And dreams, in their development, have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They make us what we were not-what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by.
O SPIRIT-LAND! thou land of dreams! A world thou art of mysterious gleams, Of startling voices, and sounds at strife,A world of the dead in the hues of life.
Like a wizard's magic glass thou art,
When the wavy shadows float by, and part:
Visions of aspects, now loved, now strange,
Glimmering and mingling in ceaseless change.
Thou art like a city of the past,
With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast,
Amidst whose ruins there glide and play
Familiar forms of the world's to-day.
Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth,
Rich with the wealth that is lost from earth,-
All the sere flowers of our days gone by,
And the buried gems in thy bosom lie.
Yes! thou art like those dim sea-caves,
A realm of treasures, a realm of graves!
And the shapes through thy mysteries that come
Are of beauty and terror, of power and wo.
But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep!
Thou art all one world of affections deep,-
And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye,
That sweeps o'er thy chambers of imagery.
And thy bowers are fair-even as Eden fair
All the beloved of my soul are there!
The forms my spirit most pines to see,
The eyes, whose love hath been life to me:
They are there, and each blessed voice I hear,
Kindly, and joyous, and silvery clear;
But under-tones are in each, that say,-
"It is but a dream; it will melt away!"
I walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow;
I listen to music of long ago;
But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint
"It is but a dream; it will melt away!"
I sit by the hearth of my early days;
All the home-faces are met by the blaze,And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say, "It is but a dream; it will melt away!"
And away, like a flower's passing breath, 'tis gone,
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone!
Oh! a haunted heart is a weight to bear,-
Bright faces, kind voices! where are ye, where?
Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams,
The past, as it fled by my own blue streams!
Make not my spirit within me burn
For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er return!
Call out from the future thy visions bright,
From the world o'er the grave, take thy solemn
light,
And oh! with the loved, whom no more I see,
Show me my home, as it yet may be !
As it yet may be, in some purer sphere,
No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear;
So my soul may bear on through the long, long
day,
Till I go where the beautiful melts not away!
WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE.
Where hath not woman stood, Strong in affection's might? a reed, upborne By an o'ermastering current!
GENTLE and lovely form,
What didst thou here,
When the fierce battle-storm
Bore down the spear?
Banner and shivered crest,
Beside thee strown,
Tell that amidst the best,
Thy work was done!
Yet strangely, sadly fair,
O'er the wild scene, Gleams, through its golden hair, That brow serene.
Low lies the stately head,—
Earth-bound the free;
How gave those haughty dead
A place to thee?
Slumberer! thine early bier
Friends should have crowned, Many a flower and tear
Shedding around.
Soft voices clear and young,
Mingling their swell, Should o'er thy dust have sung Earth's last farewell.
Trampling thy place of sleep,
Why camest thou here?
Why?-ask the true heart why
Woman hath been
Ever, where brave men die,
Unshrinking seen?
Unto this harvest ground
Proud reapers came,—
Some, for that stirring sound
A warrior's name;
Some, for the stormy play
And joy of strife;-
And some, to fling away
A weary life-
But thou, pale sleeper, thou,
With the slight frame,
And the rich locks, whose glow
Death can not tame;
Only one thought, one power,
Thee could have led,
So, through the tempest's hour,
To lift thy head!
Only the true, the strong,
The love, whose trust
Woman's deep soul too long
Pours on the dust!
THE DESERTED HOUSE. GLOOM is upon thy lonely hearth, O silent house! once filled with mirth; Sorrow is in the breezy sound, Of thy tall poplars whispering round.
The shadow of departed hours Hangs dim upon thine early flowers; Even in thy sunshine seems to brood Something more deep than solitude.
Fair art thou, fair to a stranger's gaze, Mine own sweet home of other days! My children's birth place! yet for me, It is too much to look on thee.
Too much! for all about thee spread,
I feel the memory of the dead,
And almost linger for the feet
That never more my step shall meet.
The looks, the smiles, all vanished now,
Follow me where thy roses blow;
The echoes of kind household words
Are with me 'midst thy singing birds.
Till my heart dies, it dies away
In yearnings for what might not stay;
For love which ne'er deceived my trust,
For all which went with "dust to dust!"
What now is left me, but to raise
From thee, lorn spot! my spirit's gaze,
To lift, through tears, my straining eye
Up to my Father's house on high?
Oh! many are the mansions there,*
But not in one hath grief a share!
No haunting shade from things gone by,
May there o'ersweep the unchanging sky.
And they are there, whose long-loved mien
In earthly home no more is seen;
Whose places, where they smiling sate,
Are left unto us desolate.
We miss them when the board is spread; We miss them when the prayer is said; Upon our dreams their dying eyes
In still and mournful fondness rise.
But they are where these longings vain
Trouble no more the heart and brain;
The sadness of this aching love
Dims not our Father's house above.
Ye are at rest, and I in tears,t
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres!
Under the poplar boughs I stand,
And mourn the broken household band.
But, by your life of lowly faith,
And by your joyful hope in death,
Guide me, till on some brighter shore,
The severed wreath is bound once more!"
Holy ye were, and good, and true!
No change can cloud my thoughts of you;
Guide me, like you, to live and die,
And reach my Father's house on high!
In my Father's house there are many mansions.
John, chap. xiv
↑ 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 caves;
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 oppressed-
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 prayed with him.
Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land-
The voices of thy kindred band—
Oh! 'midst them all when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart!
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.
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, gathered 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 amassed,
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 day-dreams 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 re-union, heart to heart at last,
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn?
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight
That make such visions bright?
* 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.""
Fill with forgetfulness, fill high!—yet stay-
-'T is 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 nought
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.
Hymns on the Works of Nature,
FOR THE USE OF CHILDREN.
[THE following Hymns were written expressly for the use of Mrs. Hemans's own children. has consented to their publication, in the hope that they may be useful to others. The editor trusts that they will afford a new source of gratification a covenant between me and the earth.
to her admirers and friends in this country.
To the Hymns are added two beautiful little poems before published, addressed by Mrs. Hemans to her children.
INTRODUCTORY VERSES.
OH! blest art thou, whose steps may rove
Through the green paths of vale and grove,
Or, leaving all their charms below,
Climb the wild mountain's airy brow;
And gaze afar o'er cultured plains,
And cities with their stately fanes,
And forests, that beneath thee lie,
And ocean mingling with the sky.
For man can show thee nought so fair,
As Nature's varied marvels there;
And if thy pure and artless breast
Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest!
For thee the stream in beauty flows,
For thee the gale of summer blows,
And, in deep glen and wood-walk free,
Voices of joy still breathe for thee.
But happier far, if then thy soul
Can soar to Him who made the whole,
If to thine eye the simplest flower
Portray His bounty and His power.
If, in whate'er is bright or grand,
Thy mind can trace His viewless hand,
If Nature's music bid thee raise
Thy song of gratitude and praise;
If heaven and earth, with beauty fraught
Lead to his throne thy raptured thought,
If there thou lov'st His love to read,
Then, wanderer, thou art blest indeed.
I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of
SOFT falls the mild, reviving shower
From April's changeful skies,
And rain-drops bend each trembling flower
They tinge with richer dyes.
Soon shall their genial influence call
A thousand buds to day,
Which, waiting but their balmy fall,
In hidden beauty lay.
E'en now full many a blossom's bell
With fragrance fills the shade!
And verdure clothes each grassy dell,
In brighter tints arrayed.
But mark! what arch of varied hue
From heaven to earth is bowed? Haste, ere it vanish, haste to view The Rainbow in the cloud.
How bright its glory! there behold
The emerald's verdant rays, The topaz blends its hue of gold With the deep ruby's blaze. Yet not alone to charm thy sight
Was given the vision fair;— Gaze on that arch of coloured light,
And read God's mercy there.
It tells us that the mighty deep,
Fast by th' Eternal chained,
No more o'er earth's domains shall sweep,
Awful and unrestrained.
It tells that seasons, heat and cold,
Fixed by his sovereign will,
Shall, in their course, bid man behold
Seed-time and harvest still;
That still the flower shall deck the field,
When the vernal zephyrs blow;
That still the vine its fruit shall yield,
When autumn sun-beams glow.
Then, child of that fair earth! which yet
Smiles with each charm endowed,
Bless thou His name, whose mercy set
The Rainbow in the cloud!
THE Sun comes forth;—each mountain height Glows with a tinge of rosy light,
And flowers that slumbered through the night,
Their dewy leaves unfold;
A flood of splendour bursts on high,
And ocean's breast reflects a sky
Of crimson and of gold.
Oh! thou art glorious, orb of day!
Exulting nations hail thy ray,
Creation swells a choral lay,
To welcome thy return;
From thee all nature draws her hues,
Thy beams the insect's wings suffuse,
And in the diamond burn.
Yet must thou fade;-when earth and heaven By fire and tempest shall be riven,
Thou, from thy sphere of radiance driven,
Oh Sun! must fall at last;
Another heaven, another earth,
Far other glory shall have birth.
When all we see is past.
But He, who gave the word of might,
"Let there be light"—and there was light,
Who bade thee chase the gloom of night,
And beam, the world to bless;-
For ever bright, for ever pure,
Alone unchanging shall endure,
The Sun of righteousness!
Go! trace th' unnumbered streams, o'er earth
That wind their devious course,
That draw from Alpine heights their birth,
Deep vale, or cavern source.
Some by majestic cities glide,
Proud scenes of man's renown,
Some lead their solitary tide,
Where pathless forests frown.
Some calmly roll in golden sands,
Where Afric's deserts lie!
Or spread, to clothe rejoicing lands
With rich fertility.
There bear the bark, whose stately sail
Exulting seems to swell;
While these, scarce rippled by a gale,
Sleep in the lonely dell.
Yet on, alike, though swift or slow
Their various waves may sweep,
Through cities or through shades they flow
To the same boundless deep.
Oh! thus, whate'er our path of life
Through sunshine or through gloom,
Through scenes of quiet or of strife,
Its end is still the tomb.
The chief, whose mighty deeds we hail,
The monarch throned on high,
The peasant in his native vale,
All journey on-to die!
But if Thy guardian care, my God!
The pilgrim's course attend,
I will not fear the dark abode,
To which my footsteps bend.
For thence thine all-redeeming Son,
Who died, the world to save,
In light, in triumph, rose, and won
The victory from the grave!
The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth his handy work.
No cloud obscures the summer sky,
The moon in brightness walks on high,
And, set in azure, every star
Shines, like a gem of heaven, afar!
Child of the earth! oh! lift thy glance
To yon bright firmament's expanse;
The glories of its realm explore,
And gaze, and wonder, and adore!
Doth it not speak to every sense
The marvels of Omnipotence?
Seest thou not there th' Almighty name,
Inscribed in characters of flame?
Count o'er those lamps of quenchless light,
That sparkle through the shades of night!
Behold them!-can a mortal boast
To number that celestial host?
Mark well each little star, whose rays
In distant splendour meet thy gaze;
Each is a world by Him sustained,
Who from eternity hath reigned.
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