MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Reading edition
LINES
WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE.
O wanderer! would thy heart forget Each earthly passion and regret, And would thy wearied spirit rise To commune with its native skies; Pause for a while, and deem it sweet To linger in this calm retreat; And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense, Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence. Unmix’d with aught of meaner tone, Here Nature’s voice is heard alone: When the loud storm, in wrathful hour, Is rushing on its wing of power, And spirits of the deep awake, And surges foam, and billows break, And rocks and ocean-caves around Reverberate each awful sound— That mighty voice, with all its dread control, To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul. But when no more the sea-winds rave, When peace is brooding on the wave, And from earth, air, and ocean rise No sounds but plaintive melodies; Soothed by their softly mingling swell, As daylight bids the world farewell, The rustling wood, the dying breeze, The faint low rippling of the seas, A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast, A gleam reflected from the realms of rest. Is thine a heart the world hath stung, Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung? Hast thou some grief that none may know, Some lonely, secret, silent woe? Or have thy fond affections fled From earth, to slumber with the dead?— Oh! pause awhile—the world disown, And dwell with Nature’s self alone! And though no more she bids arise Thy soul’s departed energies, And though thy joy of life is o’er, Beyond her magic to restore; Yet shall her spells o’er every passion steal, And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal.
DIRGE OF A CHILD.
No bitter tears for thee be shed, Blossom of being! seen and gone! With flowers alone we strew thy bed, O blest departed One! Whose all of life, a rosy ray, Blush’d into dawn and pass’d away. Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power To stain thy cherub-soul and form, Closed is the soft ephemeral flower That never felt a storm! The sunbeam’s smile, the zephyr’s breath, All that it knew from birth to death. Thou wert so like a form of light, That heaven benignly call’d thee hence, Ere yet the world could breathe one blight O’er thy sweet innocence: And thou, that brighter home to bless, Art pass’d, with all thy loveliness! Oh I hadst thou still on earth remain’d, Vision of beauty! fair, as brief! How soon thy brightness had been stain’d With passion or with grief! Now not a sullying breath can rise To dim thy glory in the skies. We rear no marble o’er thy tomb— No sculptured image there shall mourn; Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom Such dwelling to adorn. Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be The only emblems meet for thee. Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, Adorn’d with Nature’s brightest wreath; Each glowing season shall combine Its incense there to breathe; And oft, upon the midnight air, Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. And oh! sometimes in visions blest, Sweet spirit! visit our repose; And bear, from thine own world of rest, Some balm for human woes! What form more lovely could be given Than thine to messenger of heaven?[57]
INVOCATION.
Hush’d is the world in night and sleep— Earth, sea, and air are still as death; Too rude to break a calm so deep Were music’s faintest breath. Descend, bright visions! from aërial bowers, Descend to gild your own soft silent hours. In hope or fear, in toil or pain, The weary day have mortals pass’d; Now, dreams of bliss! be yours to reign, And all your spells around them cast; Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear, And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere. Oh, bear your softest balm to those Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead! To them that world of peace disclose Where the bright soul is fled: Whore Love, immortal in his native clime, Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time. Or to his loved, his distant land On your light wings the exile bear, To feel once more his heart expand In his own genial mountain-air; Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat, And bless each note, as heaven’s own music sweet. But oh! with fancy’s brightest ray, Blest dreams! the bard’s repose illume; Bid forms of heaven around him play, And bowers of Eden bloom! And waft his spirit to its native skies Who finds no charm in life’s realities. No voice is on the air of night, Through folded leaves no murmurs creep, Nor star nor moonbeam’s trembling light Falls on the placid brow of sleep. Descend, bright visions! from your airy bower: Dark, silent, solemn is your favourite hour.
TO THE MEMORY OF GENERAL SIR E—D P—K—M.[58]
Brave spirit! mourn’d with fond regret, Lost in life’s pride, in valour’s noon, Oh, who could deem thy star should set So darkly and so soon! Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind Which mark’d and closed thy brief career, And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined, Lies wither’d on thy bier. The soldier’s death hath been thy doom, The soldier’s tear thy mead shall be; Yet, son of war! a prouder tomb Might Fate have rear’d for thee. Thou shouldst have died, O high-soul’d chief! In those bright days of glory fled, When triumph so prevail’d o’er grief We scarce could mourn the dead. Noontide of fame! each tear-drop then Was worthy of a warrior’s grave: When shall affection weep again So proudly o’er the brave? There, on the battle-fields of Spain, Midst Roncesvalles’ mountain-scene, Or on Vitoria’s blood-red plain, Meet had thy deathbed been. We mourn not that a hero’s life Thus in its ardent prime should close; Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife, But died midst conquer’d foes! Yet hast thou still (though victory’s flame In that last moment cheer’d thee not) Left Glory’s isle another name, That ne’er may be forgot: And many a tale of triumph won Shall breathe that name in Memory’s ear, And long may England mourn a son Without reproach or fear.
TO THE MEMORY OF SIR H—Y E—LL—S,
WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
“Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around them.”—Ossian.
Weep’st thou for him, whose doom was seal’d On England’s proudest battle-field? For him, the lion-heart, who died In victory’s full resistless tide? Oh, mourn him not! By deeds like his that field was won, And Fate could yield to Valour’s son No brighter lot. He heard his band’s exulting cry, He saw the vanquish’d eagles fly; And envied be his death of fame! It shed a sunbeam o’er his name That nought shall dim: No cloud obscured his glory’s day, It saw no twilight of decay. Weep not for him! And breathe no dirge’s plaintive moan, A hero claims far loftier tone! Oh, proudly shall the war-song swell, Recording how the mighty fell In that dread hour, When England, midst the battle-storm— The avenging angel—rear’d her form In tenfold power. Yet, gallant heart! to swell thy praise, Vain were the minstrel’s noblest lays; Since he, the soldier’s guiding star, The Victor-chief, the lord of war, Has own’d thy fame: And oh! like his approving word, What trophied marble could record A warrior’s name?
GUERILLA SONG.
FOUNDED ON THE STORY RELATED OF THE SPANISH PATRIOT MINA.
Oh! forget not the hour when through forest and vale We return’d with our chief to his dear native halls; Through the woody sierra there sigh’d not a gale, And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement-walls; And nature lay sleeping in calmness and light, Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our sight. We enter’d that home—all was loneliness round, The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave; Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound: Ah, such was the welcome that waited the brave! For the spoilers had pass’d, like the poison-wind’s breath, And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death. Oh! forget not that hour—let its image be near, In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest, Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear, And rouse into vengeance each arm and each breast, Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine O’er the plains of the olive and hills of the vine.
THE AGED INDIAN.
Warriors! my noon of life is past, The brightness of my spirit flown; I crouch before the wintry blast, Amidst my tribe I dwell alone; The heroes of my youth are fled, They rest among the warlike dead. Ye slumberers of the narrow cave! My kindred chiefs in days of yore! Ye fill an unremember’d grave, Your fame, your deeds, are known no more. The records of your wars are gone, Your names forgot by all but one. Soon shall that one depart from earth, To join the brethren of his prime; Then will the memory of your birth Sleep with the hidden things of time. With him, ye sons of former days! Fades the last glimmering of your praise. His eyes, that hail’d your spirits’ flame, Still kindling in the combat’s shock, Have seen, since darkness veil’d your fame, Sons of the desert and the rock! Another and another race Rise to the battle and the chase. Descendants of the mighty dead! Fearless of heart, and firm of hand! Oh, let me join their spirits fled— Oh! send me to their shadowy land. Age hath not tamed Ontara’s heart— He shrinks not from the friendly dart. These feet no more can chase the deer, The glory of this arm is flown;— Why should the feeble linger here When all the pride of life is gone? Warriors! why still the stroke deny? Think ye Ontara fears to die? He fear’d not in his flower of days, When strong to stem the torrent’s force, When through the desert’s pathless maze His way was as an eagle’s course! When war was sunshine to his sight, And the wild hurricane delight! Shall, then, the warrior tremble now? Now when his envied strength is o’er— Hung on the pine his idle bow, His pirogue useless on the shore? When age hath dimm’d his failing eye, Shall he, the joyless, fear to die? Sons of the brave! delay no more— The spirits of my kindred call. ’Tis but one pang, and all is o’er! Oh, bid the aged cedar fall! To join the brethren of his prime, The mighty of departed time.
EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS.
Soft skies of Italy! how richly drest, Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glow! What glorious hues, reflected from the west, Float o’er the dwellings of eternal snow! Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep, Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam; Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep, Where pipes the goat-herd by his mountain-stream. Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray, That still at eve its lofty temple knows; From rock and torrent fade the tints away, And all is wrapt in twilight’s deep repose: While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper star, And roves the Alpine gale o’er solitudes afar.
DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN “WAVERLEY.”[59]
Son of the mighty and the free! High-minded leader of the brave! Was it for lofty chief like thee To fill a nameless grave? Oh! if amidst the valiant slain The warrior’s bier had been thy lot, E’en though on red Culloden’s plain, We then had mourn’d thee not. But darkly closed thy dawn of fame, That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair; Vengeance alone may breathe thy name, The watchword of Despair! Yet, oh! if gallant spirit’s power Hath e’er ennobled death like thine, Then glory mark’d thy parting hour, Last of a mighty line! O’er thy own towers the sunshine falls, But cannot chase their silent gloom; Those beams that gild thy native walls Are sleeping on thy tomb! Spring on thy mountains laughs the while, Thy green woods wave in vernal air, But the loved scenes may vainly smile: Not e’en thy dust is there. On thy blue hills no bugle-sound Is mingling with the torrent’s roar; Unmark’d, the wild deer sport around: Thou lead’st the chase no more! Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still, Those halls where peal’d the choral strain; They hear the wind’s deep murmuring thrill, And all is hush’d again. No banner from the lonely tower Shall wave its blazon’d folds on high; There the tall grass and summer flower Unmark’d shall spring and die. No more thy bard for other ear Shall wake the harp once loved by thine— Hush’d be the strain thou canst not hear, Last of a mighty line!
THE CRUSADERS’ WAR-SONG.
Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high— Lead on to Salem’s towers! Who would not deem it bliss to die, Slain in a cause like ours? The brave who sleep in soil of thine, Die not entomb’d but shrined, O Palestine! Souls of the slain in holy war! Look from your sainted rest. Tell us ye rose in Glory’s car, To mingle with the blest; Tell us how short the death-pang’s power, How bright the joys of your immortal bower. Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train! Pour forth your loftiest lays; Each heart shall echo to the strain Breathed in the warrior’s praise. Bid every string triumphant swell Th’ inspiring sounds that heroes love so well. Salem! amidst the fiercest hour, The wildest rage of fight, Thy name shall lend our falchions power, And nerve our hearts with might. Envied be those for thee that fall, Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall. For them no need that sculptured tomb Should chronicle their fame, Or pyramid record their doom, Or deathless verse their name; It is enough that dust of thine Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine! Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high For combat’s glorious hour; Soon shall the red-cross banner fly On Salem’s loftiest tower! We burn to mingle in the strife, Where but to die insures eternal life.
THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD.
[It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourning!” The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them.—See the Quarterly Review article of “Culloden Papers.”]
Oh, ne’er be Clanronald the valiant forgot! Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell; But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o’er the spot, We spared not one moment to murmur “Farewell.” We heard but the battle-word given by the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!” And wildly, Clanronald! we echo’d the vow, With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our hand; Young son of the brave! we may weep for thee now, For well has thy death been avenged by thy band, When they joined in wild chorus the cry of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!” Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle’s wild call, The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave; But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall, And the soft voice of melody sigh o’er thy grave— While Albyn remembers the words of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!” Thou art fallen, O fearless one! flower of thy race! Descendant of heroes! thy glory is set: But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase, Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet! Nor vainly have echo’d the words of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”
TO THE EYE.
Throne of expression! whence the spirit’s ray Pours forth so oft the light of mental day, Where fancy’s fire, affection’s mental beam, Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme, And many a feeling, words can ne’er impart, Finds its own language to pervade the heart: Thy power, bright orb! what bosom hath not felt, To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt! And, by some spell of undefined control, With magnet-influence touch the secret soul! Light of the features! in the morn of youth Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth; And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway, Hath taught e’en thee to flatter and betray, Th’ ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal, Or speak one thought that interest would conceal. While yet thou seem’st the cloudless mirror given But to reflect the purity of heaven, Oh! then how lovely, there unveil’d, to trace Th’ unsullied brightness of each mental grace! When Genius lends thee all his living light, Where the full beams of intellect unite; When love illumes thee with his varying ray, Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play; Or Pity’s melting cloud thy beam subdues, Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews; Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well, Bid some new feeling to existence start From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart. And oh! when thought, in ecstasy sublime, That soars triumphant o’er the bounds of time, Fires thy keen glance with inspiration’s blaze, The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days, (As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high, Flash through the mist of dim mortality;) Who does not own, that through thy lightning-beams A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams? That pure, though captive effluence of the sky, The vestal-ray, the spark that cannot die!
THE HERO’S DEATH.
Life’s parting beams were in his eye, Life’s closing accents on his tongue, When round him, pealing to the sky, The shout of victory rung! Then, ere his gallant spirit fled, A smile so bright illumed his face— Oh! never, of the light it shed, Shall memory lose a trace! His was a death whose rapture high Transcended all that life could yield; His warmest prayer was so to die, On the red battle-field! And they may feel, who loved him most, A pride so holy and so pure: Fate hath no power o’er those who boast A treasure thus secure!
STANZAS
ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.
[“Hélas! nous composions son histoire de tout ce qu’on peut imaginer de plus glorieux.... Le passé et le présent nous garantissoient l’avenir.... Telle étoit l’agréable histoire que nous faisions; et pour achever ces nobles projets, il n’y avoit que la durée de sa vie; dont nous ne croyions pas devoir être en peine, car qui eût pu seulement penser, que les années eussent dû manquer à une jeunesse qui sembloit si vive?”—Bossuet.]
I.
Mark’d ye the mingling of the city’s throng, Each mien, each glance, with expectation bright? Prepare the pageant and the choral song, The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light! And hark! what rumour’s gathering sound is nigh? Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep? Away! be hush’d, ye sounds of revelry! Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep! Weep! for the storm hath o’er us darkly pass’d, And England’s royal flower is broken by the blast!
II.
Was it a dream? so sudden and so dread That awful fiat o’er our senses came! So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled, Whose early grandeur promised years of fame? Oh! when hath life possess’d, or death destroy’d More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that smiled? When hath the spoiler left so dark a void? For all is lost—the mother and her child! Our morning-star hath vanish’d, and the tomb Throws its deep lengthen’d shade o’er distant years to come.
III.
Angel of Death! did no presaging sign Announce thy coming, and thy way prepare? No warning voice, no harbinger was thine, Danger and fear seem’d past—but thou wert there! Prophetic sounds along the earthquake’s path Foretell the hour of nature’s awful throes; And the volcano, ere it burst in wrath, Sends forth some herald from its dread repose: But thou, dark Spirit! swift and unforeseen, Cam’st like the lightning’s flash, when heaven is all serene.
IV.
And she is gone!—the royal and the young, In soul commanding, and in heart benign! Who, from a race of kings and heroes sprung, Glow’d with a spirit lofty as her line. Now may the voice she loved on earth so well Breathe forth her name unheeded and in vain; Nor can those eyes on which her own would dwell Wake from that breast one sympathy again: The ardent heart, the towering mind are fled, Yet shall undying love still linger with the dead.
V.
Oh, many a bright existence we have seen Quench’d in the glow and fulness of its prime; And many a cherish’d flower, ere now, hath been Cropt ere its leaves were breathed upon by time. We have lost heroes in their noon of pride, Whose fields of triumph gave them but a bier; And we have wept when soaring genius died, Check’d in the glory of his mid career! But here our hopes were centred—all is o’er: All thought in this absorb’d,—she was—and is no more!
VI.
We watch’d her childhood from its earliest hour, From every word and look blest omens caught; While that young mind developed all its power, And rose to energies of loftiest thought. On her was fix’d the patriot’s ardent eye— One hope still bloom’d, one vista still was fair; And when the tempest swept the troubled sky, She was our dayspring—all was cloudless there; And oh! how lovely broke on England’s gaze, E’en through the mist and storm, the fight of distant days.
VII.
Now hath one moment darken’d future years, And changed the track of ages yet to be!— Yet, mortal! midst the bitterness of tears, Kneel, and adore th’ inscrutable decree! Oh! while the clear perspective smiled in light, Wisdom should then have temper’d hope’s excess; And, lost One! when we saw thy lot so bright, We might have trembled at its loveliness. Joy is no earthly flower—nor framed to bear, In its exotic bloom, life’s cold, ungenial air.
VIII.
All smiled around thee: Youth, and Love, and Praise, Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine! On thee was riveted a nation’s gaze, As on some radiant and unsullied shrine. Heiress of empires! thou art pass’d away Like some fair vision, that arose to throw O’er one brief hour of life a fleeting ray, Then leave the rest to solitude and woe! Oh! who shall dare to woo such dreams again! Who hath not wept to know that tears for thee were vain?
IX.
Yet there is one who loved thee—and whose soul With mild affections nature form’d to melt; His mind hath bow’d beneath the stern control Of many a grief—but this shall be unfelt! Years have gone by—and given his honour’d head A diadem of snow; his eye is dim; Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spread— The past, the future, are a dream to him! Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone[60] He dwells on earth, while thou in life’s full pride art gone!
X.
The Chastener’s hand is on us—we may weep, But not repine—for many a storm hath pass’d, And, pillow’d on her own majestic deep, Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast! And War hath raged o’er many a distant plain, Trampling the vine and olive in his path; While she, that regal daughter of the main, Smiled in serene defiance of his wrath! As some proud summit, mingling with the sky, Hears calmly far below the thunders roll and die.
XI.
Her voice hath been th’ awakener—and her name The gathering-word of nations. In her might, And all the awful beauty of her fame, Apart she dwelt, in solitary light. High on her cliffs, alone and firm she stood, Fixing the torch upon her beacon-tower— That torch whose flame, far streaming o’er the flood, Hath guided Europe through her darkest hour. Away, vain dreams of glory!—in the dust Be humbled, Ocean-queen! and own thy sentence just!
XII.
Hark! ’twas the death-bell’s note! which, full and deep, Unmix’d with aught of less majestic tone, While all the murmurs of existence sleep, Swell’d on the stillness of the air alone! Silent the throngs that fill the darken’d street, Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart; And all is still, where countless thousands meet, Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart! All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene, As in each ravaged home th’ avenging one had been.
XIII.
The sun goes down in beauty—his farewell, Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright; And his last mellow’d rays around us dwell, Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight. They smile and fade—but, when the day is o’er, What slow procession moves with measured tread?— Lo! those who weep, with her who weeps no more, A solemn train—the mourners and the dead! While, throned on high, the moon’s untroubled ray Looks down, as earthly hopes are passing thus away.
XIV.
But other light is in that holy pile, Where, in the house of silence, kings repose; There, through the dim arcade and pillar’d aisle, The funeral torch its deep-red radiance throws. There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain, And all around the stamp of woe may bear; But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain, Grief unexpress’d, unsoothed by them—is there. No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns, Than when the all he loved, as dust, to dust returns.
XV.
We mourn—but not thy fate, departed One! We pity—but the living, not the dead; A cloud hangs o’er us[61]—“the bright day is done,” And with a father’s hopes, a nation’s fled. And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast, Whose soul with thine had mingled every thought— He, with thine early fond affections blest, Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught; What but a desert to his eye, that earth, Which but retains of thee the memory of thy worth?
XVI.
Oh! there are griefs for nature too intense, Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul; Nor hath the fragile and o’erlabour’d sense Strength e’en to feel at once their dread control. But when ’tis past, that still and speechless hour Of the seal’d bosom and the tearless eye, Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power To grasp the fulness of its agony! Its deathlike torpor vanish’d—and its doom, To cast its own dark hues o’er life and nature’s bloom.
XVII.
And such his lot whom thou hast loved and left, Spirit! thus early to thy home recall’d! So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft, A warrior’s heart, which danger ne’er appall’d. Years may pass on—and, as they roll along, Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend; And he once more, with life’s unheeding throng, May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend; Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory’s temple shrined.
XVIII.
Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal Aught from his grief whose spirit dwells with thee: Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may heal, But all it was—oh! never more shall be. The flower, the leaf, o’erwhelm’d by winter snow, Shall spring again, when beams and showers return, The faded cheek again with health may glow, And the dim eye with life’s warm radiance burn; But the pure freshness of the mind’s young bloom, Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the tomb.
XIX.
But thou! thine hour of agony is o’er, And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run; While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no more, Tells that thy crown—though not on earth—is won. Thou, of the world so early left, hast known Nought but the bloom and sunshine—and for thee, Child of propitious stars! for thee alone, The course of love ran smooth[62] and brightly free. Not long such bliss to mortal could be given: It is enough for earth to catch one glimpse of heaven.
XX.
What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame Rose in its glory on thine England’s eye, The grave’s deep shadows o’er thy prospect came? Ours is that loss—and thou wert blest to die! Thou mightst have lived to dark and evil years, To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o’ercast; But thy spring morn was all undimm’d by tears, And thou wert loved and cherish’d to the last! And thy young name, ne’er breathed in ruder tone, Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone.
XXI.
Daughter of Kings! from that high sphere look down Where still, in hope, affection’s thoughts may rise; Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown Which earth display’d to claim thee from the skies. Look down! and if thy spirit yet retain Memory of aught that once was fondly dear, Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn in vain, And in their hours of loneliness—be near! Blest was thy lot e’en here—and one faint sigh, Oh! tell those hearts, hath made that blest eternity![63]
EXTRACT FROM QUARTERLY REVIEW.
“The next volume in order consists principally of translations. It will give our readers some idea of Mrs Hemans’ acquaintance with books, to enumerate the authors from whom she has chosen her subjects;—they are Camoens, Metastasio, Filicaja, Pastorini, Lope de Vega, Francisco Manuel, Della Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Quevedo, Juan de Tarsis, Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesner, Chaulieu, Garcilaso de Vega—names embracing almost every language in which the muse has found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations are very pretty, but it would be less interesting to select any of them for citation, as our readers might not be possessed of or acquainted with the originals. We will pass on, therefore, to the latter part of the volume, which contains much that is very pleasing and beautiful. The poem which we are about to transcribe is on a subject often treated—and no wonder; it would be hard to find another which embraces so many of the elements of poetic feeling; so soothing a mixture of pleasing melancholy and pensive hope; such an assemblage of the ideas of tender beauty, of artless playfulness, of spotless purity, of transient yet imperishable brightness, of affections wounded, but not in bitterness, of sorrows gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted happiness. We know so little of the heart of man, that when we stand by the grave of him whom we deem most excellent, the thought of death will be mingled with some awe and uncertainty; but the gracious promises of scripture leave no doubt as to the blessedness of departed infants; and when we think what they now are and what they might have been, what they now enjoy and what they might have suffered, what they have now gained and what they might have lost, we may, indeed, yearn to follow them; but we must be selfish indeed to wish them again ‘constrained’ to dwell in these tenements of pain and sorrow. The ‘Dirge of a Child,’ which follows, embodies these thoughts and feelings, but in more beautiful order and language:—
“No bitter tears for thee be shed,” etc.—Vide page 55.
WALLACE’S INVOCATION TO BRUCE.[64]
“Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief!”
The morn rose bright on scenes renown’d, Wild Caledonia’s classic ground, Where the bold sons of other days Won their high fame in Ossian’s lays, And fell—but not till Carron’s tide With Roman blood was darkly dyed. The morn rose bright—and heard the cry Sent by exulting hosts on high, And saw the white-cross banner float (While rung each clansman’s gathering-note) O’er the dark plumes and serried spears Of Scotland’s daring mountaineers; As, all elate with hope, they stood, To buy their freedom with their blood. The sunset shone—to guide the flying, And beam a farewell to the dying! The summer moon, on Falkirk’s field, Streams upon eyes in slumber seal’d; Deep slumber—not to pass away When breaks another morning’s ray, Nor vanish when the trumpet’s voice Bids ardent hearts again rejoice: What sunbeam’s glow, what clarion’s breath, May chase the still cold sleep of death? Shrouded in Scotland’s blood-stain’d plaid, Low are her mountain-warriors laid; They fell, on that proud soil whose mould Was blent with heroes’ dust of old, And, guarded by the free and brave, Yielded the Roman—but a grave! Nobly they fell; yet with them died The warrior’s hope, the leader’s pride. Vainly they fell—that martyr host— All, save the land’s high soul, is lost. Blest are the slain! they calmly sleep, Nor hear their bleeding country weep! The shouts of England’s triumph telling Reach not their dark and silent dwelling; And those surviving to bequeath Their sons the choice of chains or death, May give the slumberer’s lowly bier An envying glance—but not a tear. But thou, the fearless and the free, Devoted Knight of Ellerslie! No vassal-spirit, form’d to bow When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow; No shade of fear or weak despair Blends with indignant sorrow there! The ray which streams on yon red field, O’er Scotland’s cloven helm and shield, Glitters not there alone, to shed Its cloudless beauty o’er the dead; But where smooth Carron’s rippling wave Flows near that deathbed of the brave, Illuming all the midnight scene, Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien. But other beams, O Patriot! shine In each commanding glance of thine, And other fight hath fill’d thine eye With inspiration’s majesty, Caught from th’ immortal flame divine Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine! Thy voice a prophet’s tone hath won, The grandeur Freedom lends her son; Thy bearing a resistless power, The ruling genius of the hour! And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride, Whom Carron’s waves from thee divide, Whose haughty gesture fain would seek To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek, Feels his reluctant mind controll’d By thine of more heroic mould: Though struggling all in vain to war With that high soul’s ascendant star, He, with a conqueror’s scornful eye, Would mock the name of Liberty. Heard ye the Patriot’s awful voice?— “Proud Victor! in thy fame rejoice! Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain, The harvest of the battle-plain, And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot Eternity shall cancel not? Rejoice!—with sounds of wild lament O’er her dark heaths and mountains sent, With dying moan and dirge’s wail, Thy ravaged country bids thee hail! Rejoice!—while yet exulting cries From England’s conquering host arise, And strains of choral triumph tell Her Royal Slave hath fought too well! Oh, dark the clouds of woe that rest Brooding o’er Scotland’s mountain-crest! Her shield is cleft, her banner torn, O’er martyr’d chiefs her daughters mourn, And not a breeze but wafts the sound Of wailing through the land around. Yet deem not thou, till life depart, High hope shall leave the patriot’s heart; Or courage to the storm inured, Or stern resolve by woes matured, Oppose, to Fate’s severest hour, Less than unconquerable power! No! though the orbs of heaven expire, Thine, Freedom! is a quenchless fire; And woe to him whose might would dare The energies of thy despair! No!—when thy chain, O Bruce! is cast O’er thy land’s charter’d mountain-blast, Then in my yielding soul shall die The glorious faith of Liberty!” “Wild hopes! o’er dreamer’s mind that rise!” With haughty laugh the Conqueror cries, (Yet his dark cheek is flush’d with shame, And his eye fill’d with troubled flame;) “Vain, brief illusions! doom’d to fly England’s red path of victory! Is not her sword unmatch’d in might? Her course a torrent in the fight? The terror of her name gone forth Wide o’er the regions of the north? Far hence, midst other heaths and snows, Must freedom’s footstep now repose. And thou—in lofty dreams elate, Enthusiast! strive no more with Fate! ’Tis vain—the land is lost and won: Sheathed be the sword—its task is done. Where are the chiefs that stood with thee First in the battles of the free? The firm in heart, in spirit high?— They sought yon fatal field to die. Each step of Edward’s conquering host Hath left a grave on Scotland’s coast.” “Vassal of England, yes! a grave Where sleep the faithful and the brave; And who the glory would resign Of death like theirs, for life like thine? They slumber—and the stranger’s tread May spurn thy country’s noble dead; Yet, on the land they loved so well, Still shall their burning spirit dwell, Their deeds shall hallow minstrel’s theme, Their image rise on warrior’s dream, Their names be inspiration’s breath, Kindling high hope and scorn of death, Till bursts, immortal from the tomb, The flame that shall avenge their doom! This is no land for chains—away! O’er softer climes let tyrants sway. Think’st thou the mountain and the storm Their hardy sons for bondage form? Doth our stern wintry blast instil Submission to a despot’s will? No! we were cast in other mould Than theirs by lawless power controll’d; The nurture of our bitter sky Calls forth resisting energy; And the wild fastnesses are ours, The rocks with their eternal towers. The soul to struggle and to dare Is mingled with our northern air, And dust beneath our soil is lying Of those who died for fame undying. “Tread’st thou that soil! and can it be No loftier thought is roused in thee? Doth no high feeling proudly start From slumber in thine inmost heart? No secret voice thy bosom thrill, For thine own Scotland pleading still? Oh! wake thee yet—indignant, claim A nobler fate, a purer fame, And cast to earth thy fetters riven, And take thine offer’d crown from heaven. Wake! in that high majestic lot May the dark past be all forgot; And Scotland shall forgive the field Where with her blood thy shame was seal’d. E’en I—though on that fatal plain Lies my heart’s brother with the slain; Though, reft of his heroic worth, My spirit dwells alone on earth; And when all other grief is past, Must this be cherish’d to the last— Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne, With faith unspotted as his own; Nor in thy noon of fame recall Whose was the guilt that wrought his fall.” Still dost thou hear in stern disdain? Are Freedom’s warning accents vain? No! royal Bruce! within thy breast Wakes each high thought, too long suppress’d. And thy heart’s noblest feelings live, Blent in that suppliant word—“Forgive!” “Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done! Wallace! thy fairest palm is won; And, kindling at my country’s shrine, My soul hath caught a spark from thine. Oh! deem not, in the proudest hour Of triumph and exulting power— Deem not the light of peace could find A home within my troubled mind. Conflicts by mortal eye unseen, Dark, silent, secret, there have been, Known but to Him whose glance can trace Thought to its deepest dwelling-place! —’Tis past—and on my native shore I tread, a rebel son no more. Too blest, if yet my lot may be In glory’s path to follow thee; If tears, by late repentance pour’d, May lave the blood-stains from my sword!” Far other tears, O Wallace! rise From the heart’s fountain to thine eyes; Bright, holy, and uncheck’d they spring, While thy voice falters, “Hail! my King! Be every wrong, by memory traced, In this full tide of joy effaced: Hail! and rejoice!—thy race shall claim A heritage of deathless fame, And Scotland shall arise at length Majestic in triumphant strength, An eagle of the rock, that won A way through tempests to the sun. Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand, The prophet-spirit of thy land: By torrent-wave, in desert vast, Those visions o’er my thought have pass’d; Where mountain vapours darkly roll, That spirit hath possess’d my soul; And shadowy forms have met mine eye. The beings of futurity; And a deep voice of years to be Hath told that Scotland shall be free! He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings! From thee the chief, th’ avenger springs! Far o’er the land he comes to save, His banners in their glory wave, And Albyn’s thousand harps awake On hill and heath, by stream and lake, To swell the strains that far around Bid the proud name of Bruce resound! And I—but wherefore now recall The whisper’d omens of my fall? They come not in mysterious gloom— There is no bondage in the tomb! O’er the soul’s world no tyrant reigns, And earth alone for man hath chains! What though I perish ere the hour When Scotland’s vengeance wakes in power? If shed for her, my blood shall stain The field or scaffold not in vain: Its voice to efforts more sublime Shall rouse the spirit of her clime; And in the noontide of her lot, My country shall forget me not!” Art thou forgot? and hath thy worth Without its glory pass’d from earth? Rest with the brave, whose names belong To the high sanctity of song! Charter’d our reverence to control, And traced in sunbeams on the soul, Thine, Wallace! while the heart hath still One pulse a generous thought can thrill— While youth’s warm tears are yet the meed Of martyr’s death or hero’s deed, Shall brightly live from age to age, Thy country’s proudest heritage! Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling, Thy deeds her mountain winds are telling, Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave, Thy step hath hallow’d rock and cave, And cold the wanderer’s heart must be That holds no converse there with thee! Yet, Scotland! to thy champion’s shade Still are thy grateful rites delay’d; From lands of old renown, o’erspread With proud memorials of the dead, The trophied urn, the breathing bust, The pillar guarding noble dust, The shrine where art and genius high Have labour’d for eternity— The stranger comes: his eye explores The wilds of thy majestic shores, Yet vainly seeks one votive stone Raised to the hero all thine own. Land of bright deeds and minstrel-lore! Withhold that guerdon now no more. On some bold height of awful form, Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm, Sublimely mingling with the skies, Bid the proud Cenotaph arise: Not to record the name that thrills Thy soul, the watchword of thy hills; Not to assert, with needless claim, The bright for ever of its fame; But, in the ages yet untold, When ours shall be the days of old, To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride In him, for thee who lived and died.
[These verses were thus critically noticed at the time of publication:—
“When we mentioned in the tent, that Mrs Hemans had authorised the judges who awarded to her the prize to send her poem to us, it is needless to say with what enthusiasm the proposal of reading it aloud was received on all sides; and at its conclusion thunders of applause crowned the genius of the fair poet. Scotland has her Baillie—Ireland her Tighe—England her Hemans.”—Blackwood’s Magazine, vol. v. Sept. 1819.
“Mrs Hemans so soon again!—and with a palm in her hand! We welcome her cordially, and rejoice to find the high opinion of her genius which we lately expressed so unequivocally confirmed.
“On this animating theme, (the meeting of Wallace and Bruce,) several of the competitors, we understand, were of the other side of the Tweed—a circumstance, we learn, which was known from the references before the prizes were determined. Mrs Hemans’s was the first prize, against fifty-seven competitors. That a Scottish prize, for a poem on a subject purely, proudly Scottish, has been adjudged to an English candidate, is a proof at once of the perfect fairness of the award, and of the merit of the poem. It further demonstrates the disappearance of those jealousies which, not a hundred years ago, would have denied to such a candidate any thing like a fair chance with a native—if we can suppose any poet in the south then dreaming of making the trial, or viewing Wallace in any other light than that of an enemy, and a rebel against the paramount supremacy of England. We delight in every gleam of high feeling which warms the two nations alike, and ripens yet more that confidence and sympathy which bind them together in one great family.”—Edin. Monthly Review, vol. ii.
The estimation into which the poetry of Mrs Hemans was rising at this time, (1819,) is indicated by the following passage, from a clever and not very lenient satire, entitled “Common Sense,” then published, and currently believed to have emanated from the pen of the Rev. Mr Terrot, now Diocesan Bishop of Edinburgh. When alluding to the female writers of the age, Miss Baillie is the first mentioned and characterised. He then proceeds—
——“Next I’d place Felicia Hemans, second in the race; I wonder the Reviews, who make such stir Oft about rubbish, never mention her. They might have said, I think, from mere good breeding— Mistress Felicia’s works are worth the reading.”
“Mrs Hemans,” adds the critical satirist in a note, “is a lady, (a young lady, I believe,) of very considerable merit. Her imagination is vigorous, her language copious and elegant, her information extensive. I have no means of ascertaining the extent of her fame, but she certainly deserves well of the republic of letters.”
The worthy bishop has lived to read “The Records of Woman;” and, we have no doubt, rejoices to know that the aspirant of 1819 has now taken her place among British classics.]