[375] From an ancient Hebrew dirge:

“Mourn for the mourner, and not for the dead.
For he is at rest, and we in tears!”

THE STRANGER’S HEART.

The stranger’s heart! Oh, wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;
In the green shadow of thy tree,
The stranger finds no rest with thee.
Thou think’st the vine’s low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow’s tone—
The stranger’s heart is with his own.
Thou think’st thy children’s laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;
Then are the stranger’s thoughts oppress’d—
His mother’s voice comes o’er his breast.
Thou think’st it sweet when friend with friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger’s eye grow dim—
Far, far are those who pray’d with him.
Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage-land,
The voices of thy kindred band—
Oh! midst them all when bless’d thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger’s heart!

TO A REMEMBERED PICTURE.

[She was singularly impressed by the picture at Holyrood House, shown as that of Rizzio. The authenticity of this designation is more than doubtful; but hers was not a mind for question or cavil on points of this nature. The “local habitation and the name” were in themselves sufficient to awaken her fancy, and to satisfy her faith. As Rizzio’s portrait, it took its place in her imagination; and the train of deep and mournful thoughts it suggested, imbued, as was her wont, with the colouring of her own individual feelings, was embodied in the lines “To a Remembered Picture.”—Memoir, p. 197-8.]

They haunt me still—those calm, pure, holy eyes!
Their piercing sweetness wanders through my dreams;
The soul of music that within them lies
Comes o’er my soul in soft and sudden gleams:
Life—spirit-life—immortal and divine—
Is there; and yet how dark a death was thine!
Could it—oh! could it be—meek child of song?
The might of gentleness on that fair brow—
Was the celestial gift no shield from wrong?
Bore it no talisman to ward the blow?
Ask if a flower, upon the billows cast,
Might brave their strife—a flute-note hush the blast!
Are there not deep, sad oracles to read
In the clear stillness of that radiant face?
Yes! even like thee must gifted spirits bleed,
Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no place!
Bright, exiled birds that visit alien skies,
Pouring on storms their suppliant melodies.
And seeking ever some true, gentle breast,
Whereon their trembling plumage might repose,
And their free song-notes, from that happy nest,
Gush as a fount that forth from sunlight flows:
Vain dream!—the love whose precious balms might save
Still, still denied—they struggle to the grave.
Yet my heart shall not sink!—another doom,
Victim! hath set its promise in thine eye:
A light is there, too quenchless for the tomb,
Bright earnest of a nobler destiny;
Telling of answers, in some far-off sphere,
To the deep souls that find no echo here.

COME HOME!

Come home! There is a sorrowing breath
In music since ye went,
And the early flower-scents wander by
With mournful memories blent.
The tones in every household voice
Are grown more sad and deep;
And the sweet word—brother—wakes a wish
To turn aside and weep.
O ye beloved! come home! The hour
Of many a greeting tone,
The time of hearth-light and of song
Returns—and ye are gone!
And darkly, heavily it falls
On the forsaken room,
Burdening the heart with tenderness,
That deepens midst the gloom.
Where finds it you, ye wandering ones!
With all your boyhood’s glee
Untamed? Beneath the desert’s palm,
Or on the lone mid-sea?
By stormy hills of battles old?
Or where dark rivers foam?—
Oh! life is dim where ye are not—
Back, ye beloved, come home!
Come with the leaves and winds of spring,
And swift birds, o’er the main!
Our love is grown too sorrowful—
Bring us its youth again!
Bring the glad tones to music back!
Still, still your home is fair,
The spirit of your sunny life
Alone is wanting there!

THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.

“Implora pace!”[376]
One draught, kind fairy! from that fountain deep,
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast;
And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep
In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest;
And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave—
One draught of that sweet wave!
Yet, mortal! pause! Within thy mind is laid
Wealth, gather’d long and slowly; thoughts divine
Heap that full treasure-house; and thou hast made
The gems of many a spirit’s ocean thine;—
Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear
A pyramid so fair?
Pour from the fount! and let the draught efface
All the vain lore by memory’s pride amass’d,
So it but sweep along the torrent’s trace,
And fill the hollow channels of the past;
And from the bosom’s inmost folded leaf,
Rase the one master-grief!
Yet pause once more! All, all thy soul hath known,
Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade!
Is there no voice whose kind, awakening tone
A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made?
No eye whose glance thy daydreams would recall?
—Think—wouldst thou part with all?
Fill with forgetfulness! There are, there are
Voices whose music I have loved too well—
Eyes of deep gentleness; but they are far—
Never! oh never, in my home to dwell!
Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul—
Fill high th’ oblivious bowl!
Yet pause again! With memory wilt thou cast
The undying hope away, of memory born?
Hope of reunion, heart to heart at last,
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn?
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight
That make such visions bright?
Fill with forgetfulness, fill high!——Yet stay—
Tis from the past we shadow forth the land
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way,
And the soul’s friends be wreath’d in one bright band.
Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill—
I must remember still.
For their sake, for the dead—whose image naught
May dim within the temple of my breast—
For their love’s sake, which now no earthly thought
May shake or trouble with its own unrest,
Though the past haunt me as a spirit—yet
I ask not to forget.

[376] Quoted from a letter of Lord Byron’s. He describes the impression produced upon him by some tombs at Bologna, bearing this simple inscription, and adds, “When I die, I could wish that some friend would see these words, and no other, placed above my grave,—‘Implora pace!’”

[“The ‘Songs of the Affections’ were published in the summer of 1830. This collection of lyrics has been, perhaps, less popular than other of Mrs Hemans’s later works. It was hardly, indeed, to be expected that the principal poem, ‘A Spirit’s Return,’ the origin and subject of which we have already described, should appeal to the feelings of so large a circle as had borne witness to the truth of the tales of actual life and sacrifice and suffering contained in the ‘Records of Woman.’ But there are parts of the poem solemnly and impressively powerful. The passages in which the speaker describes her youth—the disposition born with her to take pleasure in spiritual contemplations, and to listen to that voice in nature which speaks of another state of being beyond this visible world—prepare us most naturally for the agony of her desire—when he, in whom she had devotedly embarked all her earthly hopes and affections—

‘——till the world held naught
Save the one being to my centred thought,’

was taken away from her for ever—to see him, if but for a moment—to speak with him only once again!

As the crisis of interest approaches, the variety given by alternate rhymes to the heroic measure in which the tale was written, is wisely laid aside, and it proceeds with a resistless energy—

‘Hast thou been told, that from the viewless bourne
The dark way never hath allow’d return?’ etc.

“The conclusion of this fine poem is far from fulfilling the promise of its commencement; but it was impossible to imagine any events, or give utterance to any feelings, succeeding those so awful and exciting, which should not appear feeble, and vague, and exhausted. Mrs Hemans would sometimes regret that she had not bestowed more labour upon the close of her work: this, it is true, might have been more carefully elaborated, but, from the nature of her subject, I doubt the possibility of its having been substantially improved.”—Chorley’s Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 101-5.]

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE BRIDAL-DAY.

[On a monument in a Venetian church is an epitaph, recording that the remains beneath are those of a noble lady, who expired suddenly while standing as a bride at the altar.]

“We bear her home! we bear her home!
Over the murmuring salt sea’s foam;
One who has fled from the war of life,
From sorrow, pain, and the fever strife.”
Barry Cornwall.
Bride! upon thy marriage-day,
When thy gems in rich array
Made the glistening mirror seem
As a star-reflecting stream;
When the clustering pearls lay fair
Midst thy braids of sunny hair,
And the white veil o’er thee streaming,
Like a silvery halo gleaming,
Mellow’d all that pomp and light
Into something meekly bright;
Did the fluttering of thy breath
Speak of joy or woe beneath?
And the hue that went and came
O’er thy cheek, like wavering flame,
Flow’d that crimson from th’ unrest
Or the gladness of thy breast?
—Who shall tell us? From thy bower,
Brightly didst thou pass that hour;
With the many-glancing oar,
And the cheer along the shore,
And the wealth of summer flowers
On thy fair head cast in showers,
And the breath of song and flute,
And the clarion’s glad salute,
Swiftly o’er the Adrian tide
Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride!
Mirth and music, sun and sky,
Welcomed thee triumphantly!
Yet, perchance, a chastening thought
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, as untold it blent
With the sounds of merriment—
“From the home of childhood’s glee,
From the days of laughter free,
From the love of many years,
Thou art gone to cares and fears;
To another path and guide,
To a bosom yet untried!
Bright one! oh, there well may be
Trembling midst our joy for thee!”
Bride! when through the stately fane,
Circled with thy nuptial train,
Midst the banners hung on high
By thy warrior-ancestry,
Midst those mighty fathers dead,
In soft beauty thou wast led;
When before the shrine thy form
Quiver’d to some bosom-storm,
When, like harp-strings with a sigh
Breaking in mid-harmony,
On thy lip the murmurs low
Died with love’s unfinish’d vow;
When, like scatter’d rose-leaves, fled
From thy cheek each tint of red,
And the light forsook thine eye,
And thy head sunk heavily;
Was that drooping but th’ excess
Of thy spirit’s blessedness?
Or did some deep feeling’s might,
Folded in thy heart from sight,
With a sudden tempest-shower
Earthward bear thy life’s young flower?
—Who shall tell us? On thy tongue
Silence, and for ever, hung!
Never to thy lip and cheek
Rush’d again the crimson streak;
Never to thine eye return’d
That which there had beam’d and burn’d!
With the secret none might know,
With thy rapture or thy woe,
With thy marriage robe and wreath,
Thou wert fled, young bride of death!
One, one lightning moment there
Struck down triumph to despair;
Beauty, splendour, hope, and trust,
Into darkness—terror—dust!
There were sounds of weeping o’er thee,
Bride! as forth thy kindred bore thee,
Shrouded in thy gleaming veil,
Deaf to that wild funeral wail.
Yet perchance a chastening thought
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, while the stern, sad knell
On the air’s bright stillness fell—
“From the power of chill and change
Souls to sever and estrange;
From love’s wane—a death in life,
But to watch—a mortal strife;
From the secret fevers known
To the burning heart alone,
Thou art fled—afar, away—
Where these blights no more have sway!
Bright one! oh, there well may be
Comfort midst our tears for thee!”

THE ANCESTRAL SONG.

“A long war disturb’d your mind—
Here your perfect peace is sign’d;
’Tis now full tide ’twixt night and day—
End your moan, and come away!”
Webster, “Duchess of Malfy.”
There were faint sounds of weeping; fear and gloom
And midnight vigil in a stately room
Of Lusignan’s old halls. Rich odours there
Fill’d the proud chamber as with Indian air,
And soft light fell from lamps of silver, thrown
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone
Over a gorgeous couch: there emeralds gleam’d,
And deeper crimson from the ruby stream’d
Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set,
Hiding from sunshine. Many a carcanet
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain,
And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath
Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death,
Hung drooping solemnly,—for there one lay.
Passing from all earth’s glories fast away,
Amidst those queenly treasures. They had been
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands;
And for his sake, upon their orient sheen
She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands
Had press’d them to her languid heart once more,
Melting in childlike tears. But this was o’er—
Love’s last, vain clinging unto life; and now
A mist of dreams was hovering o’er her brow;
Her eye was fix’d, her spirit seem’d removed,
Though not from earth, from all it knew or loved,
Far, far away! Her handmaids watch’d around,
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound
A might, a mystery; and the quivering light
Of wind-sway’d lamps made spectral in their sight
The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair,
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair,
Long in the dust grown dim; and she, too, saw,
But with the spirit’s eye of raptured awe,
Those pictured shapes!—a bright, yet solemn train
Beckoning, they floated o’er her dreamy brain,
Clothed in diviner hues; while on her ear
Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear,
—Sweet, yet profoundly mournful, as the sigh
Of winds o’er harp-strings through a midnight sky;
And thus it seem’d, in that low, thrilling tone,
Th’ ancestral shadows call’d away their own.
Come, come, come!
Long thy fainting soul hath yearn’d
For the step that ne’er return’d;
Long thine anxious ear hath listen’d,
And thy watchful eye hath glisten’d
With the hope, whose parting strife
Shook the flower-leaves from thy life.
Now the heavy day is done:
Home awaits thee, wearied one!
Come, come, come!
From the quenchless thoughts that burn
In the seal’d heart’s lonely urn;
From the coil of memory’s chain
Wound about the throbbing brain;
From the veins of sorrow deep,
Winding through the world of sleep;
From the haunted halls and bowers,
Throng’d with ghosts of happier hours!
Come, come, come!
On our dim and distant shore
Aching love is felt no more!
We have loved with earth’s excess—
Past is now that weariness!
We have wept, that weep not now—
Calm is each once-beating brow!
We have known the dreamer’s woes—
All is now one bright repose!
Come, come, come!
Weary heart that long hast bled,
Languid spirit, drooping head,
Restless memory, vain regret,
Pining love whose light is set,
Come away!—’tis hush’d, ’tis well,
Where by shadowy founts we dwell,
All the fever-thirst is still’d,
All the air with peace is fill’d,—
Come, come, come!
And with her spirit wrapt in that wild lay.
She pass’d, as twilight melts to night, away!

THE MAGIC GLASS.

“How lived, how loved, how died they?”—Byron.

“The dead! the glorious dead!—and shall they rise?
Shall they look on thee with their proud bright eyes?
Thou ask’st a fearful spell!
Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall,
What kingly vision shall obey my call?
The deep grave knows it well!
“Wouldst thou behold earth’s conquerors? shall they pass
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass
With triumph’s long array?
Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn,
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return,
As on their proudest day.
“Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song?
O’er the dark mirror that immortal throng
Shall waft a solemn gleam!
Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows,
Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs,
But silent as a dream.”
“Not these, O mighty master!—though their lays
Be unto man’s free heart, and tears, and praise,
Hallow’d for evermore!
And not the buried conquerors—let them sleep,
And let the flowery earth her sabbaths keep
In joy, from shore to shore!
“But, if the narrow house may so be moved,
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved
Back from their couch of rest!
That I may learn if their meek eyes be fill’d
With peace, if human love hath ever still’d
The yearning human breast.”
“Away, fond youth!—an idle quest is thine:
These have no trophy, no memorial shrine;
I know not of their place!
Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow,
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low,
Have pass’d, and left no trace.
“Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills,
And the wild sounds of melancholy rills,
Their covering turf may bloom;
But ne’er hath fame made relics of its flowers—
Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers,
Or poet hail’d their tomb.”
“Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell!
Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may tell
That which I pine to know!
I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep,
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep,
Records of joy and woe.”

CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.

“Les femmes doivent penser qu’il est dans cette carriere bien peu de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie d’une femme aimee et d’une mere heureuse.”   Madame de Stael.

Daughter of th’ Italian heaven!
Thou to whom its fires are given,
Joyously thy car hath roll’d
Where the conqueror’s pass’d of old;
And the festal sun that shone
O’er three hundred triumphs gone,[377]
Makes thy day of glory bright
With a shower of golden light.
Now thou tread’st th’ ascending road
Freedom’s foot so proudly trode;
While, from tombs of heroes borne,
From the dust of empire shorn,
Flowers upon thy graceful head,
Chaplets of all hues, are shed,
In a soft and rosy rain,
Touch’d with many a gem-like stain.
Thou hast gain’d the summit now!
Music hails thee from below;
Music, whose rich notes might stir
Ashes of the sepulchre;
Shaking with victorious notes
All the bright air as it floats.
Well may woman’s heart beat high
Unto that proud harmony!
Now afar it rolls—it dies—
And thy voice is heard to rise
With a low and lovely tone,
In its thrilling power alone;
And thy lyre’s deep silvery string,
Touch’d as by a breeze’s wing,
Murmurs tremblingly at first,
Ere the tide of rapture burst.
All the spirit of thy sky
Now hath lit thy large dark eye,
And thy cheek a flush hath caught
From the joy of kindled thought;
And the burning words of song
From thy lip flow fast and strong,
With a rushing stream’s delight
In the freedom of its might.
Radiant daughter of the sun!
Now thy living wreath is won.
Crown’d of Rome!—oh! art thou not
Happy in that glorious lot?—
Happier, happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow,
She that makes the humblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth!

[377] “The trebly hundred triumphs.”—Byron.

THE RUIN.

“Oh! ’tis the heart that magnifies this life,
Making a truth and beauty of its own.”
Wordsworth.
“Birth has gladden’d it: death has sanctified it.”
Guesses at Truth.
No dower of storied song is thine,
O desolate abode!
Forth from thy gates no glittering line
Of lance and spear hath flow’d.
Banners of knighthood have not flung
Proud drapery o’er thy walls,
Nor bugle-notes to battle rung
Through thy resounding halls.
Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here
By courtly hands been dress’d,
For princes, from the chase of deer,
Under green leaves to rest:
Only some rose, yet lingering bright
Beside thy casements lone,
Tells where the spirit of delight
Hath dwelt, and now is gone.
Yet minstrel-tale of harp and sword,
And sovereign beauty’s lot,
House of quench’d light and silent board!
For me thou needest not.
It is enough to know that here,
Where thoughtfully I stand,
Sorrow and love, and hope and fear,
Have link’d one kindred band.
Thou bindest me with mighty spells!
—A solemnising breath,
A presence all around thee dwells
Of human life and death.
I need but pluck yon garden flower
From where the wild weeds rise,
To wake, with strange and sudden power,
A thousand sympathies.
Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth!
Deserted now by all!
Voices at eve here met in mirth
Which eve may ne’er recall.
Youth’s buoyant step, and woman’s tone,
And childhood’s laughing glee,
And song and prayer, have all been known,
Hearth of the dead! to thee.
Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour’d
Upon the infant head,
As if in every fervent word
The living soul were shed;
Thou hast seen partings, such as bear
The bloom from life away—
Alas! for love in changeful air,
Where naught beloved can stay!
Here, by the restless bed of pain,
The vigil hath been kept,
Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain,
Burst forth on eyes that wept;
Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom,
The breathless influence, shed
Through the dim dwelling, from the room
Wherein reposed the dead.
The seat left void, the missing face,
Have here been mark’d and mourn’d,
And time hath fill’d the vacant place,
And gladness hath return’d;
Till from the narrowing household chain
The links dropp’d one by one!
And homewards hither, o’er the main,
Came the spring-birds alone.
Is there not cause, then—cause for thought,
Fix’d eye and lingering tread,
Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught,
Even lowliest hearts have bled?
Where, in its ever-haunting thirst
For draughts of purer day,
Man’s soul, with fitful strength, hath burst
The clouds that wrapt its way?
Holy to human nature seems
The long-forsaken spot—
To deep affections, tender dreams,
Hopes of a brighter lot!
Therefore in silent reverence here,
Hearth of the dead! I stand,
Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear,
Have link’d one household band.

THE MINSTER.

Speak low! The place is holy to the breath
Of awful harmonies, of whisper’d prayer:
Tread lightly!—for the sanctity of death
Broods with a voiceless influence on the air,
Stern, yet serene!—a reconciling spell,
Each troubled billow of the soul to quell.
Leave me to linger silently awhile!
—Not for the light that pours its fervid streams
Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle,
Kindling old banners into haughty gleams,
Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior’s tomb
Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom:
Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing,
Mighty as forest-sounds when winds are high;
Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing
Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry,—
Though o’er the spirit each hath charm and power,
Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour.
But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord
Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound;
Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have pour’d
Their anguish forth, are with me and around;
I look back on the pangs, the burning tears,
Known to these altars of a thousand years.
Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse!
That here hast bow’d with ashes on thy head;
And thou, still battling with the tempest’s force—
Thou, whose bright spirit through all time has bled—
Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer,
Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair?
No voice, no breath!—of conflicts past, no trace!
—Doth not this hush give answer to my quest?
Surely the dread religion of the place
By every grief hath made its might confest!—
Oh! that within my heart I could but keep
Holy to heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and deep!

THE SONG OF NIGHT.[378]

“O night,
And storm, and darkness! ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength!” Byron.
I come to thee, O Earth!
With all my gifts!—for every flower sweet dew
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew
The glory of its birth.
Not one which glimmering lies
Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves,
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives
A spirit of fresh dyes.
I come with every star;
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track,
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of worlds afar.
I come with peace,—I shed
Sleep through thy wood-walks, o’er the honey-bee,
The lark’s triumphant voice, the fawn’s young glee,
The hyacinth’s meek head.
On my own heart I lay
The weary babe; and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.
I come with mightier things!
Who calls me silent? I have many tones—
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans,
Borne on my sweeping wings.
I waft them not alone
From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades
Till the bright day is done;
But in the human breast
A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.
I bring them from the past:
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crush’d affections, which, though long o’erborne,
Make their tones heard at last.
I bring them from the tomb:
O’er the sad couch of late repentant love
They pass—though low as murmurs of a dove—
Like trumpets through the gloom.
I come with all my train:
Who calls me lonely? Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead—
Phantoms of heart and brain!
Looks from departed eyes,
These are my lightnings!—fill’d with anguish vain,
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,
They smite with agonies.
I, that with soft control,
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am the avenging one!—the arm’d, the strong—
The searcher of the soul!
I, that shower dewy light
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms—the tempest birth
Of memory, thought, remorse! Be holy, Earth!
I am the solemn Night![379]