MOTHER and child! whose blending tears
Have sanctified the place,
Where, to the love of many years,
Was given one last embrace;
Oh! ye have shrined a spell of power,
Deep in your record of that hour!
A spell to waken solemn thought,
A still, small under-tone,
That calls back days of childhood, fraught
With many a treasure gone;
And smites, perchance, the hidden source,
Though long untroubled-of remorse.
For who, that gazes on the stone
Which marks your parting spot, Who but a mother's love hath known,
The one love changing not? Alas! and haply learned its worth First with the sound of "Earth to earth?"
But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou, O'er whose bright, honoured head, Blessings and tears of holiest flow,
E'en here were fondly shed,
Thou from the passion of thy grief,
In its full burst, couldst draw relief.
For oh though painful be th' excess,
The might wherewith it swells,
In nature's fount no bitterness
Of nature's mingling, dwells;
And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride,
Poisoned the free and healthful tide.
But didst thou meet the face no more,
Which thy young heart first knew?
And all-was all in this world o'er,
With ties thus close and true?
It was!-On earth no other eye
Could give thee back thine infancy.
No other voice could pierce the maze
Where deep within thy breast,
The sounds and dreams of other days,
With memory lay at rest;
No other smile to thee could bring
A gladdening, like the breath of spring.
Yet, while thy place of weeping still
Its lone memorial keeps,
While on thy name midst wood and hill,
The quiet sunshine sleeps,
And touches, in each graven line,
Of reverential thought a sign;
Can I, while yet these tokens wear
The impress of the dead,
Think of the love embodied there,
As of a vision fled?
A perished thing, the joy and flower
And glory of one earthly hour?
Not so! I will not bow me so
To thoughts that breathe despair!
A loftier faith we need below,
Life's farewell words to bear.
Mother and child!-Your tears are past-
Surely your hearts have met at last!
"Ne me plaignez pas-si vous saviez Combien de peines ce tombeau m'a epargnées!"
I STOOD beside thy lowly grave;—
Spring odours breathed around,
And music, in the river-wave,
Passed with a lulling sound.
All happy things that love the sun
In the bright air glanced by
And a glad murmur seemed to run
Through the soft azure sky.
Fresh leaves were on the ivy-bough
That fringed the ruins near; Young voices were abroad-but thou Their sweetness couldst not hear.
And mournful grew my heart for thee,
Thou in whose woman's mind
The ray that brightens earth and sea,
The light of song was shrined.
* Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one of many in the church-yard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it.-Tales by the O'Hara Family.
Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low,
With a dread curtain drawn
Between thee and the golden glow
Of this world's vernal dawn.
Parted from all the song and bloom,
Thou wouldst have loved so well,
To thee the sunshine round thy tomb
Was but a broken spell.
The bird, the insect on the wing,
In their bright reekless play,
Might feel the flush and life of spring,
And thou wert passed away!
But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought
O'er my vain sadness came;
Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought
Within my thrilling frame.
Surely on lovelier things, I said,
Thou must have looked, ere now,
Than all that round our pathway shed
Odours and hues below.
The shadows of the tomb are here,
Yet beautiful is earth!
What seest thou then where no dim fear,
No haunting dream hath birth?
Here a vain love to passing flowers
Thou gav'st-but where thou art,
The sway is not with changeful hours,
There love and death must part.
Thou hast left sorrow in thy song,
A voice not loud, but deep!
The glorious bowers of earth among,
How often didst thou weep!
Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground
Thy tender thoughts and high?
Now peace the woman's heart hath found, And joy the poet's eye.
NOTES.
Note 1, page 201, col. 1.
When darkness from the vainly-doting sight, Covers its beautiful!
"Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever story of her fate is beautifully related in L'Alleyou be, it sufficeth me you are mine. Rachel magne. Vol. iii. p. 336.
This is to be a mortal,
And seek the things beyond mortality!
|Of secret knowledge; and each tone that broke From the wood-arches or the fountain's breast, Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre,
But ministered to that strange inborn fire.
Midst the bright silence of the mountain-dells,
In noon-tide hours or golden summer-eves,
THY voice prevails; dear Friend, my gentle My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells
Friend!
This long-shut heart for thee shall be unsealed,
And though thy soft eye mournfully will bend
Over the troubled stream, yet once revealed
Shall its freed waters flow; then rocks must close
For evermore, above their dark repose.
Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky
Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie;
Come to the woods, where all strange wandering
Is mingled isto harmony profound;
Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind
Fills with a viewless being, unconfined,
The trembling reeds and fountains;-Our own
With its green dimness and Æolian breath,
Shall suit th' unveiling of dark records well-
Hear me in tenderness and silent faith!
Thou knew'st me not in life's fresh vernal noon-
I would thou hadst!-for then my heart on thine
Had poured a worthier love; now, all o'erworn
By its deep thirst for something too divine,
It hath but fitful music to bestow,
Echoes of harp-strings, broken long ago.
Yet even in youth companionless I stood,
As a lone forest-bird midst ocean's foam;
For me the silver chords of brotherhood
Were early loosed;-the voices from my home
Passed one by one, and Melody and Mirth
Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth.
But, with the fulness of a heart that burned
For the deep sympathies of mind, I turned
From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought
In all wild scenes with thrilling murmurs fraught,
In every still small voice and sound of power,
And flute-note of the wind through cave and
bower,
A perilous delight!--for then first woke
My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest
Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves
Shakes out response;-0 thou rich world un-
seen!
Thou curtained realm of spirits!—thus my cry
Hath troubled air and silence-dost thou lie
Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen
Shut from us ever?-The resounding woods,
Do their depths teem with marvels?-and the
floods,
And the pure fountains, leading secret veins
Of quenchless melody through rock and hill,
Have they bright dwellers?-are their lone do-
Peopled with beauty, which may never still
Our weary thirst of soul?-Cold, weak and cold,
Is Earth's vain language, piercing not one fold
Of our deep being!-Oh, for gifts more high!
For a scer's glance to rend mortality!
For a charmed rod, to call from each dark shrine,
The oracles divine!
I woke from those high fantasies, to know
My kindred with the Earth--I woke to love:-
O gentle Friend! to love in doubt and wo,
Shutting the heart the worshipped name above,
Is to love deeply-and my spirit's dower
Was a sad gift, a melancholy power
Of so adoring;-with a buried care,
And with the o'erflowing of a voiceless prayer,
And with a deepening dream, that day by day,
In the still shadow of its lonely sway,
Folded me closer;-till the world held nought
Save the one Being to my centred thought.
There was no music but his voice to hear,
No joy but such as with his step drew near;
Light was but where he looked-life where he
moved-
Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved.
Oh! but such love is fearful!—and I knew
Its gathering doom:-the soul's prophetic sight
Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw
O'er all things round, a full, strong, vivid light,
Too sorrowfully clear!-an under-tone
Was given to Nature's harp, for me alone
Whispering of grief. Of grief?-be strong,
Hath not thy love been victory, O, my soul? Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake Death's fastnesses?-a magic to control
My soul grew weak!-I tell thee that a power
There kindled heart and lip;-a fiery shower
My words were made;-a might was given to
And a strong grasp to passionate despair, And a dread triumph!-Know'st thou what I sought?
Through the veiled empires of eternity,
Worlds far removed?-from o'er the grave to thee For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought?
Love hath made answer; and thy tale should be-Communion with the dead!-I sent a cry,
Sung like a lay of triumph!-Now return,
And take thy treasure from its bosomed urn,
And lift it once to light!
I said I loved-but yet a heavenly strain
Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream,
A joy flashed through the trouble of my dream!
I knew myself beloved!-we breathed no vow,
No mingling visions might our fate allow,
As unto happy hearts; but still and deep,
Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave,
Like golden sand in some dark river's wave,
So did my soul that costly knowledge keep
So jealously!-a thing o'er which to shed,
When stars alone beheld the drooping head,
Lone tears! yet of times burdened with th' excess
Of our strange nature's quivering happiness.
But, oh! sweet Friend!, we dream not of love's
might
Till Death has robed with soft and solemn light
The image we enshrine !-Before that hour,
We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power
Within us laid!-then doth the spirit-flame
With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame;
The wings of that which pants to follow fast
Shake their clay-bars, as with a prisoned blast,-
The sea is in our souls!
On whom my lone devotedness was cast! I might not keep one vigil by his side,
A voice to cleave them! By the mournful truth,
By the lost promise of my blighted youth,
By the strong chain a mightly love can bind
On the beloved, the spell of mind o'er mind;
By words, which in themselves are magic high,
Armed, and inspired, and winged with agony;
By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem
To bear the heart's blood in their passion-stream;
I summoned, I adjured!—with quickened sense,
With the keen vigil of a life intense,
I watched, an answer from the winds to wring,
I listened, if perchance the stream might bring
Token from worlds afar; I taught one sound
Unto a thousand echoes; one profound
One prayer to night,-" Awake, appear, reply!"
Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky;
Hath thou been told that from the viewless bourne,
The dark way never hath allowed return?
That all, which tears can move, with life is fled,
That earthly love is powerless on the dead?
Now burning o'er yon western hill afar,
Believe it not there is a large lone star,
And under its clear light there lies a spot,
Which well might utter forth-Believe it not!
I sat beneath that planet,-I had wept
My wo to stillness! every night-wind slept;
A hush was on the hills; the very streams
Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams,
And the dark tree o'ershadowing me that hour,
I, whose wrung heart watched with him to the last! Stood motionless, even as the gray church tower
I might not once his fainting head sustain,
Nor bathe his parched lips in the hour of pain,
Whereon I gazed unconsciously:-t -there came A low sound, like the tremor of a flame, Nor say to him, "Farewell!"-He passed away-Or like the light quick shiver of a wing, Oh! had my love been there, its conquering sway Flitting through twilight woods, across the air; Had won him back from death!--but thus removed, | And I looked up!-Oh! for strong words to bring Borne o'er the abyss no sounding line hath proved, Conviction o'er thy thought!-Before me there, Joined with the unknown, the viewless,-he be- He, the Departed, stood !-Aye, face to face
So near, and yet how far!-his form, his mien,
Gave to remembrance back each burning trace
Unto my thoughts another, yet the same-
Changed-hallowed-glorified!—and in his low Within:-Yet something awfully serene,
Seemed a bright mournful altar-mine, all mine:Brother and Friend soon left me that sole shrine, The birthright of the Faithful!-their world's wave Soon swept them from its brink.-Oh! deem thou
That on the sad and consecrated spot
Pure,-sculpture-like,-on the pale brow, that
Of the once beating heart no token more;
And stillness on the lip-and o'er the hair
A gleam, that trembled through the breathless air;
And an unfathomed calm, that seemed to lie
In the grave sweetness of the illumined eye;
Told of the gulfs between our being set,
And, as that unsheathed spirit-glance I met,
Made my soul faint:—with fear?-Oh! not with
fear!
With the sick feeling that in his far sphere
My love could be as nothing!-But he spoke—
How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill
In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill
My bosom's infinite?—O Friend, I woke
Then first to heavenly life!-Soft, solemn, clear,
Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear,
Yet strangely seemed as if the while they rose
From depths of distance, o'er the wide repose
Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells
Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo-cells;
But, as they murmured on, the mortal chill
Passed from me, like a mist before the morn,
And, to that glorious intercourse upborne,
By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still,
Through the young woods?-Thou dost!—And
Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth,
Thousands, like thee, find gladness!-Couldst thou
know
How every breeze then summons me to go!
How all the light of love and beauty shed
By those rich hours, but wooes me to the Dead!
The only beautiful that change no more,
The only loved!-the dwellers on the shore
Of spring fulfilled!--The Dead!-whom call we so?
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know
Things wrapt from us!—-Away!—within me pent,
That which is barred from its own element
Still droops or struggles!-But the day will come-
Over the deep the free bird finds its home,
And the stream lingers 'midst the rocks, yet greets
The sea at last; and the winged flower-seed meets
A soil to rest in:-shall not I, too, be,
Yes! by the power whose conquering anguish
Possessed my frame: I sought that lighted eye,- My spirit-love! upborne to dwell with thee?
From its intense and searching purity
I drank in soul!-I questioned of the dead-
Of the hushed, starry shores their footsteps tread-
And I was answered:-if remembrance there,
With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air;
If Thought, here piled from many a jewel-heap,
Be treasure in that pensive land to keep;
If Love, o'ersweeping change, and blight, and blast,
Find there the music of his home at last;
I asked, and I was answered:-Full and high
Was that communion with eternity,
The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard,
Whose agony of triumph won thee back
Through the dim pass no mortal step may track,
Yet shall we meet !-that glimpse of joy divine,
Proved thee for ever and for ever mine!
Too rich for aught so fleeting!-Like a knell
Swept o'er my sense its closing words,-" Fare-
well,
On earth we meet no more!"-and all was gone-
The pale bright settled brow-the thrilling tone-
The still and shining eye!—and never more
May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore
That radiant guest!-One full-fraught hour of
Heaven,
To earthly passion's wild implorings given,
Was made my own-the ethereal fire hath shivered
The fragile censer in whose mould it quivered,
Brightly, consumingly!-What now is left?—
A faded world, of glory's hues bereft,
A void, a chain!-I dwell, 'midst throngs, apart,
In the cold silence of the stranger's heart;
A fixed, immortal shadow stands between
My spirit and life's fast receding scene;
A gift hath severed me from human ties,
A power is gone from all earth's melodies,
Which never may return:-their chords are bro-
ken-
The music of another land hath spoken,
No after-sound is sweet!-this weary thirst!-
And I have heard celestial fountains burst!-
What here shall quench it?
Dost thou not rejoice,
When the spring sends forth an awakening voice
Courage was cast about her like a dress
Of solemn comeliness,
A gathered mind and an untroubled face
Did give her dangers grace.
THE war-note of the Saracen
Was on the winds of France;
It had stilled the harp of the Troubadour,
And the clash of the tourney's lance.
The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night,
And the hollow echoes of charge and flight,
Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray
In a chapel where the mighty lay,
On the old Provençal shore;
Many a Chatillon beneath,
Unstirred by the ringing trumpet's breath,
His shroud of armour wore.
And the glimpses of moonlight that went and
Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame,
Gave quivering life to the slumber pale
Of stern forms couched in their marble mail,
At rest on the tombs of the knightly race,
The silent throngs of that burial-place.
Founded on an incident in the early French history.
|