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!

THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE.

“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!

[423] “All this, and more than this, is now engraved upon the red-leaved tablets of my heart.”—Haywood.

A POET’S DYING HYMN.

“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!

[“I have lately written what I consider one of my best pieces—‘A Poet’s Dying Hymn.’ It appeared in the last number of Blackwood,” (April 1832.)—Letter from Mrs Hemans.

“It is impossible to read this affecting poem without feeling how distinctly it breathes the inward echoes of the soul to the frequent warnings of the Summoner; those presentiments which must have long silently possessed her, here for the first time finding utterance. Still more strongly does it evidence that subdued and serene frame of mind, into which her once vivacious temperament and painfully vibrating sensibilities were now so gently and happily subsiding.”—Memoir, p. 254.]

THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

“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!

THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGGIO’S.

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!

PRISONERS’ EVENING SERVICE.

A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.[424]

“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.

Scene—Prison of the Luxembourg in Paris, during the Reign of Terror.

D’Aubigné, an aged Royalist—Blanche, his daughter, a young girl.

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.

[424] The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her Letters from France, gave rise to this little scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, which they sang together in a low and restrained voice every night.