“When the lamp is shatter’d,
The light in the dust lies dead;
When the cloud is scatter’d,
The rainbow’s glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet sounds are remember’d not;
When the words are spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and lute,
The heart’s echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute.”   Shelley.
She dwelt in proud Venetian halls,
Midst forms that breathed from the pictured walls
But a glow of beauty like her own,
There had no dream of the painter thrown.
Lit from within was her noble brow,
As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow;
Her young, clear cheek, had a changeful hue,
As if ye might see how the soul wrought through,
And every flash of her fervent eye
Seem’d the bright wakening of Poesy.
Even thus it was! From her childhood’s years
A being of sudden smiles and tears—
Passionate visions, quick light and shade—
Such was that high-born Italian maid!
And the spirit of song in her bosom-cell
Dwelt, as the odours in violets dwell,
Or as the sounds in Æolian strings,
Or in aspen-leaves the quiverings;
There, ever there, with the life enshrined,
Waiting the call of the faintest wind.
Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea,
In the city’s hour of moonlight glee—
Oft would that gift of the southern sky
O’erflow from her lips in melody;
Oft amid festal halls it came,
Like the springing forth of a sudden flame—
Till the dance was hush’d, and the silvery tone
Of her inspiration was heard alone.
And fame went with her, the bright, the crown’d,
And music floated her steps around;
And every lay of her soul was borne
Through the sunny land, as on wings of morn.
And was the daughter of Venice blest,
With a power so deep in her youthful breast?
Could she be happy, o’er whose dark eye
So many changes and dreams went by?
And in whose cheek the swift crimson wrought
As if but born from the rush of thought?
Yes! in the brightness of joy awhile
She moved as a bark in the sunbeam’s smile;
For her spirit, as over her lyre’s full chord,
All, all on a happy love was pour’d!
How loves a heart whence the stream of song
Flows, like the life-blood, quick, bright, and strong?
How loves a heart, which hath never proved
One breath of the world? Even so she loved;
Bless’d, though the lord of her soul, afar,
Was charging the foremost in Moslem war,
Bearing the flag of St Mark’s on high,
As a ruling star in the Grecian sky.
Proud music breathed in her song, when fame
Gave a tone more thrilling to his name;
And her trust in his love was a woman’s faith—
Perfect, and fearing no change but death.
But the fields are won from the Othman host,
In the land that quell’d the Persian’s boast,
And a thousand hearts in Venice burn
For the day of triumph and return!
The day is come! the flashing deep
Foams where the galleys of victory sweep;
And the sceptred city of the wave
With her festal splendour greets the brave;
Cymbal, and clarion, and voice, around,
Make the air one stream of exulting sound;
While the beautiful, with their sunny smiles,
Look from each hall of the hundred isles.
But happiest and brightest that day of all,
Robed for her warrior’s festival,
Moving a queen midst the radiant throng,
Was she, th’ inspired one, the maid of song!
The lute he loved on her arm she bore,
As she rush’d in her joy to the crowded shore;
With a hue on her cheek like the damask glow
By the sunset given unto mountain snow,
And her eye all fill’d with the spirit’s play,
Like the flash of a gem to the changeful day,
And her long hair waving in ringlets bright—
So came that being of hope and light!
One moment, Erminia! one moment more,
And life, all the beauty of life, is o’er!
The bark of her lover hath touch’d the strand—
Whom leads he forth with a gentle hand?
—A young fair form, whose nymph-like grace
Accorded well with the Grecian face,
And the eye, in its clear, soft darkness meek,
And the lashes that droop’d o’er a pale rose cheek,
And he look’d on that beauty with tender pride—
The warrior hath brought back an Eastern bride!
But how stood she, the forsaken, there,
Struck by the lightning of swift despair?
Still, as amazed with grief, she stood,
And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood;
And there came from her quivering lip no word,
Only the fall of her lute was heard,
As it dropp’d from her hand at her rival’s feet,
Into fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet!
What more remaineth? Her day was done;
Her fate and the Broken Lute’s were one!
The light, the vision, the gift of power,
Pass’d from her soul in that mortal hour,
Like the rich sound from the shatter’d string
Whence the gush of sweetness no more might spring!
As an eagle struck in his upward flight.
So was her hope from its radiant height;
And her song went with it for evermore,
A gladness taken from sea and shore!
She had moved to the echoing sound of fame—
Silently, silently, died her name!
Silently melted her life away,
As ye have seen a young flower decay,
Or a lamp that hath swiftly burn’d expire,
Or a bright stream shrink from the summer’s fire,
Leaving its channel all dry and mute—
Woe for the Broken Heart and Lute!

THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT.

“How weeps yon gallant band
O’er him their valour could not save!
For the bayonet is red with gore,
And he, the beautiful and brave,
Now sleeps in Egypt’s sand.”   Wilson.
In the shadow of the Pyramid
Our brother’s grave we made,
When the battle-day was done,
And the desert’s parting sun
A field of death survey’d.
The blood-red sky above us
Was darkening into night,
And the Arab watching silently
Our sad and hurried rite;
The voice of Egypt’s river
Came hollow and profound;
And one lone palm-tree, where we stood,
Rock’d with a shivery sound:
While the shadow of the Pyramid
Hung o’er the grave we made,
When the battle-day was done,
And the desert’s parting sun
A field of death survey’d.
The fathers of our brother
Were borne to knightly tombs,
With torch-light and with anthem-note,
And many waving plumes:
But he, the last and noblest
Of that high Norman race,
With a few brief words of soldier-love
Was gather’d to his place;
In the shadow of the Pyramid,
Where his youthful form we laid,
When the battle-day was done,
And the desert’s parting sun
A field of death survey’d.
But let him, let him slumber
By the old Egyptian wave!
It is well with those who bear their fame
Unsullied to the grave!
When brightest names are breathed on,
When loftiest fall so fast,
We would not call our brother back
On dark days to be cast,—
From the shadow of the Pyramid,
Where his noble heart we laid,
When the battle-day was done,
And the desert’s parting sun
A field of death survey’d.

[“Mrs Hemans’ funeral poems are among her most impressive works: the music of her verse, through which an under-current of sadness may always be traced, was never more happily employed than in lamenting the beloved and early called, or in bidding

‘Hope to the world to look beyond the tombs.’

I need only mention a few lyrics, ‘The Farewell to the Dead,’ (in the Lays of Many Lands;) ‘The Exile’s Dirge,’ (in the Songs of the Affections;) ‘The Burial of an Emigrant’s Child in the Forest,’ (in the Scenes and Hymns of Life;) and the ‘Burial in the Desert,’ a noble poem, published among her poetical remains. The introduction of the two following stanzas of a more concise and monumental character,[399] though they have already appeared in print, will not, I am sure, be objected to as illustrating the above remark.”—Chorley’s Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 26-7.]

[399] Vide “Monumental Inscription,” p. 356.

TO A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA.

“Ave Maria! May our spirits dare
Look up to thine, and to thy Son’s above?” Byron.
Fair vision! thou’rt from sunny skies,
Born where the rose hath richest dyes;
To thee a southern heart hath given
That glow of love, that calm of heaven,
And round thee cast th’ ideal gleam,
The light that is but of a dream.
Far hence, where wandering music fills
The haunted air of Roman hills,
Or where Venetian waves of yore
Heard melodies, they hear no more,
Some proud old minster’s gorgeous aisle
Hath known the sweetness of thy smile.
Or haply, from a lone, dim shrine
Mid forests of the Apennine,
Whose breezy sounds of cave and dell
Pass like a floating anthem-swell,
Thy soft eyes o’er the pilgrim’s way
Shed blessings with their gentle ray.
Or gleaming through a chestnut wood,
Perchance thine island-chapel stood,
Where from the blue Sicilian sea
The sailor’s hymn hath risen to thee,
And bless’d thy power to guide, to save,
Madonna! watcher of the wave!
Oh! might a voice, a whisper low,
Forth from those lips of beauty flow!
Couldst thou but speak of all the tears,
The conflicts, and the pangs of years,
Which, at thy secret shrine reveal’d,
Have gush’d from human hearts unseal’d!
Surely to thee hath woman come,
As a tired wanderer back to home!
Unveiling many a timid guest
And treasured sorrow of her breast,
A buried love—a wasting care—
Oh! did those griefs win peace from prayer?
And did the poet’s fervid soul
To thee lay bare its inmost scroll?
Those thoughts, which pour’d their quenchless fire
And passion o’er th’ Italian lyre,
Did they to still submission die
Beneath thy calm, religious eye?
And hath the crested helmet bow’d
Before thee, midst the incense-cloud?
Hath the crown’d leader’s bosom lone
To thee its haughty griefs made known?
Did thy glance break their frozen sleep,
And win th’ unconquer’d one to weep?
Hush’d is the anthem, closed the vow,
The votive garland wither’d now;
Yet holy still to me thou art,
Thou that hath soothed so many a heart!
And still must blessed influence flow
From the meek glory of thy brow.
Still speak to suffering woman’s love,
Of rest for gentle hearts above;
Of hope, that hath its treasure there,
Of home, that knows no changeful air.
Bright form! lit up with thoughts divine,
Ave! such power be ever thine!

A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE.

How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom,
Rose! ever wearing beauty for thy dower!
The bridal-day—the festival—the tomb—
Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower!
Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by
A thousand images of love and grief,
Dreams, fill’d with tokens of mortality,
Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief.
Not such thy spells o’er those that hail’d thee first,
In the clear light of Eden’s golden day!
There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst,
Link’d with no dim remembrance of decay.
Rose! for the banquet gather’d, and the bier;
Rose! colour’d now by human hope and pain
Surely where death is not—nor change, nor fear,
Yet may we meet thee, joy’s own flower again!

DREAMS OF HEAVEN.

“We colour heaven with our own human thoughts,
Our vain aspirings, fond remembrances,
Our passionate love, that seems unto itself
An Immortality.”
Dream’st thou of heaven? What dreams are thine?
Fair child, fair gladsome child?
With eyes that like the dewdrop shine,
And bounding footsteps wild!
Tell me what hues th’ immortal shore
Can wear, my bird! to thee?
Ere yet one shadow hath pass’d o’er
Thy glance and spirit free?
“Oh! beautiful is heaven, and bright
With long, long summer days;
I see its lilies gleam in light
Where many a fountain plays.
“And there uncheck’d, methinks, I rove,
And seek where young flowers lie,
In vale and golden-fruited grove—
Flowers that are not to die!”
Thou poet of the lonely thought,
Sad heir of gifts divine!
Say with what solemn glory fraught
Is heaven in dreams of thine?
“Oh! where the living waters flow
Along that radiant shore,
My soul, a wanderer here, shall know
The exile-thirst no more.
“The burden of the stranger’s heart
Which here alone I bear,
Like the night-shadow shall depart,
With my first wakening there.
“And borne on eagle wings afar,
Free thought shall claim its dower,
From every realm, from every star,
Of glory and of power.”
O woman! with the soft sad eye,
Of spiritual gleam,
Tell me of those bright worlds on high,
How doth thy fond heart dream?
By the sweet mournful voice I know,
On thy pale brow I see,
That thou hast loved, in fear, and woe—
Say what is heaven to thee?
“Oh! heaven is where no secret dread
May haunt love’s meeting hour,
Where from the past no gloom is shed
O’er the heart’s chosen bower:
“Where every sever’d wreath is bound—
Where none have heard the knell
That smites the heart with that deep sound—
Farewell, beloved!—farewell!”

THE WISH.

Come to me, when my soul
Hath but a few dim hours to linger here;
When earthly chains are as a shrivel’d scroll,
Oh! let me feel thy presence! be but near!
That I may look once more
Into thine eyes, which never changed for me;
That I may speak to thee of that bright shore
Where, with our treasure, we have long’d to be.
Thou friend of many days!
Of sadness and of joy, of home and hearth!
Will not thy spirit aid me then to raise
The trembling pinions of my hope from earth?
By every solemn thought
Which on our hearts hath sunk in days gone by,
From the deep voices of the mountains caught,
O’er all th’ adoring silence of the sky;
By every lofty theme
Whereon, in low-toned reverence we have spoken;
By our communion in each fervent dream
That sought from realms beyond the grave a token;
And by our tears for those
Whose loss hath touch’d our world with hues of death;
And by the hopes that with their dust repose,
As flowers await the south-wind’s vernal breath;
Come to me in that day—
The one—the sever’d from all days—O friend!
Even then, if human thought may then have sway
My soul with thine shall yet rejoice to blend.
Nor then, nor there alone:
I ask my heart if all indeed must die—
All that of holiest feelings it hath known?
And my heart’s voice replies—Eternity?

WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB,

NEAR WOODSTOCK, IN THE COUNTY OF KILKENNY.[400]

“Yes! hide beneath the mouldering heap,
The undelighted, slighted thing;
There in the cold earth, buried deep,
In silence let it wait the Spring.”
Mrs Tighe’s “Poem on the Lily.”
I stood where the lip of song lay low,
Where the dust had gather’d on Beauty’s brow;
Where stillness hung on the heart of Love,
And a marble weeper kept watch above.
I stood in the silence of lonely thought,
Of deep affections that inly wrought,
Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear—
They knew themselves exiled spirits here!
Then didst thou pass me in radiance by,
Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly!
Thou that dost bear, on thy fairy wings,
No burden of mortal sufferings.
Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb,
Over a bright world of joy and bloom;
And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine,
The all that sever’d thy life and mine.
Mine, with its inborn mysterious things,
Of love and grief its unfathom’d springs;
And quick thoughts wandering o’er earth and sky,
With voices to question eternity!
Thine, in its reckless and joyous way,
Like an embodied breeze at play!
Child of the sunlight!—thou wing’d and free!
One moment, one moment, I envied thee!
Thou art not lonely, though born to roam,
Thou hast no longings that pine for home;
Thou seek’st not the haunts of the bee and bird,
To fly from the sickness of hope deferr’d:
In thy brief being no strife of mind,
No boundless passion, is deeply shrined;
While I, as I gazed on thy swift flight by,
One hour of my soul seem’d infinity!
And she, that voiceless below me slept,
Flow’d not her song from a heart that wept?
—O Love and Song! though of heaven your powers,
Dark is your fate in this world of ours.
Yet, ere I turn’d from that silent place,
Or ceased from watching thy sunny race,
Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings,
Didst waft me visions of brighter things!
Thou that dost image the freed soul’s birth,
And its flight away o’er the mists of earth,
Oh! fitly thy path is through flowers that rise
Round the dark chamber where Genius lies!

[400] See the “Grave of a Poetess,” p. 411, on the same subject, and written several years previously to visiting the scene.

EPITAPH.

Farewell, beloved and mourn’d! We miss awhile
Thy tender gentleness of voice and smile,
And that bless’d gift of heaven, to cheer us lent—
That thrilling touch, divinely eloquent,
Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent, high,
Through thy rich strains of sacred harmony.
Yet from those very memories there is born
A soft light, pointing to celestial morn:
Oh! bid it guide us where thy footsteps trode,
To meet at last “the pure in heart” with God!

PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF FIESCO,

AS TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER, BY COLONEL D’AGUILAR, AND PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, DUBLIN, DECEMBER 1832.

Too long apart, a bright but sever’d band,
The mighty minstrels of the Rhine’s fair land
Majestic strains, but not for us, had sung—
Moulding to melody a stranger tongue.
Brave hearts leap’d proudly to their words of power,
As a true sword bounds forth in battle’s hour;
Fair eyes rain’d homage o’er th’ impassion’d lays,
In loving tears, more eloquent than praise;
While we, far distant, knew not, dream’d not aught
Of the high marvels by that magic wrought.
But let the barriers of the sea give way,
When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror’s sway!
And let the Rhine divide high souls no more
From mingling on its old heroic shore,
Which, e’en like ours, brave deeds through many an age
Have made the poet’s own free heritage!
To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone
Of the far minstrelsy at last be known;
Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear,
Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here.
And if by one, more used on march and heath
To the shrill bugle than the muse’s breath,
With a warm heart the offering hath been brought,
And in a trusting loyalty of thought,
So let it be received!—a soldier’s hand
Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land
A seed of foreign shores. O’er this fair clime,
Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time,
Hath song held empire; then, if not with fame,
Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim,
The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread,
Where once that harp “the soul of music shed!”

TO GIULIO REGONDI,

THE BOY GUITARIST.

Blessing and love be round thee still, fair boy!
Never may suffering wake a deeper tone
Than genius now, in its first fearless joy,
Calls forth exulting from the chords which own
Thy fairy touch! Oh! may’st thou ne’er be taught
The power whose fountain is in troubled thought!
For in the light of those confiding eyes,
And on th’ ingenuous calm of that clear brow,
A dower, more precious e’en than genius lies,
A pure mind’s worth, a warm heart’s vernal glow!
God, who hath graced thee thus, O gentle child!
Keep midst the world thy brightness undefiled!

O YE HOURS!

O ye hours! ye sunny hours!
Floating lightly by,
Are ye come with birds and flowers,
Odours and blue sky?
“Yes! we come, again we come,
Through the wood-paths free:
Bringing many a wanderer home,
With the bird and bee.”
O ye hours! ye sunny hours!
Are ye wafting song?
Doth wild music stream in showers
All the groves among?
“Yes! the nightingale is there
While the starlight reigns,
Making young leaves and sweet air
Tremble with her strains.”
O ye hours! ye sunny hours!
In your silent flow,
Ye are mighty, mighty powers!
Bring ye bliss or woe?
“Ask not this—oh! seek not this!
Yield your hearts awhile
To the soft wind’s balmy kiss,
And the heavens’ bright smile.
“Throw not shades of anxious thought
O’er the glowing flowers!
We are come with sunshine fraught,
Question not the hours!”

THE FREED BIRD.

Return, return, my bird!
I have dress’d thy cage with flowers;
’Tis lovely as a violet bank
In the heart of forest bowers.
“I am free, I am free—I return no more!
The weary time of the cage is o’er;
Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high,
The sky is around me—the blue, bright sky!
The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear,
With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding deer;
I see the waves flash on the sunny shore—
I am free, I am free—I return no more!”
Alas, alas! my bird!
Why seek’st thou to be free?
Wert thou not bless’d in thy little bower,
When thy song breathed naught but glee?
“Did my song of the summer breathe naught but glee?
Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee?
—Oh! hadst thou known its deep meaning well,
It had tales of a burning heart to tell!
From a dream of the forest that music sprang,
Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang;
And its dying fall, when it sooth’d thee best,
Sigh’d for wild-flowers and a leafy nest.”
Was it with thee thus, my bird?
Yet thine eye flash’d clear and bright;
I have seen the glance of sudden joy
In its quick and dewy light.
“It flash’d with the fire of a tameless race,
With the soul of the wild-wood, my native place!
With the spirit that panted through heaven to soar:
Woo me not back—I return no more!
My home is high, amidst rocking trees,
My kindred things are the star and the breeze,
And the fount uncheck’d in its lonely play,
And the odours that wander afar away!”
Farewell—farewell, then, bird!
I have call’d on spirits gone,
And it may be they joy’d, like thee, to part—
Like thee, that wert all my own!
“If they were captives, and pined like me,
Though love may guard them, they joy’d to be free;
They sprang from the earth with a burst of power,
To the strength of their wings, to their triumph’s hour!
Call them not back when the chain is riven,
When the way of the pinion is all through heaven!
Farewell!—with my song through the clouds I soar,
I pierce the blue skies—I am earth’s no more!”

MARGUERITE OF FRANCE.[401]

“Thou falcon-hearted dove!”—Coleridge.

The Moslem spears were gleaming
Round Damietta’s towers,
Though a Christian banner from her wall
Waved free its lily-flowers.
Ay, proudly did the banner wave,
As queen of earth and air;
But faint hearts throb’d beneath its folds
In anguish and despair.
Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon
Their kingly chieftain lay,
And low on many an Eastern field
Their knighthood’s best array.
’Twas mournful, when at feasts they met,
The wine-cup round to send;
For each that touch’d it silently
Then miss’d a gallant friend!
And mournful was their vigil
On the beleaguer’d wall,
And dark their slumber, dark with dreams
Of slow defeat and fall.
Yet a few hearts of chivalry
Rose high to breast the storm,
And one—of all the loftiest there—
Thrill’d in a woman’s form.
A woman, meekly bending
O’er the slumber of her child,
With her soft, sad eyes of weeping love,
As the Virgin Mother’s mild.
Oh! roughly cradled was thy babe,
Midst the clash of spear and lance,
And a strange, wild bower was thine, young queen!
Fair Marguerite of France!
A dark and vaulted chamber,
Like a scene for wizard-spell,
Deep in the Saracenic gloom
Of the warrior citadel;
And there midst arms the couch was spread,
And with banners curtain’d o’er,
For the daughter of the minstrel-land,
The gay Provençal shore!
For the bright queen of St Louis,
The star of court and hall!
But the deep strength of the gentle heart
Wakes to the tempest’s call!
Her lord was in the Paynim’s hold,
His soul with grief oppress’d,
Yet calmly lay the desolate,
With her young babe on her breast!
There were voices in the city,
Voices of wrath and fear—
“The walls grow weak, the strife is vain—
We will not perish here!
Yield! yield! and let the Crescent gleam
O’er tower and bastion high!
Our distant homes are beautiful—
We stay not here to die!”
They bore those fearful tidings
To the sad queen where she lay—
They told a tale of wavering hearts,
Of treason and dismay:
The blood rush’d through her pearly cheek,
The sparkle to her eye—
“Now call me hither those recreant knights
From the bands of Italy!”[402]
Then through the vaulted chambers
Stern iron footsteps rang;
And heavily the sounding floor
Gave back the sabre’s clang.
They stood around her—steel-clad men,
Moulded for storm and fight,
But they quail’d before the loftier soul
In that pale aspect bright.
Yes! as before the falcon shrinks
The bird of meaner wing,
So shrank they from th’ imperial glance
Of her—that fragile thing!
And her flute-like voice rose clear and high
Through the din of arms around—
Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul,
As a silver clarion’s sound.
“The honour of the Lily
Is in your hands to keep,
And the banner of the Cross, for Him
Who died on Calvary’s steep;
And the city which for Christian prayer
Hath heard the holy bell—
And is it these your hearts would yield
To the godless infidel?
“Then bring me here a breastplate
And a helm, before ye fly,
And I will gird my woman’s form,
And on the ramparts die!
And the boy whom I have borne for woe,
But never for disgrace,
Shall go within mine arms to death
Meet for his royal race.
“Look on him as he slumbers
In the shadow of the lance!
Then go, and with the Cross forsake
The princely babe of France!
But tell your homes ye left one heart
To perish undefiled;
A woman, and a queen, to guard
Her honour and her child!”
Before her words they thrill’d, like leaves
When winds are in the wood;
And a deepening murmur told of men
Roused to a loftier mood.
And her babe awoke to flashing swords,
Unsheath’d in many a hand,
As they gather’d round the helpless One,
Again a noble band!
“We are thy warriors, lady!
True to the Cross and thee;
The spirit of thy kindling words
On every sword shall be!
Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast!
Rest—we will guard thee well!
St Denis for the Lily-flower
And the Christian citadel!”