MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE TWO MONUMENTS.[428]

“Oh! bless’d are they who live and die like ‘him,’
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn’d!”
Wordsworth.
Banners hung drooping from on high
In a dim cathedral’s nave,
Making a gorgeous canopy
O’er a noble, noble grave!
And a marble warrior’s form beneath,
With helm and crest array’d,
As on his battle-bed of death,
Lay in their crimson shade.
Triumph yet linger’d in his eye,
Ere by the dark night seal’d;
And his head was pillow’d haughtily
On standard and on shield.
And shadowing that proud trophy-pile,
With the glory of his wing,
An eagle sat—yet seem’d the while
Panting through heaven to spring.
He sat upon a shiver’d lance,
There by the sculptor bound;
But in the light of his lifted glance
Was that which scorn’d the ground.
And a burning flood of gem-like hues,
From a storied window pour’d,
There fell, there centred, to suffuse
The conqueror and his sword.
A flood of hues—but one rich dye
O’er all supremely spread,
With a purple robe of royalty
Mantling the mighty dead.
Meet was that robe for him whose name
Was a trumpet-note in war,
His pathway still the march of fame,
His eye the battle-star.
But faintly, tenderly was thrown,
From the colour’d light, one ray,
Where a low and pale memorial-stone
By the couch of glory lay.
Few were the fond words chisell’d there,
Mourning for parted worth;
But the very heart of love and prayer
Had given their sweetness forth.
They spoke of one whose life had been
As a hidden streamlet’s course,
Bearing on health and joy unseen
From its clear mountain-source:
Whose young, pure memory, lying deep
Midst rock, and wood, and hill,
Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,[429]
A soft light, meek and still:
Whose gentle voice, too early call’d
Unto Music’s land away,
Had won for God the earth’s, enthrall’d
By words of silvery sway.
These were his victories—yet, enroll’d
In no high song of fame,
The pastor of the mountain-fold
Left but to heaven his name.
To heaven, and to the peasant’s hearth,
A blessed household-sound;
And finding lowly love on earth,
Enough, enough, he found!
Bright and more bright before me gleam’d
That sainted image still,
Till one sweet moonlight memory seem’d
The regal fane to fill.
Oh! how my silent spirit turn’d
From those proud trophies nigh!
How my full heart within me burn’d
Like Him to live and die!

[428] Suggested by a passage in Captain Sherer’s “Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.”

[429]

“Love had he seen in huts where poor men lie.”
Wordsworth.

THE COTTAGE GIRL.

A child beside a hamlet’s fount at play,
Her fair face laughing at the sunny day;
A gush of waters tremulously bright,
Kindling the air to gladness with their light;
And a soft gloom beyond of summer trees,
Darkening the turf; and, shadow’d o’er by these,
A low, dim, woodland cottage—this was all!
What had the scene for memory to recall
With a fond look of love? What secret spell
With the heart’s pictures made its image dwell?
What but the spirit of the joyous child,
That freshly forth o’er stream and verdure smiled,
Casting upon the common things of earth
A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth!

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

I look’d on the field where the battle was spread,
When thousands stood forth in their glancing array;
And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed
Through the dun-rolling clouds that o’ershadow’d the fray.
I saw the dark forest of lances appear,
As the ears of the harvest unnumber’d they stood;
I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near,
Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of the wood.
Afar the harsh notes of the war-drum were roll’d,
Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair;
On high to the gust stream’d the banner’s red fold,
O’er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of despair.
I look’d on the field of contention again,
When the sabre was sheath’d and the tempest had past;
The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain,
And the fem softly sigh’d in the low, wailing blast.
Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose,
And bright shone the stars through the sky’s deepen’d blue;
And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose,
Where the fox-glove lay gemm’d with its pearl-drops of dew.
But where swept the ranks of that dark, frowning host,
As the ocean in might, as the storm-cloud in speed?
Where now are the thunders of victory’s boast—
The slayer’s dread wrath, and the strength of the steed?
Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone,
To mark the lone scene of their shame or their pride;
One grass-cover’d mound told the traveller alone
Where thousands lay down in their anguish, and died!
O Glory! behold thy famed guerdon’s extent:
For this, toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot—
A name like the mist, when the night-beams are spent;
A grave with its tenants unwept and forgot!

A PENITENT’S RETURN.

“Can guilt or misery ever enter here?
Ah, no! the spirit of domestic peace,
Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove,
And ever murmuring forth a quiet song,
Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim,
The hallow’d porch. She hath a heavenly smile,
That sinks into the sullen soul of Vice,
And wins him o’er to virtue.”—Wilson.
My father’s house once more,
In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around,
Something, amidst the dewy calm profound,
Broods, never mark’d before!
Is it the brooding night?
Is it the shivery creeping on the air,
That makes the home so tranquil and so fair,
O’erwhelming to my sight?
All solemnised it seems,
And still’d, and darken’d in each time-worn hue,
Since the rich, clustering roses met my view,
As now, by starry gleams.
And this high elm, where last
I stood and linger’d—where my sisters made
Our mother’s bower—I deem’d not that it cast
So far and dark a shade!
How spirit-like a tone
Sighs through yon tree! My father’s place was there
At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair!
Now those gray locks are gone!
My soul grows faint with fear!
Even as if angel-steps had mark’d the sod.
I tremble where I move—the voice of God
Is in the foliage here!

Is it indeed the night
That makes my home so awful? Faithless-hearted!
’Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed
The inborn, gladdening light!
No outward thing is changed;
Only the joy of purity is fled,
And, long from nature’s melodies estranged,
Thou hear’st their tones with dread.
Therefore the calm abode,
By thy dark spirit, is o’erhung with shade;
And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God
Makes thy sick heart afraid!
The night-flowers round that door
Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air;
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more
To pass, and rest thee there.
And must I turn away?—
Hark, hark!—it is my mother’s voice I hear—
Sadder than once it seem’d—yet soft and clear;—
Doth she not seem to pray?
My name!—I caught the sound!
Oh! blessed tone of love—the deep, the mild!
Mother! my mother! now receive thy child:
Take back the lost and found!

A THOUGHT OF PARADISE.

“We receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live;
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud;
And, would we aught behold of higher worth
Than that inanimate, cold world allow’d
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud,
Enveloping the earth;
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element.”—Coleridge.
Green spot of holy ground!
If thou couldst yet be found,
Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers;
If not one sullying breath
Of time, or change, or death,
Had touch’d the vernal glory of thy bowers;
Might our tired pilgrim-feet,
Worn by the desert’s heat,
On the bright freshness of thy turf repose?
Might our eyes wander there
Through heaven’s transparent air,
And rest on colours of the immortal rose?
Say, would thy balmy skies
And fountain-melodies
Our heritage of lost delight restore?
Could thy soft honey-dews
Through all our veins diffuse
The early, child-like, trustful sleep once more?
And might we, in the shade
By thy tall cedars made,
With angel-voices high communion hold?
Would their sweet, solemn tone
Give back the music gone,
Our Being’s harmony, so jarr’d of old?
Oh no!—thy sunny hours
Might come with blossom-showers,
All thy young leaves to spirit-lyres might thrill;
But we—should we not bring
Into thy realms of spring
The shadows of our souls to haunt us still?
What could thy flowers and airs
Do for our earth-born cares?
Would the world’s chain melt off and leave us free?
No!—past each living stream,
Still would some fever-dream
Track the lorn wanderers, meet no more for thee!
Should we not shrink with fear
If angel-steps were near,
Feeling our burden’d souls within us die?
How might our passions brook
The still and searching look,
The star-like glance of seraph purity?
Thy golden-fruited grove
Was not for pining love;
Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies!
Oh! thou wert but a part
Of what man’s exiled heart
Hath lost—the dower of inborn Paradise!

LET US DEPART!

[It is mentioned by Josephus, that, a short time previous to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, going by night into the inner court of the Temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and, after that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, “Let us depart hence!”]

Night hung on Salem’s towers,
And a brooding hush profound
Lay where the Roman eagle shone
High o’er the tents around—
The tents that rose by thousands,
In the moonlight glimmering pale;
Like white waves of a frozen sea
Filling an Alpine vale.
And the Temple’s massy shadow
Fell broad, and dark, and still,
In peace—as if the Holy One
Yet watch’d his chosen hill.
But a fearful sound was heard
In that old fane’s deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush’d by,
And a dread voice raised the cry,
“Let us depart!”
Within the fated city
E’en then fierce discord raved,
Though o’er night’s heaven the comet-sword
Its vengeful token waved.
There were shouts of kindred warfare
Through the dark streets ringing high,
Though every sign was full which told
Of the bloody vintage nigh;
Though the wild red spears and arrows
Of many a meteor host
Went flashing o’er the holy stars,
In the sky now seen, now lost.
And that fearful sound was heard
In the Temple’s deepest heart,
As if mighty wings rush’d by,
And a voice cried mournfully,
“Let us depart!”
But within the fated city
There was revelry that night—
The wine-cup and the timbrel note,
And the blaze of banquet-light.
The footsteps of the dancer
Went bounding through the hall,
And the music of the dulcimer
Summon’d to festival:
While the clash of brother-weapons
Made lightning in the air,
And the dying at the palace gates
Lay down in their despair;
And that fearful sound was heard
At the Temple’s thrilling heart,
As if mighty wings rush’d by,
And a dread voice raised the cry,
“Let us depart!”

ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING THE CROSS.

PAINTED BY VELASQUEZ.[430]

By the dark stillness brooding in the sky,
Holiest of sufferers! round thy path of woe,
And by the weight of mortal agony
Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek brow,
My heart was awed: the burden of thy pain
Sank on me with a mystery and a chain.
I look’d once more—and, as the virtue shed
Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray
Of victory from thy mien; and round thy head,
The halo, melting spirit-like away,
Seem’d of the very soul’s bright rising born,
To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn.
And upwards, through transparent darkness gleaming,
Gazed in mute reverence woman’s earnest eye,
Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming,
With quenchless faith, and deep love’s fervency,
Gathering, like incense round some dim-veil’d shrine,
About the form, so mournfully divine!
Oh! let thine image, as e’en then it rose,
Live in my soul for ever, calm and clear,
Making itself a temple of repose,
Beyond the breath of human hope or fear!
A holy place, where through all storms may lie
One living beam of dayspring from on high.

[430] This picture is in the possession of the Viscount Harberton, Merrion Square, Dublin.

COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT.

“Could we but keep our spirits to that height,
We might be happy; but this clay will sink
Its spark immortal.”—Byron.
Return, my thoughts—come home!
Ye wild and wing’d! what do ye o’er the deep?
And wherefore thus the abyss of time o’ersweep,
As birds the ocean-foam?
Swifter than shooting-star,
Swifter than lances of the northern-light,
Upspringing through the purple heaven of night,
Hath been your course afar!
Through the bright battle-clime,
Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams,
And reeds are whispering of heroic themes,
By temples of old time:
Through the north’s ancient halls,
Where banners thrill’d of yore—where harp-strings rung;
But grass waves now o’er those that fought and sung,
Hearth-light hath left their walls!
Through forests old and dim,
Where o’er the leaves dread magic seems to brood;
And sometimes on the haunted solitude
Rises the pilgrim’s hymn:
Or where some fountain lies,
With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleaming!
There have ye been, ye wanderers! idly dreaming
Of man’s lost paradise!
Return, my thoughts—return!
Cares wait your presence in life’s daily track,
And voices, not of music, call you back—
Harsh voices, cold and stem!
Oh, no! return ye not!
Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be!
Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and free,
O’er many a haunted spot.
Go! seek the martyr’s grave,
Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast;
Or, through the ruin’d cities of the past,
Follow the wise and brave!
Go! visit cell and shrine,
Where woman hath endured!—thro’ wrong, thro’ scorn,
Uncheer’d by fame, yet silently upborne
By promptings more divine!
Go, shoot the gulf of death!
Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind,
Where the heart’s boundless love its rest may find,
Where the storm sends no breath!
Higher, and yet more high—!
Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would lay
On your victorious wings—mount, mount! Your way
Is through eternity!

THE WATER-LILY.

“The Water-Lilies, that are serene in the calm clear water, but no less serene among the black and scowling waves.”—Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life.

Oh! beautiful thou art,
Thou sculpture-like and stately river-queen!
Crowning the depths, as with the light serene
Of a pure heart.
Bright lily of the wave!
Rising in fearless grace with every swell,
Thou seem’st as if a spirit meekly brave
Dwelt in thy cell:
Lifting alike thy head
Of placid beauty, feminine yet free,
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread
The waters be.
What is like thee, fair flower,
The gentle and the firm! thus bearing up
To the blue sky that alabaster cup,
As to the shower?
Oh! love is most like thee,
The love of woman! quivering to the blast
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast,
Midst life’s dark sea.
And faith—oh, is not faith
Like thee, too, lily! springing into light,
Still buoyantly, above the billows’ might,
Through the storm’s breath?
Yes! link’d with such high thought,
Flower! let thine image in my bosom lie;
Till something there of its own purity
And peace be wrought—
Something yet more divine
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed
Forth from thy breast upon the river’s bed.
As from a shrine.

THE SONG OF PENITENCE.[431]

UNFINISHED.

[We learn from the Rev. R. P. Graves, that “The Song of Penitence,” if it had been finished in time, was intended for insertion among the “Scenes and Hymns of Life.”]

He pass’d from earth
Without his fame,—the calm, pure, starry fame
He might have won, to guide on radiantly
Full many a noble soul,—he sought it not;
And e’en like brief and barren lightning pass’d
The wayward child of genius. And the songs
Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life,
Had shower’d forth recklessly, as ocean-waves
Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed,
They died before him;—they were winged seed
Scatter’d afar, and, falling on the rock
Of the world’s heart, had perish’d. One alone,
One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain,
The deep beseeching of a stricken breast,
Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls
Of the kind few that loved him, with a love
Faithful to even its disappointed hope,
That song of tears found root, and by their hearths
Full oft, in low and reverential tones,
Fill’d with the piety of tenderness,
Is murmur’d to their children, when his name
On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls,
Far from the world’s rude voices, far away.
Oh! hear, and judge him gently; ’twas his last.
I come alone, and faint I come—
To nature’s arms I flee;
The green woods take their wanderer home,
But Thou, O Father! may I turn to thee?
The earliest odour of the flower,
The bird’s first song is thine;
Father in heaven! my dayspring’s hour
Pour’d its vain incense on another shrine.
Therefore my childhood’s once-loved scene
Around me faded lies;
Therefore, remembering what hath been,
I ask, is this mine early paradise?
It is, it is—but Thou art gone;
Or if the trembling shade
Breathe yet of thee, with alter’d tone
Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismay’d.

[431] Suggested by the late Mrs Fletcher’s story of The Lost Life, published in the Amulet for 1830.

TROUBADOUR SONG.

They rear’d no trophy o’er his grave,
They hade no requiem flow;
What left they there to tell the brave
That a warrior sleeps below?
A shiver’d spear, a cloven shield,
A helm with its white plume torn,
And a blood-stain’d turf on the fatal field,
Where a chief to his rest was borne.
He lies not where his fathers sleep,
But who hath a tomb more proud?
For the Syrian wilds his record keep,
And a banner is his shroud.

THE ENGLISH BOY.

“Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt
They owe their ancestors; and make them swear
To pay it, by transmitting down entire
Those sacred rights to which themselves were born.”
Akenside.
Look from the ancient mountains down,
My noble English boy!
Thy country’s fields around thee gleam
In sunlight and in joy.
Ages have roll’d since foeman’s march
Pass’d o’er that old, firm sod;
For well the land hath fealty held
To freedom and to God!
Gaze proudly on, my English boy!
And let thy kindling mind
Drink in the spirit of high thought
From every chainless wind!
There, in the shadow of old Time,
The halls beneath thee lie
Which pour’d forth to the fields of yore
Our England’s chivalry.
How bravely and how solemnly
They stand, midst oak and yew!
Whence Cressy’s yeomen haply framed
The bow, in battle true.
And round their walls the good swords hang
Whose faith knew no alloy,
And shields of knighthood, pure from stain:
Gaze on, my English boy!
Gaze where the hamlet’s ivied church
Gleams by the antique elm,
Or where the minster lifts the cross
High through the air’s blue realm.
Martyrs have shower’d their free heart’s blood
That England’s prayer might rise,
From those gray fanes of thoughtful years,
Unfetter’d, to the skies.
Along their aisles, beneath their trees,
This earth’s most glorious dust,
Once fired with valour, wisdom, song,
Is laid in holy trust.
Gaze on—gaze farther, farther yet—
My gallant English boy!
Yon blue sea bears thy country’s flag,
The billows’ pride and joy!
Those waves in many a fight have closed
Above her faithful dead;
That red-cross flag victoriously
Hath floated o’er their bed.
They perish’d—this green turf to keep
By hostile tread unstain’d,
These knightly halls inviolate,
Those churches unprofaned.
And high and clear their memory’s light
Along our shore is set,
And many an answering beacon-fire
Shall there be kindled yet!
Lift up thy heart, my English boy!
And pray, like them to stand,
Should God so summon thee, to guard
The altars of the land.

TO THE BLUE ANEMONE.

Flower of starry clearness bright!
Quivering urn of colour’d light!
Hast thou drawn thy cup’s rich dye
From the intenseness of the sky?
From a long, long fervent gaze
Through the year’s first golden days,
Up that blue and silent deep,
Where, like things of sculptured sleep,
Alabaster clouds repose,
With the sunshine on their snows?
Thither was thy heart’s love turning,
Like a censer ever burning,
Till the purple heavens in thee
Set their smile, Anemone?
Or can those warm tints be caught
Each from some quick glow of thought?
So much of bright soul there seems
In thy bendings and thy gleams,
So much thy sweet life resembles
That which feels, and weeps, and trembles,
I could deem thee spirit-fill’d,
As a reed by music thrill’d,
When thy being I behold
To each loving breath unfold,
Or, like woman’s willowy form,
Shrink before the gathering storm!
I could ask a voice from thee,
Delicate Anemone!
Flower! thou seem’st not born to die
With thy radiant purity,
But to melt in air away,
Mingling with the soft Spring-day,
When the crystal heavens are still,
And faint azure veils each hill,
And the lime-leaf doth not move,
Save to songs that stir the grove,
And earth all glorified is seen,
As imaged in some lake serene;
—Then thy vanishing should be,
Pure and meek Anemone!
Flower! the laurel still may shed
Brightness round the victor’s head;
And the rose in beauty’s hair
Still its festal glory wear;
And the willow-leaves drop o’er
Brows which love sustains no more:
But by living rays refined,
Thou, the trembler of the wind,
Thou the spiritual flower,
Sentient of each breeze and shower,
Thou, rejoicing in the skies,
And transpierced with all their dyes;
Breathing vase, with light o’erflowing,
Gem-like to thy centre glowing,
Thou the poet’s type shalt be,
Flower of soul, Anemone!