Part 2 — Scene II.—Another part of the Prison.

Ed. Herbert! my Herbert! is it thus we meet? Her. The voice of my own Edith! Can such joy Light up this place of death! And do I feel Thy breath of love once more upon my cheek, And the soft floating of thy gleamy hair, My blessed Edith? Oh, so pale! so changed! My flower, my blighted flower! thou that wert made For the kind fostering of sweet, summer airs, How hath the storm been with thee? Lay thy head On this true breast again, my gentle one! And tell me all. Ed. Yes! take me to thy heart, For I am weary, weary! Oh! that heart! The kind, the brave, the tender!—how my soul Hath sicken’d in vain yearnings for the balm Of rest on that warm heart!—full, deep repose! One draught of dewy stillness after storm! And God hath pitied me, and I am here— Yet once before I die. Her. They cannot slay One young, and meek, and beautiful as thou, My broken lily! Surely the long days Of the dark cell have been enough for thee! Oh! thou shalt live, and raise thy gracious head Yet in calm sunshine. Ed. Herbert! I have cast The snare of proferr’d mercy from my soul, This very hour. God to the weak hath given Victory o’er life and death. The tempter’s price Hath been rejected—Herbert, I must die. Her. O Edith! Edith! I, that led thee first From the old path wherein thy fathers trod— I, that received it as an angel’s task, To pour the fresh light on thine ardent soul, Which drank it as a sunflower—I have been Thy guide to death. Ed. To heaven! my guide to heaven, My noble and my blessed! Oh! look up, Be strong, rejoice, my Herbert! But for thee, How could my spirit have sprung up to God Through the dark cloud which o’er its vision hung, The night of fear and error?—thy dear hand First raised that veil, and show’d the glorious world My heritage beyond. Friend! love, and friend! It was as if thou gavest me mine own soul In those bright days! Yes! a new earth and heaven, And a new sense for all their splendours born— These were thy gifts; and shall I not rejoice To die, upholding their immortal worth, Even for thy sake? Yes! fill’d with nobler life By thy pure love, made holy to the truth, Lay me upon the altar of thy God, The first fruits of thy ministry below— Thy work, thine own! Her. My love, my sainted love! Oh! I can almost yield thee unto heaven; Earth would but sully thee! Thou must depart, With the rich crown of thy celestial gifts Untainted by a breath. And yet, alas! Edith! what dreams of holy happiness, Even for this world, were ours!—the low sweet home, The pastoral dwelling, with its ivied porch, And lattice gleaming through the leaves—and thou My life’s companion! Thou, beside my hearth, Sitting with thy meek eyes, or greeting me Back from brief absence with thy bounding step, In the green meadow-path, or by my side Kneeling—thy calm uplifted face to mine, In the sweet hush of prayer! And now—oh, now!— How have we loved—how fervently! how long! And this to be the close! Ed. Oh! bear me up Against the unutterable tenderness Of earthly love, my God!—in the sick hour Of dying human hope, forsake me not! Herbert, my Herbert! even from that sweet home Where it had been too much of Paradise To dwell with thee—even thence the oppressor’s hand Might soon have torn us; or the touch of death Might one day there have left a widow’d heart, Pining alone. We will go hence, beloved! To the bright country where the wicked cease From troubling, where the spoiler hath no sway; Where no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs The Sabbath-peace of love. We will go hence, Together with our wedded souls, to heaven: No solitary lingering, no cold void, No dying of the heart! Our lives have been Lovely through faithful love, and in our deaths We will not be divided. Her. Oh! the peace Of God is lying far within thine eyes, Far underneath the mist of human tears Lighting those blue, still depths, and sinking thence On my worn heart. Now am I girt with strength, Now I can bless thee, my true bride for heaven! Ed. And let me bless thee, Herbert!—in this hour Let my soul bless thee with prevailing might! Oh! thou hast loved me nobly! thou didst take An orphan to thy heart—a thing unprized And desolate; and thou didst guard her there, That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl Of richest price; and thou didst fill her soul With the high gifts of an immortal wealth. I bless, I bless thee! Never did thine eye Look on me but in glistening tenderness, My gentle Herbert! Never did thy voice But in affection’s deepest music speak To thy poor Edith! Never was thy heart Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine, My faithful, generous Herbert! Woman’s peace Ne’er on a breast so tender and so true Reposed before. Alas! thy showering tears Fall fast upon my cheek—forgive, forgive! I should not melt thy noble strength away In such an hour. Her. Sweet Edith, no! my heart Will fail no more. God bears me up through thee, And by thy words, and by thy heavenly light Shining around thee, through thy very tears, Will yet sustain me! Let us call on Him! Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft, Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him, Th’ all-pitying One, to aid. [They kneel. Oh, look on us, Father above!—in tender mercy look On us, thy children!—through th’ o’ershadowing cloud Of sorrow and mortality, send aid— Save, or we perish! We would pour our lives Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth; But we are weak—we, the bruised reeds of earth, Are sway’d by every gust. Forgive, O God! The blindness of our passionate desires, The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts Which cleave to dust! Forgive the strife; accept The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears, From mortal pangs wrung forth! And if our souls, In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess, Of their long-clasping love, have wander’d not, Holiest! from thee—oh! take them to thyself, After the fiery trial—take them home To dwell, in that imperishable bond Before thee link’d, for ever. Hear!—thro’ Him Who meekly drank the cup of agony, Who pass’d through death to victory, hear and save! Pity us, Father! we are girt with snares: Father in Heaven! we have no help but thee. [They rise. Is thy soul strengthen’d, my beloved one? O Edith! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice, And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn We loved in happier days—the strain which tells Of the dread conflict in the olive shade?

He knelt, the Saviour knelt and pray’d, When but his Father’s eye Look’d through the lonely garden’s shade On that dread agony; The Lord of all above, beneath, Was bow’d with sorrow unto death. The sun set in a fearful hour, The stars might well grow dim, When this mortality had power So to o’ershadow Him! That He who gave man’s breath, might know The very depths of human woe. He proved them all!—the doubt, the strife, The faint perplexing dread, The mists that hang o’er parting life, All gather’d round his head; And the Deliverer knelt to pray— Yet pass’d it not, that cup, away! It pass’d not—though the stormy wave Had sunk beneath his tread; It pass’d not—though to Him the grave Had yielded up its dead. But there was sent him from on High A gift of strength for man to die. And was the Sinless thus beset With anguish and dismay? How may we meet our conflict yet, In the dark, narrow way? Through Him—through Him that path who trod. —Save, or we perish, Son of God! Hark, hark! the parting signal. [Prison attendants enter. Fare thee well! O thou unutterably loved, farewell! Let our hearts bow to God! Her. One last embrace— On earth the last! We have eternity For love’s communion yet! Farewell!—farewell! [She is led out. ’Tis o’er!—the bitterness of death is past!

“Once when I look’d along the laughing earth, Up the blue heavens and through the middle air, Joyfully ringing with the skylark’s song, I wept! and thought how sad for one so young To bid farewell to so much happiness. But Christ hath call’d me from this lower world, Delightful though it be.” Wilson.

Mother. Hush! lightly tread! Still tranquilly she sleeps, As when a babe I rock’d her on my heart. I’ve watch’d, suspending e’en my breath, in fear To break the heavenly spell. Move silently! And oh! those flowers! Dear Jessy! bear them hence— Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears That shook her trembling frame, when last we brought The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know What sudden longings for the woods and hills, Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly, These leaves and odours with strange influence wake In her fast-kindled soul? Jessy. Oh! she would pine, Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld, Mother! far more than now her spirit yearns For the blue sky, the singing birds and brooks, And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome spring Their blooms recall. Lilian, (raising herself.) Is that my Jessy’s voice It woke me not, sweet mother! I had lain Silently, visited by waking dreams, Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness, Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought flowers? Nay, fear not now thy fond child’s waywardness, My thoughtful mother!—in her chasten’d soul The passion-colour’d images of life, Which, with their sudden, startling flush, awoke So oft those burning tears, have died away; And night is there—still, solemn, holy night! With all her stars, and with the gentle tune Of many fountains, low and musical, By day unheard. Mother. And wherefore night, my child? Thou art a creature all of life and dawn, And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise, And walk forth with the dayspring. Lilian. Hope it not! Dream it no more, my mother!—there are things Known but to God, and to the parting soul, Which feels His thrilling summons. But my words Too much o’ershadow those kind, loving eyes. Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step, Well do I see, hath not alone explored The garden bowers, but freely visited Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet Is from the cool, green, shadowy river-nook, Where the stream chimes around th’ old mossy stones With sounds like childhood’s laughter. Is that spot Lovely as when our glad eyes hail’d it first? Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep The clear brown wave with every passing wind? And through the shallower waters, where they lie Dimpling in light, do the vein’d pebbles gleam Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies, From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still Among the poplar-boughs? Jessy. All, all is there Which glad midsummer’s wealthiest hours can bring; All, save the soul of all, thy lightning-smile! Therefore I stood in sadness midst the leaves, And caught an under-music of lament In the stream’s voice. But Nature waits thee still, And for thy coming piles a fairy throne Of richest moss. Lilian. Alas! it may not be! My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly To all these blessed haunts of song and thought; Yet not the less I love to look on these, Their dear memorials,—strew them o’er my couch Till it grow like a forest-bank in spring, All flush’d with violets and anemones. Ah! the pale brier-rose! touch’d so tenderly, As a pure ocean-shell, with faintest red, Melting away to pearliness! I know How its long, light festoons o’erarching hung From the gray rock that rises altar-like, With its high, waving crown of mountain-ash, Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough Of honey’d woodbine tells me of the oak, Whose deep, midsummer gloom sleeps heavily, Shedding a verdurous twilight o’er the face Of the glade’s pool. Methinks I see it now; I look up through the stirring of its leaves Unto the intense blue, crystal firmament. The ringdove’s wing is flitting o’er my head, Casting at times a silvery shadow down Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful! How beautiful is all this fair, free world Under God’s open sky! Mother. Thou art o’erwrought Once more, my child! The dewy, trembling light Presaging tears, again is in thine eye. Oh, hush, dear Lilian! turn thee to repose. Lilian. Mother! I cannot. In my soul the thoughts Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire; Importunately to my lips they throng, And with their earthly kindred seek to blend Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone— (For I must go)—then the remember’d words Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth, Will to thy fond heart be as amulets Held there, with life and love. And weep not thus, Mother! dear sister!—kindest, gentlest ones! Be comforted that now I weep no more For the glad earth and all the golden light Whence I depart. No! God hath purified my spirit’s eye, And in the folds of this consummate rose I read bright prophecies. I see not there, Dimly and mournfully, the word “farewell” On the rich petals traced. No—in soft veins And characters of beauty, I can read— “Look up, look heavenward!” Blessed God of Love! I thank Thee for these gifts, the precious links Whereby my spirit unto Thee is drawn! I thank Thee that the loveliness of earth Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these But germs of things unperishing, that bloom Beside th’ immortal streams? Shall I not find The lily of the field, the Saviour’s flower, In the serene and never-moaning air, And the clear starry light of angel eyes, A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far Will not the violet’s dusky purple glow, When it hath ne’er been press’d to broken hearts, A record of lost love? Mother. My Lilian! thou Surely in thy bright life hast little known Of lost things or of changed! Lilian. Oh! little yet, For thou hast been my shield! But had it been My lot on this world’s billows to be thrown Without thy love, O mother! there are hearts So perilously fashion’d, that for them God’s touch alone hath gentleness enough To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!— We will not speak of this! By what strange spell Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers, I dream of music? Something in their hues, All melting into colour’d harmonies, Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords, Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die In tenderest falls away. Oh, bring thy harp, Sister! A gentle heaviness at last Hath touch’d mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep Will come again. Jessy. What wouldst thou hear?—the Italian peasant’s lay, Which makes the desolate Campagna ring With “Roma! Roma!” or the madrigal Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily? Or the old ditty left by troubadours To girls of Languedoc? Lilian. Oh, no! not these. Jessy. What then?—the Moorish melody still known Within the Alhambra city? or those notes Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile’s heart Even unto death? Lilian. No, sister! nor yet these— Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret, Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes In the caressing sweetness of their tones, For one who dies. They would but woo me back To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds— And vainly, vainly. No! a loftier strain, A deeper music!—something that may bear The spirit upon slow yet mighty wings, Unsway’d by gusts of earth; something all fill’d With solemn adoration, tearful prayer. Sing me that antique strain which once I deem’d Almost too sternly simple, too austere In its grave majesty! I love it now— Now it seems fraught with holiest power to hush All billows of the soul, e’en like His voice That said of old—“Be still!” Sing me that strain, “The Saviour’s dying hour.” Jessy sings to the Harp. O Son of Man! In thy last mortal hour Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully! All that on us is laid, All the deep gloom, The desolation and the abandonment, The dark amaze of death— All upon thee too fell, Redeemer! Son of Man! But the keen pang Wherewith the silver cord Of earth’s affection from the soul is wrung; The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown Into the quick, strong heart; This, this—the passion and the agony Of battling love and death, Surely was not for thee, Holy One! Son of God! Yes, my Redeemer! E’en this cup was thine! Fond, wailing voices call’d thy spirit back: E’en midst the mighty thoughts Of that last crowning hour— E’en on thine awful way to victory, Wildly they call’d thee back! And weeping eyes of love Unto thy heart’s deep core Pierced through the folds of death’s mysterious veil. Suffer! thou Son of Man! Mother-tears were mingled With thy costly blood-drops, In the shadow of the atoning cross; And the friend, the faithful, He that on thy bosom Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain— He, a pale sad watcher, Met with looks of anguish All the anguish in thy last meek glance— Dying Son of Man! Oh! therefore unto thee, Thou that hast known all woes Bound in the girdle of mortality! Thou that wilt lift the reed Which storms have bruised, To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry, And, in that tempest-hour, when love and life Mysteriously must part, When tearful eyes Are passionately bent To drink earth’s last fond meaning from our gaze, Then, then forsake us not! Shed on our spirits then The faith and deep submissiveness of thine! Thou that didst love Thou that didst weep and die— Thou that didst rise a victor glorified; Conqueror! thou Son of God!

“They dreamt not of a perishable home Who thus could build. Be mine in hours of fear Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here.” Wordsworth.

A dim and mighty minster of old time! A temple shadowy with remembrances Of the majestic past! The very light Streams with a colouring of heroic days In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back To other years!—and the rich fretted roof, And the wrought coronals of summer leaves, Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose— The tenderest image of mortality— Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves;—all these things Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly, On their heart’s worship pour’d a wealth of love! Honour be with the dead! The people kneel Under the helms of antique chivalry, And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, And midst the forms, in pale, proud slumber carved, Of warriors on their tombs. The people kneel Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell’d crowns On the flush’d brows of conquerors have been set; Where the high anthems of old victories Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain thoughts! Memories of power and pride, which long ago, Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk In twilight-depths away. Return, my soul! The Cross recalls thee. Lo! the blessed Cross! High o’er the banners and the crests of earth, Fix’d in its meek and still supremacy! And lo! the throng of beating human hearts, With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, All their full treasures of immortal hope, Gather’d before their God! Hark! how the flood Of the rich organ-harmony bears up Their voice on its high waves!—a mighty burst! A forest-sounding music! Every tone Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings From gulfs of tossing foliage, there is blent: And the old minster—forest-like itself— With its long avenues of pillar’d shade, Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain O’erflows its dim recesses, leaving not One tomb unthrill’d by the strong sympathy Answering the electric notes. Join, join, my soul! In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness, And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn. Rise like an altar-fire! In solemn joy aspire, Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain! On thy strong rushing wind Bear up from humankind Thanks and implorings—be they not in vain! Father, which art on high! Weak is the melody Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear, Unless the heart be there, Winging the words of prayer With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear. Let, then, thy Spirit brood Over the multitude— Be thou amidst them, thro’ that heavenly Guest! So shall their cry have power To win from thee a shower Of healing gifts for every wounded breast. What griefs that make no sign, That ask no aid but thine, Father of mercies! here before thee swell! As to the open sky, All their dark waters lie To thee reveal’d, in each close bosom-cell. The sorrow for the dead, Mantling its lonely head From the world’s glare, is, in thy sight, set free; And the fond, aching love, Thy minister to move All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee. And doth not thy dread eye Behold the agony In that most hidden chamber of the heart, Where darkly sits remorse, Beside the secret source Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart? Yes! here before thy throne Many—yet each alone— To thee that terrible unveiling make: And still, small whispers clear Are startling many an ear, As if a trumpet bade the dead awake. How dreadful is this place! The glory of thy face Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight. Where shall the guilty flee? Over what far-off sea? What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light? Not to the cedar-shade Let his vain flight be made; Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea; What, but the Cross, can yield The hope—the stay—the shield? Thence may the Atoner lead him up to thee! Be thou, be thou his aid! Oh, let thy love pervade The haunted caves of self-accusing thought! There let the living stone Be cleft—the seed be sown— The song of fountains from the silence brought! So shall thy breath once more Within the soul restore Thine own first image—Holiest and Most High! As a clear lake is fill’d With hues of heaven, instill’d Down to the depths of its calm purity. And if, amidst the throng Link’d by the ascending song, There are whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar; Thanks, Father! that the power Of joy, man’s early dower, Thus, e’en midst tears, can fervently adore! Thanks for each gift divine! Eternal praise be thine, Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer! Let the hymn pierce the sky, And let the tombs reply! For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there.

“Move along these shades In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.”—Wordsworth.

Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime And chestnut boughs, and those long arching sprays Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood Were all one picture! Father. Hast thou heard, my boy, The peasant’s legend of that quivering tree? Child. No, father: doth he say the fairies dance Amidst the branches? Father. Oh! a cause more deep, More solemn far, the rustic doth assign To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves! The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon The meek Redeemer bow’d his head to death, Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour, Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe, Making them tremulous, when not a breeze Disturbs the airy thistle-down, or shakes The light lines of the shining gossamer. Child., (after a pause.) Dost thou believe it, father? Father. Nay, my child, We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now, With something of a lingering love, I read The characters, by that mysterious hour, Stamp’d on the reverential soul of man In visionary days; and thence thrown back On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven, The woodman and the mountaineer can trace On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so! They do not wisely that, with hurried hand, Would pluck these salutary fancies forth From their strong soil within the peasant’s breast, And scatter them—far, far too fast!—away As worthless weeds. Oh! little do we know When they have soothed, when saved! But come, dear boy! My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee. Come—let us search for violets. Child. Know you not More of the legends which the woodmen tell Amidst the trees and flowers? Father. Wilt thou know more? Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-brown stains There—by the mossy roots of yon old beech, Midst the rich tuft of cowslips—see’st thou not? There is a spray of woodbine from the tree Just bending o’er it with a wild bee’s weight. Child. The Arum leaf? Father. Yes. These deep inwrought marks, The villager will tell thee, (and with voice Lower’d in his true heart’s reverent earnestness,) Are the flower’s portion from th’ atoning blood On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew; And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf, Catching from that dread shower of agony A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains, A heritage, for storm or vernal wind Never to waft away! And hast thou seen The passion-flower? It grows not in the woods, But midst the bright things brought from other climes. Child. What! the pale star-shaped flower, with purple streaks, And light green tendrils? Father. Thou hast mark’d it well. Yes! a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower, As from a land of spirits! To mine eye Those faint, wan petals—colourless, and yet Not white, but shadowy—with the mystic lines (As letters of some wizard language gone) Into their vapour-like transparence wrought, Bear something of a strange solemnity, Awfully lovely!—and the Christian’s thought Loves, in their cloudy penciling, to find Dread symbols of his Lord’s last mortal pangs Set by God’s hand—the coronal of thorns— The cross, the wounds—with other meanings deep Which I will teach thee when we meet again That flower, the chosen for the martyr’s wreath, The Saviour’s holy flower. But let us pause: Now have we reach’d the very inmost heart Of the old wood. How the green shadows close Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round, A luxury of gloom! Scarce doth one ray, Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal O’er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades; Or if it doth, ’tis with a mellow’d hue Of glow-worm colour’d light. Here, in the days Of pagan visions, would have been a place For worship of the wood-nymphs! Through these oaks A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown The quivering image of its Dorian shafts On the stream’s bosom, or a sculptured form, Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom, Have bow’d its head o’er that dark crystal down, Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops Under bright rain. But we, my child, are here With God, our God, a Spirit, who requires Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth; And this high knowledge—deep, rich, vast enough To fill and hallow all the solitude— Makes consecrated earth where’er we move, Without the aid of shrines. What! dost thou feel The solemn whispering influence of the scene Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw More closely to my side, and clasp my hand Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child! ’Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here, Where brooding violets mantle this green slope With dark exuberance; and beneath these plumes Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds In its pure, crimson goblets, fresh and bright, The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile, And let me hear once more the woodland verse I taught thee late—’twas made for such a scene. Child speaks.

Broods there some spirit here? The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud; And o’er the pools, all still and darkly clear, The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow’d; And something of a tender cloistral gloom Deepens the violet’s bloom. The very light that streams Through the dim, dewy veil of foliage round Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams— As if it knew the place were holy ground; And would not startle, with too bright a burst, Flowers, all divinely nursed. Wakes there some spirit here? A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing by; And leaves and waters, in its wild career, Shed forth sweet voices—each a mystery! Surely some awful influence must pervade These depths of trembling shade! Yes! lightly, softly move! There is a power, a presence in the woods; A viewless being that, with life and love, Informs the reverential solitudes: The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod— Thou—thou art here, my God! And if with awe we tread The minster-floor, beneath the storied pane, And, midst the mouldering banners of the dead, Shall the green, voiceful wild seem less thy fane, Where thou alone hast built?—where arch and roof Are of thy living woof? The silence and the sound, In the lone places, breathe alike of thee; The temple-twilight of the gloom profound, The dew-cup of the frail anemone, The reed by every wandering whisper thrill’d— All, all with thee are fill’d! Oh! purify mine eyes, More and yet more, by love and lowly thought, Thy presence, holiest One! to recognise In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought And, midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear Ever thy voice to hear! And sanctify my heart To meet the awful sweetness of that tone With no faint thrill or self-accusing start, But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own— Joy, such as dwelt in Eden’s glorious bowers Ere sin had dimm’d the flowers. Let me not know the change O’er nature thrown by guilt!—the boding sky, The hollow leaf-sounds ominous and strange, The weight wherewith the dark tree-shadows lie! Father! oh! keep my footsteps pure and free, To walk the woods with thee!

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

Night—holy night—the time For mind’s free breathings in a purer clime! Night!—when in happier hour the unveiling sky Woke all my kindled soul To meet its revelations, clear and high, With the strong joy of immortality! Now hath strange sadness wrapp’d me, strange and deep— And my thoughts faint, and shadows o’er them roll, E’en when I deem’d them seraph-plumed, to sweep Far beyond earth’s control. Wherefore is this? I see the stars returning, Fire after fire in heaven’s rich temple burning: Fast shine they forth—my spirit-friends, my guides, Bright rulers of my being’s inmost tides; They shine—but faintly, through a quivering haze: Oh! is the dimness mine which clouds those rays? They from whose glance my childhood drank delight! A joy unquestioning—a love intense— They that, unfolding to more thoughtful sight The harmony of their magnificence, Drew silently the worship of my youth To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth; Shall they shower blessing, with their beams divine, Down to the watcher on the stormy sea, And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine, And to the wanderer lone On wastes of Afric thrown, And not to me? Am I a thing forsaken? And is the gladness taken From the bright-pinion’d nature which hath soar’d Through realms by royal eagle ne’er explored, And, bathing there in streams of fiery light, Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite? And now an alien! Wherefore must this be? How shall I rend the chain? How drink rich life again From those pure urns of radiance, welling free? —Father of Spirits! let me turn to thee! Oh! if too much exulting in her dower, My soul, not yet to lowly thought subdued, Hath stood without thee on her hill of power— A fearful and a dazzling solitude! And therefore from that haughty summit’s crown To dim desertion is by thee cast down; Behold! thy child submissively hath bow’d— Shine on him through the cloud! Let the now darken’d earth and curtain’d heaven Back to his vision with thy face be given! Bear him on high once more, But in thy strength to soar, And wrapt and still’d by that o’ershadowing might, Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chasten’d sight. Or if it be that, like the ark’s lone dove, My thoughts go forth, and find no resting-place, No sheltering home of sympathy and love In the responsive bosoms of my race, And back return, a darkness and a weight, Till my unanswer’d heart grows desolate— Yet, yet sustain me, Holiest!—I am vow’d To solemn service high; And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow’d, Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary, Fainting beneath the burden of the day, Because no human tone Unto the altar-stone Of that pure spousal fane inviolate, Where it should make eternal truth its mate, May cheer the sacred, solitary way? Oh! be the whisper of thy voice within Enough to strengthen! Be the hope to win A more deep-seeing homage for thy name, Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame! Make me thine only!—Let me add but one To those refulgent steps all undefiled, Which glorious minds have piled Through bright self-offering, earnest, childlike, lone, For mounting to thy throne! And let my soul, upborne On wings of inner morn, Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense Of that bless’d work, its own high recompense. The dimness melts away That on your glory lay, O ye majestic watchers of the skies! Through the dissolving veil, Which made each aspect pale, Your gladdening fires once more I recognise; And once again a shower Of hope, and joy, and power, Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes. And if that splendour to my sober’d sight Come tremulous, with more of pensive light— Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught With more that pierces through each fold of thought Than I was wont to trace On heaven’s unshadow’d face— Be it e’en so!—be mine, though set apart Unto a radiant ministry, yet still A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart, Bow’d before thee, O Mightiest! whose bless’d will All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil.[422]

Father! guide me! Day declines, Hollow winds are in the pines; Darkly waves each giant bough O’er the sky’s last crimson glow: Hush’d is now the convent’s bell, Which erewhile with breezy swell From the purple mountains bore Greeting to the sunset-shore. Now the sailor’s vesper-hymn Dies away. Father! in the forest dim, Be my stay! In the low and shivering thrill Of the leaves that late hung still; In the dull and muffled tone Of the sea-wave’s distant moan; In the deep tints of the sky, There are signs of tempests nigh. Ominous, with sullen sound, Falls the closing dusk around. Father! through the storm and shade O’er the wild, Oh! be Thou the lone one’s aid— Save thy child! Many a swift and sounding plume Homewards, through the boding gloom, O’er my way hath flitted fast Since the farewell sunbeam pass’d From the chestnut’s ruddy bark, And the pools, now lone and dark, Where the wakening night-winds sigh Through the long reeds mournfully. Homeward, homeward, all things haste— God of might! Shield the homeless midst the waste! Be his light! In his distant cradle-nest, Now my babe is laid to rest; Beautiful its slumber seems With a glow of heavenly dreams— Beautiful, o’er that bright sleep. Hang soft eyes of fondness deep, Where his mother bends to pray For the loved and far away. Father! guard that household bower, Hear that prayer! Back, through thine all-guiding power, Lead me there! Darker, wilder grows the night; Not a star sends quivering light Through the massy arch of shade By the stern, old forest made. Thou! to whose unslumbering eyes All my pathway open lies, By thy Son who knew distress In the lonely wilderness, Where no roof to that bless’d head Shelter gave— Father! through the time of dread, Save—oh, save!

Agnes. Surely ’tis all a dream—a fever-dream! The desolation and the agony— The strange, red sunrise, and the gloomy woods, So terrible with their dark giant boughs, And the broad, lonely river!—all a dream! And my boy’s voice will wake me, with its clear, Wild singing tones, as they were wont to come Through the wreath’d sweetbrier at my lattice-panes In happy, happy England! Speak to me! Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch’d All the dread night beside thee, till her brain Is darken’d by swift waves of fantasies, And her soul faint with longing for thy voice. Oh! I must wake him with one gentle kiss On his fair brow! (Shudderingly.) The strange, damp, thrilling touch! The marble chill! Now, now it rushes back— Now I know all!—dead—dead!—a fearful word! My boy hath left me in the wilderness, To journey on without the blessed light In his deep, loving eyes. He’s gone!—he’s gone! Her Husband enters. Husband. Agnes! my Agnes! hast thou look’d thy last On our sweet slumberer’s face? The hour is come— The couch made ready for his last repose. Agnes. Not yet! thou canst not take him from me yet! If he but left me for a few short days, This were too brief a gazing time to draw His angel image into my fond heart, And fix its beauty there. And now—oh! now, Never again the laughter of his eye Shall send its gladdening summer through my soul —Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay! Thou canst not take him from me. Husband. My beloved! Is it not God hath taken him? the God That took our first-born, o’er whose early grave Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and say, “His will be done!” Agnes. Oh! that near household grave, Under the turf of England, seem’d not half— Not half so much to part me from my child As these dark woods. It lay beside our home, And I could watch the sunshine, through all hours, Loving and clinging to the grassy spot; And I could dress its greensward with fresh flowers, Familiar meadow-flowers. O’er thee, my babe! The primrose will not blossom! Oh! that now, Together, by thy fair young sister’s side, We lay midst England’s valleys! Husband. Dost thou grieve, Agnes! that thou hast follow’d o’er the deep An exile’s fortunes? If it thus can be, Then, after many a conflict cheerily met, My spirit sinks at last. Agnes. Forgive! forgive! My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild— Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount Of unknown bitterness! Thou art my home! Mine only and my blessed one! Where’er Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness, There is my country! there my head shall rest, And throb no more. Oh! still, by thy strong love, Bear up the feeble reed! (Kneeling with the child in her arms.) And thou, my God! Hear my soul’s cry from this dread wilderness! Oh! hear, and pardon me! If I have made This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness, Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume, Oh, pardon me! If nature hath rebell’d, And from thy light turn’d wilfully away, Making a midnight of her agony, When the despairing passion of her clasp Was from its idol stricken at one touch Of thine Almighty hand—oh, pardon me! By thy Son’s anguish, pardon! In the soul The tempests and the waves will know thy voice— Father! say, “Peace, be still!” (Giving the child to her husband.) Farewell, my babe! Go from my bosom now to other rest! With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow, And on thy pale, calm cheek these contrite tears, I yield thee to thy Maker! Husband. Now, my wife! Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more A light upon my path. Now shall I bear, From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose— With a calm, trustful heart. Agnes. My Edmund! where— Where wilt thou lay him? Husband. See’st thou where the spire Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun To burning gold?—there—o’er yon willow-tuft? Under that native desert monument Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn, With the gray mosses of the wilderness Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth, E’en from the fulness of his own pure heart, A wild, sad forest hymn—a song of tears, Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy Chanting it o’er his solitary task, As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves, Perchance unconsciously. Agnes. My gentle son! The affectionate, the gifted! With what joy— Edmund, rememberest thou?—with what bright joy His baby brother ever to his arms Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair In that kind, useful breast! Oh! now no more! But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart, Even to a well-spring of adoring tears, For many a blessing left. (Bending over the child.) Once more, farewell! Oh, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look! How can it be sustain’d? Away, away! (After a short pause.) Edmund! my woman’s nature still is weak— I cannot see thee render dust to dust! Go thou, my husband! to thy solemn task; I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer Till thy return. Husband. Then strength be with thy prayer! Peace on thy bosom! Faith and heavenly hope Unto thy spirit! Fare thee well a while! We must be pilgrims of the woods again, After this mournful hour. (He goes out with the child.—Agnes, kneels in prayer.—After a time, voices without are heard singing.)

Where the long reeds quiver, Where the pines make moan, By the forest-river, Sleeps our babe alone. England’s field-flowers may not deck his grave, Cypress shadows o’er him darkly wave. Woods unknown receive him, Midst the mighty wild; Yet with God we leave him, Blessed, blessed child! And our tears gush o’er his lovely dust, Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust. Though his eye hath brighten’d Oft our weary way, And his clear laugh lighten’d Half our hearts’ dismay; Still in hope we give back what was given, Yielding up the beautiful to heaven. And to her who bore him, Her who long must weep, Yet shall heaven restore him From his pale, sweet sleep! Those blue eyes of love and peace again Through her soul will shine, undimm’d by pain. Where the long reeds quiver, Where the pines make moan, Leave we by the river Earth to earth alone! God and Father! may our journeyings on Lead to where the blessed boy is gone! From the exile’s sorrow, From the wanderer’s dread Of the night and morrow, Early, brightly fled; Thou hast call’d him to a sweeter home Than our lost one o’er the ocean’s foam. Now let thought behold him, With his angel look, Where those arms enfold him, Which benignly took Israel’s babes to their Good Shepherd’s breast When his voice their tender meekness blest. Turn thee now, fond mother! From thy dead, oh, turn! Linger not, young brother, Here to dream and mourn: Only kneel once more around the sod, Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God!

There is a wakening on the mighty hills, A kindling with the spirit of the morn! Bright gleams are scatter’d from the thousand rills, And a soft visionary hue is born On the young foliage, worn By all the embosom’d woods—a silvery green, Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously serene. And lo! where, floating through a glory, sings The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky! Lo! where the darkness of his buoyant wings, Against a soft and rosy cloud on high, Trembles with melody! While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice To the rich laugh of music in that voice. But purer light than of the early sun Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth! And for your dwellers nobler joy is won Than the sweet echoes of the skylark’s mirth, By this glad morning’s birth! And gifts more precious by its breath are shed Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet’s head. Gifts for the soul, from whose illumined eye O’er nature’s face the colouring glory flows; Gifts from the fount of immortality, Which, fill’d with balm, unknown to human woes, Lay hush’d in dark repose, Till thou, bright dayspring! madest its waves our own, By thine unsealing of the burial stone. Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills! And let a full victorious tone be given, By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills Your urn-like depths with sound! The tomb is riven, The radiant gate of heaven Unfolded—and the stern, dark shadow cast By death’s o’ersweeping wing, from the earth’s bosom past. And you, ye graves! upon whose turf I stand, Girt with the slumber of the hamlet’s dead, Time, with a soft and reconciling hand, The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread O’er every narrow bed: But not by time, and not by nature sown Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown. Christ hath arisen! Oh, not one cherish’d head Hath, midst the flowery sods, been pillow’d here Without a hope, (howe’er the heart hath bled In its vain yearnings o’er the unconscious bier,) A hope, upspringing clear From those majestic tidings of the morn, Which lit the living way to all of woman born. Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love! E’en on this greensward: night hath heard thy cry, Heart-stricken one! thy precious dust above— Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply Unto thine agony! But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide, Christ hath arisen, O love! thy tears shall all be dried. Dark must have been the gushing of those tears, Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb On thine impassion’d soul, in elder years, When, burden’d with the mystery of its doom, Mortality’s thick gloom Hung o’er the sunny world, and with the breath Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death. By thee, sad Love! and by thy sister, Fear, Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought To vail that haunting shadow, still too near, Still ruling secretly the conqueror’s thought, And where the board was fraught With wine and myrtles in the summer bower, Felt, e’en when disavow’d, a presence and a power. But that dark night is closed: and o’er the dead, Here, where the gleamy primrose-tufts have blown, And where the mountain-heath a couch has spread, And, settling oft on some gray, letter’d stone, The redbreast warbles lone; And the wild-bee’s deep drowsy murmurs pass, Like a low thrill of harp-strings, through the grass: Here, midst the chambers of the Christian’s sleep, We o’er death’s gulf may look with trusting eye; For Hope sits, dove-like, on the gloomy deep, And the green hills wherein these valleys lie Seem all one sanctuary Of holiest thought—nor needs their fresh, bright sod, Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God. Christ hath arisen! O mountain-peaks! attest— Witness, resounding glen and torrent-wave! The immortal courage in the human breast Sprung from that victory—tell how oft the brave To camp midst rock and cave, Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne, Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn! The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day— Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone Have thrill’d their pines, when those that knelt to pray Rose up to arm! The pure, high snows have known A colouring not their own, But from true hearts, which, by that crimson stain, Gave token of a trust that call’d no suffering vain. Those days are past—the mountains wear no more The solemn splendour of the martyr’s blood; And may that awful record, as of yore, Never again be known to field or flood! E’en though the faithful stood, A noble army, in the exulting sight Of earth and heaven, which bless’d their battle for the right! But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken Is yet home silently in homes obscure; And many a bitter cup is meekly taken; And, for the strength whereby the just and pure Thus steadfastly endure, Glory to Him whose victory won that dower! Him from whose rising stream’d that robe of spirit-power. Glory to Him! Hope to the suffering breast! Light to the nations! He hath roll’d away The mists which, gathering into deathlike rest, Between the soul and heaven’s calm ether lay— His love hath made it day With those that sat in darkness. Earth and sea! Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made free!

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

I saw him at his sport erewhile, The bright, exulting boy! Like summer’s lightning came the smile Of his young spirit’s joy— A flash that, wheresoe’er it broke, To life undreamt-of beauty woke. His fair locks waved in sunny play, By a clear fountain’s side, Where jewel-colour’d pebbles lay Beneath the shallow tide; And pearly spray at times would meet The glancing of his fairy feet. He twined him wreaths of all spring-flowers, Which drank that streamlet’s dew; He flung them o’er the wave in showers, Till, gazing, scarce I knew Which seem’d more pure, or bright, or wild, The singing fount or laughing child. To look on all that joy and bloom Made earth one festal scene, Where the dull shadow of the tomb Seem’d as it ne’er had been. How could one image of decay Steal o’er the dawn of such clear day? I saw once more that aspect bright— The boy’s meek head was bow’d In silence o’er the Book of Light, And, like a golden cloud— The still cloud of a pictured sky— His locks droop’d round it lovingly. And if my heart had deem’d him fair, When, in the fountain-glade, A creature of the sky and air, Almost on wings he play’d; Oh! how much holier beauty now Lit the young human being’s brow! The being born to toil, to die, To break forth from the tomb Unto far nobler destiny Than waits the skylark’s plume! I saw him, in that thoughtful hour, Win the first knowledge of his dower. The soul, the awakening soul I saw— My watching eye could trace The shadows of its new-born awe Sweeping o’er that fair face: As o’er a flower might pass the shade By some dread angel’s pinion made! The soul, the mother of deep fears, Of high hopes infinite, Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears, Of sleepless inner sight; Lovely, but solemn, it arose, Unfolding what no more might close. The red-leaved tablets,[423] undefiled, As yet, by evil thought— Oh! little dream’d the brooding child Of what within me wrought, While his young heart first burn’d and stirr’d, And quiver’d to the eternal word. And reverently my spirit caught The reverence of his gaze— A sight with dew of blessing fraught To hallow after-days; To make the proud heart meekly wise, By the sweet faith in those calm eyes. It seem’d as if a temple rose Before me brightly there; And in the depths of its repose My soul o’erflow’d with prayer, Feeling a solemn presence nigh— The power of infant sanctity! O Father! mould my heart once more By thy prevailing breath! Teach me, oh! teach me to adore E’en with that pure one’s faith— A faith, all made of love and light, Child-like, and therefore full of might!

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

The blue, deep, glorious heavens!—I lift mine eye, And bless thee, O my God! that I have met And own’d thine image in the majesty Of their calm temple still!—that, never yet, There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night: I bless thee, O my God! That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, I see the mercy of thine aspect shine, Touching death’s features with a lovely glance Of light, serenely, solemnly divine, And lending to each holy star a ray As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away: I bless thee, O my God! That I have heard thy voice nor been afraid, In the earth’s garden—midst the mountains old, And the low thrillings of the forest-shade, And the wild sound of waters uncontroll’d— And upon many a desert plain and shore— No solitude—for there I felt thee more: I bless thee, O my God! And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed The gift, the vision of the unseal’d eye, To pierce the mist o’er life’s deep meanings spread, To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie Far in man’s heart—if I have kept it free And pure, a consecration unto thee: I bless thee, O my God! If my soul’s utterance hath by thee been fraught With an awakening power—if thou hast made Like the wing’d seed, the breathings of my thought, And by the swift winds bid them be convey’d To lands of other lays, and there become Native as early melodies of home: I bless thee, O my God! Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath, Not for a place midst kingly minstrels dead, But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, A still small whisper, in my song hath led One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne, Or but one hope, one prayer,—for this alone I bless thee, O my God! That I have loved—that I have known the love Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs, Yet, with a colouring halo from above, Tinges and glorifies all earthly things, Whate’er its anguish or its woe may be, Still weaving links for intercourse with thee: I bless thee, O my God! That by the passion of its deep distress, And by the o’erflowing of its mighty prayer, And by the yearning of its tenderness, Too full for words upon their stream to bear, I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine, Well-spring of love, the unfathom’d, the divine, I bless thee, O my God! That hope hath ne’er my heart or song forsaken, High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread, Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed: That passing storms have only fann’d the fire Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire, I bless thee, O my God! Now art thou calling me in every gale, Each sound and token of the dying day; Thou leav’st me not—though early life grows pale, I am not darkly sinking to decay; But, hour by hour, my soul’s dissolving shroud Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud. I bless thee, O my God! And if this earth, with all its choral streams, And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies, And mountain sanctuaries for poet’s dreams, Be lovely still in my departing eyes— ’Tis not that fondly I would linger here, But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear: I bless thee, O my God! And that the tender shadowing I behold, The tracery veining every leaf and flower, Of glories cast in more consummate mould, No longer vassals to the changeful hour; That life’s last roses to my thoughts can bring Rich visions of imperishable spring: I bless thee, O my God! Yes! the young, vernal voices in the skies Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear, Seem heralds of th’ eternal melodies, The spirit-music, imperturb’d and clear— The full of soul, yet passionate no more: Let me, too, joining those pure strains, adore! I bless thee, O my God! Now aid, sustain me still. To thee I come— Make thou my dwelling where thy children are, And for the hope of that immortal home, And for thy Son, the bright and morning star, The sufferer and the victor-king of death, I bless thee with my glad song’s dying breath! I bless thee, O my God!

“Many an eye May wail the dimming of our shining star.”—Shakspeare.

A glorious voice hath ceased! Mournfully, reverently—the funeral chant Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound, A hollow murmur of the dying year, In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad! A more Æolian, melancholy tone Than ever wail’d o’er bright things perishing! For that is passing from the darken’d land, Which the green summer will not bring us back— Though all her songs return. The funeral chant Breathe reverently! They bear the mighty forth, The kingly ruler in the realms of mind; They bear him through the household paths, the groves, Where every tree had music of its own To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love— And he is silent! Past the living stream They bear him now; the stream whose kindly voice, On alien shores, his true heart burn’d to hear— And he is silent! O’er the heathery hills, Which his own soul had mantled with a light Richer than autumn’s purple, now they move— And he is silent!—he, whose flexile lips Were but unseal’d, and lo! a thousand forms, From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height, In glowing life upsprang,—vassal and chief, Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal, Fast-rushing through the brightly troubled air, Like the Wild Huntsman’s band. And still they live, To those fair scenes imperishably bound, And, from the mountain-mist still flashing by, Startle the wanderer who hath listen’d there To the seer’s voice: phantoms of colour’d thought, Surviving him who raised. O eloquence! O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead! Who shall wake thee? lord of the buried past! And art thou there—to those dim nations join’d, Thy subject-host so long? The wand is dropp’d, The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand Touch’d, and the genii came! Sing reverently The funeral chant! The mighty is borne home, And who shall be his mourners? Youth and age, For each hath felt his magic—love and grief, For he hath communed with the heart of each: Yes—the free spirit of humanity May join the august procession, for to him Its mysteries have been tributary things, And all its accents known. From field or wave, Never was conqueror on his battle-bier, By the veil’d banner and the muffled drum, And the proud drooping of the crested head, More nobly follow’d home. The last abode, The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach’d: A still, majestic spot, girt solemnly With all th’ imploring beauty of decay; A stately couch midst ruins! meet for him With his bright fame to rest in, as a king Of other days, laid lonely with his sword Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant Over the honour’d grave! The grave!—oh, say Rather the shrine!—an altar for the love, The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths Of years unborn—a place where leaf and flower, By that which dies not of the sovereign dead, Shall be made holy things, where every weed Shall have its portion of th’ inspiring gift From buried glory breathed. And now what strain Making victorious melody ascend High above sorrow’s dirge, befits the tomb Where he that sway’d the nations thus is laid— The crown’d of men? A lowly, lowly song. Lowly and solemn be Thy children’s cry to thee, Father divine! A hymn of suppliant breath, Owning that life and death Alike are thine! A spirit on its way, Sceptred the earth to sway, From thee was sent: Now call’st thou back thine own— Hence is that radiance flown— To earth but lent. Watching in breathless awe, The bright head bow’d we saw, Beneath thy hand! Fill’d by one hope, one fear, Now o’er a brother’s bier Weeping we stand. How hath he pass’d!—the lord Of each deep bosom-chord, To meet thy sight, Unmantled and alone, On thy bless’d mercy thrown, O Infinite! So, from his harvest-home, Must the tired peasant come; So, in one trust, Leader and king must yield The naked soul reveal’d To thee, All Just! The sword of many a fight— What then shall be its might? The lofty lay That rush’d on eagle wing— What shall its memory bring? What hope, what stay? O Father! in that hour, When earth all succouring power Shall disavow; When spear, and shield, and crown In faintness are cast down— Sustain us, Thou! By Him who bow’d to take The death-cup for our sake, The thorn, the rod; From whom the last dismay Was not to pass away— Aid us, O God! Tremblers beside the grave, We call on thee to save, Father divine! Hear, hear our suppliant breath! Keep us, in life and death, Thine, only thine!

In the deep wilderness unseen she pray’d, The daughter of Jerusalem; alone With all the still, small whispers of the night, And with the searching glances of the stars, And with her God, alone: she lifted up Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o’er her head, The dark leaves thrill’d with prayer—the tearful prayer Of woman’s quenchless, yet repentant love. Father of Spirits, hear! Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal’d, Look on the fountain of the burning tear, Before thy sight in solitude unseal’d! Hear, Father! hear, and aid! If I have loved too well, if I have shed, In my vain fondness, o’er a mortal head, Gifts on thy shrine, my God! more fitly laid; If I have sought to live But in one light, and made a human eye The lonely star of mine idolatry, Thou that art Love! oh, pity and forgive! Chasten’d and school’d at last, No more, no more my struggling spirit burns, But, fix’d on thee, from that wild worship turns— What have I said?—the deep dream is not past! Yet hear!—if still I love, Oh! still too fondly—if, for ever seen, An earthly image comes my heart between And thy calm glory, Father! throned above; If still a voice is near, (E’en while I strive these wanderings to control,) An earthly voice disquieting my soul With its deep music, too intensely dear; O Father! draw to thee My lost affections back!—the dreaming eyes Clear from their mist—sustain the heart that dies, Give the worn soul once more its pinions free! I must love on, O God! This bosom must love on!—but let thy breath Touch and make pure the flame that knows not death, Bearing it up to heaven—love’s own abode! Ages and ages past, the wilderness, With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night, With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds, That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers. How many such hath woman’s bursting heart Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed, Like the dim night-flower’s odour, up to God!

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

Blanche. What was your doom, my father? In thine arms I lay unconsciously through that dread hour. Tell me the sentence! Could our judges look, Without relenting, on thy silvery hair? Was there not mercy, father? Will they not Restore us to our home? D’Aubigné. Yes, my poor child! They send us home. Blanche. Oh! shall we gaze again On the bright Loire? Will the old hamlet spire, And the gray turret of our own chateau, Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms? Will the kind voices of our villagers, The loving laughter in their children’s eyes, Welcome us back at last? But how is this? Father! thy glance is clouded—on thy brow There sits no joy! D’Aubigné. Upon my brow, dear girl! There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace As may befit the Christian who receives, And recognises in submissive awe, The summons of his God. Blanche. Thou dost not mean—— No, no! it cannot be! Didst thou not say They sent us home? D’Aubigné. Where is the spirit’s home? Oh! most of all, in these dark, evil days, Where should it be—but in that world serene, Beyond the sword’s reach and the tempest’s power, —Where, but in heaven? Blanche. My father! D’Aubigné. We must die. We must look up to God, and calmly die. Come to my heart, and weep there! For awhile Give nature’s passion way; then brightly rise In the still courage of a woman’s heart. Do I not know thee? Do I ask too much From mine own noble Blanche? Blanche, (falling on his bosom.) Oh! clasp me fast! Thy trembling child! Hide, hide me in thine arms— Father! D’Aubigné. Alas! my flower, thou’rt young to go— Young, and so fair! Yet were it worse, methinks, To leave thee where the gentle and the brave, The loyal-hearted and the chivalrous, And they that loved their God, have all been swept, Like the sere leaves, away. For them no hearth Through the wide land was left inviolate, No altar holy; therefore did they fall, Rejoicing to depart. The soil is steep’d In noble blood; the temples are gone down; The voice of prayer is hush’d, or fearfully Mutter’d, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would live Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee, To quit for ever the dishonour’d soil, The burden’d air! Our God upon the cross— Our king upon the scaffold[425]—let us think Of these—and fold endurance to our hearts, And bravely die! Blanche. A dark and fearful way! An evil doom for thy dear, honour’d head! O thou, the kind, the gracious! whom all eyes Bless’d as they look’d upon! Speak yet again— Say, will they part us? D’Aubigné. No, my Blanche; in death, We shall not be divided. Blanche. Thanks to God! He, by thy glance, will aid me—I shall see His light before me to the last. And when— Oh, pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child!— When shall the hour befall? D’Aubigné. Oh! swiftly now, And suddenly, with brief, dread interval, Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that hour As yet I know not. Each low throbbing pulse Of the quick pendulum may usher in Eternity! Blanche, (kneeling before him.) My father! lay thy hand On thy poor Blanche’s head, and once again Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness— Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul, Ere we are call’d. D’Aubigné. If I may speak through tears!— Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently, Child of my heart!—thou who dost look on me With thy lost mother’s angel eyes of love! Thou, that hast been a brightness in my path, A guest of heaven unto my lonely soul, A stainless lily in my widow’d house, There springing up, with soft light round thee shed, For immortality! Meek child of God! I bless thee—He will bless thee! In his love He calls thee now from this rude stormy world To thy Redeemer’s breast! And thou wilt die, As thou hast lived—my duteous, holy Blanche! In trusting and serene submissiveness, Humble, yet full of heaven. Blanche, (rising.) Now is there strength Infused through all my spirit. I can rise And say, “Thy will be done!” D’Aubigné, (pointing upwards.) See’st thou, my child! Yon faint light in the west? The signal star Of our due vesper-service, gleaming in Through the close dungeon-grating! Mournfully It seems to quiver; yet shall this night pass, This night alone, without the lifted voice Of adoration in our narrow cell, As if unworthy fear or wavering faith Silenced the strain? No! let it waft to heaven The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality, In its dark hour once more! And we will sleep, Yes—calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed. [They sing together.

We see no more in thy pure skies, How soft, O God! the sunset dies; How every colour’d hill and wood Seems melting in the golden flood: Yet, by the precious memories won From bright hours now for ever gone, Father! o’er all thy works, we know, Thou still art shedding beauty’s glow; Still touching every cloud and tree With glory, eloquent of thee; Still feeding all thy flowers with light, Though man hath barr’d it from our sight. We know thou reign’st, the Unchanging One, the All-just! And bless thee still with free and boundless trust! We read no more, O God! thy ways On earth, in these wild, evil days. The red sword in the oppressor’s hand Is ruler of the weeping land; Fallen are the faithful and the pure, No shrine is spared, no hearth secure. Yet, by the deep voice from the past, Which tells us these things cannot last— And by the hope which finds no ark Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark— We trust thee! As the sailor knows That in its place of bright repose His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud May veil it with a midnight shroud, We know thou reign’st, All-holy One, All-just! And bless thee still with love’s own boundless trust. We feel no more that aid is nigh, When our faint hearts within us die. We suffer—and we know our doom Must be one suffering till the tomb. Yet, by the anguish of thy Son When his last hour came darkly on; By his dread cry, the air which rent In terror of abandonment; And by his parting word, which rose Through faith victorious o’er all woes— We know that thou may’st wound, may’st break The spirit, but wilt ne’er forsake! Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn, In our deep need to thee we turn! To whom but thee? All-merciful, All-just! In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust!

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

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God! Thou hast made thy children mighty, By the touch of the mountain-sod. Thou hast fix’d our ark of refuge Where the spoiler’s foot ne’er trod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God! We are watchers of a beacon Whose light must never die; We are guardians of an altar Midst the silence of the sky: The rocks yield founts of courage, Struck forth as by thy rod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God! For the dark, resounding caverns, Where thy still, small voice is heard; For the strong pines of the forests, That by thy breath are stirr’d; For the storms, on whose free pinions Thy spirit walks abroad; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God! The royal eagle darteth On his quarry from the heights, And the stag that knows no master, Seeks there his wild delights; But we, for thy communion, Have sought the mountain-sod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God! The banner of the chieftain Far, far below us waves; The war-horse of the spearman Cannot reach our lofty caves: Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold Of freedom’s last abode; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God! For the shadow of thy presence, Round our camp of rock outspread; For the stern defiles of battle, Bearing record of our dead; For the snows and for the torrents, For the free heart’s burial-sod; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers’ God!

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

Through evening’s bright repose A voice of prayer arose, When the sea-fight was done: The sons of England knelt, With hearts that now could melt, For on the wave her battle had been won. Round their tall ship, the main Heaved with a dark red stain, Caught not from sunset’s cloud; While with the tide swept past Pennon and shiver’d mast, Which to the Ocean-Queen that day had bow’d. But free and fair on high, A native of the sky, Her streamer met the breeze; It flow’d o’er fearless men, Though, hush’d and child-like then, Before their God they gather’d on the seas. Oh! did not thoughts of home O’er each bold spirit come, As from the land sweet gales? In every word of prayer Had not some hearth a share, Some bower, inviolate midst England’s vales? Yes! bright, green spots that lay In beauty far away, Hearing no billow’s roar, Safer from touch of spoil, For that day’s fiery toil, Rose on high hearts, that now with love gush’d o’er. A solemn scene and dread! The victors and the dead, The breathless burning sky! And, passing with the race Of waves that keep no trace, The wild, brief signs of human victory! A stern, yet holy scene! Billows, where strife hath been, Sinking to awful sleep; And words, that breathe the sense Of God’s omnipotence, Making a minster of that silent deep. Borne through such hours afar, Thy flag hath been a star, Where eagle’s wings ne’er flew: England! the unprofaned, Thou of the earth unstain’d, Oh! to the banner and the shrine be true!

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

Herrmann. Was that the light from some lone, swift canoe Shooting across the waters?—No, a flash From the night’s first, quick fire-fly, lost again In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark Is on the wave; no rustle of a breeze Comes through the forest. In this new, strange world, Oh! how mysterious, how eternal, seems The mighty melancholy of the woods! The desert’s own great spirit, infinite! Little they know, in mine own fatherland, Along the castled Rhine, or e’en amidst The wild Harz mountains, or the sylvan glades Deep in the Odenwald—they little know Of what is solitude! In hours like this, There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices, To guide the peasant, singing cheerily, On the home-path; while round his lowly porch, With eager eyes awaiting his return, The cluster’d faces of his children shine To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts! Melting my spirit’s grasp from heavenly hope By your vain, earthward yearnings. O my God! Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee, Till all the hollow of these deep desires May with thyself be fill’d! Be it enough At once to gladden and to solemnise My lonely life, if for thine altar here In this dread temple of the wilderness, By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win The offering of one heart, one human heart, Bleeding, repenting, loving! Hark! a step, An Indian tread! I know the stealthy sound— ’Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass Gliding so serpent-like. (He comes forward, and meets an Indian warrior armed.) Enonio, is it thou? I see thy form Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine eye Discerns thy face. Enonio. My father speaks my name. Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the chase return’d? The night-fires lit? Why is my son abroad? Enonio. The warrior’s arrow knows of nobler prey Than elk or deer. Now let my father leave The lone path free. Herrmann. The forest way is long From the red chieftain’s home. Rest thee awhile Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak Of these things further. Enonio. Tell me not of rest! My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift. I must begone. Herrmann, (solemnly.) No, warrior! thou must stay! The Mighty One hath given me power to search Thy soul with piercing words—and thou must stay, And hear me, and give answer! If thy heart Be grown thus restless, is it not because Within its dark folds thou hast mantled up Some burning thought of ill? Enonio, (with sudden impetuosity.) How should I rest?— Last night the spirit of my brother came, An angry shadow in the moonlight streak, And said, “Avenge me!” In the clouds this morn I saw the frowning colour of his blood— And that, too, had a voice. I lay at noon Alone beside the sounding waterfall, And through its thunder-music spake a tone— A low tone piercing all the roll of waves— And said “Avenge me!” Therefore have I raised The tomahawk, and strung the bow again, That I may send the shadow from my couch, And take the strange sound from the cataract, And sleep once more. Herrmann. A better path, my son! Unto the still and dewy land of sleep, My hand in peace can guide thee—e’en the way Thy dying brother trod. Say, didst thou love That lost one well? Enonio. Know’st thou not we grew up Even as twin roes amidst the wilderness? Unto the chase we journey’d in one path; We stemm’d the lake in one canoe; we lay Beneath one oak to rest. When fever hung Upon my burning lips, my brother’s hand Was still beneath my head; my brother’s robe Cover’d my bosom from the chill night-air— Our lives were girdled by one belt of love Until he turn’d him from his father’s gods. And then my soul fell from him—then the grass Grew in the way between our parted homes; And wheresoe’er I wander’d, then it seem’d That all the woods were silent. I went forth— I journey’d, with my lonely heart, afar, And so return’d—and where was he? The earth Own’d him no more. Herrmann. But thou thyself, since then, Hast turn’d thee from the idols of thy tribe, And, like thy brother, bow’d the suppliant knee To the one God. Enonio. Yes! I have learn’d to pray With my white father’s words, yet all the more My heart, that shut against my brother’s love, Hath been within me as an arrowy fire, Burning my sleep away. In the night-hush, Midst the strange whispers and dim shadowy things Of the great forests, I have call’d aloud, “Brother! forgive, forgive!” He answer’d not— His deep voice, rising from the land of souls, Cries but “Avenge me!”—and I go forth now To slay his murderer, that when next his eyes Gleam on me mournfully from that pale shore, I may look up, and meet their glance, and say, “I have avenged thee!” Herrmann. Oh! that human love Should be the root of this dread bitterness, Till heaven through all the fever’d being pours Transmuting balsam! Stay, Enonio! stay! Thy brother calls thee not! The spirit-world Where the departed go, sends back to earth No visitants for evil. ’Tis the might Of the strong passion, the remorseful grief At work in thine own breast, which lends the voice Unto the forest and the cataract, The angry colour to the clouds of morn, The shadow to the moonlight. Stay, my son! Thy brother is at peace. Beside his couch, When of the murderer’s poison’d shaft he died, I knelt and pray’d; he named his Saviour’s name, Meekly, beseechingly; he spoke of thee In pity and in love. Enonio, (hurriedly.) Did he not say My arrow should avenge him? Herrmann. His last words Were all forgiveness. Enonio. What! and shall the man Who pierced him with the shaft of treachery, Walk fearless forth in joy? Herrmann. Was he not once Thy brother’s friend? Oh! trust me, not in joy He walks the frowning forest. Did keen love, Too late repentant of its heart estranged, Wake in thy haunted bosom, with its train Of sounds and shadows—and shall he escape? Enonio, dream it not! Our God, the All-just, Unto himself reserves this royalty— The secret chastening of the guilty heart, The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies, Leave it with him! Yet make it not thy hope: For that strong heart of thine—oh! listen yet— Must, in its depths, o’ercome the very wish For death or torture to the guilty one, Ere it can sleep again. Enonio. My father speaks Of change, for man too mighty. Herrmann. I but speak Of that which hath been, and again must be, If thou wouldst join thy brother, in the life Of the bright country where, I well believe, His soul rejoices. He had known such change: He died in peace. He, whom his tribe once named The Avenging Eagle, took to his meek heart, In its last pangs, the spirit of those words Which, from the Saviour’s cross, went up to heaven— “Forgive them, for they know not what they do! Father, forgive!”—And o’er the eternal bounds Of that celestial kingdom, undefiled, Where evil may not enter, he, I deem, Hath to his Master pass’d. He waits thee there— For love, we trust, springs heavenward from the grave, Immortal in its holiness. He calls His brother to the land of golden light And ever-living fountains—couldst thou hear His voice o’er those bright waters, it would say, “My brother! oh! be pure, be merciful! That we may meet again.” Enonio, (hesitating.) Can I return Unto my tribe, and unavenged? Herrmann. To Him, To Him return, from whom thine erring steps Have wander’d far and long! Return, my son, To thy Redeemer! Died he not in love— The sinless, the divine, the Son of God— Breathing forgiveness midst all agonies? And we, dare we be ruthless? By his aid Shalt thou be guided to thy brother’s place Midst the pure spirits. Oh! retrace the way Back to thy Saviour! he rejects no heart E’en with the dark stains on it, if true tears Be o’er them shower’d. Ay! weep, thou Indian chief! For, by the kindling moonlight, I behold Thy proud lips working—weep, relieve thy soul! Tears will not shame thy manhood, in the hour Of its great conflict. Enonio, (giving up his weapons to Herrmann.) Father! take the bow, Keep the sharp arrows till the hunters call Forth to the chase once more. And let me dwell A little while, my father! by thy side, That I may hear the blessed words again— Like water-brooks amidst the summer hills— From thy true lips flow forth; for in my heart The music and the memory of their sound Too long have died away. Herrmann. Oh, welcome back, Friend, rescued one! Yes, thou shalt be my guest, And we will pray beneath my sycamore Together, morn and eve; and I will spread Thy couch beside my fire, and sleep at last— After the visiting of holy thoughts— With dewy wings shall sink upon thine eyes! Enter my home, and welcome, welcome back To peace, to God, thou lost and found again! (They go into the cabin together.—Herrmann, lingering for a moment on the threshold, looks up to the starry skies.) Father! that from amidst yon glorious worlds Now look’st on us, thy children! make this hour Blessed for ever! May it see the birth Of thine own image in the unfathom’d deep Of an immortal soul,—a thing to name With reverential thought, a solemn world! To thee more precious than those thousand stars Burning on high in thy majestic heaven!

Father of heaven and earth! I bless thee for the night, The soft, still night! The holy pause of care and mirth, Of sound and light! Now, far in glade and dell, Flower-cup, and bud, and bell, Have shut around the sleeping woodlark’s nest; The bee’s long murmuring toils are done, And I, the o’erwearied one, O’erwearied and o’erwrought, Bless thee, O God! O Father of the oppress’d! With my last waking thought, In the still night! Yes! e’er I sink to rest, By the fire’s dying light, Thou Lord of earth and heaven! I bless thee, who hast given, Unto life’s fainting travellers, the night— The soft, still, holy night.

“One spirit—His Who wore the platted thorn with bleeding brows. Rules universal nature. Not a flower But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain, Of his unrivall’d pencil. He inspires Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues. And bathes their eyes with nectar. Happy who walks with him!” Cowper.

Come to the woods, my boy! Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth, My happy child! The spirit of bright hours Woos us in every wind; fresh wild-leaf scents, From thickets, where the lonely stock-dove broods, Enter our lattice; fitful songs of joy Float in with each soft current of the air;— And we will hear their summons; we will give One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad thoughts, And thou shalt revel midst free nature’s wealth, And for thy mother twine wild wreaths; while she, From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart The vernal ecstasy of childhood back. Come to the woods, my boy! What! wouldst thou lead already to the path Along the copsewood brook? Come, then! in truth Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child, Is a glad, singing stream, heard or unheard, Singing its melody of happiness Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace To that sweet chime. With what a sparkling life It fills the shadowy dingle!—now the wing Of some low-skimming swallow shakes bright spray Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave; Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep, The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings Of mazy insects o’er the shallow tide Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light From burnish’d films! And mark yon silvery line Of gossamer, so tremulously hung Across the narrow current, from the tuft Of hazels to the hoary poplar’s bough! See, in the air’s transparence, how it waves, Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale, Yet breaking not—a bridge for fairy shapes, How delicate, how wondrous! Yes, my boy! Well may we make the stream’s bright, winding vein Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness, For ever deepening. Oh, forget him not, Dear child! That airy gladness which thou feel’st Wafting thee after bird and butterfly, As ’twere a breeze within thee, is not less His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours, Than this rich, outward sunshine, mantling all The leaves, and grass, and mossy-tinted stones With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step, My merry wanderer!—let us rest a while By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung From alder boughs and osiers o’er its breast, The soft red of the flowering willow-herb So vividly is pictured. Seems it not E’en melting to a more transparent glow In that pure glass? Oh! beautiful are streams! And, through all ages, human hearts have loved Their music, still accordant with each mood Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown Into vain worship, which hath left its trace On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still Beneath dim olive-boughs, by many a fount Of Italy and Greece. But we will take Our lesson e’en from erring hearts, which bless’d The river-deities or fountain-nymphs, For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade, And the sweet water’s tune. The One supreme, The all-sustaining, ever-present God, Who dower’d the soul with immortality, Gave also these delights, to cheer on earth Its fleeting passage; therefore let us greet Each wandering flower-scent as a boon from Him, Each bird-note, quivering midst light summer leaves, And every rich celestial tint unnamed, Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of morn and eve, Kindle and melt away! And now, in love, In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers Around the ruin’d mansion. Thou, my boy! Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee Will wear no shadow of subduing thought— No colouring from the past. This way our path Winds through the hazels. Mark how brightly shoots The dragon-fly along the sunbeam’s line, Crossing the leafy gloom. How full of life, The life of song, and breezes, and free wings, Is all the murmuring shade! and thine, oh thine! Of all the brightest and the happiest here, My blessed child! my gift of God! that makest My heart o’erflow with summer! Hast thou twined Thy wreath so soon! yet will we loiter not, Though here the blue-bell wave, and gorgeously Round the brown, twisted roots of yon scathed oak The heath-flower spread its purple. We must leave The copse, and through yon broken avenue, Shadow’d by drooping walnut-foliage, reach The ruin’s glade. And lo! before us, fair Yet desolate, amidst the golden day, It stands, that house of silence! wedded now To verdant Nature by the o’ermantling growth Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman’s hands Once loved to train. How the rich wallflower-scent From every niche and mossy cornice floats, Embalming its decay! The bee alone Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine, Watching some homeward footstep. See! unbound From the old fretted stone-work, what thick wreaths Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down, Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and load The air with mournful fragrance—for it speaks Of life gone hence; and the faint, southern breath Of myrtle-leaves, from yon forsaken porch, Startles the soul with sweetness! Yet rich knots Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sown Through all the sunny hollow, spread around A flush of youth and joy, free nature’s joy, Undimm’d by human change. How kindly here, With the low thyme and daisies, they have blent! And, under arches of wild eglantine, Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely seems The frail gum-cistus o’er the turf to snow Its pearly flower-leaves down! Go, happy boy! Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets; Whilst I, beside this fallen dial-stone, Under the tall moss-rose tree, long unpruned, Rest where thick clustering pansies weave around Their many-tinged mosaic, midst dark grass Bedded like jewels. He hath bounded on, Wild with delight!—the crimson on his cheek Purer and richer e’en than that which lies In this deep-hearted rose-cup! Bright moss-rose! Though now so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree! Once thou wert cherish’d! and, by human love, Through many a summer duly visited For thy bloom-offerings, which o’er festal board, And youthful brow, and e’en the shaded couch Of long-secluded sickness, may have shed A joy, now lost. Yet shall there still be joy, Where God hath pour’d forth beauty, and the voice Of human love shall still be heard in praise Over his glorious gifts! O Father! Lord! The All-beneficent! I bless thy name, That thou hast mantled the green earth with flow’rs, Linking our hearts to nature! By the love Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first Into her deep recesses are beguiled— Her minster-cells—dark glen and forest bower, Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee, Amidst the low, religious whisperings And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude, The spirit wakes to worship, and is made Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers, Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares, Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain-streams, That sing of thee! back to free childhood’s heart, Fresh with the dews of tenderness! Thou bidd’st The lilies of the field with placid smile Reprove man’s feverish strivings, and infuse Through his worn soul a more unworldly life, With their soft, holy breath. Thou hast not left His purer nature, with its fine desires, Uncared for in this universe of thine! The glowing rose attests it, the beloved Of poet-hearts, touch’d by their fervent dreams With spiritual light, and made a source Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E’en to faint age Thou lend’st the vernal bliss: the old man’s eye Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul Remembers youth and love, and hopefully Turns unto thee, who call’st earth’s buried germs From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up To put on glory, to be girt with power, And fill’d with immortality. Receive Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons, And, most of all, their heavenward influences, O Thou that gavest us flowers! Return, my boy!— With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return! See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch’d And glorified the ruin!—glow-worm light Will twinkle on the dewdrops, ere we reach Our home again. Come! with thy last sweet prayer At thy bless’d mother’s knee, to-night shall thanks Unto our Father in his heaven arise, For all the gladness, all the beauty shed O’er one rich day of flowers.

Joy! the lost one is restored! Sunshine comes to hearth and board. From the far-off countries old Of the diamond and red gold; From the dusky archer-bands, Roamers of the fiery sands; From the desert winds, whose breath Smites with sudden, silent death; He hath reach’d his home again, Where we sing In thy praise a fervent strain, God our King! Mightiest! unto thee he turn’d When the noon-day fiercest burn’d: When the fountain-springs were far, And the sounds of Arab war Swell’d upon the sultry blast, And the sandy columns past, Unto thee he cried; and thou, Merciful! didst hear his vow! Therefore unto thee again Joy shall sing Many a sweet and thankful strain, God our King! Thou wert with him on the main, And the snowy mountain-chain, And the rivers, dark and wide, Which through Indian forests glide: Thou didst guard him from the wrath Of the lion in his path, And the arrows on the breeze, And the dropping poison-trees. Therefore from our household train Oft shall spring Unto thee a blessing strain, God our King! Thou to his lone, watching wife Hast brought back the light of life! Thou hast spared his loving child Home to greet him from the wild. Though the suns of Eastern skies On his cheek have set their dyes, Though long toils and sleepless cares On his brow have blanch’d the hairs, Yet the night of fear is flown— He is living, and our own! Brethren! spread his festal board, Hang his mantle and his sword, With the armour, on the wall— While this long, long silent hall Joyfully doth hear again Voice and string Swell to thee the exulting strain, God our King!