[A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band of shepherd-youths and maidens suddenly checked in their wanderings, and affected with various emotions, by the sight of a tomb which bears this inscription—“Et in Arcadia ego.”]

They have wander’d in their glee
With the butterfly and bee;
They have climb’d o’er heathery swells,
They have wound through forest dells;
Mountain-moss hath felt their tread,
Woodland streams their way have led;
Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks,
Nurslings of the loneliest brooks,
Unto them have yielded up
Fragrant bell and starry cup:
Chaplets are on every brow—
What hath staid the wanderers now?
Lo! a gray and rustic tomb,
Bower’d amidst the rich wood-gloom;
Whence these words their stricken spirits melt,
—“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”
There is many a summer sound
That pale sepulchre around;
Through the shade young birds are glancing,
Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing;
Glimpses of blue festal skies
Pouring in when soft winds rise;
Violets o’er the turf below
Shedding out their warmest glow;
Yet a spirit not its own
O’er the greenwood now is thrown!
Something of an under-note
Through its music seems to float,
Something of a stillness gray
Creeps across the laughing day:
Something dimly from those old words felt,
—“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”
Was some gentle kindred maid
In that grave with dirges laid?
Some fair creature, with the tone
Of whose voice a joy is gone,
Leaving melody and mirth
Poorer on this alter’d earth?
Is it thus? that so they stand,
Dropping flowers from every hand—
Flowers, and lyres, and gather’d store
Of red wild-fruit prized no more?
—No! from that bright band of morn
Not one link hath yet been torn:
’Tis the shadow of the tomb
Falling o’er the summer-bloom—
O’er the flush of love and life
Passing with a sudden strife;
’Tis the low prophetic breath
Murmuring from that house of death,
Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt,
—“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

THE WANDERING WIND.

The Wind, the wandering Wind
Of the golden summer eves—
Whence is the thrilling magic
Of its tones among the leaves?
Oh! is it from the waters,
Or from the long tall grass?
Or is it from the hollow rocks
Through which its breathings pass?
Or is it from the voices
Of all in one combined,
That it wins the tone of mastery?
The Wind, the wandering Wind!
No, no! the strange, sweet accents
That with it come and go,
They are not from the osiers,
Nor the fir-trees whispering low;
They are not of the waters,
Nor of the cavern’d hill:
’Tis the human love within us
That gives them power to thrill.
They touch the links of memory
Around our spirits twined,
And we start, and weep, and tremble,
To the Wind, the wandering Wind!

YE ARE NOT MISS’D, FAIR FLOWERS!

Ye are not miss’d, fair flowers, that late were spreading
The summer’s glow by fount and breezy grot;
There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding—
The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you not.
Still plays the sparkle o’er the rippling water,
O lily! whence thy cup of pearl is gone;
The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter,
There is no sorrow in the wind’s low tone.
And thou, meek hyacinth! afar is roving
The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss’d.
Cradled ye were, fair flowers! ’midst all things loving,
A joy to all—yet, yet, ye are not miss’d!
Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness,
And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list,
Oh! it were breathing words too deep in sadness,
To say earth’s human flowers not more are miss’d.

THE WILLOW SONG.

Willow! in thy breezy moan,
I can hear a deeper tone;
Through thy leaves come whispering low,
Faint, sweet sounds of long ago.
Willow, sighing willow!
Many a mournful tale of old
Heart-sick love to thee hath told,
Gathering from thy golden bough
Leaves to cool his burning brow.
Willow! sighing willow!
Many a swan-like song to thee
Hath been sung, thou gentle tree!
Many a lute its last lament
Down thy moonlight stream hath sent.
Willow! sighing willow!
Therefore, wave and murmur on!
Sigh for sweet affections gone,
And for tuneful voices fled,
And for love, whose heart hath bled,
Ever, willow! willow!

LEAVE ME NOT YET.

Leave me not yet! through rosy skies from far,
But now the song-birds to their nests return;
The quivering image of the first pale star
On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn:
Leave me not yet!
Not yet! oh, hark! low tones from hidden streams,
Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise;
Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams,
They are of vesper’s hymns and harmonies:
Leave me not yet!
My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love!
By day shut up in their own still recess;
They wait for dews on earth, for stars above,
Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness:
Leave me not yet!

THE ORANGE BOUGH.

Oh! bring me one sweet orange-bough,
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow;
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest,
And bind it, mother! on my breast!
Go, seek the grove along the shore,
Whose odours I must breathe no more;
The grove where every scented tree
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea.
Oh! Love’s fond sighs, and fervent prayer,
And wild farewell, are lingering there:
Each leaf’s light whisper hath a tone
My faint heart, even in death, would own.
Then bear me thence one bough, to shed
Life’s parting sweetness round my head;
And bind it, mother! on my breast
When I am laid in lonely rest.

THE STREAM SET FREE.

Flow on, rejoice, make music,
Bright living stream set free!
The troubled haunts of care and strife
Were not for thee!
The woodland is thy country,
Thou art all its own again;
The wild birds are thy kindred race,
That fear no chain.
Flow on, rejoice, make music
Unto the glistening leaves!
Thou, the beloved of balmy winds
And golden eaves!
Once more the holy starlight
Sleeps calm upon thy breast,
Whose brightness bears no token more
Of man’s unrest.
Flow, and let freeborn music
Flow with thy wavy line,
While the stock-dove’s lingering, loving voice
Comes blent with thine.
And the green reeds quivering o’er thee,
Strings of the forest-lyre,
All fill’d with answering spirit-sounds,
In joy respire.
Yet, midst thy song’s glad changes,
Oh! keep one pitying tone
For gentle hearts, that bear to thee
Their sadness lone.
One sound, of all the deepest,
To bring, like healing dew,
A sense that nature ne’er forsakes
The meek and true.
Then, then, rejoice, make music,
Thou stream, thou glad and free!
The shadows of all glorious flowers
Be set in thee!

THE SUMMER’S CALL.[410]

Come away! The sunny hours
Woo thee far to founts and bowers!
O’er the very waters now,
In their play,
Flowers are shedding beauty’s glow—
Come away!
Where the lily’s tender gleam
Quivers on the glancing stream,
Come away!
All the air is fill’d with sound,
Soft, and sultry, and profound;
Murmurs through the shadowy grass
Lightly stray;
Faint winds whisper as they pass—
Come away!
Where the bee’s deep music swells
From the trembling foxglove bells,
Come away!
In the skies the sapphire blue
Now hath won its richest hue;
In the woods the breath of song
Night and day
Floats with leafy scents along—
Come away!
Where the boughs with dewy gloom
Darken each thick bed of bloom,
Come away!
In the deep heart of the rose
Now the crimson love-hue glows;
Now the glow-worm’s lamp by night
Sheds a ray,
Dreamy, starry, greenly bright—
Come away!
Where the fairy cup-moss lies,
With the wild-wood strawberries,
Come away!
Now each tree by summer crown’d,
Sheds its own rich twilight round;
Glancing there from sun to shade,
Bright wings play;
There the deer its couch hath made—
Come away!
Where the smooth leaves of the lime
Glisten in their honey-time,
Come away—away![411]

[410] “The Summer’s Call.”—This faculty for realising images of the distant and the beautiful, amidst outward circumstances of apparently the most adverse influence, is thus gracefully illustrated by Washington Irving in the “Royal Poet” of his Sketch-Book:—“Some minds corrode and grow inactive under the loss of personal liberty; others grow morbid and irritable; but it is the nature of the poet to become tender and imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody.

‘Have you not seen the nightingale,
A pilgrim cooped into a cage,
How doth she chant her wonted tale
In that her lonely hermitage?
Even there her charming melody doth prove,
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.’”
Roger L’Estrange.

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is irrepressible, unconfinable; and that, when the real world is shut out, it can create a world for itself, and with a necromantic power can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived ’round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem; and we may consider The King’s Quair, composed by James of Scotland during his captivity at Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison-house.”

[411] “In my literary pursuits,” wrote Mrs Hemans at this time to a friend, “I fear I shall be obliged to look out for an amanuensis. I sometimes retain a piece of poetry several weeks in my memory, from actual dread of writing it down.... I was so glad you liked my little summer breathing strain, (‘The Summer’s Call.’) I assure you it quite consoled me for the want of natural objects of beauty around, to heap up their remembered images in one wild strain.”

OH! SKYLARK, FOR THY WING.

Oh! Skylark, for thy wing!
Thou bird of joy and light,
That I might soar and sing
At heaven’s empyreal height!
With the heathery hills beneath me,
Whence the streams in glory spring,
And the pearly clouds to wreathe me,
O Skylark! on thy wing!
Free, free, from earth-born fear,
I would range the blessed skies,
Through the blue divinely clear,
Where the low mists cannot rise!
And a thousand joyous measures
From my chainless heart should spring,
Like the bright rain’s vernal treasures,
As I wander’d on thy wing.
But oh! the silver cords
That around the heart are spun,
From gentle tones and words,
And kind eyes that make our sun!
To some low, sweet nest returning,
How soon my love would bring
There, there the dews of morning,
O Skylark! on thy wing!

SONGS OF CAPTIVITY.

[These songs (with the exception of the fifth) have all been set to music by the author’s sister, and are in the possession of Mr Willis, by whose permission they are here published.]

INTRODUCTION.

One hour for distant homes to weep
Midst Afric’s burnings sands,
One silent sunset hour was given
To the slaves of many lands.
They sat beneath a lonely palm,
In the gardens of their lord;
And, mingling with the fountain’s tune,
Their songs of exile pour’d.
And strangely, sadly did those lays
Of Alp and ocean sound,
With Afric’s wild, red skies above,
And solemn wastes around.
Broken with tears were oft their tones,
And most when most they tried
To breathe of hope and liberty,
From hearts that inly died.
So met the sons of many lands,
Parted by mount and main;
So did they sing in brotherhood,
Made kindred by the chain.

THE BROTHER’S DIRGE.

In the proud old fanes of England
My warrior-fathers lie,
Banners hang drooping o’er their dust
With gorgeous blazonry.
But thou, but thou, my brother!
O’er thee dark billows sweep—
The best and bravest heart of all
Is shrouded by the deep.
In the old high wars of England
My noble fathers bled;
For her lion-kings of lance and spear,
They went down to the dead.
But thou, but thou, my brother!
Thy life-drops flow’d for me—
Would I were with thee in thy rest,
Young sleeper of the sea!
In a shelter’d home of England
Our sister dwells alone,
With quick heart listening for the sound
Of footsteps that are gone.
She little dreams, my brother!
Of the wild fate we have found;
I, midst the Afric sands a slave,
Thou, by the dark seas bound.

THE ALPINE HORN.

The Alpine horn! the Alpine horn!
Oh! through my native sky,
Might I but hear its deep notes borne
Once more—but once—and die!
Yet, no! Midst breezy hills thy breath,
So full of hope and morn,
Would win me from the bed of death—
O joyous Alpine horn!
But here the echo of that blast,
To many a battle known,
Seems mournfully to wander past,
A wild, shrill, wailing tone!
Haunt me no more! for slavery’s air
Thy proud notes were not born;
The dream but deepens my despair—
Be hush’d, thou Alpine horn!

O YE VOICES!

O ye voices round my own hearth singing,
As the winds of May to memory sweet!
Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing,
Would those vernal tones the wanderer greet,
Once again?
Never, never! Spring hath smiled and parted
Oft since then your fond farewell was said;
O’er the green turf of the gentle-hearted
Summer’s hand the rose-leaves may have shed,
Oft again!
Or if still around my heart ye linger,
Yet, sweet voices! there must change have come:
Years have quell’d the free soul of the singer,
Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home
Ne’er again!

I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE.

I dream of all things free!
Of a gallant, gallant bark
That sweeps through storm and sea,
Like an arrow to its mark!
Of a stag that o’er the hills
Goes bounding in his glee;
Of a thousand flashing rills—
Of all things glad and free.
I dream of some proud bird,
A bright-eyed mountain-king!
In my visions I have heard
The rushing of his wing.
I follow some wild river,
On whose breast no sail may be;
Dark woods around it shiver—
I dream of all things free!
Of a happy forest child,
With the fawns and flowers at play;
Of an Indian midst the wild,
With the stars to guide his way;
Of a chief his warriors leading,
Of an archer’s greenwood tree—
My heart in chains is bleeding,
And I dream of all things free!

FAR O’ER THE SEA.

Where are the vintage songs
Wandering in glee?
Where dance the peasant bands
Joyous and free?
Under a kind blue sky,
Where doth my birthplace lie?
—Far o’er the sea.
Where floats the myrtle-scent
O’er vale and lea,
When evening calls the dove
Homewards to flee!
Where doth the orange gleam
Soft on my native stream?
—Far o’er the sea!
Where are sweet eyes of love
Watching for me?
Where o’er the cabin roof
Waves the green tree?
Where speaks the vesper-chime
Still of a holy time?
—Far o’er the sea.
Dance on, ye vintage bands!
Fearless and free;
Still fresh and greenly wave,
My father’s tree!
Still smile, ye kind, blue skies!
Though your son pines and dies
Far o’er the sea!

THE INVOCATION.

Oh! art thou still on earth, my love?
My only love!
Or smiling in a brighter home,
Far, far above?
Oh! is thy sweet voice fled, my love?
Thy light step gone?
And art thou not, in earth or heaven,
Still, still my own?
I see thee with thy gleaming hair,
In midnight dreams!
But cold, and clear, and spirit-like,
Thy soft eye seems.
Peace in thy saddest hour, my love!
Dwelt on thy brow;
But something mournfully divine
There shineth now!
And silent ever is thy lip,
And pale thy cheek;—
Oh! art thou earth’s, or art thou heaven’s?
Speak to me, speak!

THE SONG OF HOPE.

Droop not, my brothers! I hear a glad strain—
We shall burst forth like streams from the winter night’s chain;
A flag is unfurl’d, a bright star of the sea,
A ransom approaches—we yet shall be free!
Where the pines wave, where the light chamois leaps,
Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps;
Where the snows glisten, the mountain-rills foam,
Free as the falcon’s wing, yet shall we roam.
Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks are met,
Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet!
Crossing the desert, o’ersweeping the sea—
Droop not, my brothers! we yet shall be free!

MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS.

THE CALL TO BATTLE.

“Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking signs,
Which ne’er might be repeated.”   Byron.
The vesper-bell, from church and tower,
Had sent its dying sound;
And the household, in the hush of eve,
Were met their porch around.
A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sudden trumpet’s power—
“We rise on all our hills! Come forth! ’tis thy country’s gathering-hour:
There’s a gleam of spears by every stream in each old battle-dell.
Come forth, young Juan! Bid thy home a brief and proud farewell!”
Then the father gave his son the sword
Which a hundred fights had seen—
“Away! and bear it back, my boy!
All that it still hath been!
“Haste, haste! The hunters of the foe are up: and who shall stand
The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land?
Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the clarion’s blast,
With the flying footsteps of the Moor, in stormy ages past.”
Then the mother kiss’d her son with tears
That o’er his dark locks fell:
“I bless, I bless thee o’er and o’er,
Yet I stay thee not—Farewell!”
“One moment! but one moment give to parting thought or word!
It is no time for woman’s tears when manhood’s heart is stirr’d.
Bear but the memory of my love about thee in the fight,
To breathe upon th’ avenging sword a spell of keener might.
And a maiden’s fond adieu was heard,
Though deep, yet brief and low:
“In the vigil, in the conflict, love!
My prayer shall with thee go!”
“Come forth! come as the torrent comes when the winter’s chain is burst!
So rushes on the land’s revenge, in night and silence nursed.
The night is pass’d, the silence o’er—on all our hills we rise:
We wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of battle cries.”
There were sad hearts in a darken’d home,
When the brave had left their bower;
But the strength of prayer and sacrifice
Was with them in that hour.

MIGNON’S SONG.

TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE.

[Mignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character in one of Goethe’s romances, from which Sir Walter Scott’s Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in early childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and pictured saloons, are perpetually haunting her, and at times break forth into the following song. The original has been set to exquisite music, by Zelter, the friend of Goethe.]

“Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhn?”

Know’st thou the land where bloom the citron bowers,
Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove?
High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers,
And through a still blue heaven the sweet winds rove.
Know’st thou it well?
There, there, with thee,
O friend! O loved one! fain my steps would flee.
Know’st thou the dwelling? There the pillars rise,
Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow;
And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes
To say—“Poor child! what thus hath wrought thee woe?”
Know’st thou it well?
There, there with thee,
O my protector! homewards might I flee!
Know’st thou the mountain? High its bridge is hung,
Where the mule seeks through mist and cloud his way;
There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among,
O’er beetling rocks there foams the torrent-spray.
Know’st thou it well?
With thee, with thee,
There lies my path, O father! let us flee!

THE SISTERS.[412]

A BALLAD.

“I go, sweet sister! yet, my heart would linger with thee fain,
And unto every parting gift some deep remembrance chain:
Take, then, the braid of Eastern pearls which once I loved to wear,
And with it bind for festal scenes the dark waves of thy hair!
Its pale, pure brightness will beseem those raven tresses well,
And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone convent-cell.”
“Oh, speak not thus, my Leonor! why part from kindred love?
Through festive scenes, when thou art gone, my steps no more shall move!
How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless throng?
I should but miss earth’s dearest voice in every tone of song.
Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me proudly twine
Its wreath once more around that brow, that queenly brow of thine.”
“Oh, wouldst thou strive a wounded bird from shelter to detain?
Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed to weary life again?
Sweet sister! take the golden cross that I have worn so long,
And bathed with many a burning tear for secret woe and wrong.
It could not still my beating heart! but may it be a sign
Of peace and hope, my gentle one! when meekly press’d to thine.”
“Take back, take back the cross of gold, our mother’s gift to thee—
It would but of this parting hour a bitter token be;
With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but sadly shine,
And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer mine.
O sister! if thy heart be thus with buried grief oppress’d,
Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well as on my faithful breast?”
“Urge me no more! A blight hath fallen upon my summer years!
I should but darken thy young life with fruitless pangs and fears.
But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for my sake,
And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone of memory wake!
Sing to those chords by starlight’s gleam our own sweet vesper-hymn,
And think that I too chant it then, far in my cloister dim.”
“Yes! I will take the silvery lute—and I will sing to thee
A song we heard in childhood’s days, even from our father’s knee.
O sister! sister! are these notes amid forgotten things?
Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar strings?
Seems not our sainted mother’s voice to murmur in the strain?
Kind sister! gentlest Leonor! say shall it plead in vain?”

[412] This ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recitative, relieved by music. It was thus performed by two graceful and highly accomplished sisters.

SONG.

“Leave us not, leave us not!
Say not adieu!
Have we not been to thee
Tender and true?
“Take not thy sunny smile
Far from our hearth!
With that sweet light will fade
Summer and mirth.
“Leave us not, leave us not!
Can thy heart roam?
Wilt thou not pine to hear
Voices from home?
“Too sad our love would be
If thou wert gone!
Turn to us, leave us not!
Thou art our own!”
“O sister! hush that thrilling lute!—oh, cease that haunting lay!
Too deeply pierce those wild, sweet notes—yet, yet I cannot stay:
For weary, weary is my heart! I hear a whisper’d call
In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the blossom fall.
I cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines to dwell
Where the world’s voice can reach no more! Oh, calm thee!—Fare thee well!”

[“Mrs Hemans played very pleasingly, and was passionately fond of music. She has described in—perhaps the finest of her lyrics—the ‘Requiem of Mozart’ the manner in which she herself felt its thrilling influences.

“It was after having listened with great delight one evening to some sweet and loved voices (that are now but very seldom heard within these walls) singing those words of hers, composed from Sir Walter Scott’s dictation, for one of the old Rhine songs, that she brought with her, on the next, her lines on ‘Triumphant Music;’ and triumphant they really were, in the splendour of their effect, as she repeated them. She wrote, for these same voices, the little drama, or rather scena, ‘The Sisters,’ which formed, as it was represented[413] with extraordinary research and elegance, and with the advantage of Mr Lodge’s music, one of the most perfect private exhibitions of the kind that can be imagined. One could not help reverting to the times of Ludlow Castle, and the Bridgewater family, when the youthful performers in Milton’s exquisite masque were as pure, and as noble, and as beautiful, as the ideal personages they represented.”—Recollections of Mrs Hemans, by Mrs Lawrence of Wavertree Hall, p. 339-340.]

[413] At a beautiful residence in Needwood Forest.

THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO.

[Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the younger Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock above the sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There is a desolate grace about the whole figure, which seems penetrated with the feeling of utter abandonment.]