown Orphans together and alone: The silence of the Alpine sky Had hush’d their hearts to piety; The turf, o’er their dead mother laid, Had been their altar when they pray’d; There, more in tenderness than woe, The stars had seen their young tears flow; The clouds, in spirit-like descent, Their deep thoughts by one touch had blent, And the wild storms link’d them to each other— How dear can peril make a brother! Now is their hearth a forsaken spot, The vine waves unpruned o’er their mountain cot: Away, in that holy affection’s might, The maiden is gone, like a breeze of the night. She is gone forth alone, but her lighted face, Filling with soul every secret place, Hath a dower from heaven, and a gift of sway, To arouse brave hearts in its hidden way, Like the sudden flinging forth on high Of a banner, that startleth silently! She hath wander’d through many a hamlet-vale, Telling its children her brother’s tale; And the strains by his spirit pour’d away Freely as fountains might shower their spray, From her fervent lip a new life have caught, And a power to kindle yet bolder thought; While sometimes a melody, all her own, Like a gush of tears in its plaintive tone, May be heard midst the lonely rocks to flow, Clear through the water-chimes—clear, yet low “Thou’rt not where wild-flowers wave O’er crag and sparry cave; Thou’rt not where pines are sounding, Or joyous torrents bounding— Alas, my brother! “Thou’rt not where green, on high, The brighter pastures lie; Ev’n those, thine own wild places, Bear of our chain dark traces: Alas, my brother! “Far hath the sunbeam spread, Nor found thy lonely bed; Long hath the fresh wind sought thee, Nor one sweet whisper brought thee— Alas, my brother! “Thou, that for joy wert born, Free as the wings of morn! Will aught thy young life cherish, Where the Alpine rose would perish?— Alas, my brother! “Canst thou be singing still, As once on every hill? Is not thy soul forsaken, And the bright gift from thee taken?— Alas, alas, my brother!” And was the bright gift from the captive fled? Like the fire on his hearth, was his spirit dead? Not so!—but as rooted in stillness deep, The pure stream-lily its place will keep, Though its tearful urns to the blast may quiver, While the red waves rush down the foaming river; So freedom’s faith in his bosom lay, Trembling, yet not to be borne away! He thought of the Alps and their breezy air, And felt that his country no chains might bear; He thought of the hunter’s haughty life, And knew there must yet be noble strife. But, oh! when he thought of that orphan maid, His high heart melted—he wept and pray’d! For he saw her not as she moved e’en then, A wakener of heroes in every glen, With a glance inspired which no grief could tame, Bearing on hope like a torch’s flame; While the strengthening voice of mighty wrongs Gave echoes back to her thrilling songs. But his dreams were fill’d by a haunting tone, Sad as a sleeping infant’s moan; And his soul was pierced by a mournful eye, Which look’d on it—oh! how beseechingly! And there floated past him a fragile form, With a willowy droop, as beneath the storm; Till wakening in anguish, his faint heart strove In vain with its burden of helpless love! Thus woke the dreamer one weary night— There flash’d through his dungeon a swift strong light; He sprang up—he climb’d to the grating-bars. —It was not the rising of moon or stars, But a signal-flame from a peak of snow, Rock’d through the dark skies to and fro! There shot forth another—another still— A hundred answers of hill to hill! Tossing like pines in the tempest’s way, Joyously, wildly, the bright spires play, And each is hail’d with a pealing shout, For the high Alps waving their banners out! Erni! young Erni! the land hath risen!— Alas! to be lone in thy narrow prison! Those free streamers glancing, and thou not there! —Is the moment of rapture, or fierce despair? —Hark! there’s a tumult that shakes his cell, At the gates of the mountain citadel! Hark! a clear voice through the rude sounds ringing! Doth he know the strain, and the wild, sweet singing? “There may not long be fetters, Where the cloud is earth’s array, And the bright floods leap from cave and steep, Like a hunter on the prey! “There may not long be fetters, Where the white Alps have their towers; Unto Eagle-homes, if the arrow comes, The chain is not for ours!” It is she! She is come like a dayspring beam, She that so mournfully shadow’d his dream! With her shining eyes and her buoyant form, She is come! her tears on his cheek are warm; And oh! the thrill in that weeping voice! “My brother! my brother! come forth, rejoice!” Poet! the land of thy love is free,— Sister! thy brother is won by thee!

——“How divine The liberty, for frail, for mortal man, To roam at large among unpeopled glens, And mountainous retirements, only trod By devious footsteps!—Regions consecrate To oldest time! And reckless of the storm That keeps the raven quiet in his nest, Be as a presence or a motion—One Among the many there.” Wordsworth.

Mountain winds! oh, whither do ye call me? Vainly, vainly would my steps pursue! Chains of care to lower earth enthrall me, Wherefore thus my weary spirit woo? Oh! the strife of this divided being! Is there peace where ye are born on high? Could we soar to your proud eyries fleeing, In our hearts would haunting memories die? Those wild places are not as a dwelling Whence the footsteps of the loved are gone! Never from those rocky halls came swelling Voice of kindness in familiar tone! Surely music of oblivion sweepeth In the pathway of your wanderings free; And the torrent, wildly as it leapeth, Sings of no lost home amidst its glee. There the rushing of the falcon’s pinion Is not from some hidden pang to fly; All things breathe of power and stern dominion— Not of hearts that in vain yearnings die. Mountain winds! oh! is it, is it only Where man’s trace hath been that so we pine! Bear me up, to grow in thought less lonely, Even at nature’s deepest, loneliest shrine! Wild, and mighty, and mysterious singers! At whose tone my heart within me burns; Bear me where the last red sunbeam lingers, Where the waters have their secret urns! There to commune with a loftier spirit Than the troubling shadows of regret; There the wings of freedom to inherit, Where the enduring and the wing’d are met. Hush, proud voices! gentle be your falling! Woman’s lot thus chainless may not be; Hush! the heart your trumpet-sounds are calling, Darkly still may grow—but never free!

There were trampling sounds of many feet, And music rush’d through the crowded street: Proud music, such as tells the sky Of a chief return’d from victory. There were banners to the winds unroll’d, With haughty words on each blazon’d fold; High battle-names, which had rung of yore When lances clash’d on the Syrian shore. Borne from their dwellings, green and lone, There were flowers of the woods on the pathway strown; And wheels that crush’d as they swept along;— Oh! what doth the violet amidst the throng? I saw where a bright procession pass’d 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. For a gentle form stood watching there, Young—but how sorrowfully fair! Keeping the flowers of the holy spot, That reckless feet might profane them not. Clear, pale and clear, was the tender cheek, And her eye, though tearful, serenely meek; And I deem’d, by its lifted gaze of love, That her sad heart’s treasure was all above. For alone she seem’d midst the throng to be, Like a bird of the waves far away at sea; Alone, in a mourner’s vest array’d, And with folded hands, e’en as if she pray’d. It faded before me, that mask of pride, The haughty swell of the music died; Banner, and armour, and tossing plume, All melted away in the twilight’s gloom. But that orphan form, with its willowy grace, And the speaking prayer in that pale, calm face, Still, still o’er my thoughts in the night-hour glide— —Oh! Love is lovelier than all beside!

“When the lamp is shatter’d, The light in the dust lies dead; When the cloud is scatter’d, The rainbow’s glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet sounds are remember’d not; When the words are spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot. As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and lute, The heart’s echoes render No song when the spirit is mute.” Shelley.

She dwelt in proud Venetian halls, Midst forms that breathed from the pictured walls But a glow of beauty like her own, There had no dream of the painter thrown. Lit from within was her noble brow, As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow; Her young, clear cheek, had a changeful hue, As if ye might see how the soul wrought through, And every flash of her fervent eye Seem’d the bright wakening of Poesy. Even thus it was! From her childhood’s years A being of sudden smiles and tears— Passionate visions, quick light and shade— Such was that high-born Italian maid! And the spirit of song in her bosom-cell Dwelt, as the odours in violets dwell, Or as the sounds in Æolian strings, Or in aspen-leaves the quiverings; There, ever there, with the life enshrined, Waiting the call of the faintest wind. Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea, In the city’s hour of moonlight glee— Oft would that gift of the southern sky O’erflow from her lips in melody; Oft amid festal halls it came, Like the springing forth of a sudden flame— Till the dance was hush’d, and the silvery tone Of her inspiration was heard alone. And fame went with her, the bright, the crown’d, And music floated her steps around; And every lay of her soul was borne Through the sunny land, as on wings of morn. And was the daughter of Venice blest, With a power so deep in her youthful breast? Could she be happy, o’er whose dark eye So many changes and dreams went by? And in whose cheek the swift crimson wrought As if but born from the rush of thought? Yes! in the brightness of joy awhile She moved as a bark in the sunbeam’s smile; For her spirit, as over her lyre’s full chord, All, all on a happy love was pour’d! How loves a heart whence the stream of song Flows, like the life-blood, quick, bright, and strong? How loves a heart, which hath never proved One breath of the world? Even so she loved; Bless’d, though the lord of her soul, afar, Was charging the foremost in Moslem war, Bearing the flag of St Mark’s on high, As a ruling star in the Grecian sky. Proud music breathed in her song, when fame Gave a tone more thrilling to his name; And her trust in his love was a woman’s faith— Perfect, and fearing no change but death. But the fields are won from the Othman host, In the land that quell’d the Persian’s boast, And a thousand hearts in Venice burn For the day of triumph and return! The day is come! the flashing deep Foams where the galleys of victory sweep; And the sceptred city of the wave With her festal splendour greets the brave; Cymbal, and clarion, and voice, around, Make the air one stream of exulting sound; While the beautiful, with their sunny smiles, Look from each hall of the hundred isles. But happiest and brightest that day of all, Robed for her warrior’s festival, Moving a queen midst the radiant throng, Was she, th’ inspired one, the maid of song! The lute he loved on her arm she bore, As she rush’d in her joy to the crowded shore; With a hue on her cheek like the damask glow By the sunset given unto mountain snow, And her eye all fill’d with the spirit’s play, Like the flash of a gem to the changeful day, And her long hair waving in ringlets bright— So came that being of hope and light! One moment, Erminia! one moment more, And life, all the beauty of life, is o’er! The bark of her lover hath touch’d the strand— Whom leads he forth with a gentle hand? —A young fair form, whose nymph-like grace Accorded well with the Grecian face, And the eye, in its clear, soft darkness meek, And the lashes that droop’d o’er a pale rose cheek, And he look’d on that beauty with tender pride— The warrior hath brought back an Eastern bride! But how stood she, the forsaken, there, Struck by the lightning of swift despair? Still, as amazed with grief, she stood, And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood; And there came from her quivering lip no word, Only the fall of her lute was heard, As it dropp’d from her hand at her rival’s feet, Into fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet! What more remaineth? Her day was done; Her fate and the Broken Lute’s were one! The light, the vision, the gift of power, Pass’d from her soul in that mortal hour, Like the rich sound from the shatter’d string Whence the gush of sweetness no more might spring! As an eagle struck in his upward flight. So was her hope from its radiant height; And her song went with it for evermore, A gladness taken from sea and shore! She had moved to the echoing sound of fame— Silently, silently, died her name! Silently melted her life away, As ye have seen a young flower decay, Or a lamp that hath swiftly burn’d expire, Or a bright stream shrink from the summer’s fire, Leaving its channel all dry and mute— Woe for the Broken Heart and Lute!

“How weeps yon gallant band O’er him their valour could not save! For the bayonet is red with gore, And he, the beautiful and brave, Now sleeps in Egypt’s sand.” Wilson.

In the shadow of the Pyramid Our brother’s grave we made, When the battle-day was done, And the desert’s parting sun A field of death survey’d. The blood-red sky above us Was darkening into night, And the Arab watching silently Our sad and hurried rite; The voice of Egypt’s river Came hollow and profound; And one lone palm-tree, where we stood, Rock’d with a shivery sound: While the shadow of the Pyramid Hung o’er the grave we made, When the battle-day was done, And the desert’s parting sun A field of death survey’d. The fathers of our brother Were borne to knightly tombs, With torch-light and with anthem-note, And many waving plumes: But he, the last and noblest Of that high Norman race, With a few brief words of soldier-love Was gather’d to his place; In the shadow of the Pyramid, Where his youthful form we laid, When the battle-day was done, And the desert’s parting sun A field of death survey’d. But let him, let him slumber By the old Egyptian wave! It is well with those who bear their fame Unsullied to the grave! When brightest names are breathed on, When loftiest fall so fast, We would not call our brother back On dark days to be cast,— From the shadow of the Pyramid, Where his noble heart we laid, When the battle-day was done, And the desert’s parting sun A field of death survey’d.

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

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

Fair vision! thou’rt from sunny skies, Born where the rose hath richest dyes; To thee a southern heart hath given That glow of love, that calm of heaven, And round thee cast th’ ideal gleam, The light that is but of a dream. Far hence, where wandering music fills The haunted air of Roman hills, Or where Venetian waves of yore Heard melodies, they hear no more, Some proud old minster’s gorgeous aisle Hath known the sweetness of thy smile. Or haply, from a lone, dim shrine Mid forests of the Apennine, Whose breezy sounds of cave and dell Pass like a floating anthem-swell, Thy soft eyes o’er the pilgrim’s way Shed blessings with their gentle ray. Or gleaming through a chestnut wood, Perchance thine island-chapel stood, Where from the blue Sicilian sea The sailor’s hymn hath risen to thee, And bless’d thy power to guide, to save, Madonna! watcher of the wave! Oh! might a voice, a whisper low, Forth from those lips of beauty flow! Couldst thou but speak of all the tears, The conflicts, and the pangs of years, Which, at thy secret shrine reveal’d, Have gush’d from human hearts unseal’d! Surely to thee hath woman come, As a tired wanderer back to home! Unveiling many a timid guest And treasured sorrow of her breast, A buried love—a wasting care— Oh! did those griefs win peace from prayer? And did the poet’s fervid soul To thee lay bare its inmost scroll? Those thoughts, which pour’d their quenchless fire And passion o’er th’ Italian lyre, Did they to still submission die Beneath thy calm, religious eye? And hath the crested helmet bow’d Before thee, midst the incense-cloud? Hath the crown’d leader’s bosom lone To thee its haughty griefs made known? Did thy glance break their frozen sleep, And win th’ unconquer’d one to weep? Hush’d is the anthem, closed the vow, The votive garland wither’d now; Yet holy still to me thou art, Thou that hath soothed so many a heart! And still must blessed influence flow From the meek glory of thy brow. Still speak to suffering woman’s love, Of rest for gentle hearts above; Of hope, that hath its treasure there, Of home, that knows no changeful air. Bright form! lit up with thoughts divine, Ave! such power be ever thine!

How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom, Rose! ever wearing beauty for thy dower! The bridal-day—the festival—the tomb— Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower! Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by A thousand images of love and grief, Dreams, fill’d with tokens of mortality, Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief. Not such thy spells o’er those that hail’d thee first, In the clear light of Eden’s golden day! There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst, Link’d with no dim remembrance of decay. Rose! for the banquet gather’d, and the bier; Rose! colour’d now by human hope and pain Surely where death is not—nor change, nor fear, Yet may we meet thee, joy’s own flower again!

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

Dream’st thou of heaven? What dreams are thine? Fair child, fair gladsome child? With eyes that like the dewdrop shine, And bounding footsteps wild! Tell me what hues th’ immortal shore Can wear, my bird! to thee? Ere yet one shadow hath pass’d o’er Thy glance and spirit free? “Oh! beautiful is heaven, and bright With long, long summer days; I see its lilies gleam in light Where many a fountain plays. “And there uncheck’d, methinks, I rove, And seek where young flowers lie, In vale and golden-fruited grove— Flowers that are not to die!” Thou poet of the lonely thought, Sad heir of gifts divine! Say with what solemn glory fraught Is heaven in dreams of thine? “Oh! where the living waters flow Along that radiant shore, My soul, a wanderer here, shall know The exile-thirst no more. “The burden of the stranger’s heart Which here alone I bear, Like the night-shadow shall depart, With my first wakening there. “And borne on eagle wings afar, Free thought shall claim its dower, From every realm, from every star, Of glory and of power.” O woman! with the soft sad eye, Of spiritual gleam, Tell me of those bright worlds on high, How doth thy fond heart dream? By the sweet mournful voice I know, On thy pale brow I see, That thou hast loved, in fear, and woe— Say what is heaven to thee? “Oh! heaven is where no secret dread May haunt love’s meeting hour, Where from the past no gloom is shed O’er the heart’s chosen bower: “Where every sever’d wreath is bound— Where none have heard the knell That smites the heart with that deep sound— Farewell, beloved!—farewell!”

Come to me, when my soul Hath but a few dim hours to linger here; When earthly chains are as a shrivel’d scroll, Oh! let me feel thy presence! be but near! That I may look once more Into thine eyes, which never changed for me; That I may speak to thee of that bright shore Where, with our treasure, we have long’d to be. Thou friend of many days! Of sadness and of joy, of home and hearth! Will not thy spirit aid me then to raise The trembling pinions of my hope from earth? By every solemn thought Which on our hearts hath sunk in days gone by, From the deep voices of the mountains caught, O’er all th’ adoring silence of the sky; By every lofty theme Whereon, in low-toned reverence we have spoken; By our communion in each fervent dream That sought from realms beyond the grave a token; And by our tears for those Whose loss hath touch’d our world with hues of death; And by the hopes that with their dust repose, As flowers await the south-wind’s vernal breath; Come to me in that day— The one—the sever’d from all days—O friend! Even then, if human thought may then have sway My soul with thine shall yet rejoice to blend. Nor then, nor there alone: I ask my heart if all indeed must die— All that of holiest feelings it hath known? And my heart’s voice replies—Eternity?

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

I stood where the lip of song lay low, Where the dust had gather’d on Beauty’s brow; Where stillness hung on the heart of Love, And a marble weeper kept watch above. I stood in the silence of lonely thought, Of deep affections that inly wrought, Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear— They knew themselves exiled spirits here! Then didst thou pass me in radiance by, Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly! Thou that dost bear, on thy fairy wings, No burden of mortal sufferings. Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb, Over a bright world of joy and bloom; And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine, The all that sever’d thy life and mine. Mine, with its inborn mysterious things, Of love and grief its unfathom’d springs; And quick thoughts wandering o’er earth and sky, With voices to question eternity! Thine, in its reckless and joyous way, Like an embodied breeze at play! Child of the sunlight!—thou wing’d and free! One moment, one moment, I envied thee! Thou art not lonely, though born to roam, Thou hast no longings that pine for home; Thou seek’st not the haunts of the bee and bird, To fly from the sickness of hope deferr’d: In thy brief being no strife of mind, No boundless passion, is deeply shrined; While I, as I gazed on thy swift flight by, One hour of my soul seem’d infinity! And she, that voiceless below me slept, Flow’d not her song from a heart that wept? —O Love and Song! though of heaven your powers, Dark is your fate in this world of ours. Yet, ere I turn’d from that silent place, Or ceased from watching thy sunny race, Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings, Didst waft me visions of brighter things! Thou that dost image the freed soul’s birth, And its flight away o’er the mists of earth, Oh! fitly thy path is through flowers that rise Round the dark chamber where Genius lies!

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

Too long apart, a bright but sever’d band, The mighty minstrels of the Rhine’s fair land Majestic strains, but not for us, had sung— Moulding to melody a stranger tongue. Brave hearts leap’d proudly to their words of power, As a true sword bounds forth in battle’s hour; Fair eyes rain’d homage o’er th’ impassion’d lays, In loving tears, more eloquent than praise; While we, far distant, knew not, dream’d not aught Of the high marvels by that magic wrought. But let the barriers of the sea give way, When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror’s sway! And let the Rhine divide high souls no more From mingling on its old heroic shore, Which, e’en like ours, brave deeds through many an age Have made the poet’s own free heritage! To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone Of the far minstrelsy at last be known; Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear, Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here. And if by one, more used on march and heath To the shrill bugle than the muse’s breath, With a warm heart the offering hath been brought, And in a trusting loyalty of thought, So let it be received!—a soldier’s hand Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land A seed of foreign shores. O’er this fair clime, Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time, Hath song held empire; then, if not with fame, Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim, The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread, Where once that harp “the soul of music shed!”

Blessing and love be round thee still, fair boy! Never may suffering wake a deeper tone Than genius now, in its first fearless joy, Calls forth exulting from the chords which own Thy fairy touch! Oh! may’st thou ne’er be taught The power whose fountain is in troubled thought! For in the light of those confiding eyes, And on th’ ingenuous calm of that clear brow, A dower, more precious e’en than genius lies, A pure mind’s worth, a warm heart’s vernal glow! God, who hath graced thee thus, O gentle child! Keep midst the world thy brightness undefiled!