[358] “One of our poets says, with equal truth and beauty, ‘The heart is wise.’ We should be not only happier but better if we attended more to its dictates.”—Ethel Churchill, by L. E. L. vol. i. p. 234.

[359] The faithful dead.

[360] True-hearted.

[361] “That was a bright era in my life when I first learned to know you and your brother Frederick; a still brighter, when we and Novalis lived united for art and knowledge, and emulated one another in various competitions. Fate has since, for many years, divided us. I can now live with you only in spirit and in memory.”

AN HOUR OF ROMANCE.

“I come
To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree
And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path,
And thymy mound that flings unto the winds
Its morning incense, is my friend.”—Barry Cornwall.
There were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs like those of childhood’s sleep,
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound
As of soft showers on water; dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o’er the turf, so still
They seem’d but pictured glooms; a hidden rill
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream,
Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam
Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed,
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down,
And steep’d the magic page wherein I read
Of royal chivalry and old renown,
A tale of Palestine.[362] Meanwhile the bee
Swept past me with a tone of summer hours—
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers,
Blue skies, and amber sunshine: brightly free,
On filmy wings, the purple dragon-fly
Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by;
And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell
Where sat the lone wood-pigeon.
But ere long,
All sense of these things faded, as the spell
Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong
On my chain’d soul. ’Twas not the leaves I heard:—
A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirr’d,
Through its proud floating folds. ’Twas not the brook
Singing in secret through its grassy glen;—
A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen
Peal’d from the desert’s lonely heart, and shook
The burning air. Like clouds when winds are high,
O’er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby,
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear
Flash’d where a fountain’s diamond wave lay clear,
Shadow’d by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout
Of merry England’s joy swell’d freely out,
Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose glorious hue
Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue:
And harps were there—I heard their sounding strings,
As the waste echo’d to the mirth of kings.
The bright mask faded. Unto life’s worn track,
What call’d me from its flood of glory back?
A voice of happy childhood!—and they pass’d,
Banner, and harp, and Paynim’s trumpet’s blast.
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendours gone,
My heart so leap’d to that sweet laughter’s tone.[363]

[362] The Talisman—Tales of the Crusaders.

[363] See Annotation on “Dramatic Scene between Bronwylfa and Rhyllon,” p. 385.

A VOYAGER’S DREAM OF LAND.

“His very heart athirst
To gaze at nature in her green array,
Upon the ship’s tall side he stands possess’d
With visions prompted by intense desire;
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find:
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.”
Cowper.
The hollow dash of waves!—the ceaseless roar!—
Silence, ye billows!—vex my soul no more.
There’s a spring in the woods by my sunny home,
Afar from the dark sea’s tossing foam;
Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear,
As a song from the shore to the sailor’s ear!
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws
Through the feathery fern and the olive boughs,
And the gleam on its path as it steals away
Into deeper shades from the sultry day,
And the large water-lilies that o’er its bed
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread,
They haunt me! I dream of that bright spring’s flow,
I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe!
Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry!
My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by.
Know ye my home, with the lulling sound
Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round
Know ye it, brethren! where bower’d it lies
Under the purple of southern skies?
With the streamy gold of the sun that shines
In through the cloud of its clustering vines,
And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers,
Borne from the mountain in dewy hours,
And the fire-fly’s glance through the darkening shades,
Like shooting stars in the forest glades,
And the scent of the citron at eve’s dim fall—
Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all?
The heavy-rolling surge! the rocking mast!—
Hush! give my dream’s deep music way, thou blast!
Oh, the glad sounds of the joyous earth!
The notes of the singing cicala’s mirth,
The murmurs that live in the mountain pines,
The sighing of reeds as the day declines,
The wings flitting home through the crimson glow
That steeps the wood when the sun is low,
The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still—
I hear them!—around me they rise, they swell,
They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell—
They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time,
And waken my youth in its hour of prime.
The white foam dashes high—away, away!
Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray!
It is there!—down the mountains I see the sweep
Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep,
With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear
Floating upborne on the blue summer air,
And the light pouring through them in tender gleams,
And the flashing forth of a thousand streams!
Hold me not, brethren! I go, I go
To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow,
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest,
Massy and still, on the greensward’s breast,
To the rocks that resound with the water’s play—
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount—give way!
Give way!—the booming surge, the tempest’s roar,
The sea-bird’s wail shall vex my soul no more.

THE EFFIGIES.

“Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann:
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied.
Allein die Thränen, die unendlichen
Der überbliebnen, der verlass’nen Frau,
Zählt keine Nachwelt.” Goethe.
Warrior! whose image on thy tomb,
With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom
By the stain’d window shed;
The records of thy name and race
Have faded from the stone,
Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace
What thou hast been and done.
A banner, from its flashing spear,
Flung out o’er many a fight;
A war-cry ringing far and clear,
And strong to turn the flight;
An arm that bravely bore the lance
On for the holy shrine;
A haughty heart and a kingly glance—
Chief! were not these things thine?
A lofty place where leaders sate
Around the council board;
In festive halls a chair of state
When the blood-red wine was pour’d;
A name that drew a prouder tone
From herald, harp, and bard:
Surely these things were all thine own—
So hadst thou thy reward.
Woman! whose sculptured form at rest
By the arm’d knight is laid,
With meek hands folded o’er a breast
In matron robes array’d;
What was thy tale?—O gentle mate
Of him, the bold and free,
Bound unto his victorious fate,
What bard hath sung of thee?
He woo’d a bright and burning star—
Thine was the void, the gloom,
The straining eye that follow’d far
His fast-receding plume;
The heart-sick listening while his steed
Sent echoes on the breeze;
The pang—but when did Fame take heed
Of griefs obscure as these?
Thy silent and secluded hours
Through many a lonely day
While bending o’er thy broider’d flowers,
With spirits far away;
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him
Who fought on Syrian plains,
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim—
These fill no minstrel strains.
A still, sad life was thine!—long years
With tasks unguerdon’d fraught—
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,
Vigils of anxious thought;
Prayer at the cross in fervour pour’d,
Alms to the pilgrim given—
Oh! happy, happier than thy lord,
In that lone path to heaven!

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND.

“Look now abroad! Another race has fill’d
Those populous borders—wide the wood recedes,
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till’d;
The land is full of harvests and green meads.” Bryant.
The breaking waves dash’d high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches toss’d;
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o’er,
When a band of exiles moor’d their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear;—
They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard and the sea;
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free!
The ocean eagle soar’d
From his nest by the white wave’s foam;
And the rocking pines of the forest roar’d—
This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band;—
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood’s land?
There was woman’s fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love’s truth;
There was manhood’s brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?—
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?—
They sought a faith’s pure shrine!
Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trode.
They have left unstain’d what there they found—
Freedom to worship God.

THE SPIRIT’S MYSTERIES.

“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’s breath, or spring—
A flower—a leaf—the ocean—which may wound—
Striking th’ electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.”
Childe Harold.
The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken
Vague yearnings, like the sailor’s for the shore,
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken
From some bright former state, our own no more;
Is not this all a mystery? Who shall say
Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?
The sudden images of vanish’d things,
That o’er the spirit flash, we know not why;
Tones from some broken harp’s deserted strings,
Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by;
A rippling wave—the dashing of an oar—
A flower-scent floating past our parents’ door;
A word—scarce noted in its hour perchance,
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone;
A smile—a sunny or a mournful glance,
Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown;
Are not these mysteries when to life they start,
And press vain tears in gushes from the heart?
And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams,
Calling up shrouded faces from the dead,
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams,
Familiar objects brightly to o’erspread;
And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear—
These are night’s mysteries—who shall make them clear?
And the strange inborn sense of coming ill,
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast,
In a low tone which naught can drown or still,
Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest;
Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall?
Why shakes the spirit thus? ’Tis mystery all!
Darkly we move—we press upon the brink
Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not;
Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think
Are those whom death has parted from our lot!
Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made—
Let us walk humbly on, but undismay’d!
Humbly—for knowledge strives in vain to feel
Her way amidst these marvels of the mind;
Yet undismay’d—for do they not reveal
Th’ immortal being with our dust entwin’d?—
So let us deem! and e’en the tears they wake
Shall then be blest, for that high nature’s sake.

THE DEPARTED.

“Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth—the wise—the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.” Bryant.
And shrink ye from the way
To the spirit’s distant shore?—
Earth’s mightiest men, in arm’d array,
Are thither gone before.
The warrior-kings, whose banner
Flew far as eagles fly,
They are gone where swords avail them not,
From the feast of victory.
And the seers who sat of yore
By Orient palm or wave,
They have pass’d with all their starry lore—
Can ye still fear the grave?
We fear! we fear! The sunshine
Is joyous to behold,
And we reck not of the buried kings,
Nor the awful seers of old.
Ye shrink! The bards whose lays
Have made your deep hearts burn,
They have left the sun, and the voice of praise,
For the land whence none return.
And the beautiful, whose record
Is the verse that cannot die,
They too are gone, with their glorious bloom,
From the love of human eye.
Would ye not join that throng
Of the earth’s departed flowers,
And the masters of the mighty song,
In their far and fadeless bowers?
Those songs are high and holy,
But they vanquish not our fear:
Not from our path those flowers are gone—
We fain would linger here!
Linger then yet awhile,
As the last leaves on the bough!—
Ye have loved the light of many a smile
That is taken from you now.
There have been sweet singing voices
In your walks, that now are still;
There are seats left void in your earthly homes,
Which none again may fill.
Soft eyes are seen no more,
That made spring-time in your heart;
Kindred and friends are gone before—
And ye still fear to part?
We fear not now, we fear not!
Though the way through darkness bends;
Our souls are strong to follow them,
Our own familiar friends!

THE PALM-TREE.[364]

It waved not through an eastern sky,
Beside a fount of Araby;
It was not fann’d by southern breeze
In some green isle of Indian seas;
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep
O’er stream of Afric, lone and deep.
But fair the exiled palm-tree grew
Midst foliage of no kindred hue;
Through the laburnum’s dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of orient mould,
And Europe’s violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet.
Strange look’d it there! The willow stream’d
Where silvery waters near it gleam’d;
The lime-bough lured the honey-bee
To murmur by the desert’s tree,
And showers of snowy roses made
A lustre in its fan-like shade.
There came an eve of festal hours—
Rich music fill’d that garden’s bowers;
Lamps, that from flowering branches hung,
On sparks of dew soft colour flung;
And bright forms glanced—a fairy show—
Under the blossoms to and fro.
But one, a lone one, midst the throng,
Seem’d reckless all of dance or song:
He was a youth of dusky mien,
Whereon the Indian sun had been,
Of crested brow and long black hair—
A stranger, like the palm-tree, there.
And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes,
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms.
He pass’d the pale-green olives by,
Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye;
But when to that sole palm he came,
Then shot a rapture through his frame!
To him, to him its rustling spoke—
The silence of his soul it broke!
It whisper’d of his own bright isle,
That lit the ocean with a smile;
Ay, to his ear that native tone
Had something of the sea-wave’s moan?
His mother’s cabin-home, that lay
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay;
The dashing of his brethren’s oar—
The conch-note heard along the shore;
All through his wakening bosom swept—
He clasp’d his country’s tree, and wept!
Oh! scorn him not! The strength whereby
The patriot girds himself to die,
Th’ unconquerable power which fills
The freeman battling on his hills,
These have one fountain deep and clear—
The same whence gush’d that childlike tear!

[364] This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of Les Jardins.

THE CHILD’S LAST SLEEP.

SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREY’S.

Thou sleepest—but when wilt thou wake, fair child?
When the fawn awakes in the forest wild?
When the lark’s wing mounts with the breeze of morn?
When the first rich breath of the rose is born?—
Lovely thou sleepest! yet something lies
Too deep and still on thy soft-seal’d eyes;
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see—
When will the hour of thy rising be?
Not when the fawn wakes—not when the lark
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark.
Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet;
Love, with sad kisses unfelt, hath press’d
Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast;
And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee,
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child! but thee.
Thou’rt gone from us, bright one!—that thou shouldst die,
And life be left to the butterfly![365]
Thou’rt gone as a dewdrop is swept from the bough:
Oh! for the world where thy home is now!
How may we love but in doubt and fear,
How may we anchor our fond hearts here;
How should e’en joy but a trembler be,
Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?

[365] A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on the monument.

THE SUNBEAM.

Thou art no lingerer in monarch’s hall—
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all!
A bearer of hope unto land and sea—
Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee?
Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles;
Thou hast touch’d with glory his thousand isles;
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam,
And gladden’d the sailor like words from home.
To the solemn depths of the forest-shades,
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades;
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.
I look’d on the mountains—a vapour lay
Folding their heights in its dark array:
Thou brakest forth, and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.
I look’d on the peasant’s lowly cot—
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot;
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell,
And it laugh’d into beauty at that bright spell.
To the earth’s wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose’s heart;
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed
A tender smile on the ruin’s head.
Thou tak’st through the dim church-aisle thy way,
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day,
And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old,
Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold.
And thou turnest not from the humblest grave,
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave;
Thou scatter’st its gloom like the dreams of rest,
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.
Sunbeam of summer! oh, what is like thee?
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea!—
One thing is like thee to mortals given,
The faith touching all things with hues of heaven!

BREATHINGS OF SPRING.

Thou givest me flowers, thou givest me songs; bring back
The love that I have lost!
What wakest thou, Spring? Sweet voices in the woods,
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute:
Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes,
The lark’s clear pipe, the cuckoo’s viewless flute,
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee,
E’en as our hearts may be.
And the leaves greet thee, Spring!—the joyous leaves,
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade,
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives,
When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery shade,
And happy murmurs, running through the grass,
Tell that thy footsteps pass.
And the bright waters—they too hear thy call,
Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep!
Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall
Makes melody, and in the forests deep,
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray
Their windings to the day.
And flowers—the fairy-peopled world of flowers!
Thou from the dust hast set that glory free,
Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours,
And penciling the wood anemone:
Silent they seem—yet each to thoughtful eye
Glows with mute poesy.
But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring!
The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs?
Thou that givest back so many a buried thing,
Restorer of forgotten harmonies!
Fresh songs and scents break forth where’er thou art—
What wakest thou in the heart?
Too much, oh! there too much! We know not well
Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee,
What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul’s deep cell,
Gush for the faces we no more may see!
How are we haunted, in the wind’s low tone,
By voices that are gone!
Looks of familiar love, that never more,
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet,
Past words of welcome to our household door,
And vanish’d smiles, and sounds of parted feet—
Spring! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees,
Why, why revivest thou these?
Vain longings for the dead!—why come they back
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms?
Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track
Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs?
Yes, gentle Spring! no sorrow dims thine air,
Breathed by our loved ones there!

THE ILLUMINATED CITY.

The hills all glow’d with a festive light,
For the royal city rejoiced by night:
There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree,
Banners were lifted and streaming free;
Every tall pillar was wreath’d with fire;
Like a shooting meteor was every spire;
And the outline of many a dome on high
Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky.
I pass’d through the streets. There were throngs on throngs—
Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs;
There was music forth from each palace borne—
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn;
The forests heard it, the mountains rang,
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang;
Rich and victorious was every tone,
Telling the land of her foes o’erthrown.
Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain?
Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain!
Gallant and true were the hearts that fell—
Grief in the homes they have left must dwell:
Grief o’er the aspect of childhood spread,
And bowing the beauty of woman’s head!
Didst thou hear, midst the songs, not one tender moan
For the many brave to their slumbers gone?
I saw not the face of a weeper there—
Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamps’ glare!
I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd—
The music of victory was all too loud!
Mighty it roll’d on the winds afar,
Shaking the streets like a conqueror’s car—
Through torches and streamers its flood swept by:
How could I listen for moan or sigh?
Turn then away from life’s pageants—turn,
If its deep story thy heart would learn!
Ever too bright is that outward show,
Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe.
But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view
The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true;
Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal:—
So must thy spirit be taught to feel!

THE SPELLS OF HOME.

“There blend the ties that strengthen
Our hearts in hours of grief,
The silver links that lengthen
Joy’s visits when most brief.”
Bernard Barton.
By the soft green light in the woody glade,
On the banks of moss where thy childhood play’d,
By the household tree through which thine eye
First look’d in love to the summer sky,
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath
Of the primrose-tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious—oh, guard it well!
By the sleepy ripple of the stream,
Which hath lull’d thee into many a dream,
By the shiver of the ivy leaves
To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves,
By the bee’s deep murmur in the limes,
By the music of the Sabbath chimes,
By every sound of thy native shade,
Stronger and dearer the spell is made.
By the gathering round the winter hearth,
When twilight call’d unto household mirth,
By the fairy tale or the legend old
In that ring of happy faces told,
By the quiet hour when hearts unite
In the parting prayer and the kind “Good-night!”
By the smiling eye, and the loving tone,
Over thy life has the spell been thrown.
And bless that gift!—it hath gentle might,
A guardian power and a guiding light.
It hath led the freeman forth to stand
In the mountain-battles of his land;
It hath brought the wanderer o’er the seas
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze;
And back to the gates of his father’s hall
It hath led the weeping prodigal.
Yes! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray
From the pure first-loves of its youth away—
When the sullying breath of the world would come
O’er the flowers it brought from its childhood’shome—
Think thou again of the woody glade,
And the sound by the rustling ivy made—
Think of the tree at thy father’s door,
And the kindly spell shall have power once more!

ROMAN GIRL’S SONG.