Part 2 — SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE.

“Oh! fondly, fervently, those two had loved, Had mingled minds in Love’s own perfect trust; Had watch’d bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful years, ——And thus they met!”

“Haste, with your torches, haste! make firelight round!”— They speed, they press: what hath the miner found? Relic or treasure—giant sword of old? Gems bedded deep—rich veins of burning gold? —Not so—the dead, the dead! An awe-struck band In silence gathering round the silent stand, Chain’d by one feeling, hushing e’en their breath, Before the thing that, in the might of death, Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay— A sleeper, dreaming not!—a youth with hair Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair!) O’er his cold brow: no shadow of decay Had touch’d those pale, bright features—yet he wore A mien of other days, a garb of yore. Who could unfold that mystery? From the throng A woman wildly broke; her eye was dim, As if through many tears, through vigils long, Through weary strainings:—all had been for him! Those two had loved! And there he lay, the dead, In his youth’s flower—and she, the living, stood With her gray hair, whence hue and gloss had fled— And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood Had long since ebb’d—a meeting sad and strange! —Oh! are not meetings in this world of change Sadder than partings oft! She stood there, still, And mute, and gazing—all her soul to fill With the loved face once more—the young, fair face, Midst that rude cavern, touch’d with sculpture’s grace, By torchlight and by death: until at last From her deep heart the spirit of the past Gush’d in low broken tones:—“And there thou art! And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part As for a few brief hours! My friend, my friend! First love, and only one! Is this the end Of hope deferr’d, youth blighted! Yet thy brow Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek Smiles—how unchanged!—while I, the worn, and weak, And faded—oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now, If thou couldst look on me!—a wither’d leaf, Sear’d—though for thy sake—by the blast of grief! Better to see thee thus! For thou didst go Bearing my image on thy heart, I know, Unto the dead. My Ulric! through the night How have I call’d thee! With the morning light How have I watch’d for thee!—wept, wander’d, pray’d, Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay’d, In search of thee!—bound my worn life to one— One torturing hope! Now let me die! ’Tis gone. Take thy betrothed!” And on his breast she fell, Oh! since their youth’s last passionate farewell, How changed in all but love!—the true, the strong, Joining in death whom life had parted long! They had one grave—one lonely bridal-bed, No friend, no kinsman there a tear to shed! His name had ceased—her heart outlived each tie, Once more to look on that dead face, and die!

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, Let song and wine be pour’d! Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, Our brethren of the sword! Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices Have mingled with our own; Fill high the cup! but when the soul rejoices, Forget not who are gone. They that stood with us, midst the dead and dying, On Albuera’s plain; They that beside us cheerily track’d the flying, Far o’er the hills of Spain; They that amidst us, when the shells were showering From old Rodrigo’s wall, The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle towering, First, first at Victory’s call; They that upheld the banners, proudly waving, In Roncesvalles’ dell, With England’s blood the southern vineyards laving— Forget not how they fell! Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, Let song and wine be pour’d! Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, Our brethren of the sword!

“And slight, withal, may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever—it may be a sound, A tone of music, summer eve, or spring, A flower—the wind—the ocean—which shall wound, Striking the electric train, wherewith we are darkly bound.” Byron.

Yes, it is haunted, this quiet scene, Fair as it looks, and all softly green; Yet fear not thou—for the spell is thrown, And the might of the shadow, on me alone. Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays, And spirits that dwell where the water plays? Oh! in the heart there are stronger powers, That sway, though viewless, this world of ours! Have I not lived midst these lonely dells, And loved, and sorrow’d, and heard farewells, And learn’d in my own deep soul to look, And tremble before that mysterious book? Have I not, under these whispering leaves, Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves? Shadows—yet unto which life seem’d bound; And is it not—is it not haunted ground? Must I not hear what thou hearest not, Troubling the air of the sunny spot? Is there not something to rouse but me, Told by the rustling of every tree? Song hath been here, with its flow of thought; Love, with its passionate visions fraught; Death, breathing stillness and sadness round; And is it not—is it not haunted ground? Are there no phantoms, but such as come By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb? A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze, Can summon up mightier far than these! But I may not linger amidst them here! Lovely they are, and yet things to fear; Passing and leaving a weight behind, And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind. Away, away!—that my soul may soar As a free bird of blue skies once more! Here from its wing it may never cast The chain by those spirits brought back from the past. Doubt it not—smile not—but go thou, too, Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew— Where thou hast pray’d at thy mother’s knee, Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free; Go thou, when life unto thee is changed, Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged; When from the idols thy heart hath made, Thou hast seen the colours of glory fade. Oh! painfully then, by the wind’s low sigh, By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup’s dye, By a thousand tokens of sight and sound, Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground.

Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods, Where the red Indian lays his father’s dust, And, by the rushing of the torrent floods, To the Great Spirit bows in silent trust? Doth not thy soul o’ersweep the foaming main, To pour itself upon the wilds again? They are gone forth, the desert’s warrior race, By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe; But where art thou, the swift one in the chase, With thy free footstep and unfailing bow? Their singing shafts have reach’d the panther’s lair, And where art thou?—thine arrows are not there. They rest beside their streams—the spoil is won— They hang their spears upon the cypress bough; The night-fires blaze, the hunter’s work is done— They hear the tales of old—but where art thou? The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine, And there a place is fill’d that once was thine. For thou art mingling with the city’s throng, And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside; Child of the forests! thou art borne along, E’en as ourselves, by life’s tempestuous tide. But will this be? and canst thou here find rest? Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert’s breast. Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear From the savannah land, the land of streams? Hear’st thou not murmurs which none else may hear? Is not the forest’s shadow on thy dreams? They call—wild voices call thee o’er the main, Back to thy free and boundless woods again. Hear them not! hear them not!—thou canst not find In the far wilderness what once was thine! Thou hast quaff’d knowledge from the founts of mind, And gather’d loftier aims and hopes divine. Thou know’st the soaring thought, the immortal strain— Seek not the deserts and the woods again!

In the full tide of melody and mirth, While joy’s bright spirit beams from every eye, Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from earth, Seems yet to speak in strains that cannot die. Forget him not, for many a festal hour, Charm’d by those strains, for us has lightly flown: And memory’s visions, mingling with their power, Wake the heart’s thrill at each familiar tone. Blest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays Revive life’s morning dreams, when youth is fled, And, fraught with images of other days, Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead. His the dear art whose spells awhile renew Hope’s first illusions in their tenderest bloom— Oh! what were life, unless such moments threw Bright gleams, “like angel visits,” o’er its gloom?

Yes! thou hast met the sun’s last smile From the haunted hills of Rome; By many a bright Ægean isle Thou hast seen the billows foam. From the silence of the Pyramid, Thou hast watch’d the solemn flow Of the Nile, that with its waters hid The ancient realm below. Thy heart hath burn’d, as shepherds sung Some wild and warlike strain, Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung Through the pealing hills of Spain. And o’er the lonely Grecian streams Thou hast heard the laurels moan, With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams Of the glory that is gone. But go thou to the pastoral vales Of the Alpine mountains old, If thou wouldst hear immortal tales By the wind’s deep whispers told! Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread Where man hath nobly striven, And life, like incense, hath been shed, An offering unto heaven. For o’er the snows, and round the pines, Hath swept a noble flood; The nurture of the peasant’s vines Hath been the martyr’s blood! A spirit, stronger than the sword, And loftier than despair, Through all the heroic region pour’d, Breathes in the generous air. A memory clings to every steep Of long-enduring faith, And the sounding streams glad record keep Of courage unto death. Ask of the peasant where his sires For truth and freedom bled? Ask, where were lit the torturing fires, Where lay the holy dead! And he will tell thee, all around, On fount, and turf, and stone, Far as the chamois’ foot can bound, Their ashes have been sown! Go, when the Sabbath-bell is heard[324] Up through the wilds to float, When the dark old woods and caves are stirr’d To gladness by the note; When forth, along their thousand rills, The mountain people come, Join thou their worship on those hills Of glorious martyrdom. And while the song of praise ascends, And while the torrent’s voice, Like the swell of many an organ, blends, Then let thy soul rejoice. Rejoice, that human hearts, through scorn, Through shame, through death, made strong, Before the rocks and heavens have borne Witness of God so long!

Pilgrim! oh say, hath thy cheek been fann’d By the sweet winds of my sunny land? Know’st thou the sound of its mountain pines? And hast thou rested beneath its vines? Hast thou heard the music still wandering by, A thing of the breezes, in Spain’s blue sky, Floating away o’er hill and heath, With the myrtle’s whisper, the citron’s breath? Then say, are there fairer vales than those Where the warbling of fountains for ever flows? Are there brighter flowers than mine own, which wave O’er Moorish ruin and Christian grave? O sunshine and song! they are lying far By the streams that look to the western star; My heart is fainting to hear once more The water-voices of that sweet shore. Many were they that have died for thee, And brave, my Spain! though thou art not free; But I call them blest—they have rent their chain— They sleep in thy valleys, my sunny Spain!

Not for the myrtle, and not for the vine, Though its grape, like a gem, be the sunbeam’s shrine; And not for the rich blue heaven that showers Joy on thy spirit, like light on the flowers; And not for the scent of the citron trees— Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for these. Not for the beauty spread over thy brow, Though round thee a gleam, as of spring, it throw; And not for the lustre that laughs from thine eye, Like a dark stream’s flash to the sunny sky, Though the south in its riches naught lovelier sees— Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for these. But for those breathing and loving things— For the boy’s fond arm that around thee clings, For the smiling cheek on thy lap that glows, In the peace of a trusting child’s repose— For the hearts whose home is thy gentle breast, Oh! richly I call thee, and deeply blest!

The warrior cross’d the ocean’s foam For the stormy fields of war; The maid was left in a smiling home And a sunny land afar. His voice was heard where javelin showers Pour’d on the steel-clad line; Her step was midst the summer flowers, Her seat beneath the vine. His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, And the red blood stain’d his crest; While she—the gentlest wind of heaven Might scarcely fan her breast! Yet a thousand arrows pass’d him by, And again he cross’d the seas; But she had died as roses die That perish with a breeze— As roses die, when the blast is come For all things bright and fair: There was death within the smiling home— How had death found her there?

What hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells, Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main?— Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour’d shells Bright things which gleam unreck’d of, and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea! We ask not such from thee. Yet more, the depths have more! What wealth untold, Far down, and shining through their stillness lies! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.— Sweep o’er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main! Earth claims not these again. Yet more, the depths have more! Thy waves have roll’d Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath fill’d up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o’ergrown the halls of revelry.— Dash o’er them, ocean! in thy scornful play: Man yields them to decay. Yet more! the billows and the depths have more! High hearts and brave are gather’d to thy breast! They hear not now the booming waters roar, The battle-thunders will not break their rest.— Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave! Give back the true and brave! Give back the lost and lovely!—those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long, The prayer went up through midnight’s breathless gloom, And the vain yearning woke midst festal song! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o’erthrown— But all is not thine own. To thee the love of woman hath gone down, Dark flow thy tides o’er manhood’s noble head, O’er youth’s bright locks, and beauty’s flowery crown: Yet must thou hear a voice—Restore the dead! Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!— Restore the dead, thou sea!

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, To wreath the cup ere the wine is pour’d! Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale: Their breath floats out on the southern gale, And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror’s path! He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath: He comes with the spoils of nations back, The vines lie crush’d in his chariot’s track, The turf looks red where he won the day. Bring flowers to die in the conqueror’s way! Bring flowers to the captive’s lonely cell! They have tales of the joyous woods to tell— Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, And the bright world shut from his languid eye; They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, And the dream of his youth. Bring him flowers, wild flowers! Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear! They were born to blush in her shining hair. She is leaving the home of her childhood’s mirth, She hath bid farewell to her father’s hearth, Her place is now by another’s side. Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride! Bring flowers, pale flowers, o’er the bier to shed, A crown for the brow of the early dead! For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst, For this in the woods was the violet nursed! Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, They are love’s last gift. Bring ye flowers, pale flowers! Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer— They are nature’s offering, their place is there! They speak of hope to the fainting heart, With a voice of promise they come and part, They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, They break forth in glory. Bring flowers, bright flowers!

“Alas! the mother that him bare, If she had been in presence there, In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair She had not known her child.” Marmion.

Rest, pilgrim, rest! Thou’rt from the Syrian land, Thou’rt from the wild and wondrous East, I know By the long-wither’d palm-branch in thy hand, And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow. Alas! the bright, the beautiful, who part So full of hope, for that far country’s bourne! Alas! the weary and the changed in heart, And dimm’d in aspect, who like thee return! Thou’rt faint—stay, rest thee from thy toils at last: Through the high chestnuts lightly plays the breeze, The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is past, The sailor’s hymn hath died along the seas. Thou’rt faint and worn—hear’st thou the fountain welling By the gray pillars of yon ruin’d shrine? Seest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelling? —He that hath left me train’d that loaded vine! He was a child when thus the bower he wove, (Oh! hath a day fled since his childhood’s time?) That I might sit and hear the sound I love, Beneath its shade—the convent’s vesper-chime. And sit thou there!—for he was gentle ever, With his glad voice he would have welcomed thee, And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parch’d lips’ fever. There in his place thou’rt resting—where is he? If I could hear that laughing voice again, But once again! How oft it wanders by, In the still hours, like some remember’d strain, Troubling the heart with its wild melody!— Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim! hast thou seen In that far land, the chosen land of yore, A youth—my Guido—with the fiery mien And the dark eye of this Italian shore? The dark, clear, lightning eye! On heaven and earth It smiled—as if man were not dust it smiled! The very air seem’d kindling with his mirth, And I—my heart grew young before my child! My blessed child!—I had but him—yet he Fill’d all my home even with o’erflowing joy, Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free. Where is he now?—my pride, my flower, my boy! His sunny childhood melted from my sight, Like a spring dew-drop. Then his forehead wore A prouder look—his eye a keener light: I knew these woods might be his world no more! He loved me—but he left me! Thus they go Whom we have rear’d, watch’d, bless’d, too much adored! He heard the trumpet of the Red Cross blow, And bounded from me with his father’s sword! Thou weep’st—I tremble! Thou hast seen the slain Pressing a bloody turf—the young and fair, With their pale beauty strewing o’er the plain Where hosts have met: speak! answer!—was he there? Oh! hath his smile departed? Could the grave Shut o’er those bursts of bright and tameless glee? No! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave!—— That look gives hope—I knew it could not be! Still weep’st thou, wanderer? Some fond mother’s glance O’er thee, too, brooded in thine early years— Think’st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance, Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears? Speak, for thy tears disturb me!—what art thou? Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on? Look up! Oh! is it—that wan cheek and brow!— Is it—alas! yet joy!—my son, my son!

——“’Tis not merely The human being’s pride that peoples space With life and mystical predominance; Since likewise for the stricken heart of love This visible nature, and this common world, Are all too narrow.”—Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

Ask’st thou my home?—my pathway wouldst thou know, When from thine eye my floating shadow pass’d? Was not my work fulfill’d and closed below? Had I not lived and loved? My lot was cast. Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone, That, melting into song her soul away, Gave the spring-breeze what witch’d thee in its tone? But while she loved, she lived, in that deep lay! Think’st thou my heart its lost one hath not found? Yes! we are one: oh! trust me, we have met, Where naught again may part what love hath bound, Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret. There shalt thou find us, there with us be blest, If, as our love, thy love is pure and true! There dwells my father,[326] sinless and at rest, Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue. And well he feels, no error of the dust Drew to the stars of heaven his mortal ken; There it is with us even as is our trust— He that believes is near the holy then. There shall each feeling, beautiful and high, Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day. Oh! fear thou not to dream with waking eye! There lies deep meaning oft in childish play.

Ring, joyous chords!—ring out again! A swifter, and a wilder strain! They are here—the fair face and the careless heart, And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.—— But I met a dimly mournful glance, In a sudden turn of the flying dance; I heard the tone of a heavy sigh In a pause of the thrilling melody! And it is not well that woe should breathe On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath!— Ye that to thought or to grief belong, Leave, leave the hall of song! Ring, joyous chords!——But who art thou With the shadowy locks o’er thy pale young brow, And the world of dreamy gloom that lies In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes? Thou hast loved, fair girl! thou hast loved too well! Thou art mourning now o’er a broken spell; Thou hast pour’d thy heart’s rich treasures forth, And art unrepaid for their priceless worth! Mourn on!—yet come thou not here the while, It is but a pain to see thee smile! There is not a tone in our songs for thee— Home with thy sorrows flee! Ring, joyous chords!—ring out again!—— But what dost thou with the revel’s train? A silvery voice through the soft air floats, But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes; There are bright young faces that pass thee by, But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye! Away! there’s a void in thy yearning breast, Thou weary man! wilt thou here find rest! Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled, And the love of thy spirit is with the dead: Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth— Back to thy silent hearth! Ring, joyous chords!—ring forth again! A swifter still, and a wilder strain!—— But thou, though a reckless mien be thine, And thy cup be crown’d with the foaming wine, By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud, By thine eye’s quick flash through its troubled cloud, I know thee! it is but the wakeful fear Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here! I know thee!—thou fearest the solemn night, With her piercing stars and her deep wind’s might! There’s a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst shun, For it asks what the secret soul hath done! And thou—there’s a dark weight on thine—away!— Back to thy home, and pray! Ring, joyous chords!—ring out again! A swifter still, and a wilder strain! And bring fresh wreaths!—we will banish all Save the free in heart from our festive hall. On! through the maze of the fleet dance, on!— But where are the young and the lovely gone? Where are the brows with the Red Rose crown’d, And the floating forms with the bright zone bound? And the waving locks and the flying feet, That still should be where the mirthful meet?— They are gone—they are fled—they are parted all: Alas! the forsaken hall!

Sleep midst thy banners furl’d! Yes! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying, With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing, Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the world! Sleep, while the babe sleeps on its mother’s breast. Oh! strong is night—for thou too art at rest! Stillness hath smooth’d thy brow, And now might love keep timid vigils by thee, Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh thee, Alike unconscious and defenceless thou! Tread lightly, watchers! Now the field is won, Break not the rest of nature’s weary son! Perchance some lovely dream Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing, To the green places of thy boyish daring, And all the windings of thy native stream. Why, this were joy! Upon the tented plain, Dream on, thou Conqueror!—be a child again! But thou wilt wake at morn, With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping, And thy dark troubled thoughts all earth o’ersweeping; So wilt thou rise, O thou of woman born! And put thy terrors on, till none may dare Look upon thee—the tired one, slumbering there! Why, so the peasant sleeps Beneath his vine!—and man must kneel before thee, And for his birthright vainly still implore thee! Shalt thou be stay’d because thy brother weeps?— Wake! and forget that midst a dreaming world, Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furl’d! Forget that thou, even thou, Hast feebly shiver’d when the wind pass’d o’er thee, And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee, And felt the night-dew chill thy fever’d brow! Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press on!— Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son.

Fount of the woods! thou art hid no more From heaven’s clear eye, as in time of yore. For the roof hath sunk from thy mossy walls, And the sun’s free glance on thy slumber falls; And the dim tree-shadows across thee pass, As the boughs are sway’d o’er thy silvery glass; And the reddening leaves to thy breast are blown, When the autumn wind hath a stormy tone; And thy bubbles rise to the flashing rain— Bright Fount! thou art nature’s own again! Fount of the vale! thou art sought no more By the pilgrim’s foot, as in time of yore, When he came from afar, his beads to tell, And to chant his hymn at Our Lady’s Well. There is heard no Ave through thy bowers, Thou art gleaming lone midst thy water-flowers! But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave, And there may the reaper his forehead lave, And the woodman seeks thee not in vain— Bright Fount! thou art nature’s own again! Fount of the Virgin’s ruin’d shrine! A voice that speaks of the past is thine! It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh With the notes that ring through the laughing sky; Midst the mirthful song of the summer bird, And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard!— Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee, To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free? ’Tis that all on earth is of Time’s domain— He hath made thee nature’s own again! Fount of the chapel with ages gray! Thou art springing freshly amidst decay; Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low, And the changeful hours breathe o’er thee now. Yet if at thine altar one holy thought In man’s deep spirit of old hath wrought; If peace to the mourner hath here been given, Or prayer, from a chasten’d heart, to heaven— Be the spot still hallow’d while Time shall reign, Who hath made thee nature’s own again!

Thou’rt bearing hence thy roses, Glad summer, fare thee well! Thou’rt singing thy last melodies In every wood and dell. But ere the golden sunset Of thy latest lingering day, Oh! tell me, o’er this checker’d earth, How hast thou pass’d away? Brightly, sweet Summer! brightly Thine hours have floated by, To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, The rangers of the sky; And brightly in the forests, To the wild deer wandering free; And brightly, ’midst the garden flowers, To the happy murmuring bee: But how to human bosoms, With all their hopes and fears, And thoughts that make them eagle-wings, To pierce the unborn years? Sweet Summer! to the captive Thou hast flown in burning dreams Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves, And the blue rejoicing streams;— To the wasted and the weary On the bed of sickness bound, In swift delirious fantasies, That changed with every sound;— To the sailor on the billows, In longings, wild and vain, For the gushing founts and breezy hills, And the homes of earth again! And unto me, glad Summer! How hast thou flown to me? My chainless footstep naught hath kept From thy haunts of song and glee. Thou hast flown in wayward visions, In memories of the dead— In shadows from a troubled heart, O’er thy sunny pathway shed: In brief and sudden strivings To fling a weight aside— Midst these thy melodies have ceased, And all thy roses died. But oh! thou gentle Summer! If I greet thy flowers once more, Bring me again the buoyancy Wherewith my soul should soar! Give me to hail thy sunshine With song and spirit free; Or in a purer air than this May that next meeting be!

——“Sing aloud Old songs, the precious music of the heart.” Wordsworth

Sing them upon the sunny hills, When days are long and bright, And the blue gleam of shining rills Is loveliest to the sight! Sing them along the misty moor, Where ancient hunters roved, And swell them through the torrent’s roar, The songs our fathers loved!— The songs their souls rejoiced to hear When harps were in the hall, And each proud note made lance and spear Thrill on the banner’d wall: The songs that through our valleys green, Sent on from age to age, Like his own river’s voice, have been The peasant’s heritage. The reaper sings them when the vale Is fill’d with plumy sheaves; The woodman, by the starlight pale, Cheer’d homeward through the leaves: And unto them the glancing oars A joyous measure keep, Where the dark rocks that crest our shores Dash back the foaming deep. So let it be! a light they shed O’er each old fount and grove; A memory of the gentle dead, A lingering spell of love. Murmuring the names of mighty men, They bid our streams roll on, And link high thoughts to every glen Where valiant deeds were done. Teach them your children round the hearth, When evening fires burn clear, And in the fields of harvest mirth, And on the hills of deer. So shall each unforgotten word, When far those loved ones roam, Call back the hearts which once it stirr’d, To childhood’s holy home. The green woods of their native land Shall whisper in the strain, The voices of their household band Shall breathe their names again; The heathery heights in vision rise, Where, like the stag, they roved. Sing to your sons those melodies, The songs your fathers loved!

Come, while in freshness and dew it lies, To the world that is under the free blue skies! Leave ye man’s home, and forget his care— There breathes no sigh on the dayspring’s air. Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells A light, all made for the poet dwells— A light, colour’d softly by tender leaves, Whence the primrose a mellower glow receives. The stock-dove is there in the beechen tree, And the lulling tone of the honey-bee; And the voice of cool waters midst feathery fern, Shedding sweet sounds from some hidden urn. There is life, there is youth, there is tameless mirth, Where the streams, with the lilies they wear, have birth; There is peace where the alders are whispering low: Come from man’s dwellings with all their woe! Yes! we will come—we will leave behind The homes and the sorrows of human kind. It is well to rove where the river leads Its bright blue vein along sunny meads: It is well through the rich wild woods to go, And to pierce the haunts of the fawn and doe; And to hear the gushing of gentle springs, When the heart has been fretted by worldly stings; And to watch the colours that flit and pass, With insect-wings, through the wavy grass; And the silvery gleams o’er the ash-tree’s bark, Borne in with a breeze through the foliage dark. Joyous and far shall our wanderings be, As the flight of birds o’er the glittering sea: To the woods, to the dingles where violets blow, We will bear no memory of earthly woe. But if, by the forest-brook, we meet A line like the pathway of former feet; If, midst the hills, in some lonely spot, We reach the gray ruins of tower or cot;— If the cell, where a hermit of old hath pray’d, Lift up its cross through the solemn shade; Or if some nook, where the wild flowers wave, Bear token sad of a mortal grave,— Doubt not but there will our steps be stay’d, There our quick spirits awhile delay’d; There will thought fix our impatient eyes, And win back our hearts to their sympathies. For what though the mountains and skies be fair, Steep’d in soft hues of the summer air? ’Tis the soul of man, by its hopes and dreams, That lights up all nature with living gleams. Where it hath suffer’d and nobly striven, Where it hath pour’d forth its vows to heaven; Where to repose it hath brightly pass’d, O’er this green earth there is glory cast. And by that soul, midst groves and rills, And flocks that feed on a thousand hills, Birds of the forest, and flowers of the sod, We, only we, may be link’d to God!

Oh! ask not, hope thou not too much Of sympathy below! Few are the hearts whence one same touch Bids the sweet fountains flow— Few, and by still conflicting powers Forbidden here to meet: Such ties would make this life of ours Too fair for aught so fleet. It may be that thy brother’s eye Sees not as thine, which turns In such deep reverence to the sky, Where the rich sunset burns: It may be that the breath of spring, Born amidst violets lone, A rapture o’er thy soul can bring— A dream, to his unknown. The tune that speaks of other times— A sorrowful delight! The melody of distant chimes, The sound of waves by night, The wind that, with so many a tone, Some chord within can thrill,— These may have language all thine own, To him a mystery still. Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true And steadfast love of years; The kindly, that from childhood grew, The faithful to thy tears! If there be one that o’er the dead Hath in thy grief borne part, And watch’d through sickness by thy bed,— Call his a kindred heart! But for those bonds all perfect made, Wherein bright spirits blend, Like sister flowers of one sweet shade With the same breeze that bend— For that full bliss of thought allied Never to mortals given, Oh! lay thy lovely dreams aside, Or lift them unto heaven.

In sunset’s light, o’er Afric thrown, A wanderer proudly stood Beside the well-spring, deep and lone, Of Egypt’s awful flood— The cradle of that mighty birth, So long a hidden thing to earth! He heard its life’s first murmuring sound, A low mysterious tone— A music sought, but never found By kings and warriors gone. He listen’d—and his heart beat high: That was the song of victory! The rapture of a conqueror’s mood Rush’d burning through his frame,— The depths of that green solitude Its torrents could not tame; Though stillness lay, with eve’s last smile, Round those far fountains of the Nile. Night came with stars. Across his soul There swept a sudden change: E’en at the pilgrim’s glorious goal, A shadow dark and strange Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall O’er triumph’s hour—and is this all?[328] No more than this! What seem’d it now First by that spring to stand? A thousand streams of lovelier flow Bathed his own mountain-land! Whence, far o’er waste and ocean track, Their wild, sweet voices, call’d him back. They call’d him back to many a glade, His childhood’s haunt of play, Where brightly through the beechen shade Their waters glanced away; They call’d him, with their sounding waves, Back to his father’s hills and graves. But, darkly mingling with the thought Of each familiar scene, Rose up a fearful vision, fraught With all that lay between— The Arab’s lance, the desert’s gloom, The whirling sands, the red simoom! Where was the glow of power and pride? The spirit born to roam? His alter’d heart within him died With yearnings for his home! All vainly struggling to repress That gush of painful tenderness. He wept! The stars of Afric’s heaven Beheld his bursting tears, E’en on that spot where fate had given The meed of toiling years!— O Happiness! how far we flee Thine own sweet paths in search of thee!

The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle’s wreck Shone round him o’er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm— A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form. The flames roll’d on—he would not go Without his father’s word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He call’d aloud:—“Say, father! say If yet my task is done!” He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. “Speak, father!” once again he cried, “If I may yet be gone!” And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames roll’d on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And look’d from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair; And shouted but once more aloud, “My father! must I stay?” While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And stream’d above the gallant child Like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder-sound— The boy—oh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strew’d the sea!— With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part; But the noblest thing which perish’d there Was that young faithful heart!

’Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours, As they floated in light away, By the opening and the folding flowers, That laugh to the summer’s day. Thus had each moment its own rich hue, And its graceful cup and bell, In whose colour’d vase might sleep the dew, Like a pearl in an ocean-shell. To such sweet signs might the time have flow’d In a golden current on, Ere from the garden, man’s first abode, The glorious guests were gone. So might the days have been brightly told— Those days of song and dreams— When shepherds gather’d their flocks of old By the blue Arcadian streams. So in those isles of delight, that rest Far off in a breezeless main, Which many a bark, with a weary quest, Has sought, but still in vain. Yet is not life, in its real flight, Mark’d thus—even thus—on earth, By the closing of one hope’s delight, And another’s gentle birth? Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower, Shutting in turn, may leave A lingerer still for the sunset hour, A charm for the shaded eve.

“Naught shall prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith that all which we behold Is full of blessings.” Wordsworth.

There’s beauty all around our paths, if but our watchful eyes Can trace it midst familiar things, and through their lowly guise; We may find it where a hedgerow showers its blossoms o’er our way, Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red light of day. We may find it where a spring shines clear beneath an aged tree, With the foxglove o’er the water’s glass, borne downwards by the bee; Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen stems is thrown, As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses green and lone. We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross the cold blue sky, While soft on icy pool and stream their pencil’d shadows lie, When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work bound, Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of crystals to the ground. Yes! beauty dwells in all our paths—but sorrow too is there: How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, still summer air! When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the joyous things, That through the leafy places glance on many-colour’d wings, With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland shades, And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in the glades; And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo’s plaintive tone Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone. But are we free to do even thus—to wander as we will, Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o’er the breezy hill? No! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind us fast, While from their narrow round we see the golden day fleet past. They hold us from the woodlark’s haunts, and violet dingles, back, And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining river’s track; They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, hope, and mirth, And weigh our burden’d spirits down with the cumbering dust of earth. Yet should this be? Too much, too soon, despondingly we yield! A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field! A sweeter by the birds of heaven—which tell us, in their flight, Of One that through the desert air for ever guides them right. Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain conflicts cease? Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy hours of peace, And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our pathway lies, By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the skies!

Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief, In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb; His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief, And his arms folded in majestic gloom; And his bow lay unstrung, beneath the mound Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around. For a pale cross above its greensward rose, Telling the cedars and the pines that there Man’s heart and hope had struggled with his woes, And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. Now all was hush’d—and eve’s last splendour shone With a rich sadness on th’ attesting stone. There came a lonely traveller o’er the wild, And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave, Asking the tale of its memorial, piled Between the forest and the lake’s bright wave; Till, as a wind might stir a wither’d oak, On the deep dream of age his accents broke. And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said— “I listen’d for the words, which, years ago, Pass’d o’er these waters. Though the voice is fled Which made them as a singing fountain’s flow, Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, Sometimes the forest’s murmur gives them back. “Ask’st thou of him whose house is lone beneath? I was an eagle in my youthful pride, When o’er the seas he came, with summer’s breath, To dwell amidst us, on the lake’s green side. Many the times of flowers have been since then— Many, but bringing naught like him again! “Not with the hunter’s bow and spear he came, O’er the blue hills to chase the flying roe; Not the dark glory of the woods to tame, Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low; But to spread tidings of all holy things, Gladdening our souls, as with the morning’s wings. “Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met, I and my brethren that from earth are gone, Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone? He told of One the grave’s dark bonds who broke, And our hearts burn’d within us as he spoke. “He told of far and sunny lands, which lie Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell: Bright must they be! for there are none that die, And none that weep, and none that say ‘Farewell!’ He came to guide us thither; but away The Happy call’d him, and he might not stay. “We saw him slowly fade—athirst, perchance, For the fresh waters of that lovely clime; Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance, And on his gleaming hair no touch of time— Therefore we hoped: but now the lake looks dim, For the green summer comes—and finds not him! “We gather’d round him in the dewy hour Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree; From his clear voice, at first, the words of power Came low, like moanings of a distant sea; But swell’d and shook the wilderness ere long, As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong. “And then once more they trembled on his tongue, And his white eyelids flutter’d, and his head Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hung—— Know’st thou not how we pass to join the dead? It is enough! he sank upon my breast— Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest! “We buried him where he was wont to pray, By the calm lake, e’en here, at eventide; We rear’d this cross in token where he lay, For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died! Now hath he surely reach’d, o’er mount and wave, That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave. “But I am sad! I mourn the clear light taken Back from my people, o’er whose place it shone, The pathway to the better shore forsaken, And the true words forgotten, save by one, Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast.” Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye: “Son of the wilderness! despair thou not, Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, And the cloud settled o’er thy nation’s lot! Heaven darkly works—yet, where the seed hath been, There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen. “Hope on, hope ever!—by the sudden springing Of green leaves which the winter hid so long; And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing, After cold silent months the woods among; And by the rending of the frozen chains, Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains. “Deem not the words of light that here were spoken, But as a lovely song, to leave no trace; Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be broken, And the full dayspring rise upon thy race! And fading mists the better path disclose, And the wide desert blossom as the rose.” So by the cross they parted, in the wild, Each fraught with musings for life’s after day, Memories to visit one, the forest’s child, By many a blue stream in its lonely way; And upon one, midst busy throngs to press Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness.

By the mighty minster’s bell, Tolling with a sudden swell; By the colours half-mast high, O’er the sea hung mournfully; Know, a prince hath died! By the drum’s dull muffled sound, By the arms that sweep the ground, By the volleying muskets’ tone, Speak ye of a soldier gone In his manhood’s pride. By the chanted psalm that fills Reverently the ancient hills,[332] Learn, that from his harvests done, Peasants hear a brother on To his last repose. By the pall of snowy white Through the yew-trees gleaming bright; By the garland on the bier, Weep! a maiden claims thy tear— Broken is the rose! Which is the tenderest rite of all?— Buried virgin’s coronal, Requiem o’er the monarch’s head, Farewell gun for warrior dead, Herdsman’s funeral hymn? Tells not each of human woe? Each of hope and strength brought low? Number each with holy things, If one chastening thought it brings Ere life’s day grow dim!

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon’s plain, When a young mother, with her first-born, thence Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow’d Unto the Temple service. By the hand She led him, and her silent soul, the while, Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think That aught so pure, so beautiful was hers, To bring before her God. So pass’d they on O’er Judah’s hills; and wheresoe’er the leaves Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs, With their cool dimness, cross’d the sultry blue Of Syria’s heaven, she paused, that he might rest; Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep That weigh’d their dark fringe down, to sit and watch The crimson deepening o’er his cheek’s repose, As at a red flower’s heart. And where a fount Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades, Making its bank green gems along the wild, There, too, she linger’d, from the diamond wave Drawing bright water for his rosy lips, And softly parting clusters of jet curls To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reach’d, The earth’s one sanctuary—and rapture hush’d Her bosom, as before her, through the day, It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep’d In light like floating gold. But when that hour Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear, Turn’d from the white-robed priest, and round her arm Clung even as joy clings—the deep spring-tide Of nature then swell’d high, and o’er her child Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds Of weeping and sad song. “Alas!” she cried,— “Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me, The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes; And now fond thoughts arise, And silver cords again to earth have won me, And like a vine thou claspest my full heart— How shall I hence depart? “How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing So late, along the mountains, at my side? And I, in joyous pride, By every place of flowers my course delaying, Wove, e’en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, Beholding thee so fair! “And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day Turn’d from its door away? While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, I languish for thy voice, which past me still Went like a singing rill? “Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return, With the full water-urn; Nor will thy sleep’s low dove-like breathings greet me, As midst the silence of the stars I wake, And watch for thy dear sake. “And thou, will slumber’s dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother’s hand to smooth thy bed? Wilt thou not vainly spread Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, A cry which none shall hear? “What have I said, my child! Will He not hear thee, Who the young ravens heareth from their nest? Shall He not guard thy rest, And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, Breathe o’er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy? Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy. “I give thee to thy God—the God that gave thee, A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart! And, precious as thou art, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, My own, my beautiful, my undefiled! And thou shalt be His child. “Therefore, farewell! I go—my soul may fail me, As the hart panteth for the water brooks, Yearning for thy sweet looks. But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me; Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, The Rock of Strength.—Farewell!”

All night the booming minute-gun Had peal’d along the deep, And mournfully the rising sun Look’d o’er the tide-worn steep. A bark from India’s coral strand, Before the raging blast, Had vail’d her topsails to the sand, And bow’d her noble mast. The queenly ship!—brave hearts had striven, And true ones died with her! We saw her mighty cable riven, Like floating gossamer. We saw her proud flag struck that morn— A star once o’er the seas,— Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn, And sadder things than these! We saw her treasures cast away, The rocks with pearls were sown; And, strangely sad, the ruby’s ray Flash’d out o’er fretted stone. And gold was strewn the wet sands o’er, Like ashes by a breeze; And gorgeous robes—but oh! that shore Had sadder things than these! We saw the strong man still and low, A crush’d reed thrown aside; Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, Not without strife he died. And near him on the sea-weed lay— Till then we had not wept— But well our gushing hearts might say, That there a mother slept! For her pale arms a babe had press’d With such a wreathing grasp, Billows had dash’d o’er that fond breast, Yet not undone the clasp. Her very tresses had been flung To wrap the fair child’s form, Where still their wet long streamers hung All tangled by the storm. And beautiful, midst that wild scene, Gleam’d up the boy’s dead face, Like slumber’s, trustingly serene, In melancholy grace. Deep in her bosom lay his head, With half-shut violet-eye— He had known little of her dread, Naught of her agony! O human love! whose yearning heart, Through all things vainly true, So stamps upon thy mortal part Its passionate adieu— Surely thou hast another lot: There is some home for thee, Where thou shalt rest, remembering not The moaning of the sea!

The trumpet’s voice hath roused the land— Light up the beacon pyre! A hundred hills have seen the brand, And waved the sign of fire. A hundred banners to the breeze Their gorgeous folds have cast— And, hark! was that the sound of seas? A king to war went past. The chief is arming in his hall, The peasant by his hearth; The mourner hears the thrilling call, And rises from the earth. The mother on her first-born son Looks with a boding eye— They come not back, though all be won, Whose young hearts leap so high. The bard hath ceased his song, and bound The falchion to his side; E’en, for the marriage altar crown’d, The lover quits his bride. And all this haste, and change, and fear, By earthly clarion spread!— How will it be when kingdoms hear The blast that wakes the dead?

“Now in thy youth, beseech of Him Who giveth, upbraiding not, That His light in thy heart become not dim, And his love be unforgot; And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee.” Bernard Barton.

Hush! ’tis a holy hour. The quiet room Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads, With all their clustering locks, untouch’d by care, And bow’d, as flowers are bow’d with night, in prayer. Gaze on—’tis lovely! Childhood’s lip and cheek, Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought! Gaze—yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?— Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity! O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest Lightly, when those pure orisons are done As birds with slumber’s honey-dew opprest, Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun— Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. Though fresh within your breasts th’ untroubled springs Of hope make melody where’er ye tread, And o’er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread; Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low, Is woman’s tenderness—how soon her woe! Her lot is on you—silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering’s hour, And sumless riches, from affection’s deep, To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship. Therefore pray! Her lot is on you—to be found untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain; Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And, oh! to love through all things. Therefore pray! And take the thought of this calm vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from their prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight! Earth will forsake—Oh! happy to have given Th’ unbroken heart’s first fragrance unto heaven.

Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath, And stars to set—but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer— But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. The banquet hath its hour— Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief’s o’erwhelming power, A time for softer tears—but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee—but thou art not of those That wait the ripen’d bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath, And stars to set—but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn’s hue shall tinge the golden grain— But who shall teach us when to look for thee! Is it when spring’s first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?— They have one season—all are ours to die! Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth—and thou art there. Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest— Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind’s breath, And stars to set—but all— Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

And is there glory from the heavens departed? O void unmark’d!—thy sisters of the sky Still hold their place on high, Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye! Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night? She wears her crown of old magnificence, Though thou art exiled thence— No desert seems to part those urns of light, Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense. They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning— The shepherd greets them on his mountains free; And from the silvery sea To them the sailor’s wakeful eye is turning— Unchanged they rise, they have not mourn’d for thee. Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, Even as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray, Swept by the wind away? Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, And was there power to smite them with decay? Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? Bow’d be our hearts to think on what we are, When from its height afar A world sinks thus—and yon majestic heaven Shines not the less for that one vanish’d star!

Rocks of my country! let the cloud Your crested heights array, And rise ye like a fortress proud Above the surge and spray! My spirit greets you as ye stand, Breasting the billow’s foam: Oh! thus for ever guard the land, The sever’d land of home! I have left rich blue skies behind, Lighting up classic shrines, And music in the southern wind, And sunshine on the vines. The breathings of the myrtle flowers Have floated o’er my way; The pilgrim’s voice, at vesper hours, Hath soothed me with its lay. The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain, The purple heavens of Rome— Yes, all are glorious,—yet again I bless thee, land of home! For thine the Sabbath peace, my land! And thine the guarded hearth; And thine the dead—the noble band, That make thee holy earth. Their voices meet me in thy breeze, Their steps are on thy plains; Their names, by old majestic trees, Are whisper’d round thy fanes. Their blood hath mingled with the tide Of thine exulting sea; Oh, be it still a joy, a pride, To live and die for thee!

The kings of old have shrine and tomb In many a minster’s haughty gloom; And green, along the ocean side, The mounds arise where heroes died; But show me, on thy flowery breast, Earth! where thy nameless martyrs rest! The thousands that, uncheer’d by praise, Have made one offering of their days; For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom’s sake, Resign’d the bitter cup to take; And silently, in fearless faith, Bowing their noble souls to death. Where sleep they, Earth? By no proud stone Their narrow couch of rest is known; The still sad glory of their name Hallows no fountain unto Fame; No—not a tree the record bears Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers. Yet haply all around lie strew’d The ashes of that multitude: It may be that each day we tread Where thus devoted hearts have bled; And the young flowers our children sow, Take root in holy dust below. Oh, that the many-rustling leaves, Which round our homes the summer weaves, Or that the streams, in whose glad voice Our own familiar paths rejoice, Might whisper through the starry sky, To tell where those blest slumberers lie! Would not our inmost hearts be still’d, With knowledge of their presence fill’d, And by its breathings taught to prize The meekness of self-sacrifice? —But the old woods and sounding waves Are silent of those hidden graves. Yet what if no light footstep there In pilgrim-love and awe repair, So let it be! Like him, whose clay Deep buried by his Maker lay, They sleep in secret,—but their sod, Unknown to man, is mark’d of God!

“Pregar, pregar, pregar, Ch’ altro ponno i mortali al pianger nati?” Alfieri.

Child, amidst the flowers at play, While the red light fades away; Mother, with thine earnest eye Ever following silently; Father, by the breeze of eve Call’d thy harvest-work to leave— Pray: ere yet the dark hours be, Lift the heart and bend the knee! Traveller, in the stranger’s land, Far from thine own household band; Mourner, haunted by the tone Of a voice from this world gone; Captive, in whose narrow cell Sunshine hath not leave to dwell; Sailor on the darkening sea— Lift the heart and bend the knee! Warrior, that from battle won Breathest now at set of sun; Woman, o’er the lowly slain Weeping on his burial-plain; Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, Kindred by one holy tie, Heaven’s first star alike ye see— Lift the heart and bend the knee!

“Von Baumen, aus Wellen, aus Mauern, Wie ruft es dir freundlich und lind; Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauern? Komm’ spielen, du freundliches Kind!” La Motte Fouque.

Oh! when wilt thou return To thy spirit’s early loves? To the freshness of the morn, To the stillness of the groves? The summer birds are calling Thy household porch around, And the merry waters falling With sweet laughter in their sound. And a thousand bright-vein’d flowers, From their banks of moss and fern, Breathe of the sunny hours— But when wilt thou return? Oh! thou hast wander’d long From thy home without a guide; And thy native woodland song In thine alter’d heart hath died. Thou hast flung the wealth away, And the glory of thy spring; And to thee the leaves’ light play Is a long-forgotten thing. But when wilt thou return?— Sweet dews may freshen soon The flower, within whose urn Too fiercely gazed the noon. O’er the image of the sky, Which the lake’s clear bosom wore, Darkly may shadows lie— But not for evermore. Give back thy heart again To the freedom of the woods, To the birds’ triumphant strain, To the mountain solitudes! But when wilt thou return? Along thine own pure air There are young sweet voices borne— Oh! should not thine be there? Still at thy father’s board There is kept a place for thee; And, by thy smile restored, Joy round the hearth shall be. Still hath thy mother’s eye, Thy coming step to greet, A look of days gone by, Tender and gravely sweet. Still, when the prayer is said, For thee kind bosoms yearn, For thee fond tears are shed— Oh! when wilt thou return?

How many thousands are wakening now! Some to the songs from the forest bough, To the rustling of leaves at the lattice pane, To the chiming fall of the early rain. And some, far out on the deep mid-sea, To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee, As they break into spray on the ship’s tall side, That holds through the tumult her path of pride. And some—oh, well may their hearts rejoice!— To the gentle sound of a mother’s voice: Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone, When from the board and the hearth ’tis gone. And some, in the camp, to the bugle’s breath, And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath, And the sudden roar of the hostile gun, Which tells that a field must ere night be won. And some, in the gloomy convict cell, To the dull deep note of the warning bell, As it heavily calls them forth to die, When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky. And some to the peal of the hunter’s horn, And some to the din from the city borne, And some to the rolling of torrent floods, Far midst old mountains and solemn woods. So are we roused on this checker’d earth: Each unto light hath a daily birth; Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet, Are the voices which first our upspringing meet. But one must the sound be, and one the call, Which from the dust shall awaken us all: One!—but to sever’d and distant dooms, How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs?

Joy is upon the lonely seas, When Indian forests pour Forth, to the billow and the breeze, Their odours from the shore; Joy, when the soft air’s fanning sigh Bears on the breath of Araby. Oh! welcome are the winds that tell A wanderer of the deep Where, far away, the jasmines dwell, And where the myrrh-trees weep! Blest on the sounding surge and foam Are tidings of the citron’s home! The sailor at the helm they meet, And hope his bosom stirs, Upspringing, midst the waves, to greet The fair earth’s messengers, That woo him, from the moaning main, Back to her glorious bowers again. They woo him, whispering lovely tales Of many a flowering glade, And fount’s bright gleam, in island vales Of golden-fruited shade: Across his lone ship’s wake they bring A vision and a glow of spring. And, O ye masters of the lay! Come not even thus your songs That meet us on life’s weary way, Amidst her toiling throngs? Yes! o’er the spirit thus they bear A current of celestial air. Their power is from the brighter clime That in our birth hath part; Their tones are of the world, which time Sears not within the heart: They tell us of the living light In its green places ever bright. They call us, with a voice divine, Back to our early love,— Our vows of youth at many a shrine, Whence far and fast we rove. Welcome high thought and holy strain That make us Truth’s and Heaven’s again!

“My heart shall be pour’d over thee—and break.” Prophecy of Dante.

The spirit of my land, It visits me once more!—though I must die Far from the myrtles which thy breeze hath fann’d, My own bright Italy! It is, it is thy breath, Which stirs my soul e’en yet, as wavering flame Is shaken by the wind,—in life and death Still trembling, yet the same! Oh! that love’s quenchless power Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky, And through thy groves its dying music shower, Italy! Italy! The nightingale is there, The sunbeam’s glow, the citron flower’s perfume, The south wind’s whisper in the scented air— It will not pierce the tomb! Never, oh! never more, On thy Rome’s purple heaven mine eye shall dwell, Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore— My Italy! farewell! Alas!—thy hills among Had I but left a memory of my name, Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song, Unto immortal fame! But like a lute’s brief tone, Like a rose-odour on the breezes cast, Like a swift flush of dayspring, seen and gone, So hath my spirit pass’d— Pouring itself away As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns, Into a fleeting lay; That swells, and floats, and dies, Leaving no echo to the summer woods Of the rich breathings and impassion’d sighs Which thrill’d their solitudes. Yet, yet remember me! Friends! that upon its murmurs oft have hung, When from my bosom, joyously and free, The fiery fountain sprung. Under the dark rich blue Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea, And when woods kindle into spring’s first hue, Sweet friends! remember me! And in the marble halls, Where life’s full glow the dreams of beauty wear, And poet-thoughts embodied light the walls, Let me be with you there! Fain would I bind, for you, My memory with all glorious things to dwell! Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew— Sweet friends! bright land! farewell!

The chord, the harp’s full chord is hush’d, The voice hath died away, Whence music, like sweet waters, gush’d But yesterday. Th’ awakening note, the breeze-like swell. The full o’ersweeping tone, The sounds that sigh’d “Farewell, farewell!” Are gone—all gone! The love, whose fervent spirit pass’d With the rich measure’s flow; The grief, to which it sank at last— Where are they now? They are with the scents by summer’s breath Borne from a rose now shed: With the words from lips long seal’d in death— For ever fled. The sea-shell of its native deep A moaning thrill retains; But earth and air no record keep Of parted strains. And all the memories, all the dreams, They woke in floating by; The tender thoughts, th’ Elysian gleams— Could these too die? They died! As on the water’s breast The ripple melts away, When the breeze that stirr’d it sinks to rest— So perish’d they! Mysterious in their sudden birth, And mournful in their close, Passing, and finding not on earth Aim or repose. Whence were they?—like the breath of flowers Why thus to come and go? A long, long journey must be ours Ere this we know!

“Was mir fehlt?—Mir fehlt ja alles, Bin so ganz verlassen hier!” Tyrolese Melody.

The Hearth, the Hearth is desolate! the fire is quench’d and gone That into happy children’s eyes once brightly laughing shone; The place where mirth and music met is hush’d through day and night. Oh! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there made light! But scatter’d are those pleasant smiles afar by mount and shore, Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed to meet no more. Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other’s joy or mirth, Unbound is that sweet wreath of home—alas! the lonely hearth! The voices that have mingled here now speak another tongue, Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs their mother sung. Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound each household tone: The hearth, the hearth is desolate! the bright fire quench’d and gone! But are they speaking, singing yet, as in their days of glee? Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on earth or sea? Oh! some are hush’d, and some are changed, and never shall one strain Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again. And of the hearts that here were link’d by long-remember’d years, Alas! the brother knows not now when fall the sister’s tears! One haply revels at the feast, while one may droop alone: For broken is the household chain, the bright fire quench’d and gone! Not so—’tis not a broken chain: thy memory binds them still, Thou holy hearth of other days! though silent now and chill. The smiles, the tears, the rites, beheld by thine attesting stone, Have yet a living power to mark thy children for thine own. The father’s voice, the mother’s prayer, though call’d from earth away, With music rising from the dead, their spirits yet shall sway; And by the past, and by the grave, the parted yet are one, Though the loved hearth be desolate, the bright fire quench’d and gone!

“Thou hast been call’d, O sleep! the friend of woe, But ’tis the happy who have call’d thee so.” Southey.

Peace to thy dreams! thou art slumbering now— The moonlight’s calm is upon thy brow; All the deep love that o’erflows thy breast Lies midst the hush of thy heart at rest— Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell, When eve through the woodlands hath sigh’d farewell. Peace! The sad memories that through the day With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay, The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead, That bow’d thee as winds bow the willow’s head, The yearnings for faces and voices gone— All are forgotten! Sleep on, sleep on! Are they forgotten? It is not so! Slumber divides not the heart from its woe. E’en now o’er thine aspect swift changes pass, Like lights and shades over wavy grass: Tremblest thou, Dreamer? O love and grief! Ye have storms that shake e’en the closed-up leaf! On thy parted lips there’s a quivering thrill, As on a lyre ere its chords are still; On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye, There’s a large tear gathering heavily— A rain from the clouds of thy spirit press’d: Sorrowful Dreamer! this is not rest! It is Thought at work amidst buried hours— It is Love keeping vigil o’er perish’d flowers. —Oh, we bear within us mysterious things! Of Memory and Anguish, unfathom’d springs; And Passion—those gulfs of the heart to fill With bitter waves, which it ne’er may still. Well might we pause ere we gave them sway, Flinging the peace of our couch away! Well might we look on our souls in fear— They find no fount of oblivion here! They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath— How know we if under the wings of death?

Oh, for thy wings, thou dove! Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast; That, borne like thee above, I too might flee away, and be at rest! Where wilt thou fold those plumes, Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird? In what rich leafy glooms, By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirr’d? Over what blessed home, What roof with dark, deep summer foliage crown’d, O fair as ocean’s foam! Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around? Or seek’st thou some old shrine Of nymph or saint, no more by votary woo’d, Though still, as if divine, Breathing a spirit o’er the solitude? Yet wherefore ask thy way? Blest, ever blest, whate’er its aim, thou art! Unto the greenwood spray, Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart! No echoes that will blend A sadness with the whispers of the grove; No memory of a friend Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove! Oh! to some cool recess Take, take me with thee on the summer wind, Leaving the weariness And all the fever of this life behind: The aching and the void Within the heart, whereunto none reply, The young bright hopes destroy’d— Bird! bear me with thee through the sunny sky! Wild wish, and longing vain, And brief upspringing to be glad and free! Go to thy woodland reign: My soul is bound and held—I may not flee. For even by all the fears And thoughts that haunt my dreams—untold, unknown, And burning woman’s tears, Pour’d from mine eyes in silence and alone; Had I thy wings, thou dove! High midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar, Soon the strong cords of love Would draw me earthwards—homewards—yet once more.

Fearfully and mournfully Thou bidd’st the earth farewell; And yet thou’rt passing, loveliest one! In a brighter land to dwell. Ascend, ascend rejoicing! The sunshine of that shore Around thee, as a glorious robe, Shall stream for evermore. The breezy music wandering There through th’ Elysian sky, Hath no deep tone that seems to float From a happier time gone by. And there the day’s last crimson Gives no sad memories birth, No thought of dead or distant friends, Or partings—as on earth. Yet fearfully and mournfully Thou bidd’st that earth farewell, Although thou’rt passing, loveliest one! In a brighter land to dwell. A land where all is deathless— The sunny wave’s repose, The wood with its rich melodies, The summer and its rose: A land that sees no parting, That hears no sound of sighs, That waits thee with immortal air— Lift, lift those anxious eyes! Oh! how like thee, thou trembler! Man’s spirit fondly clings With timid love, to this, its world Of old familiar things! We pant, we thirst for fountains That gush not here below! On, on we toil, allured by dreams Of the living water’s flow: We pine for kindred natures To mingle with our own; For communings more full and high Than aught by mortal known: We strive with brief aspirings Against our bonds in vain; Yet summon’d to be free at last, We shrink—and clasp our chain; And fearfully and mournfully We bid the earth farewell, Though passing from its mists, like thee, In a brighter world to dwell.

I go, I go!—and must mine image fade From the green spots wherein my childhood play’d, By my own streams? Must my life part from each familiar place, As a bird’s song, that leaves the woods no trace Of its lone themes? Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget The welcomes there, the hours when we have met In grief or glee? All the sweet counsel, the communion high, The kindly words of trust, in days gone by, Pour’d full and free? A boon, a talisman, O Memory! give, To shrine my name in hearts where I would live For evermore! Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt, Bid the stream’s voice, of all my soul hath felt, A thought restore! In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well, In the dim brooding violet of the dell, Set deep that thought; And let the sunset’s melancholy glow, And let the spring’s first whisper, faint and low, With me be fraught! And Memory answer’d me:—“Wild wish, and vain! I have no hues the loveliest to detain In the heart’s core. The place they held in bosoms all their own, Soon with new shadows fill’d, new flowers o’ergrown, Is theirs no more.” Hast thou such power, O Love? And Love replied: —“It is not mine! Pour out thy soul’s full tide Of hope and trust, Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain— ’Tis but to write, with the heart’s fiery rain, Wild words on dust!” Song, is the gift with thee? I ask a lay, Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away From the still breast; Fill’d with a tone—oh! not for deathless fame, But a sweet haunting murmur of my name, Where it would rest. And Song made answer—“It is not in me, Though call’d immortal; though my gifts may be All but divine. A place of lonely brightness I can give: A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst live— This is not mine!” Death, Death! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil? And Death, the Strong One, spoke:—“I can but still Each vain regret. What if forgotten?—All thy soul would crave, Thou, too, within the mantle of the grave, Wilt soon forget.” Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die, As from all nature’s voices one reply, But one—was given. “Earth has no heart, fond dreamer! with a tone To send thee back the spirit of thine own— Seek it in heaven.”

Bronwylfa,[338] after standing for some time in silent contemplation of Rhyllon, breaks out into the following vehement strain of vituperation. You ugliest of fabrics! you horrible eyesore! I wish you would vanish, or put on a visor! In the face of the sun, without covering or rag on, You stand and outstare me, like any red dragon. With your great green-eyed windows, in boldness a host, (The only green things which, indeed, you can boast,) With your forehead as high, and as bare as the pate Which an eagle once took for a stone or a slate,[339] You lift yourself up, o’er the country afar, As who would say, “Look at me!—here stands great R!” I plant—I rear forest trees—shrubs great and small, To wrap myself up in—you peer through them all! With your lean scraggy neck o’er my poplars you rise; You watch all my guests with your wide saucer eyes. (In a paroxysm of rage.) You monster! I would I could waken some morning, And find you had taken French leave without warning; You should never be sought like Aladdin’s famed palace. You spoil my sweet temper—you make me bear malice: For it is a hard fate, I will say it and sing, Which has fix’d me to gaze on so frightful a thing. Rhyllon—(with dignified equanimity.) Content thee, Bronwylfa, what means all this rage? This sudden attack on my quiet old age? I am no parvenu: you and I, my good brother, Have stood here this century facing each other; And I can remember the days that are gone, When your sides were no better array’d than my own. Nay, the truth shall be told—since you flout me, restore The tall scarlet woodbine you took from my door! Since my baldness is mocked, and I’m forced to explain, Pray give me my large laurustinus again. (With a tone of prophetic solemnity.) Bronwylfa! Bronwylfa! thus insolent grown, Your pride and your poplars alike must come down! I look through the future (and far I can see, As St Asaph and Denbigh will answer for me,) And in spite of thy scorn, and of all thou hast done, From my kind heart’s brick bottom, I pity thee, Bron! The end of thy toiling and planting will be, That thou wilt want sunshine, and ask it of me. Thou wilt say, when thou wakest, looking out for the light, “I suppose it is morning, for Rhyllon looks bright;” While I—my green eyes with their tears overflow. (Tenderly.) Come!—let us be friends, as we were long ago.”