EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.[392]
Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman’s axe lies free,
And the reaper’s work is done.
The twilight star to heaven,
And the summer dew to flowers,
And rest to us, is given
By the cool, soft evening hours.
Sweet is the hour of rest!
Pleasant the wind’s low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,
And the turf whereon we lie;
When the burden and the heat
Of labour’s task are o’er,
And kindly voices greet
The tired one at his door.
Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman’s axe lies free,
And the reaper’s work is done.
Yes! tuneful is the sound
That dwells in whispering boughs;
Welcome the freshness round,
And the gale that fans our brows!
But rest more sweet and still
Than ever nightfall gave,
Our yearning hearts shall fill
In the world beyond the grave.
There shall no tempest blow,
No scorching noontide heat;
There shall be no more snow,
[393]No weary, wandering feet.
So we lift our trusting eyes
From the hills our fathers trode,
To the quiet of the skies,
To the Sabbath of our God.
Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman’s axe lies free,
And the reaper’s work is done.
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.
Forget them not!—though now their name
Be but a mournful sound,
Though by the hearth its utterance claim
A stillness round.
Though for their sake this earth no more
As it hath been may be,
And shadows, never mark’d before,
Brood o’er each tree;
And though their image dim the sky,
Yet, yet forget them not!
Nor, where their love and life went by,
Forsake the spot!
They have a breathing influence there,
A charm, not elsewhere found;
Sad—yet it sanctifies the air,
The stream, the ground.
Then, though the wind an alter’d tone
Through the young foliage bear,
Though every flower, of something gone
A tinge may wear;
Oh! fly it not! No fruitless grief,
Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf
There, where they dwelt.
Still trace the path which knew their tread,
Still tend their garden-bower,
Still commune with the holy dead
In each lone hour!
The holy dead!—oh! bless’d we are,
That we may call them so,
And to their image look afar
Through all our woe!
Bless’d, that the things they loved on earth
As relics we may hold,
That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth
By springs untold!
Bless’d, that a deep and chastening power
Thus o’er our souls is given,
If but to bird, or song, or flower,
Yet all for heaven!
HE WALKED WITH GOD.
GENESIS, V. XXIV.
[“These two little pieces,” (“He walked with God,” and
“The Rod of Aaron,”) says the author in one of her letters,
“are part of a collection I think of forming, to be called Sacred
Lyrics. They are all to be on scriptural subjects, and to go
through the most striking events of the Old Testament, to
those far more deeply affecting ones of the New.” Two
others (“The Voice of God” and “The Fountain of Marah”)
are subjoined, as having been probably intended to form a
part of the same series.]
He walk’d with God, in holy joy,
While yet his days were few;
The deep, glad spirit of the boy
To love and reverence grew.
Whether, each nightly star to count,
The ancient hills he trode,
Or sought the flowers by stream and fount—
Alike he walk’d with God.
The graver noon of manhood came,
The full of cares and fears;
One voice was in his heart—the same
It heard through childhood’s years.
Amidst fair tents, and flocks, and swains,
O’er his green pasture-sod,
A shepherd-king on Eastern plains—
The patriarch walk’d with God.
And calmly, brightly, that pure life
Melted from earth away;
No cloud it knew, no parting strife,
No sorrowful decay:
He bow’d him not, like all beside,
Unto the spoiler’s rod,
But join’d at once the glorified,
Where angels walk with God!
So let us walk! The night must come
To us that comes to all;
We through the darkness must go home,
Hearing the trumpet’s call.
Closed is the path for ever more
Which without death he trode;
Not so that way, wherein of yore
His footsteps walk’d with God!
THE ROD OF AARON.
NUMBERS, XVII. VIII.
Was it the sigh of the southern gale
That flush’d the almond bough?
Brightest and first the young spring to hail,
Still its red blossoms glow.
Was it the sunshine that woke its flowers
With a kindling look of love?
Oh! far and deep, and through hidden bowers,
That smile of heaven can rove!
No! from the breeze and the living light
Shut was the sapless rod;
But it felt in the stillness a secret might,
And thrill’d to the breath of God.
E’en so may that breath, like the vernal air,
O’er our glad spirits move;
And all such things as are good and fair
Be the blossoms, its track that prove!
THE VOICE OF GOD.
“I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid.”—Gen. iii. 10.
Amidst the thrilling leaves, Thy voice
At evening’s fall drew near;
Father! and did not man rejoice
That blessed sound to hear?
Did not his heart within him burn,
Touch’d by the solemn tone?
Not so!—for, never to return,
Its purity was gone.
Therefore, midst holy stream and bower,
His spirit shook with dread,
And call’d the cedars, in that hour,
To veil his conscious head.
Oh! in each wind, each fountain-flow,
Each whisper of the shade,
Grant me, my God! thy voice to know,
And not to be afraid!
THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH.
“And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of
the waters of Marah, for they were bitter.
“And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What
shall we drink?
“And he cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a
tree, which when he had cast into the waters, the waters were
made sweet.”—Exodus, xv. 23-25.
Where is the tree the prophet threw
Into the bitter wave?
Left it no scion where it grew,
The thirsting soul to save?
Hath nature lost the hidden power
Its precious foliage shed?
Is there no distant Eastern bower
With such sweet leaves o’erspread?
Nay, wherefore ask?—since gifts are ours
Which yet may well imbue
Earth’s many troubled founts with showers
Of heaven’s own balmy dew.
Oh! mingled with the cup of grief
Let faith’s deep spirit be!
And every prayer shall win a leaf
From that bless’d healing tree!
THE PENITENT’S OFFERING.
ST LUKE, VII. XXXVII.-IX.
Thou that with pallid cheek,
And eyes in sadness meek,
And faded locks that humbly swept the ground,
From thy long wanderings won,
Before the all-healing Son,
Did’st bow thee to the earth—O lost and found!
When thou wouldst bathe his feet
With odours richly sweet,
And many a shower of woman’s burning tear,
And dry them with that hair,
Brought low the dust to wear,
From the crown’d beauty of its festal year.
Did He reject thee then,
While the sharp scorn of men
On thy once bright and stately head was cast?
No! from the Saviour’s mien,
A solemn light serene
Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last.
For thee, their smiles no more
Familiar faces wore;
Voices, once kind, had learn’d the stranger’s tone:
Who raised thee up, and bound
Thy silent spirit’s wound?—
He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone!
But which, O erring child,
From home so long beguiled!—
Which of thine offerings won those words of heaven,
That o’er the bruisèd reed,
Condemn’d of earth to bleed,
In music pass’d, “Thy sins are all forgiven?”
Was it that perfume, fraught
With balm and incense, brought
From the sweet woods of Araby the Blest?
Or that fast-flowing rain
Of tears, which not in vain,
To Him who scorn’d not tears, thy woes confess’d?
No! not by these restored
Unto thy Father’s board,
Thy peace, that kindled joy in heaven, was made;
But, costlier in his eyes,
By that bless’d sacrifice,
Thy heart, thy full deep heart, before Him laid.
THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN.
ON CHANTREY’S MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL.
[“The monument by Chantrey in Lichfield Cathedral, to
the memory of the two children of Mrs Robinson, is one of
the most affecting works of art ever executed. He has given
a pathos to marble which one who trusts to his natural feelings,
and admires and is touched only at their bidding, might
have thought, from any previous experience, that it was out of
the power of statuary to attain. The monument is executed
with all his beautiful simplicity and truth. The two children,
two little girls, are represented as lying in each other’s arms,
and, at first glance, appear to be sleeping:—
‘But something lies
Too deep and still on those soft-sealed eyes.’
It is while lying in the helplessness of innocent sleep that infancy
and childhood are viewed with the most touching interest;
and this, and the loveliness of the children, the uncertainty
of the expression at first view, the dim shadowing
forth of that sleep from which they cannot be awakened—their
hovering, as it were, upon the confines of life, as if they might
still be recalled—all conspire to render the last feeling, that
death is indeed before us, most deeply affecting. They were
the only children of their mother, and she was a widow. A
tablet commemorative of their father hangs over the monument.
This stands at the end of one of the side-aisles of the
choir, where there is nothing to distract the attention from
it, or weaken its effect. It may be contemplated in silence
and alone. The inscription, in that subdued tone of strong
feeling which seeks no relief in words, harmonizes with the
character of the whole. It is as follows:—
‘Sacred to the Memory of
Ellen Jane and Marianne, only children
Of the late Rev. William Robinson, and Ellen Jane, his wife,
Their affectionate Mother,
In fond remembrance of their heaven-loved innocence,
Consigns their resemblance to this sanctuary,
In humble gratitude for the glorious assurance
That ‘of such is the kingdom of God.’[394] A. N.”]
Fair images of sleep,
Hallow’d, and soft, and deep,
On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies,
Like moonlight on shut bells
Of flowers in mossy dells,
Fill’d with the hush of night and summer skies!
How many hearts have felt
Your silent beauty melt
Their strength to gushing tenderness away!
How many sudden tears,
From depths of buried years
All freshly bursting, having confess’d your sway!
How many eyes will shed
Still, o’er your marble bed,
Such drops from memory’s troubled fountains wrung!
While hope hath blights to bear,
While love breathes mortal air,
While roses perish ere to glory sprung!
Yet from a voiceless home,
If some sad mother come
Fondly to linger o’er your lovely rest,
As o’er the cheek’s warm glow,
And the sweet breathings low,
Of babes that grew and faded on her breast;
If then the dove-like tone
Of those faint murmurs gone,
O’er her sick sense too piercingly return;
If for the soft bright hair,
And brow and bosom fair,
And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn;
O gentle forms, entwined
Like tendrils, which the wind
May wave, so clasp’d, but never can unlink!
Send from your calm profound
A still, small voice—a sound
Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink!
By all the pure, meek mind
In your pale beauty shrined,
By childhood’s love—too bright a bloom to die
O’er her worn spirit shed,
O fairest, holiest dead!
The faith, trust, joy, of immortality!
WOMAN AND FAME.
Thou hast a charmèd cup, O Fame!
A draught that mantles high,
And seems to lift this earthly frame
Above mortality.
Away! to me—a woman—bring
Sweet waters from affection’s spring!
Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine
Into so proud a wreath,
For that resplendent gift of thine
Heroes have smiled in death:
Give me from some kind hand a flower,
The record of one happy hour!
Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone
Can bid each life-pulse beat,
As when a trumpet’s note hath blown,
Calling the brave to meet:
But mine, let mine—a woman’s breast,
By words of home-born love be bless’d.
A hollow sound is in thy song,
A mockery in thine eye,
To the sick heart that doth but long
For aid, for sympathy—
For kindly looks to cheer it on,
For tender accents that are gone.
Fame! Fame! thou canst not be the stay
Unto the drooping reed,
The cool, fresh fountain in the day
Of the soul’s feverish need:
Where must the lone one turn or flee!—
Not unto thee—oh! not to thee!
A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE.
Dreamer! and wouldst thou know
If love goes with us to the viewless bourne?
Wouldst thou bear hence th’ unfathom’d source of woe
In thy heart’s lonely urn?
What hath it been to thee,
That power, the dweller of thy secret breast?
A dove sent forth across a stormy sea,
Finding no place of rest:
A precious odour cast
On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by;
A voice of music utter’d to the blast,
And winning no reply.
Even were such answer thine,
Wouldst thou be bless’d? Too sleepless, too profound,
Are the soul’s hidden springs; there is no line
Their depth of love to sound.
Do not words faint and fail
When thou wouldst fill them with that ocean’s power?
As thine own cheek, before high thoughts grows pale
In some o’erwhelming hour.
Doth not thy frail form sink
Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot,
When thy heart strives, held down by many a link,
Where thy beloved are not?
Is not thy very soul
Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed,
Till a vain tenderness, beyond control,
Bows down thy weary head?
And wouldst thou bear all this—
The burden and the shadow of thy life—
To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss
With earthly feelings’ strife?
Not thus, not thus—oh, no!
Not veil’d and mantled with dim clouds of care,
That spirit of my soul should with me go
To breathe celestial air.
But as the skylark springs
To its own sphere, where night afar is driven,
As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings,
So must love mount to heaven!
Vainly it shall not strive
There on weak words to pour a stream of fire;
Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give,
As light might wake a lyre.
And oh! its blessings there,
Shower’d like rich balsam forth on some dear head,
Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear,
A joy of sunlight shed.
Let me, then—let me dream
That love goes with us to the shore unknown;
So o’er its burning tears a heavenly gleam
In mercy shall be thrown!
THE VOICE OF MUSIC.
“Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.”
Childe Harold.
Whence is the might of thy master-spell?
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound! and tell:
How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath,
Passionate visions of love and death?
How call’st thou back, with a note, a sigh,
Words and low tones from the days gone by—
A sunny glance, or a fond farewell?—
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound! and tell.
What is thy power, from the soul’s deep spring
In sudden gushes the tears to bring?
Even midst the swells of thy festal glee,
Fountains of sorrow are stirr’d by thee!
Vain are those tears!—vain and fruitless all—
Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall;
For a purer bliss while the full heart burns,
For a brighter home while the spirit yearns!
Something of mystery there surely dwells,
Waiting thy touch, in our bosom-cells;
Something that finds not its answer here—
A chain to be clasp’d in another sphere.
Therefore a current of sadness deep
Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep,
Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky—
Like a name of the dead when the wind foams high!
Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught
With vain remembrance and troubled thought;
Speak! for thou tellest my soul that its birth
Links it with regions more bright than earth.
THE ANGEL’S GREETING.
“Hark!—they whisper!—Angels say,
Sister spirit! come away.” Pope.
Come to the land of peace!
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway,
The shadow passes from the soul away,
The sounds of weeping cease.
Fear hath no dwelling there!
Come to the mingling of repose and love,
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove
Through the celestial air.
Come to the bright, and blest,
And crown’d for ever! Midst that shining band,
Gather’d to heaven’s own wreath from every land,
Thy spirit shall find rest!
Thou hast been long alone:
Come to thy mother! On the Sabbath shore,
The heart that rock’d thy childhood, back once more
Shall take its wearied one.
In silence wert thou left:
Come to thy sisters! Joyously again
All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain,
Shall greet their long bereft.
Over thine orphan head
The storm hath swept, as o’er a willow’s bough:
Come to thy father! It is finish’d now;
Thy tears have all been shed.
In thy divine abode,
Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace,
And, oh! bright victory—death by love no place.
Come, spirit! to thy God.
A FAREWELL TO WALES,
FOR THE MELODY CALLED “THE ASH GROVE,” ON LEAVING
THAT COUNTRY WITH MY CHILDREN.
The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear—
Farewell, and a blessing be with thee, green land!
On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air,
On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel’s free hand,
From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed,
As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead!
I bless thee!—yet not for the beauty which dwells
In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy shore;
And not for the memory set deep in thy dells,
Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore;
And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled—
Green land, poet-land of my home and my dead!
I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat
Where’er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies;
For thy cottage-hearths burning the stranger to greet,
For the soul that shines forth from thy children’s kind eyes!
May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be spread,
Green land of my childhood, my home, and my dead!
[“It was about this time (1828) that ‘The Farewell to
Wales’ was written.
‘I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat
Where’er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies;
For thy cottage-hearths burning the stranger to greet,
For the soul that shines forth from thy children’s kind eyes.’
Mrs Hemans always spoke of this ‘land of her childhood,
her home, and her dead,’ with interest and affection. When
she sailed from its shore, she covered her face in her cloak,
desiring her boys to tell her when the hills were out of sight,
that she might then look up. She would often, too, refer to
the pain she had suffered—in addition to the sorrow of parting
from her kindred and friends, for the first time since her birth,
to make actual acquaintance with the daily cares of life—upon
taking leave of the simple and homely peasantry of the
neighbourhood, by whom she was beloved with that old-fashioned
heartiness which yet lingers in some of the nooks
and remote places of England. Many of them rushed forward
to touch the posts of the gate through which the poetess had
passed; and when, three years afterwards, she paid a visit
to St Asaph, came and wept over her, and entreated her to
return and make her home among them again.”—Chorley’s
Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 206-7.]
IMPROMPTU LINES,
ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVING FROM HER
SOME FLOWERS WHEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS.
Ye tell me not of birds and bees,
Not of the summer’s murmuring trees,
Not of the streams and woodland bowers—
A sweeter tale is yours, fair flowers!
Glad tidings to my couch ye bring,
Of one still bright, still flowing spring—
A fount of kindness ever new,
In a friend’s heart, the good and true.
A PARTING SONG.
“O mes amis! rapellez-vous quelquefois mes vers! mon ame y est
empreinte.”—Corinne.
When will ye think of me, my friends?
When will ye think of me?—
When the last red light, the farewell of day,
From the rock and the river is passing away—
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught,
And the heart grows burden’d with tender thought,
Then let it be!
When will ye think of me, kind friends?
When will ye think of me?—
When the rose of the rich midsummer-time
Is fill’d with the hues of its glorious prime—
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread—
Then let it be!
When will ye think of me, sweet friends?
When will ye think of me?—
When the sudden tears o’erflow your eye
At the sound of some olden melody—
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream,
When ye feel the charm of a poet’s dream—
Then let it be!
Thus let my memory be with you, friends!
Thus ever think of me!
Kindly and gently, but as of one
For whom ’tis well to be fled and gone—
As of a bird from a chain unbound,
As of a wanderer whose home is found—
So let it be.
[“The description of her feelings, when the actual parting
took place, proves that there was no exaggeration in the
affectionate sadness of her ‘Farewell to Wales,’ and the
blessing she thus fondly left with it:—
‘The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear—
Farewell! and a blessing be with thee, green land!
On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air,
On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel’s free hand,
From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed,
As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead!
‘Oh! that Tuesday morning!’ (thus she wrote in her
first letter to St Asaph.) ‘I literally covered my face all the
way from Bronwylfa, until the boys told me we had passed
the Clwyd range of hills. Then something of the bitterness
was over.
‘Miss P. met me at Bagillt, and on board the packet we
found Mr D., who was kinder to me than I can possibly tell
you. He really watched over me all the way with a care I
shall not soon forget; and notwithstanding all you may say
of female protection, I felt that of a gentleman to be a great
comfort, for we had a difficult and disagreeable landing. As
we entered the port, a vessel, coming out, struck against
ours, and caused a great concussion: there was no danger, I
imagine, but it gave one a faint notion of what the meeting
must have been between the Comet and the Aire. We had
a pretty sight on the water; another packet, loaded, clustered
all over with blue-coat boys, sailed past. It was their annual
holiday, on which they have a water excursion; and as they
went by, all the little fellows waved their hats, and sent forth
three cheers, which made our vessel ring again. Only imagine
a ship-load of happiness! That word reminds me of my own
boys, who are enjoying themselves greatly. Of myself, what
can I say to you?... When I look back on the short
time that has elapsed since I left this place, I am astonished;
I seem in it to have lived an age of deep, strong, vain feeling.”
—Memoir, p. 151-3.]
WE RETURN NO MORE![395]
“When I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
And saw around me the wide field revive
With fruits and fertile promise; and the Spring
Come forth, her work of gladness to contrive,
With all her reckless birds upon the wing,
I turn’d from all she brought to all she could not bring.”
Childe Harold.
“We return!—we return!—we return no more!”
So comes the song to the mountain shore,
From those that are leaving their Highland home
For a world far over the blue sea’s foam:
“We return no more!” and through cave and dell
Mournfully wanders that wild farewell.
“We return!—we return!—we return no more!”
So breathe sad voices our spirits o’er;
Murmuring up from the depths of the heart,
Where lovely things with their light depart:
And the inborn sound hath a prophet’s tone,
And we feel that a joy is for ever gone.
“We return!—we return!—we return no more!”
Is it heard when the days of flowers are o’er?
When the passionate soul of the night-bird’s lay
Hath died from the summer woods away?
When the glory from sunset’s robe hath pass’d,
Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast?
No! It is not the rose that returns no more;—
A breath of spring shall its bloom restore;
And it is not the voice that o’erflows the bowers
With a stream of love through the starry hours;
Nor is it the crimson of sunset hues,
Nor the frail flush’d leaves which the wild wind strews.
“We return!—we return!—we return no more!”
Doth the bird sing thus from a brighter shore?
Those wings that follow the southern breeze,
Float they not homeward o’er vernal seas?
Yes! from the lands of the vine and palm
They come, with the sunshine, when waves grow calm.
“But we!—we return!—we return no more!”
The heart’s young dreams, when their spring is o’er;
The love it hath pour’d so freely forth—
The boundless trust in ideal worth;
The faith in affection—deep, fond, yet vain—
These are the lost that return not again!
TO A WANDERING FEMALE SINGER.