MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

I GO, SWEET FRIENDS!

I go, sweet friends! yet think of me
When spring’s young voice awakes the flowers;
For we have wander’d far and free
In those bright hours, the violet’s hours.
I go; but when you pause to hear,
From distant hills, the Sabbath-bell
On summer-winds float silvery clear,
Think on me then—I loved it well!
Forget me not around your hearth,
When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze;
For dear hath been its evening mirth
To me, sweet friends, in other days.
And oh! when music’s voice is heard
To melt in strains of parting woe,
When hearts to love and grief are stirr’d,
Think of me then!—I go, I go!

ANGEL VISITS.

“No more of talk where God or angel guest With man, as with his friend, familiar used To sit indulgent and with him partake Rural repast.” Milton.

Are ye for ever to your skies departed?
Oh! will ye visit this dim world no more?
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted
Through Eden’s fresh and flowering shades of yore!
Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot,
And ye—our faded earth beholds you not.
Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken,
Man wander’d from his Paradise away;
Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken,
Came down, high guests! in many a later day,
And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak,
Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke.
From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending,
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper’s eye,
That saw your hosts ascending and descending
On those bright steps between the earth and sky:
Trembling he woke, and bow’d o’er glory’s trace,
And worshipp’d awe-struck, in that fearful place.
By Chebar’s[321] brook ye pass’d, such radiance wearing
As mortal vision might but ill endure;
Along the stream the living chariot bearing,
With its high crystal arch, intensely pure;
And, the dread rushing of your wings that hour
Was like the noise of waters in their power.
But in the Olive Mount, by night appearing,
Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done.
Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering,
Fraught with the breath of God to aid his Son?
—Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains,
Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains.
Yet one more task was Yours! your heavenly dwelling,
Ye left, and by th’ unseal’d sepulchral stone,
In glorious raiment, sat; the weepers telling,
That He they sought had triumph’d and was gone.
Now have ye left us for the brighter shore;
Your presence lights the lonely groves no more.
But may ye not, unseen, around us hover,
With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet.
Though the fresh glory of those days be over,
When, midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met?
Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high,
When love, by strength, o’ermasters agony?
Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining,
Yields up life’s treasures unto Him who gave?
When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning,
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave?
Dreams! But a deeper thought our souls may fill:
One, One is near—a spirit holier still!

[321] Ezekiel, chap. x.

IVY SONG.

WRITTEN ON RECEIVING SOME IVY-LEAVES GATHERED FROM THE RUINED CASTLE OF RHEINFELS, ON THE RHINE.

Oh! how could Fancy crown with thee
In ancient days the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine?
Thy home, wild plant! is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o’er,
Where song’s full notes once peal’d around,
But now are heard no more.
The Roman on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee with exulting strains
Around the victor’s tent:
Yet there, though fresh in glossy green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor’s grave.
Where sleeps the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past;
Where, through the halls of glory gone,
Murmurs the wintry blast;
Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair;
Thou, in thy solitary grace,
Wreath of the tomb! art there.
Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath a blue Italian sky,
Hath naught of beauty left by time,
Save thy wild tapestry!
And, rear’d midst crags and clouds, ’tis thine
To wave where banners waved of yore,
O’er towers that crest the noble Rhine,
Along his rocky shore.
High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish’d race—
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath pass’d, and left no trace.
But there thou art!—thy foliage bright
Unchanged the mountain storm can brave;
Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or deck the humblest grave!
’Tis still the same! Where’er we tread,
The wrecks of human power we see—
The marvels of all ages fled
Left to decay and thee!
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, grace, and strength;
Days pass—thou ivy never sere![322]—
And all is thine at length!

[322] “Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”—Lycidas.

TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR’S CHILDREN ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

Where sucks the bee now? Summer is flying,
Leaves round the elm-tree faded are lying;
Violets are gone from their grassy dell,
With the cowslip cups, where the fairies dwell;
The rose from the garden hath pass’d away—
Yet happy, fair boy, is thy natal day!
For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled
Ever around thee, my gentle child!
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed,
And pouring out joy on thy sunny head.
Roses may vanish, but this will stay—
Happy and bright is thy natal day!

ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

Thou wakest from rosy sleep, to play
With bounding heart, my boy!
Before thee lies a long bright day
Of summer and of joy.
Thou hast no heavy thought or dream
To cloud thy fearless eye:
Long be it thus!—life’s early stream
Should still reflect the sky.
Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim
On thy young spirit’s wings,
Now in thy mom forget not Him
From whom each pure thought springs.
So, in the onward vale of tears,
Where’er thy path may be,
When strength hath bow’d to evil years,
He will remember thee!

CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST.

Fear was within the tossing bark
When stormy winds grew loud,
And waves came rolling high and dark,
And the tall mast was bow’d.
And men stood breathless in their dread,
And baffled in their skill;
But One was there, who rose and said
To the wild sea—Be still!
And the wind ceased—it ceased! that word
Pass’d through the gloomy sky:
The troubled billows knew their Lord,
And fell beneath His eye.
And slumber settled on the deep,
And silence on the blast;
They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep
When sultry day is past.
O Thou! that in its wildest hour
Didst rule the tempest’s mood,
Send thy meek spirit forth in power,
Soft on our souls to brood!
Thou that didst bow the billow’s pride
Thy mandate to fulfil!
Oh, speak to passion’s raging tide,
Speak, and say, “Peace, be still!”

EPITAPH

OVER THE GRAVE OF TWO BROTHERS, A CHILD AND A YOUTH.

[Amongst the numerous friends Mrs Hemans was fortunate enough to possess in Scotland, there was one to whom she was linked by so peculiar a bond of union, and whose unwearied kindness is so precious an inheritance to her children, that it is hoped the owner of a name so dear to them, (though it be a part of her nature to shrink from publicity,) will forgive its being introduced into these pages.

This invaluable friend was Lady Wedderburn,[323] the mother of those “two brothers, a child and a youth,” for whose monument Mrs Hemans had written an inscription, which, with its simple pathos, has doubtless sunk deep into the heart of many a mourner, as well as of many a yet rejoicing parent, there called upon to remember that for them, too,

“Speaks the grave,
Where God hath seal’d the fount of hope He gave.”

Into the gentle heart, which has found relief for its own sorrows in soothing the griefs and promoting the enjoyments of others, the author of this sacred tribute was taken with a warmth and loving-kindness which extended its genial influence to all belonging to her; and during their stay in Edinburgh, whither they proceeded from Abbotsford, Mrs Hemans and her children were cherished with a true home welcome at the house of Sir David Wedderburn.—Memoir, p. 192.]

Thou, that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy,
And hear his prayer’s low murmur at thy knee,
And o’er his slumber bend in breathless joy,
Come to this tomb!—it hath a voice for thee!
Pray! Thou art blest—ask strength for sorrow’s hour:
Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken flower.
Thou that art gathering from the smile of youth
Thy thousand hopes, rejoicing to behold
All the heart’s depths before thee bright with truth,
All the mind’s treasures silently unfold,
Look on this tomb!—for thee, too, speaks the grave,
Where God hath seal’d the fount of hope He gave.

[323] The lady of Sir David Wedderburn, Bart., and sister of the late Viscountess Hampden. The monument on which the lines are inscribed, is at Glynde, in Sussex, near Lord Hampden’s seat. This excellent lady only survived Mrs Hemans a few years.

MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION.

Earth! guard what here we lay in holy trust,
That which hath left our home a darken’d place,
Wanting the form, the smile, now veil’d with dust,
The light departed with our loveliest face.
Yet from thy bonds our sorrow’s hope is free—
We have but lent the beautiful to thee.
But thou, O heaven! keep, keep what thou hast taken,
And with our treasure keep our hearts on high;
The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken,
The faith, the love, the lofty constancy—
Guide us where these are with our sister flown:
They were of Thee, and thou hast claim’d thine own!

THE SOUND OF THE SEA.

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea!
For ever and the same;
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee—
Those thunders naught can tame.
Oh! many a glorious voice is gone
From the rich bowers of earth,
And hush’d is many a lovely one
Of mournfulness or mirth.
The Dorian flute that sigh’d of yore
Along the wave, is still;
The harp of Judah peals no more
On Zion’s awful hill.
And Memnon’s lyre hath lost the chord
That breathed the mystic tone;
And the songs at Rome’s high triumphs pour’d
Are with her eagles flown.
And mute the Moorish horn that rang
O’er stream and mountain free;
And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang
Hath died in Galilee.
But thou art swelling on, thou deep!
Through many an olden clime,
Thy billowy anthem, ne’er to sleep
Until the close of time.
Thou liftest up thy solemn voice
To every wind and sky,
And all our earth’s green shores rejoice
In that one harmony.
It fills the noontide’s calm profound,
The sunset’s heaven of gold;
And the still midnight hears the sound,
Even as first it roll’d.
Let there be silence, deep and strange,
Where sceptred cities rose!
Thou speak’st of One who doth not change—
So. may our hearts repose.

THE CHILD AND DOVE.

SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY’S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA RUSSELL.

Thou art a thing on our dreams to rise,
Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies,
And to fling bright dew from the morning back,
Fair form! on each image of childhood’s track.
Thou art a thing to recall the hours
When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers,
When a world was our own in some dim sweet grove,
And treasure untold in one captive dove.
Are they gone? can we think it, while thou art there,
Thou joyous child with the clustering hair?
Is it not spring that indeed breathes free
And fresh o’er each thought, while we gaze on thee?
No! never more may we smile as thou
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow;
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine
A memory of beauty undimm’d as thine—
To have met the joy of thy speaking face,
To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace,
To have linger’d before thee, and turn’d, and borne
One vision away of the cloudless morn.

A DIRGE.

[The two first stanzas of this dirge may be found in the last scene of “The Siege of Valencia;” but they are more particularly worthy of the reader’s consideration, as having been selected for inscription on the tablet placed above the vault beneath St Ann’s Church, Dublin, where the remains of the author repose.]

Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Young spirit! rest thee now!
Even while with us thy footstep trod,
His seal was on thy brow.
Dust, to its narrow house beneath!
Soul, to its place on high!—
They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.
Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers,
Whence thy meek smile is gone;
But oh!—a brighter home than ours,
In heaven, is now thine own.

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!

ENGLISH SOLDIERS SONG OF MEMORY.

TO THE AIR OF “AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN!”

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!

HAUNTED GROUND.

“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.