Part 2 — MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

“We bear her home! we bear her home! Over the murmuring salt sea’s foam; One who has fled from the war of life, From sorrow, pain, and the fever strife.” Barry Cornwall.

Bride! upon thy marriage-day, When thy gems in rich array Made the glistening mirror seem As a star-reflecting stream; When the clustering pearls lay fair Midst thy braids of sunny hair, And the white veil o’er thee streaming, Like a silvery halo gleaming, Mellow’d all that pomp and light Into something meekly bright; Did the fluttering of thy breath Speak of joy or woe beneath? And the hue that went and came O’er thy cheek, like wavering flame, Flow’d that crimson from th’ unrest Or the gladness of thy breast? —Who shall tell us? From thy bower, Brightly didst thou pass that hour; With the many-glancing oar, And the cheer along the shore, And the wealth of summer flowers On thy fair head cast in showers, And the breath of song and flute, And the clarion’s glad salute, Swiftly o’er the Adrian tide Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride! Mirth and music, sun and sky, Welcomed thee triumphantly! Yet, perchance, a chastening thought In some deeper spirit wrought, Whispering, as untold it blent With the sounds of merriment— “From the home of childhood’s glee, From the days of laughter free, From the love of many years, Thou art gone to cares and fears; To another path and guide, To a bosom yet untried! Bright one! oh, there well may be Trembling midst our joy for thee!” Bride! when through the stately fane, Circled with thy nuptial train, Midst the banners hung on high By thy warrior-ancestry, Midst those mighty fathers dead, In soft beauty thou wast led; When before the shrine thy form Quiver’d to some bosom-storm, When, like harp-strings with a sigh Breaking in mid-harmony, On thy lip the murmurs low Died with love’s unfinish’d vow; When, like scatter’d rose-leaves, fled From thy cheek each tint of red, And the light forsook thine eye, And thy head sunk heavily; Was that drooping but th’ excess Of thy spirit’s blessedness? Or did some deep feeling’s might, Folded in thy heart from sight, With a sudden tempest-shower Earthward bear thy life’s young flower? —Who shall tell us? On thy tongue Silence, and for ever, hung! Never to thy lip and cheek Rush’d again the crimson streak; Never to thine eye return’d That which there had beam’d and burn’d! With the secret none might know, With thy rapture or thy woe, With thy marriage robe and wreath, Thou wert fled, young bride of death! One, one lightning moment there Struck down triumph to despair; Beauty, splendour, hope, and trust, Into darkness—terror—dust! There were sounds of weeping o’er thee, Bride! as forth thy kindred bore thee, Shrouded in thy gleaming veil, Deaf to that wild funeral wail. Yet perchance a chastening thought In some deeper spirit wrought, Whispering, while the stern, sad knell On the air’s bright stillness fell— “From the power of chill and change Souls to sever and estrange; From love’s wane—a death in life, But to watch—a mortal strife; From the secret fevers known To the burning heart alone, Thou art fled—afar, away— Where these blights no more have sway! Bright one! oh, there well may be Comfort midst our tears for thee!”

“A long war disturb’d your mind— Here your perfect peace is sign’d; ’Tis now full tide ’twixt night and day— End your moan, and come away!” Webster, “Duchess of Malfy.”

There were faint sounds of weeping; fear and gloom And midnight vigil in a stately room Of Lusignan’s old halls. Rich odours there Fill’d the proud chamber as with Indian air, And soft light fell from lamps of silver, thrown On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone Over a gorgeous couch: there emeralds gleam’d, And deeper crimson from the ruby stream’d Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set, Hiding from sunshine. Many a carcanet Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain, And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death, Hung drooping solemnly,—for there one lay. Passing from all earth’s glories fast away, Amidst those queenly treasures. They had been Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands; And for his sake, upon their orient sheen She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands Had press’d them to her languid heart once more, Melting in childlike tears. But this was o’er— Love’s last, vain clinging unto life; and now A mist of dreams was hovering o’er her brow; Her eye was fix’d, her spirit seem’d removed, Though not from earth, from all it knew or loved, Far, far away! Her handmaids watch’d around, In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound A might, a mystery; and the quivering light Of wind-sway’d lamps made spectral in their sight The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair, Gleaming along the walls with braided hair, Long in the dust grown dim; and she, too, saw, But with the spirit’s eye of raptured awe, Those pictured shapes!—a bright, yet solemn train Beckoning, they floated o’er her dreamy brain, Clothed in diviner hues; while on her ear Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear, —Sweet, yet profoundly mournful, as the sigh Of winds o’er harp-strings through a midnight sky; And thus it seem’d, in that low, thrilling tone, Th’ ancestral shadows call’d away their own. Come, come, come! Long thy fainting soul hath yearn’d For the step that ne’er return’d; Long thine anxious ear hath listen’d, And thy watchful eye hath glisten’d With the hope, whose parting strife Shook the flower-leaves from thy life. Now the heavy day is done: Home awaits thee, wearied one! Come, come, come! From the quenchless thoughts that burn In the seal’d heart’s lonely urn; From the coil of memory’s chain Wound about the throbbing brain; From the veins of sorrow deep, Winding through the world of sleep; From the haunted halls and bowers, Throng’d with ghosts of happier hours! Come, come, come! On our dim and distant shore Aching love is felt no more! We have loved with earth’s excess— Past is now that weariness! We have wept, that weep not now— Calm is each once-beating brow! We have known the dreamer’s woes— All is now one bright repose! Come, come, come! Weary heart that long hast bled, Languid spirit, drooping head, Restless memory, vain regret, Pining love whose light is set, Come away!—’tis hush’d, ’tis well, Where by shadowy founts we dwell, All the fever-thirst is still’d, All the air with peace is fill’d,— Come, come, come! And with her spirit wrapt in that wild lay. She pass’d, as twilight melts to night, away!

“The dead! the glorious dead!—and shall they rise? Shall they look on thee with their proud bright eyes? Thou ask’st a fearful spell! Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall, What kingly vision shall obey my call? The deep grave knows it well! “Wouldst thou behold earth’s conquerors? shall they pass Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass With triumph’s long array? Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn, Robed for the feast of victory, shall return, As on their proudest day. “Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song? O’er the dark mirror that immortal throng Shall waft a solemn gleam! Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows, Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs, But silent as a dream.” “Not these, O mighty master!—though their lays Be unto man’s free heart, and tears, and praise, Hallow’d for evermore! And not the buried conquerors—let them sleep, And let the flowery earth her sabbaths keep In joy, from shore to shore! “But, if the narrow house may so be moved, Call the bright shadows of the most beloved Back from their couch of rest! That I may learn if their meek eyes be fill’d With peace, if human love hath ever still’d The yearning human breast.” “Away, fond youth!—an idle quest is thine: These have no trophy, no memorial shrine; I know not of their place! Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow, Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low, Have pass’d, and left no trace. “Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills, And the wild sounds of melancholy rills, Their covering turf may bloom; But ne’er hath fame made relics of its flowers— Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers, Or poet hail’d their tomb.” “Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell! Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may tell That which I pine to know! I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep, Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep, Records of joy and woe.”

Daughter of th’ Italian heaven! Thou to whom its fires are given, Joyously thy car hath roll’d Where the conqueror’s pass’d of old; And the festal sun that shone O’er three hundred triumphs gone,[377] Makes thy day of glory bright With a shower of golden light. Now thou tread’st th’ ascending road Freedom’s foot so proudly trode; While, from tombs of heroes borne, From the dust of empire shorn, Flowers upon thy graceful head, Chaplets of all hues, are shed, In a soft and rosy rain, Touch’d with many a gem-like stain. Thou hast gain’d the summit now! Music hails thee from below; Music, whose rich notes might stir Ashes of the sepulchre; Shaking with victorious notes All the bright air as it floats. Well may woman’s heart beat high Unto that proud harmony! Now afar it rolls—it dies— And thy voice is heard to rise With a low and lovely tone, In its thrilling power alone; And thy lyre’s deep silvery string, Touch’d as by a breeze’s wing, Murmurs tremblingly at first, Ere the tide of rapture burst. All the spirit of thy sky Now hath lit thy large dark eye, And thy cheek a flush hath caught From the joy of kindled thought; And the burning words of song From thy lip flow fast and strong, With a rushing stream’s delight In the freedom of its might. Radiant daughter of the sun! Now thy living wreath is won. Crown’d of Rome!—oh! art thou not Happy in that glorious lot?— Happier, happier far than thou, With the laurel on thy brow, She that makes the humblest hearth Lovely but to one on earth!

“Oh! ’tis the heart that magnifies this life, Making a truth and beauty of its own.” Wordsworth.

“Birth has gladden’d it: death has sanctified it.” Guesses at Truth.

No dower of storied song is thine, O desolate abode! Forth from thy gates no glittering line Of lance and spear hath flow’d. Banners of knighthood have not flung Proud drapery o’er thy walls, Nor bugle-notes to battle rung Through thy resounding halls. Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here By courtly hands been dress’d, For princes, from the chase of deer, Under green leaves to rest: Only some rose, yet lingering bright Beside thy casements lone, Tells where the spirit of delight Hath dwelt, and now is gone. Yet minstrel-tale of harp and sword, And sovereign beauty’s lot, House of quench’d light and silent board! For me thou needest not. It is enough to know that here, Where thoughtfully I stand, Sorrow and love, and hope and fear, Have link’d one kindred band. Thou bindest me with mighty spells! —A solemnising breath, A presence all around thee dwells Of human life and death. I need but pluck yon garden flower From where the wild weeds rise, To wake, with strange and sudden power, A thousand sympathies. Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth! Deserted now by all! Voices at eve here met in mirth Which eve may ne’er recall. Youth’s buoyant step, and woman’s tone, And childhood’s laughing glee, And song and prayer, have all been known, Hearth of the dead! to thee. Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour’d Upon the infant head, As if in every fervent word The living soul were shed; Thou hast seen partings, such as bear The bloom from life away— Alas! for love in changeful air, Where naught beloved can stay! Here, by the restless bed of pain, The vigil hath been kept, Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain, Burst forth on eyes that wept; Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom, The breathless influence, shed Through the dim dwelling, from the room Wherein reposed the dead. The seat left void, the missing face, Have here been mark’d and mourn’d, And time hath fill’d the vacant place, And gladness hath return’d; Till from the narrowing household chain The links dropp’d one by one! And homewards hither, o’er the main, Came the spring-birds alone. Is there not cause, then—cause for thought, Fix’d eye and lingering tread, Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught, Even lowliest hearts have bled? Where, in its ever-haunting thirst For draughts of purer day, Man’s soul, with fitful strength, hath burst The clouds that wrapt its way? Holy to human nature seems The long-forsaken spot— To deep affections, tender dreams, Hopes of a brighter lot! Therefore in silent reverence here, Hearth of the dead! I stand, Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear, Have link’d one household band.

Speak low! The place is holy to the breath Of awful harmonies, of whisper’d prayer: Tread lightly!—for the sanctity of death Broods with a voiceless influence on the air, Stern, yet serene!—a reconciling spell, Each troubled billow of the soul to quell. Leave me to linger silently awhile! —Not for the light that pours its fervid streams Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, Kindling old banners into haughty gleams, Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior’s tomb Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom: Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing, Mighty as forest-sounds when winds are high; Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry,— Though o’er the spirit each hath charm and power, Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour. But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound; Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have pour’d Their anguish forth, are with me and around; I look back on the pangs, the burning tears, Known to these altars of a thousand years. Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse! That here hast bow’d with ashes on thy head; And thou, still battling with the tempest’s force— Thou, whose bright spirit through all time has bled— Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer, Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair? No voice, no breath!—of conflicts past, no trace! —Doth not this hush give answer to my quest? Surely the dread religion of the place By every grief hath made its might confest!— Oh! that within my heart I could but keep Holy to heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and deep!

“O night, And storm, and darkness! ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength!” Byron.

I come to thee, O Earth! With all my gifts!—for every flower sweet dew In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew The glory of its birth. Not one which glimmering lies Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves, But, through its veins of beauty, so receives A spirit of fresh dyes. I come with every star; Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track, Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back, Mirrors of worlds afar. I come with peace,—I shed Sleep through thy wood-walks, o’er the honey-bee, The lark’s triumphant voice, the fawn’s young glee, The hyacinth’s meek head. On my own heart I lay The weary babe; and sealing with a breath Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath The shadowing lids to play. I come with mightier things! Who calls me silent? I have many tones— The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans, Borne on my sweeping wings. I waft them not alone From the deep organ of the forest shades, Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades Till the bright day is done; But in the human breast A thousand still small voices I awake, Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake The mantle of its rest. I bring them from the past: From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, From crush’d affections, which, though long o’erborne, Make their tones heard at last. I bring them from the tomb: O’er the sad couch of late repentant love They pass—though low as murmurs of a dove— Like trumpets through the gloom. I come with all my train: Who calls me lonely? Hosts around me tread, The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead— Phantoms of heart and brain! Looks from departed eyes, These are my lightnings!—fill’d with anguish vain, Or tenderness too piercing to sustain, They smite with agonies. I, that with soft control, Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, I am the avenging one!—the arm’d, the strong— The searcher of the soul! I, that shower dewy light Through slumbering leaves, bring storms—the tempest birth Of memory, thought, remorse! Be holy, Earth! I am the solemn Night![379]

“Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal? Are ye like those that shake the human breast? Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?” Childe Harold.

Midnight, and silence deep! —The air is fill’d with sleep, With the stream’s whisper, and the citron’s breath; The fix’d and solemn stars Gleam through my dungeon-bars— Wake, rushing winds! this breezeless calm is death! Ye watch-fires of the skies! The stillness of your eyes Looks too intensely through my troubled soul; I feel this weight of rest An earth-load on my breast— Wake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll! I am your own, your child, O ye, the fierce, and wild, And kingly tempests!—will ye not arise? Hear the bold spirit’s voice, That knows not to rejoice But in the peal of your strong harmonies. By sounding ocean-waves, And dim Calabrian caves, And flashing torrents, I have been your mate; And with the rocking pines Of the olden Apennines, In your dark path stood fearless and elate. Your lightnings were as rods, That smote the deep abodes Of thought and vision—and the stream gush’d free; Come! that my soul again May swell to burst its chain— Bring me the music of the sweeping sea! Within me dwells a flame, An eagle caged and tame, Till call’d forth by the harping of the blast; Then is its triumph’s hour, It springs to sudden power, As mounts the billow o’er the quivering mast. Then, then, the canvass o’er, With hurried hand I pour The lava-waves and gusts of my own soul! Kindling to fiery life Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife— Wake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll! Wake, rise! the reed may bend, The shivering leaf descend, The forest branch give way before your might; But I, your strong compeer, Call, summon, wait you here— Answer, my spirit!—answer, storm and night!

Two solemn Voices, in a funeral strain, Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain Meet in the sky: “Thou art gone hence!” one sang; “our light is flown, Our beautiful, that seem’d too much our own Ever to die! “Thou art gone hence!—our joyous hills among Never again to pour thy soul in song, When spring-flowers rise! Never the friend’s familiar step to meet With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet Of thy glad eyes.” “Thou art gone home, gone home!” then, high and clear, Warbled that other Voice. “Thou hast no tear Again to shed; Never to fold the robe o’er secret pain; Never, weigh’d down by memory’s clouds, again To bow thy head. “Thou art gone home! O early crown’d and blest! Where could the love of that deep heart find rest With aught below? Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay, All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away— Thrice bless’d to go!” Yet sigh’d again that breeze-like Voice of grief— “Thou art gone hence! Alas, that aught so brief So loved should be! Thou takest our summer hence!—the flower, the tone, The music of our being, all in one, Depart with thee! “Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled! Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead— The dark unknown? Yes! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall, Never again to light up hearth or hall, Thy smile is gone!” “Home, home!” once more the exulting Voice arose: “Thou art gone home!—from that divine repose Never to roam! Never to say farewell, to weep in vain, To read of change, in eyes beloved, again— Thou art gone home! “By the bright waters now thy lot is cast— Joy for thee, happy friend! thy bark hath past The rough sea’s foam! Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still’d, Home! home!—thy peace is won, thy heart is fill’d: Thou art gone home!”

“A glittering ship, that hath the plain Of ocean for her own domain.” Wordsworth.

Go, in thy glory, o’er the ancient sea, Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell; Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be, Fare thee well, bark! farewell! Proudly the flashing billow thou hast cleft, The breeze yet follows thee with cheer and song; Who now of storms hath dream or memory left? And yet the deep is strong! But go thou triumphing, while still the smiles Of summer tremble on the water’s breast! Thou shalt be greeted by a thousand isles, In lone, wild beauty drest. To thee a welcome breathing o’er the tide, The genii groves of Araby shall pour; Waves that enfold the pearl shall bathe thy side, On the old Indian shore. Oft shall the shadow of the palm-tree lie O’er glassy bays wherein thy sails are furl’d, And its leaves whisper, as the winds sweep by, Tales of the elder world. Oft shall the burning stars of southern skies, On the mid-ocean see thee chain’d in sleep, A lonely home for human thoughts and ties, Between the heavens and deep. Blue seas that roll on gorgeous coasts renown’d, By night shall sparkle where thy prow makes way; Strange creatures of the abyss that none may sound, In thy broad wake shall play. From hills unknown, in mingled joy and fear, Free dusky tribes shall pour, thy flag to mark;— Blessings go with thee on thy lone career! Hail, and farewell, thou bark! A long farewell! Thou wilt not bring us back All whom thou bearest far from home and hearth: Many are thine, whose steps no more shall track Their own sweet native earth! Some wilt thou leave beneath the plantain’s shade, Where through the foliage Indian suns look bright; Some in the snows of wintry regions laid, By the cold northern light. And some, far down below the sounding wave. Still shall they lie, though tempests o’er them sweep; Never may flower be strewn above their grave, Never may sister weep! And thou, the billow’s queen—even thy proud form On our glad sight no more perchance may swell; Yet God alike is in the calm and storm— Fare thee well, bark! farewell!

Whisper, thou Tree, thou lonely Tree, One, where a thousand stood! Well might proud tales be told by thee, Last of the solemn wood! Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs, With leaves yet darkly green? Stillness is round, and noontide glows— Tell us what thou hast seen. “I have seen the forest-shadows lie Where men now reap the corn; I have seen the kingly chase rush by Through the deep glades at morn. “With the glance of many a gallant spear, And the wave of many a plume, And the bounding of a hundred deer, It has lit the woodland’s gloom. “I have seen the knight and his train ride past, With his banner borne on high; O’er all my leaves there was brightness cast From his gleaming panoply. “The pilgrim at my feet hath laid His palm-branch midst the flowers, And told his beads, and meekly pray’d, Kneeling, at vesper hours. “And the merry men of wild and glen, In the green array they wore, Have feasted here, with the red wine’s cheer, And the hunter’s song of yore. “And the minstrel, resting in my shade, Hath made the forest ring With the lordly tales of the high Crusade, Once loved by chief and king. “But now the noble forms are gone That walk’d the earth of old; The soft wind has a mournful tone, The sunny light looks cold. “There is no glory left us now Like the glory with the dead; I would that, where they slumber low, My latest leaves were shed!” O thou dark tree, thou lonely tree, That mournest for the past! A peasant’s home in thy shades I see, Embower’d from ever blast. A lovely and a mirthful sound Of laughter meets mine ear; For the poor man’s children sport around On the turf, with naught to fear. And roses lend that cabin’s wall A happy summer-glow: And the open door stands free to all, For it recks not of a foe. And the village bells are on the breeze That stirs thy leaf, dark tree! How can I mourn, midst things like these, For the stormy past, with thee?

“The power, the beauty, and the majesty, That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain, Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, Or chasms and watery depths; all those have vanish’d! They live no longer in the faith of heaven, But still the heart doth need a language!” Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

Ye have been holy, O founts and floods! Ye of the ancient and solemn woods, Ye that are born of the valleys deep, With the water-flowers on your breast asleep, And ye that gush from the sounding caves— Hallow’d have been your waves. Hallow’d by man, in his dreams of old, Unto beings not of this mortal mould— Viewless and deathless, and wondrous powers, Whose voice he heard in his lonely hours, And sought with its fancied sound to still The heart earth could not fill. Therefore the flowers of bright summers gone, O’er your sweet waters, ye streams! were thrown Thousands of gifts to the sunny sea Have ye swept along, in your wanderings free, And thrill’d to the murmur of many a vow— Where all is silent now! Nor seems it strange that the heart hath been So link’d in love to your margins green; That still, though ruin’d, your early shrines In beauty gleam through the southern vines, And the ivied chapels of colder skies On your wild banks arise. For the loveliest scenes of the glowing earth Are those, bright streams! where your springs have birth; Whether their cavern’d murmur fills, With a tone of plaint, the hollow hills, Or the glad sweet laugh of their healthful flow Is heard midst the hamlets low. Or whether ye gladden the desert sands With a joyous music to pilgrim bands, And a flash from under some ancient rock, Where a shepherd king might have watch’d his flock, Where a few lone palm-trees lift their heads, And a green acacia spreads. Or whether, in bright old lands renown’d, The laurels thrill to your first-born sound, And the shadow, flung from the Grecian pine, Sweeps with the breeze o’er your gleaming line, And the tall reeds whisper to your waves, Beside heroic graves. Voices and lights of the lonely place! By the freshest fern your path we trace; By the brightest cups on the emerald moss, Whose fairy goblets the turf emboss; By the rainbow-glancing of insect wings, In a thousand mazy rings. There sucks the bee, for the richest flowers Are all your own through the summer hours; There the proud stag his fair image knows, Traced on your glass beneath alder-boughs; And the halcyon’s breast, like the skies array’d, Gleams through the willow shade. But the wild sweet tales that with elves and fays Peopled your banks in the olden days, And the memory left by departed love To your antique founts in glen and grove, And the glory born of the poet’s dreams— These are your charms, bright streams! Now is the time of your flowery rites Gone by with its dances and young delights: From your marble urns ye have burst away, From your chapel-cells to the laughing day; Low lie your altars with moss o’ergrown, And the woods again are lone. Yet holy still be your living springs, Haunts of all gentle and gladsome things! Holy, to converse with nature’s lore, That gives the worn spirit its youth once more, And to silent thoughts of the love divine, Making the heart a shrine!

“There is nothing in the wide world so like the voice of a spirit.” Gray’s “Letters.”

Oh! many a voice is thine, thou Wind! full many a voice is thine! From every scene thy wing o’ersweeps thou bear’st a sound and sign; A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mastery all thine own, And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind! that gives the answering tone. Thou hast been across red fields of war, where shiver’d helmets lie, And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a clarion in the sky; A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy drums,— All these are in thy music met, as when a leader comes. Thou hast been o’er solitary seas, and from their wastes brought back Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery of thy track— The chime of low, soft, southern waves on some green palmy shore, The hollow roll of distant surge, the gather’d billows’ roar. Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou mighty rushing Wind! And thou bearest all their unisons in one full swell combined; The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hidden things and free, Of the dim, old, sounding wilderness, have lent their soul to thee. Thou art come from cities lighted up for the conqueror passing by, Thou art wafting from their streets a sound of haughty revelry; The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings in the hall, The far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise and fall. Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, from ancient minsters vast, Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy lonely wing hath pass’d; Thou hast caught the anthem’s billowy swell, the stately dirge’s tone, For a chief, with sword, and shield, and helm, to his place of slumber gone. Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, wherein our young days flew, Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the loved, the kind, the true; Thou callest back those melodies, though now all changed and fled— Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music from the dead! Are all these notes in thee, wild wind? these many notes in thee? Far in our own unfathom’d souls their fount must surely be; Yes! buried, but unsleeping, there thought watches, memory lies, From whose deep urn the tones are pour’d through all earth’s harmonies.

A sounding step was heard by night In a church where the mighty slept, As a mail-clad youth, till morning’s light, Midst the tombs his vigil kept. He walk’d in dreams of power and fame, He lifted a proud bright eye, For the hours were few that withheld his name From the roll of chivalry. Down the moonlit aisles he paced alone, With a free and stately tread; And the floor gave back a muffled tone From the couches of the dead: The silent many that round him lay, The crown’d and helm’d that were, The haughty chiefs of the war array— Each in his sepulchre! But no dim warning of time or fate That youth’s flush’d hopes could chill; He moved through the trophies of buried state With each proud pulse throbbing still. He heard, as the wind through the chancel sung, A swell of the trumpet’s breath; He look’d to the banners on high that hung, And not to the dust beneath. And a royal masque of splendour seem’d Before him to unfold; Through the solemn arches on it stream’d, With many a gleam of gold: There were crested knight, and gorgeous dame, Glittering athwart the gloom; And he follow’d, till his bold step came To his warrior-father’s tomb. But there the still and shadowy might Of the monumental stone, And the holy sleep of the soft lamp’s light That over its quiet shone, And the image of that sire, who died In his noonday of renown— These had a power unto which the pride Of fiery life bow’d down. And a spirit from his early years Came back o’er his thoughts to move, Till his eye was fill’d with memory’s tears, And his heart with childhood’s love! And he look’d, with a change in his softening glance, To the armour o’er the grave— For there they hung, the shield and lance, And the gauntlet of the brave. And the sword of many a field was there, With its cross for the hour of need, When the knight’s bold war-cry hath sunk in prayer, And the spear is a broken reed! —Hush! did a breeze through the armour sigh? Did the folds of the banner shake? Not so!—from the tomb’s dark mystery There seem’d a voice to break! He had heard that voice bid clarions blow, He had caught its last blessing’s breath— ’Twas the same—but its awful sweetness now Had an under-tone of death! And it said—“The sword hath conquer’d kings, And the spear through realms hath pass’d; But the cross, alone, of all these things, Might aid me at the last.”

Heart! that didst press forward still,[381] Where the trumpet’s note rang shrill, Where the knightly swords were crossing, And the plumes like sea-foam tossing, Leader of the charging spear, Fiery heart!—and liest thou here? May this narrow spot inurn Aught that so could beat and burn? Heart! that lovedst the clarion’s blast, Silent is thy place at last; Silent—save when early bird Sings where once the mass was heard; Silent—save when breeze’s moan Comes through flowers or fretted stone; And the wild-rose waves around thee, And the long dark grass hath bound thee, —Sleep’st thou, as the swain might sleep, In his nameless valley deep? No! brave heart! though cold and lone, Kingly power is yet thine own! Feel I not thy spirit brood O’er the whispering solitude? Lo! at one high thought of thee, Fast they rise, the bold, the free, Sweeping past thy lowly bed, With a mute, yet stately tread. Shedding their pale armour’s light Forth upon the breathless night, Bending every warlike plume In the prayer o’er saintly tomb. Is the noble Douglas nigh, Arm’d to follow thee, or die? Now, true heart! as thou wert wont Pass thou to the peril’s front! Where the banner-spear is gleaming, And the battle’s red wine streaming, Till the Paynim quail before thee, Till the cross wave proudly o’er thee. —Dreams! the falling of a leaf Wins me from their splendours brief; Dreams, yet bright ones! scorn them not, Thou that seek’st the holy spot; Nor, amidst its lone domain, Call the faith in relics vain!

“The beautiful is vanish’d, and returns not.” Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

A youth rode forth from his childhood’s home, Through the crowded paths of the world to roam; And the green leaves whisper’d, as he pass’d, “Wherefore, thou dreamer! away so fast? “Knew’st thou with what thou art parting here, Long wouldst thou linger in doubt and fear; Thy heart’s light laughter, thy sunny hours, 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!” On rode the youth—and the founts and streams Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams: “We have been thy playmates through many a day, Wherefore thus leave us?—oh! yet delay! “Listen but once to the sound of our mirth! For thee ’tis a melody passing from earth; Never again wilt thou find in its flow The peace it could once on thy heart bestow. “Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood’s glee, With the breath of the world on thy spirit free; Passion and sorrow its depths will have stirr’d, And the singing of waters be vainly heard. “Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part— What should it do for a burning heart? Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill, Thirst which no fountain on earth may still. “Farewell!—when thou comest again to thine own, Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone; Mournfully true is the tale we tell— Yet on, fiery dreamer! farewell, farewell!” And a something of gloom on his spirit weigh’d As he caught the last sounds of his native shade; But he knew not, till may a bright spell broke, How deep were the oracles Nature spoke!

“The beings of the mind are not of clay; Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray, And more beloved existence; that which Fate Prohibits to dull life, in this our state Of mortal bondage.” Byron.

Come to me with your triumphs and your woes, Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought! I sit alone with flowers, and vernal boughs, In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought; Midst the glad music of the spring alone, And sorrowful for visions that are gone! Come to me! make your thrilling whispers heard, Ye, by those masters of the soul endow’d With life, and love, and many a burning word, That bursts from grief like lightning from a cloud, And smites the heart, till all its chords reply, As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by. Come to me! visit my dim haunt!—the sound Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath; The stock-dove’s note above; and all around, The poesy that with the violet’s breath Floats through the air, in rich and sudden streams, Mingling, like music, with the soul’s deep dreams. Friends, friends!—for such to my lone heart ye are— Unchanging ones! from whose immortal eyes The glory melts not as a waning star, And the sweet kindness never, never dies; Bright children of the bard! o’er this green dell Pass once again, and light it with your spell! Imogen! fair Fidele! meekly blending, In patient grief, “a smiling with a sigh;”[382] And thou, Cordelia! faithful daughter, tending That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky; Thou of the soft low voice!—thou art not gone! Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone. And come to me!—sing me thy willow-strain, Sweet Desdemona! with the sad surprise In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain, Undimm’d, unquenchable affection lies; Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and scorn, As a frail hyacinth by showers o’erborne. And thou, too, fair Ophelia! flowers are here, That well might win thy footstep to the spot— Pale cowslips, meet for maiden’s early bier, And pansies for sad thoughts,[383]—but needed not! Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light In that wild eye still tremulously bright. And Juliet, vision of the south! enshrining All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong; The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining, The soul its nightingales pour forth in song, Thou, making death deep joy!—but could’st thou die? No!—thy young love hath immortality! From earth’s bright faces fades the light of morn, From earth’s glad voices drops the joyous tone; But ye, the children of the soul, were born Deathless, and for undying love alone; And, O ye beautiful! ’tis well, how well, In the soul’s world, with you, where change is not, to dwell!

“A large lyre hung in an opening of the rock, and gave forth its melancholy music to the wind—but no human being was to be seen.” Salathiel.

A deep-toned lyre hung murmuring To the wild wind of the sea; “O melancholy wind,” it sigh’d, “What would thy breath with me? “Thou canst not wake the spirit That in me slumbering lies, Thou strikest not forth th’ electric fire Of buried melodies. “Wind of the dark sea-waters! Thou dost but sweep my strings Into wild gusts of mournfulness, With the rushing of thy wings. “But the spell—the gift—the lightning— Within my frame conceal’d, Must I moulder on the rock away With their triumphs unreveal’d? “I have power, high power, for freedom To wake the burning soul! I have sounds that through the ancient hills Like a torrent’s voice might roll. “I have pealing notes of victory That might welcome kings from war; I have rich, deep tones to send the wail For a hero’s death afar. “I have chords to lift the pæan From the temple to the sky, Full as the forest-unisons When sweeping winds are high. “And love—for love’s lone sorrow I have accents that might swell Through the summer air with the rose’s breath, Or the violet’s faint farewell: “Soft—spiritual—mournful— Sighs in each note enshrined— But who shall call that sweetness forth? Thou can’st not, ocean-wind! “I pass without my glory, Forgotten I decay— Where is the touch to give me life? —Wild, fitful wind, away!” So sigh’d the broken music That in gladness had no part— How like art thou, neglected Lyre! To many a human heart!

A crown of victory! a triumphal song! Oh! call some friend, upon whose pitying heart The weary one may calmly sink to rest; Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch, Pour the last prayer for mortal agony!

A trumpet’s note is in the sky, in the glorious Roman sky, Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice of victory; There is crowding to the Capitol, the imperial streets along, For again a conqueror must be crown’d—a kingly child of song: Yet his chariot lingers, Yet around his home Broods a shadow silently, Midst the joy of Rome. A thousand, thousand laurel boughs are waving wide and far, To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car; A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their wealth of flowers, To scatter o’er his path of fame bright hues in gem-like showers. Peace! Within his chamber Low the mighty lies— With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow, And a wandering in his eyes. Sing, sing for him, the lord of song—for him, whose rushing strain In mastery o’er the spirit sweeps, like a strong wind o’er the main! Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for ever there to dwell, As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple’s holiest cell. Yes! for him, the victor, Sing—but low, sing low! A soft, sad miserere chant For a soul about to go! The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o’er his way, Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of golden day; Streaming through every haughty arch of the Cæsars’ past renown— Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror for his crown! Shut the proud, bright sunshine From the fading sight! There needs no ray by the bed of death, Save the holy taper’s light. The wreath is twined—the way is strewn—the lordly train are met— The streets are hung with coronals—why stays the minstrel yet? Shout! as an army shouts in joy around a royal chief— Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love and grief! Silence! forth we bring him, In his last array; From love and grief the freed, the flown— Way for the bier!—make way!

“I hear thee speak of the better land, Thou call’st its children a happy band; Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?” —“Not there, not there, my child!” “Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds on their starry wings Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?” —“Not there, not there, my child!” “Is it far away, in some region old, Where the rivers wander o’er sands of gold?— Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?— Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?” —“Not there, not there, my child! “Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair— Sorrow and death may not enter there: Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, It is there, it is there, my child!”

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! Thou, that hadst etherial birth, Thou hast stoop’d too near the earth, And the hunter’s shaft hath found thee, And the toils of death have bound thee! —Wherefore didst thou leave thy place, Creature of a kingly race? Wert thou weary of thy throne? Was thy sky’s dominion lone? Chill and lone it well might be, Yet that mighty wing was free! Now the chain is o’er it cast, From thy heart the blood flows fast, —Woe for gifted souls and high! Is not such their destiny?

“Nay, these wild fits of uncurb’d laughter Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind, As it has lower’d of late, so keenly cast, Unsuited seem, and strange. Oh, nothing strange! Did’st thou ne’er see the swallow’s veering breast, Winging the air beneath some murky cloud, In the sunn’d glimpses of a troubled day, Shiver in silvery brightness? Or boatman’s oar, as vivid lightning, flash In the faint gleam, that, like a spirit’s path, Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake? O gentle friend! Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad, And may be so to-morrow!” Joanna Baillie.

Ye met at the stately feasts of old, Where the bright wine foam’d over sculptured gold; Sadness and Mirth! ye were mingled there With the sound of the lyre in the scented air; As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high, Ye mix’d in the gorgeous revelry. For there hung o’er those banquets of yore a gloom, A thought and a shadow of the tomb; It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone, To the rose a colouring not its own, To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power— Sadness and Mirth! ye had each your dower! Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by, With the Roman eagles through the sky! I know that even then, in his hour of pride, The soul of the mighty within him died; That a void in his bosom lay darkly still, Which the music of victory might never fill! Thou wert there, O Mirth! swelling on the shout, Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out; Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine— All the rich voices in air were thine, The incense, the sunshine—but, Sadness, thy part, Deepest of all, was the victor’s heart! Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear; Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier! As the gleam from a sea-bird’s white wing shed Crosses the storm in its path of dread; As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky— Sadness and Mirth! so ye come and fly! Ye meet in the poet’s haunted breast, Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest! When the breath of the violet is out in spring, When the woods with the wakening of music ring, O’er his dreamy spirit your currents pass, Like shadow and sunlight o’er mountain grass. When will your parting be, Sadness and Mirth? Bright stream and dark one! Oh, never on earth! Never while triumphs and tombs are so near, While death and love walk the same dim sphere, While flowers unfold where the storm may sweep, While the heart of man is a soundless deep! But there smiles a land, O ye troubled pair! Where ye have no part in the summer air: Far from the breathings of changeful skies, Over the seas and the graves it lies; Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done, And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun!

“Willst du nach den Nachtigallen fragen, Die mit seelenvollen melodie Dich entzuckten in des Lenzes Tagen? —Nur so lang sie liebten, waren sie.” Schiller.

Mournfully, sing mournfully, And die away, my heart! The rose, the glorious rose is gone, And I, too, will depart. The skies have lost their splendour, The waters changed their tone, And, wherefore, in the faded world, Should music linger on? Where is the golden sunshine, And where the flower-cup’s glow? And where the joy of the dancing leaves, And the fountain’s laughing flow? A voice, in every whisper Of the wave, the bough, the air, Comes asking for the beautiful, And moaning, “Where, oh! where?” Tell of the brightness parted, Thou bee, thou lamb at play! Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth! —Are ye, too, pass’d away? Mournfully, sing mournfully! The royal rose is gone: Melt from the woods, my spirit! melt In one deep farewell tone! Not so!—swell forth triumphantly The full, rich, fervent strain! Hence with young love and life I go, In the summer’s joyous train. With sunshine, with sweet odour, With every precious thing, Upon the last warm southern breeze My soul its flight shall wing. Alone I shall not linger, When the days of hope are past, To watch the fall of leaf by leaf, To wait the rushing blast. Triumphantly, triumphantly! Sing to the woods, I go! For me, perchance, in other lands, The glorious rose may blow. The sky’s transparent azure, And the greensward’s violet breath, And the dance of light leaves in the wind, May there know naught of death. No more, no more sing mournfully! Swell high, then break, my heart! With love, the spirit of the woods, With summer I depart!

Thou hast been where the rocks of coral grow, Thou hast fought with eddying waves;— Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low, Thou searcher of ocean’s caves! Thou hast look’d on the gleaming wealth of old, And wrecks where the brave have striven: The deep is a strong and a fearful hold, But thou its bar hast riven! A wild and weary life is thine— A wasting task and lone, Though treasure-grots for thee may shine, To all besides unknown! A weary life! but a swift decay Soon, soon shall set thee free; Thou’rt passing fast from thy toils away, Thou wrestler with the sea! In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek, Well are the death-signs read— Go! for the pearl in its cavern seek, Ere hope and power be fled! And bright in beauty’s coronal That glistening gem shall be; A star to all in the festive hall— But who will think on thee? None!—as it gleams from the queen-like head, Not one midst throngs will say, “A life hath been, like a raindrop, shed For that pale, quivering ray!” Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought! —And are not those like thee, Who win for earth the gems of thought? O wrestler with the sea! Down to the gulfs of the soul they go, Where the passion-fountains burn, Gathering the jewels far below From many a buried urn: Wringing from lava-veins the fire, That o’er bright words is pour’d; Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre A spirit in each chord. But, oh! the price of bitter tears Paid for the lonely power That throws at last, o’er desert years, A darkly glorious dower! Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread, So radiant thoughts are strew’d; —The soul whence those high gifts are shed May faint in solitude! And who will think, when the strain is sung Till a thousand hearts are stirr’d, What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung, Have gush’d with every word? None, none!—his treasures live like thine, He strives and dies like thee; —Thou, that hast been to the pearl’s dark shrine, O wrestler with the sea!

No tears for thee!—though light be from us gone With thy soul’s radiance, bright, yet restless one! No tears for thee! They that have loved an exile, must not mourn To see him parting for his native bourne O’er the dark sea. All the high music of thy spirit here Breathed but the language of another sphere, Unecho’d round; And strange, though sweet, as midst our weeping skies Some half-remember’d strain of Paradise Might sadly sound. Hast thou been answer’d?—thou, that from the night, And from the voices of the tempest’s might, And from the past, Wert seeking still some oracle’s reply, To pour the secrets of man’s destiny Forth on the blast! Hast thou been answer’d?—thou, that through the gloom, And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb, A cry didst send, So passionate and deep?—to pierce, to move, To win back token of unburied love From buried friend! And hast thou found where living waters burst? Thou that didst pine amidst us in the thirst Of fever-dreams! Are the true fountains thine for evermore? O lured so long by shining mists that wore The light of streams! Speak! is it well with thee? We call, as thou, With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow, 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!

“Tacete, tacete, O suoni trionfanti Risvegliate in vano ’l cor che non puo liberarsi.”

Wherefore and whither bear’st thou up my spirit, On eagle wings, through every plume that thrill? It hath no crown of victory to inherit— Be still, triumphant harmony! be still! Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly swelling Into rich floods of joy. It is but pain To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling, To sink so fast, so heavily again! No sounds for earth? Yes, to young chieftain dying On his own battle-field, at set of sun, With his freed country’s banner o’er him flying, Well mightst thou speak of fame’s high guerdon won. No sounds for earth? Yes, for the martyr, leading Unto victorious death serenely on; For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding, Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone. But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating Against life’s narrow bound, in conflict vain! For power, for joy, high hope, and rapturous greeting, Thou wakest lone thirst—be hush’d, exulting strain! Be hush’d, or breathe of grief!—of exile yearnings Under the willows of the stranger-shore; Breathe of the soul’s untold and restless burnings For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more. Breathe of deep love—a lonely vigil keeping Through the night-hours, o’er wasted wealth to pine; Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves, heaping In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine. Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky; Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, th’ undying— Of joy no more—bewildering harmony!

“Ne’er err’d the prophet-heart that grief inspired, Though joy’s illusions mock their votarist.”—Maturin.

A mournful gift is mine, O friends! A mournful gift is mine! A murmur of the soul which blends With the flow of song and wine. An eye that through the triumph’s hour Beholds the coming woe, And dwells upon the faded flower Midst the rich summer’s glow. Ye smile to view fair faces bloom Where the father’s board is spread; I see the stillness and the gloom Of a home whence all are fled. I see the wither’d garlands lie Forsaken on the earth, While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly Through the ringing hall of mirth. I see the blood-red future stain On the warrior’s gorgeous crest; And the bier amidst the bridal train When they come with roses drest. I hear the still small moan of time Through the ivy branches made, Where the palace, in its glory’s prime, With the sunshine stands array’d. The thunder of the seas I hear, The shriek along the wave, When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer Salute the parting brave. With every breeze a spirit sends To me some warning sign,— A mournful gift is mine, O friends! A mournful gift is mine! O prophet-heart! thy grief, thy power, To all deep souls belong— The shadow in the sunny hour, The wail in the mirthful song. Their sight is all too sadly clear— For them a veil is riven; Their piercing thoughts repose not here, Their home is but in heaven.

“Thy path is not as mine;—where thou art blest My spirit would but wither; mine own grief Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing, Than all thy happiness.”

Hath the summer’s breath on the south-wind borne, Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn? Hath it lured thee, bird! from their sounding caves To the river shores where the osier waves? Or art thou come on the hills to dwell, Where the sweet-voiced echoes have many a cell? Where the moss bears print of the wild-deer’s tread, And the heath like a royal robe is spread? Thou hast done well, O thou bright sea-bird! There is joy where the song of the lark is heard, With the dancing of waters through copse and dell, And the bee’s low tune in the fox-glove’s bell. Thou hast done well: oh! the seas are lone, And the voice they send up hath a mournful tone; A mingling of dirges and wild farewells, Fitfully breathed through its anthem swells. The proud bird rose as the words were said— The rush of his pinion swept o’er my head, And the glance of his eye, in its bright disdain, Spoke him a child of the haughty main. He hath flown from the woods to the ocean’s breast, To his throne of pride on the billow’s crest. Oh! who shall say to a spirit free— “There lies the pathway of bliss for thee?”

Oh! lightly, lightly tread! A holy thing is sleep, On the worn spirit shed, And eyes that wake to weep. A holy thing from heaven, A gracious dewy cloud, A covering mantle given The weary to enshroud. Oh! lightly, lightly tread! Revere the pale still brow, The meekly drooping head, The long hair’s willowy flow. Ye know not what ye do, That call the slumberer back From the world unseen by you Unto life’s dim, faded track. Her soul is far away, In her childhood’s land perchance, Where her young sisters play, Where shines her mother’s glance. Some old sweet native sound Her spirit haply weaves; A harmony profound Of woods with all their leaves; A murmur of the sea, A laughing tone of streams:— Long may her sojourn be In the music-land of dreams! Each voice of love is there, Each gleam of beauty fled, Each lost one still more fair— Oh! lightly, lightly tread!

O dim, forsaken mirror! How many a stately throng Hath o’er thee gleam’d, in vanish’d hours Of the wine-cup and the song! The song hath left no echo; The bright wine hath been quaff’d; And hush’d is every silvery voice That lightly here hath laugh’d. O mirror—lonely mirror! Thou of the silent hall! Thou hast been flush’d with beauty’s bloom— Is this, too, vanish’d all? It is, with the scatter’d garlands Of triumphs long ago, With the melodies of buried lyres, With the faded rainbow’s glow. And for all the gorgeous pageants— For the glance of gem and plume, For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath, And vase of rich perfume— Now, dim, forsaken mirror! Thou givest but faintly back The quiet stars, and the sailing moon, On her solitary track. And thus with man’s proud spirit Thou tellest me ’twill be, When the forms and hues of this world fade From his memory, as from thee: And his heart’s long-troubled waters At last in stillness lie, Reflecting but the images Of the solemn world on high.

Happy thou art, the child of one Who in each lowly flower, Each leaf that glances to the sun, Or trembles with the shower; In each soft shadow of the sky, Or sparkle of the stream, Will guide thy kindling spirit’s eye To trace the Love Supreme. So shall deep quiet fill thy breast, A joy in wood and wild; And e’en for this I call thee blest, The gentle poet’s child!

From the deep chambers of a mine, With heavy gloom o’erspread, I saw a star at noontide shine Serenely o’er my head. I had not seen it midst the glow Of the rich upper day; But in that shadowy world below, How my heart bless’d its ray! And still, the farther from my sight Torches and lamps were borne, The purer, lovelier, seem’d the light That wore its beams unshorn. Oh! what is like that heavenly spark? —A friend’s kind, steadfast eye; Where, brightest when the world grows dark, Hope, cheer, and comfort lie!

Yes! rear thy guardian hero’s form On thy proud soil, thou western world! A watcher through each sign of storm, O’er freedom’s flag unfurl’d. There, as before a shrine, to bow, Bid thy true sons their children lead: The language of that noble brow For all things good shall plead. The spirit rear’d in patriot fight, The virtue born of home and hearth, There calmly throned, a holy light Shall pour o’er chainless earth. And let that work of England’s hand, Sent through the blast and surge’s roar, So girt with tranquil glory stand For ages on thy shore! Such, through all time, the greetings be, That with the Atlantic billow sweep! Telling the mighty and the free Of brothers o’er the deep.

’Tis lone on the waters When eve’s mournful bell Sends forth to the sunset A note of farewell; When, borne with the shadows And winds as they sweep, There comes a fond memory Of home o’er the deep; When the wing of the sea-bird Is turn’d to her nest, And the thought of the sailor To all he loves best! ’Tis lone on the waters— That hour hath a spell To bring back sweet voices, With words of farewell!

We miss thy voice while early flowers are blowing, And the first flush of blossom clothes each bough, And the spring sunshine round our home is glowing Soft as thy smile: thou shouldst be with us now. With us? We wrong thee by the earthly thought: Could our fond gaze but follow where thou art, Well might the glories of this world seem naught To the one promise given the pure in heart. Yet wert thou blest e’en here—oh! ever blest In thine own sunny thoughts and tranquil faith! The silent joy that still o’erflow’d thy breast Needed but guarding from all change, by death. So is it seal’d to peace! On thy clear brow Never was care one fleeting shade to cast; And thy calm days in brightness were to flow A holy stream, untroubled to the last. Farewell! thy life hath left surviving love A wealth of records, and sweet “feelings given,” From sorrow’s heart the faintness to remove By whispers breathing “less of earth than heaven.”[385] Thus rests thy spirit still on those with whom Thy step the path of joyous duty trode, Bidding them make an altar of thy tomb, Where chasten’d thought may offer praise to God.

Thou hast been rear’d too tenderly, Beloved too well and long, Watch’d by too many a gentle eye: Now look on life—be strong! Too quiet seem’d thy joys for change, Too holy and too deep; Bright clouds, through summer skies that range Seem ofttimes thus to sleep,— To sleep in silvery stillness bound, As things that ne’er may melt; Yet gaze again—no trace is found To show thee where they dwelt. This world hath no more love to give Like that which thou hast known; Yet the heart breaks not—we survive Our treasures—and bear on. But oh! too beautiful and blest Thy home of youth hath been! Where shall thy wing, poor bird! find rest, Shut out from that sweet scene? Kind voices from departed years Must haunt thee many a day; Looks that will smite the source of tears Across thy soul must play. Friends—now the alter’d or the dead, And music that is gone, A gladness o’er thy dreams will shed, And thou shalt wake—alone. Alone! it is in that deep word That all thy sorrow lies; How is the heart to courage stirr’d By smiles from kindred eyes! And are these lost?—and have I said To aught like thee—be strong? —So bid the willow lift its head, And brave the tempest’s wrong! Thou reed! o’er which the storm hath pass’d— Thou shaken with the wind! On one, one friend thy weakness cast— There is but One to bind!

Father! that in the olive-shade, When the dark hour came on, Didst, with a breath of heavenly aid, Strengthen thy Son; Oh! by the anguish of that night, Send us down bless’d relief; Or to the chasten’d, let thy might Hallow this grief! And Thou, that when the starry sky Saw the dread strife begun, Didst teach adoring faith to cry, “Thy will be done;” By thy meek spirit, Thou, of all That e’er have mourn’d, the chief— Thou Saviour! if the stroke must fall, Hallow this grief!

Where is the sea?—I languish here— Where is my own blue sea? With all its barks in fleet career, And flags, and breezes free? I miss that voice of waves which first Awoke my childhood’s glee; The measured chime—the thundering burst— Where is my own blue sea? Oh! rich your myrtle’s breath may rise, Soft, soft your winds may be; Yet my sick heart within me dies— Where is my own blue sea? I hear the shepherd’s mountain flute, I hear the whispering tree; The echoes of my soul are mute, —Where is my own blue sea?

How is it that before mine eyes, While gazing on thy mien, All my past years of life arise, As in a mirror seen? What spell within thee hath been shrined To image back my own deep mind? Even as a song of other times Can trouble memory’s springs; Even as a sound of vesper-chimes Can wake departed things; Even as a scent of vernal flowers Hath records fraught with vanish’d hours,— Such power is thine! They come, the dead, From the grave’s bondage free, And smiling back the changed are led To look in love on thee; And voices that are music flown Speak to me in the heart’s full tone: Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress— The thoughts of happier years— And a vain gush of tenderness O’erflows in child-like tears; A passion which I may not stay, A sudden fount that must have way. But thou, the while—oh! almost strange, Mine imaged self! it seems That on thy brow of peace no change Reflects my own swift dreams; Almost I marvel not to trace Those lights and shadows in thy face. To see thee calm, while powers thus deep— Affection, Memory, Grief— Pass o’er my soul as winds that sweep O’er a frail aspen leaf! Oh, that the quiet of thine eye Might sink there when the storm goes by! Yet look thou still serenely on, And if sweet friends there be That when my song and soul are gone Shall seek my form in thee,— Tell them of one for whom ’twas best To flee away and be at rest!

“Mother! with thine earnest eye Ever following silently;”

No more! A harp-string’s deep and breaking tone, A last, low, summer breeze, a far-off swell, A dying echo of rich music gone, Breathe through those words—those murmurs of farewell— No more! To dwell in peace, with home-affections bound, To know the sweetness of a mother’s voice, To feel the spirit of her love around, And in the blessing of her eye rejoice— No more! A dirge-like sound! To greet the early friend Unto the hearth, his place of many days; In the glad song with kindred lips to blend, Or join the household laughter by the blaze— No more! Through woods that shadow’d our first years to rove With all our native music in the air; To watch the sunset with the eyes we love, And turn, and read our own heart’s answer there— No more! Words of despair!—yet earth’s, all earth’s the woe Their passion breathes—the desolately deep! That sound in heaven—oh! image then the flow Of gladness in its tones—to part, to weep— No more! To watch, in dying hope, affection’s wane, To see the beautiful from life depart, To wear impatiently a secret chain, To waste the untold riches of the heart— No more! Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn For human love[387]—and never quench that thirst; To pour the soul out, winning no return, O’er fragile idols, by delusion nursed— No more! On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean, To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead; To send our troubled spirits through the unseen, Intensely questioning for treasures fled— No more! Words of triumphant music! Bear we on The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air; Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done, To learn in joy,—to struggle, to despair— No more!

Where shall I find, in all this fleeting earth, This world of changes and farewells, a friend That will not fail me in his love and worth, Tender and firm, and faithful to the end? Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest— Long on vain idols its devotion shed; Some have forsaken, whom I loved the best, And some deceived, and some are with the dead. But thou, my Saviour! thou, my hope and trust, Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart; Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust, And fix on thee, th’ Unchanging One, my heart!

It is written on the rose, In its glory’s full array; Read what those buds disclose— “Passing away.” It is written on the skies Of the soft blue summer day; It is traced in sunset’s dyes— “Passing away.” It is written on the trees, As their young leaves glistening play, And on brighter things than these— “Passing away.” It is written on the brow Where the spirit’s ardent ray Lives, burns, and triumphs now— “Passing away.” It is written on the heart; Alas! that there Decay Should claim from Love a part— “Passing away.” Friends, friends!—oh! shall we meet In a land of purer day, Where lovely things and sweet Pass not away? Shall we know each other’s eyes, And the thoughts that in them lay When we mingled sympathies “Passing away?” Oh! if this may be so, Speed, speed, thou closing day! How blest from earth’s vain show To pass away!

“I in these flowery meads would be; These crystal streams should solace me; To whose harmonious bubbling noise I with my angle would rejoice; ... And angle on, and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave.” Isaac Walton.

Thou that hast loved so long and well The vale’s deep, quiet streams, Where the pure water-lilies dwell, Shedding forth tender gleams; And o’er the pool the May-fly’s wing Glances in golden eves of spring! Oh, lone and lovely haunts are thine! Soft, soft the river flows, Wearing the shadow of thy line, The gloom of alder-boughs; And in the midst a richer hue, One gliding vein of heaven’s own blue. And there but low sweet sounds are heard— The whisper of the reed, The plashing trout, the rustling bird, The scythe upon the mead; Yet, through the murmuring osiers near, There steals a step which mortals fear. ’Tis not the stag, that comes to lave At noon his panting breast; ’Tis not the bittern, by the wave Seeking her sedgy nest; The air is fill’d with summer’s breath, The young flowers laugh—yet look! ’tis Death! But if, where silvery currents rove, Thy heart, grown still and sage, Hath learn’d to read the words of love That shine o’er nature’s page; If holy thoughts thy guests have been Under the shade of willows green; Then, lover of the silent hour By deep lone waters pass’d! Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power, To cheer thee through the last; And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell, May’st calmly bid thy streams farewell.

“Ay, warrior, arm! and wear thy plume On a proud and fearless brow! I am the lord of the lonely tomb, And a mightier one than thou! “Bid thy soul’s love farewell, young chief— Bid her a long farewell! Like the morning’s dew shall pass that grief: Thou comest with me to dwell! “Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep, Thy steed o’er the breezy hill; But they bear thee on to a place of sleep, Narrow, and cold, and chill!” “Was the voice I heard thy voice, O Death! And is thy day so near? Then on the field shall my life’s last breath Mingle with victory’s cheer! “Banners shall float, with the trumpet’s note, Above me as I die! And the palm-tree wave o’er my noble grave, Under the Syrian sky. “High hearts shall burn in the royal hall, When the minstrel names that spot; And the eyes I love shall weep my fall.— Death, Death, I fear thee not!” “Warrior! thou bear’st a haughty heart, But I can bend its pride! How shouldst thou know that thy soul will part In the hour of victory’s tide? “It may be far from thy steel-clad bands That I shall make thee mine; It may be lone on the desert sands, Where men for fountains pine! “It may be deep amidst heavy chains, In some deep Paynim hold; I have slow, dull steps and lingering pains Wherewith to tame the bold!” “Death, Death! I go to a doom unblest, If this indeed must be; But the Cross is bound upon my breast, And I may not shrink for thee! “Sound, clarion! sound!—for my vows are given To the cause of the holy shrine; I bow my soul to the will of heaven, O Death!—and not to thine!”

Oh! if thou wilt not give thine heart, Give back my own to me; For if in thine I have no part, Why should mine dwell with thee?[389] Yet no! this mournful love of mine I will not from me cast; Let me but dream ’twill win me thine By its deep truth at last! Can aught so fond, so faithful, live Through years without reply? —Oh! if thy heart thou wilt not give, Give me a thought, a sigh!

“Time cannot teach forgetfulness, When grief’s full heart is fed by fame.”—Byron.

Thou shouldst have slept beneath the stately pines, And with th’ ancestral trophies of thy race; Thou that hast found, where alien tombs and shrines Speak of the past, a lonely dwelling-place! Far from thy brethren hath thy couch been spread, Thou bright young stranger midst the mighty dead! Yet to thy name a noble rite was given, Banner and dirge met proudly o’er thy grave, Under that old and glorious Grecian heaven, Which unto death so oft hath lit the brave: And thy dust blends with mould heroic there, With all that sanctifies the inspiring air. Vain voice of fame! sad sound for those that weep! For her, the mother, in whose bosom lone Thy childhood dwells—whose thoughts a record keep Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone; Of all thine early grace and gentle worth— A vernal promise, faded now from earth! But a bright memory claims a proud regret— A lofty sorrow finds its own deep springs Of healing balm; and she hath treasures yet Whose soul can number with love’s holy things, A name like thine! Now, past all cloud or spot, A gem is hers, laid up where change is not.

I am free!—I have burst through my galling chain, The life of young eagles is mine again; I may cleave with my bark the glad sounding sea, I may rove where the wind roves—my path is free! The streams dash in joy down the summer hill, The birds pierce the depths of the sky at will, The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze,— And is not my spirit as one of these? Oh! the green earth with its wealth of flowers, And the voices that ring through its forest bowers, And the laughing glance of the founts that shine, Lighting the valleys—all, all are mine! I may urge through the desert my foaming steed, The wings of the morning shall lend him speed; I may meet the storm in its rushing glee— Its blasts and its lightnings are not more free! Captive! and hast thou then rent thy chain? Art thou free in the wilderness, free on the main? Yes! there thy spirit may proudly soar, But must thou not mingle with throngs the more? The bird when he pineth, may hush his song, Till the hour when his heart shall again be strong; But thou—canst thou turn in thy woe aside, And weep, midst thy brethren? No, not for pride. May the fiery word from thy lip find way, When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring to day? May the care that sits in thy weary breast Look forth from thine aspect, the revel’s guest? No! with the shaft in thy bosom borne, Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn; Thou must fold thy mantle that none may see, And mask thee with laughter, and say thou art free. No! thou art chain’d till thy race is run, By the power of all in the soul of one; On thy heart, on thy lip, must the fetter be— Dreamer! fond dreamer! oh, who is free?

“La voila telle que la mort nous l’a faite.”—Bossuet.

’Twas a dream of olden days That Art, by some strange power, The visionary form could raise From the ashes of a flower. That a shadow of the rose, By its own meek beauty bow’d, Might slowly, leaf by leaf, unclose, Like pictures in a cloud. Or the hyacinth, to grace, As a second rainbow, spring; Of summer’s path a dreary trace, A fair, yet mournful thing! For the glory of the bloom That a flush around it shed, And the soul within, the rich perfume, Where were they? Fled, all fled! Naught but the dim, faint line To speak of vanish’d hours.— Memory! what are joys of thine? —Shadows of buried flowers!

Creature of air and light! Emblem of that which will not fade or die! Wilt thou not speed thy flight, To chase the south wind through the glowing sky? What lures thee thus to stay With silence and decay, Fix’d on the wreck of cold mortality? The thoughts once chamber’d there, Have gather’d up their treasures and are gone;— Will the dust tell thee where That which hath burst the prison-house is flown? Rise, nursling of the day! If thou wouldst trace its way— Earth has no voice to make the secret known. Who seeks the vanish’d bird Near the deserted nest and broken shell? Far thence, by us unheard, He sings, rejoicing in the woods to dwell: Thou of the sunshine born, Take the bright wings of morn! Thy hope springs heavenward from yon ruin’d cell.

When the tide’s billowy swell Had reach’d its height, Then toll’d the rock’s lone bell Sternly by night. Far over cliff and surge Swept the deep sound, Making each wild wind’s dirge Still more profound. Yet that funereal tone The sailor bless’d, Steering through darkness on With fearless breast. E’en so may we, that float On life’s wide sea, Welcome each warning note, Stern though it be![390]

“Thou stream, Whose source is inaccessibly profound, Whither do thy mysterious waters tend? —Thou imagest my life.”

Darkly thou glidest onward, Thou deep and hidden wave! The laughing sunshine hath not look’d Into thy secret cave. Thy current makes no music— A hollow sound we hear, A muffled voice of mystery, And know that thou art near. No brighter line of verdure Follows thy lonely way; No fairy moss, or lily’s cup Is freshen’d by thy play. The halcyon doth not seek thee, Her glorious wings to lave; Thou know’st no tint of the summer sky, Thou dark and hidden wave! Yet once will day behold thee, When to the mighty sea, Fresh bursting from their cavern’d veins, Leap thy lone waters free. There wilt thou greet the sunshine For a moment, and be lost, With all thy melancholy sounds, In the ocean’s billowy host. Oh! art thou not, dark river! Like the fearful thoughts untold Which haply, in the hush of night, O’er many a soul have roll’d? Those earth-born strange misgivings— Who hath not felt their power? Yet who hath breathed them to his friend, E’en in his fondest hour? They hold no heart-communion, They find no voice in song, They dimly follow far from earth The grave’s departed throng. Wild is their course and lonely, And fruitless in man’s breast; They come and go, and leave no trace Of their mysterious guest. Yet surely must their wanderings At length be like thy way; Their shadows, as thy waters, lost In one bright flood of day!

“For we are many in our solitudes.”—Lament of Tasso.

A mighty and a mingled throng Were gather’d in one spot; The dwellers of a thousand homes— Yet midst them voice was not. The soldier and his chief were there— The mother and her child: The friends, the sisters of one hearth— None spoke—none moved—none smiled. There lovers met, between whose lives Years had swept darkly by; After that heart-sick hope deferr’d, They met—but silently. You might have heard the rustling leaf, The breeze’s faintest sound, The shiver of an insect’s wing, On that thick-peopled ground. Your voice to whispers would have died For the deep quiet’s sake; Your tread the softest moss have sought, Such stillness not to break. What held the countless multitude Bound in that spell of peace? How could the ever-sounding life Amid so many cease? Was it some pageant of the air— Some glory high above, That link’d and hush’d those human souls In reverential love? Or did some burdening passion’s weight Hang on their indrawn breath? Awe—the pale awe that freezes words? Fear—the strong fear of death? A mightier thing—Death, Death himself Lay on each lonely heart! Kindred were there—yet hermits all, Thousands—but each apart.

O ever-joyous band Of revellers amidst the southern vines! On the pale marble, by some gifted hand, Fix’d in undying lines! Thou, with the sculptured bowl, And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath, And thou, from whose young lip and flute the soul Of music seems to breathe; And ye, luxuriant flowers! Linking the dancers with your graceful ties, And cluster’d fruitage, born of sunny hours, Under Italian skies: Ye, that a thousand springs, And leafy summers with their odorous breath, May yet outlast,—what do ye there, bright things! Mantling the place of death? Of sunlight and soft air, And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green, Unto the heart a glowing thought ye bear;— Why thus, where dust hath been? Is it to show how slight The bound that severs festivals and tombs, Music and silence, roses and the blight, Crowns and sepulchral glooms? Or, when the father laid Haply his child’s pale ashes here to sleep, When the friend visited the cypress shade Flowers o’er the dead to heap; Say if the mourners sought, In these rich images of summer mirth, These wine-cups and gay wreaths, to lose the thought Of our last hour on earth? Ye have no voice, no sound, Ye flutes and lyres! to tell me what I seek: Silent ye are, light forms with vine-leaves crown’d, Yet to my soul ye speak. Alas! for those that lay Down in the dust without their hope of old! Backward they look’d on life’s rich banquet-day, But all beyond was cold. Every sweet wood-note then, And through the plane-trees every sunbeam’s glow, And each glad murmur from the homes of men, Made it more hard to go. But we, when life grows dim, When its last melodies float o’er our way, Its changeful hues before us faintly swim, Its flitting lights decay;— E’en though we bid farewell Unto the spring’s blue skies and budding trees, Yet may we lift our hearts in hope to dwell Midst brighter things than these; And think of deathless flowers, And of bright streams to glorious valleys given, And know the while, how little dream of ours Can shadow forth of heaven.

Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman’s axe lies free, And the reaper’s work is done. The twilight star to heaven, And the summer dew to flowers, And rest to us, is given By the cool, soft evening hours. Sweet is the hour of rest! Pleasant the wind’s low sigh, And the gleaming of the west, And the turf whereon we lie; When the burden and the heat Of labour’s task are o’er, And kindly voices greet The tired one at his door. Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman’s axe lies free, And the reaper’s work is done. Yes! tuneful is the sound That dwells in whispering boughs; Welcome the freshness round, And the gale that fans our brows! But rest more sweet and still Than ever nightfall gave, Our yearning hearts shall fill In the world beyond the grave. There shall no tempest blow, No scorching noontide heat; There shall be no more snow,[393] No weary, wandering feet. So we lift our trusting eyes From the hills our fathers trode, To the quiet of the skies, To the Sabbath of our God. Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman’s axe lies free, And the reaper’s work is done.

Forget them not!—though now their name Be but a mournful sound, Though by the hearth its utterance claim A stillness round. Though for their sake this earth no more As it hath been may be, And shadows, never mark’d before, Brood o’er each tree; And though their image dim the sky, Yet, yet forget them not! Nor, where their love and life went by, Forsake the spot! They have a breathing influence there, A charm, not elsewhere found; Sad—yet it sanctifies the air, The stream, the ground. Then, though the wind an alter’d tone Through the young foliage bear, Though every flower, of something gone A tinge may wear; Oh! fly it not! No fruitless grief, Thus in their presence felt, A record links to every leaf There, where they dwelt. Still trace the path which knew their tread, Still tend their garden-bower, Still commune with the holy dead In each lone hour! The holy dead!—oh! bless’d we are, That we may call them so, And to their image look afar Through all our woe! Bless’d, that the things they loved on earth As relics we may hold, That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth By springs untold! Bless’d, that a deep and chastening power Thus o’er our souls is given, If but to bird, or song, or flower, Yet all for heaven!