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The charm now lingering in thy look and word
Is that which hangs about thy setting sun-
That which the meekness of decay hath won
Still from revering love. Yet doth the sense
Of life immortal-progress but begun--
Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence,
That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline;
And the loved flowers which round thee smile
farewell

Of more than vernai glory seem to tell,
By thy pure spirit touch'd with light divine;
While we, to whom its parting gleams are given,
Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven.

Showers cool green light o'er banks where wildflowers weave

Thick tapestry, and woodbine-tendrils climb
Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme.
The rich deep masses of the sycamore
Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime;
And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar, [gale
Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each
That sweeps the boughs: the chestnut-flowers are

past,

The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail,
But arches of sweet eglantine are cast
From every hedge. Oh! never may we lose,
Dear friend! our fresh delight in simplest nature's
hues!

2d June.

A HAPPY HOUR.

["The Thoughts' were published in the New Monthly Magazine for March 1835. They are intensely individual. One of them, on Retzsch's design of the Angel of Death, was suggested by an impressive description in Mrs Jameson's Visits and Sketches.' In another, she speculates earnestly and reverently upon the direction of the flight of the spirit when the soul and body shall part; in others again, she recurs tenderly to the haunts and pleasures of childhood, which had of late been present to her memory with more than usual force and freshness. To these the following sonnet refers, dated 21st May 1834, which, as far as I am aware, has not hitherto been published."-CHORLEY'S Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 339-40.]

OH! what a joy to feel that, in my breast,
The founts of childhood's vernal fancies lay
Still pure, though heavily and long repress'd
By early-blighted leaves, which o'er their way
Dark summer-storms had heaped. But free, glad
play

Once more was given them: to the sunshine's glow,

And the sweet wood-song's penetrating flow,
And to the wandering primrose-breath of May,
And the rich hawthorn-odours, forth they sprung.
Oh not less freshly bright, that now a thought
Of spiritual presence o'er them hung,
And of immortal life! a germ, unwrought
In childhood's soul to power-now strong, serene,
And full of love and light, colouring the whole blest

scene.

FOLIAGE.

COME forth, and let us through our hearts receive The joy of verdure! See! the honey'd lime

A PRAYER.

FATHER in heaven! from whom the simplest flower,
On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown,
Draws not sweet odour or young life alone,
But the deep virtue of an inborn power,
To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour
With thoughts of Thee-to strengthen, to infuse
Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues
That speak thy presence! oh, with such a dower
Grace thou my song!-the precious gift bestow
From thy pure Spirit's treasury divine,
To wake one tear of purifying flow,

To soften one wrung heart for thee and thine;
So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain
Be as the meek wild-flower's-if transient, yet not
vain.

PRAYER CONTINUED.

"What in me is dark,
Illumine; what is low, raise and support."-MILTON.

FAR are the wings of intellect astray
That strive not, Father! to thy heavenly scat;
They rove, but mount not, and the tempests beat
Still on their plumes. O Source of mental day!
Chase from before my spirit's track the array
Of mists and shadows, raised by earthly care,
In troubled hosts that cross the purer air,
And veil the opening of the starry way,
Which brightens on to thee! Oh, guide thon right
My thought's weak pinion; clear my inward sight,
The eternal springs of beauty to discern,
Welling beside thy throne; unscal mine ear,

Nature's true oracles in joy to hear;
Keep my soul wakeful still to listen and to learn.

MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION.

YES! all things tell us of a birthright lost-
A brightness from our nature pass'd away!
Wanderers we seem that from an alien coast
Would turn to where their Father's mansion lay;
And but by some lone flower, that midst decay
Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone,
Revealing dimly, with gray moss o'ergrown,
The faint, worn impress of its glory's day,
Can trace their once-free heritage, though dreams,
Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams
Flash o'er their souls. But One, oh! One alone,
For us the ruin'd fabric may rebuild,
And bid the wilderness again be fill'd
With Eden-flowers-One mighty to atone !

27th June.1

RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.

THE RETURN TO POETRY.

ONCE more the eternal melodies from far
Woo me like songs of home: once more discerning,
Through fitful clouds, the pure majestic star
Above the poet's world serenely burning,
Thither my soul, fresh-wing'd by love, is turning,
As o'er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest,

[For this corrected chronology of these sonnets, we are indebted to the Rev. R. P. Graves, Bowness; as also for some improved readings, and the MS. of "A Happy Hour."]

2 In reference to these two sonnets, Mrs Hemans thus remarks in a letter to a friend ;-"I wrote them only a few days ago (almost the first awakening of my spirit, indeed, after a long silence and darkness,) upon reading that delightful book of Pellico's, 3 which I borrowed in consequence of what you had told me of it. I know not when I have read any thing which has so deeply impressed me: the gradual brightening of heart and soul into the perfect day' of Christian excellence through all those fiery trials, presents, I think, one of the most touching, as well as instructing pictures ever contemplated. How beautiful is the scene between him and Oroboni, in which they mutually engage to shrink not from the avowal of their faith, should tliey ever return into the world! But I could say so much on this subject, which has quite taken hold of my thoughts, that it would lead me to fill up my whole letter."

3" Le mie Prigioni."

For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning, Whence glorious minds o'erlook this earth's unrest. Now be the Spirit of heaven's truth my guide Through the bright land !—that no brief gladness,

found

In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound, May lure my footsteps from their aim aside : Their true, high quest-to seek, if ne'er to gain, The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain. 9th September.

TO SILVIO PELLICO, ON READING HIS "PRIGIONE."

THERE are who climb the mountain's heathery side,
Or, in life's vernal strength triumphant, urge
The bark's fleet rushing through the crested surge,
Or spur the courser's fiery race of pride
Over the green savannahs, gleaming wide
By some vast lake; yet thus, on foaming sea,
Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free
Than thou, in that lone dungeon, glorified
By thy brave suffering. Thou from its dark cell
Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude,
Filling the dedicated solitude

With God; and where His Spirit deigns to dwell,
Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie,
There throned in peace divine is liberty!

TO THE SAME, RELEASED.? How flows thy being now?-like some glad hymn One strain of solemn rapture ?-doth thine eye

In another letter she spoke further of this book, as a "work with which I have been both impressed and delighted, and one which I strongly recommend you to procure. It is the Prigioni of Silvio Pellico, a distinguished young Italian poet, who incurred the suspicions of the Austrian government, and was condemned to the penalty of the carcere duro during ten years, of which this most interesting work contains the narrative. It is deeply affecting, from the heart-springing eloquence with which he details his varied sufferings. What forms, however, the great charm of the work, is the gradual and almost unconsciously-revealed exaltation of the sufferer's character, spiritualised through suffering, into the purest Christian excellence. It is beautiful to see the lessons of trust in God, and love to mankind, brought out more and more into shining light from the depth of the dungeon-gloom; and all this crowned at last by the release of the noble, all-forgiving captive, and his restoration to his aged father and mother, whose venerable faces seem perpetually to have haunted the solitude of his cell. The book is written in the most classic Italian, and will, I am sure, be one to afford you lasting delight."

Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim
O'er the crown'd Alps, that, midst the upper sky,
Sleep in the sunlight of thine Italy?
Or is thy gaze of reverent love profound
Unto these dear, parental faces bound,

Which, with their silvery hair, so oft glanced by,
Haunting thy prison-dreams? Where'er thou art,
Blessings be shed upon thine inmost heart!

汚れ Joy, from kind looks, blue skies, and flowery sod, For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God!

ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE.1

'Twas a bright moment of my life when first,
O thou pure stream through rocky portals flowing!
That temple-chamber of thy glory burst

On my glad sight! Thy pebbly couch lay glowing
With deep mosaic hues; and, richly throwing
O'er thy cliff-walls a tinge of autumn's vest,
High bloom'd the heath-flowers, and the wild wood's
crest

Was touch'd with gold. Flow ever thus, bestowing
Gifts of delight, sweet stream! on all who move
Gently along thy shores; and oh! if love.
True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow fraught-
Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to thee,
Then full of kindness let thy music be,
Singing repose to every troubled thought!

ON THE DATURA ARBOREA.

MAJESTIC plant! such fairy dreams as lie,
Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip's bell,
Are not thy train. Those flowers of vase like swell,
Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill'd from high,
And in their monumental purity
Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw
Visions link'd strangely with that silent awe
Which broods o'er sculpture's works. A meet ally
For those heroic forms, the simply grand
Art thou and worthy, carved by plastic hand,
Above some kingly poet's tomb to shine

In spotless marble; honouring one whose strain
Soar'd, upon wings of thought that knew no stain,
Free through the starry heavens of truth divine.

1 A beautiful valley in the county of Wicklow.

ON READING COLERIDGE'S EPITAPH,

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.

"Stop, Christian passer-by! stop, child of God! And read with gentle breast:-Beneath this sod A Poet lies, or that which once seem'd he:

Oh lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.!

That he, who once in vain, with toil of breath,
Found death in life, may here find life in death:
Mercy, for praise-to be forgiven, for fame-

He ask'd and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same."

SPIRIT! So oft in radiant freedom soaring
High through seraphic mysteries unconfined,
And oft, a diver through the deep of mind,
Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring;
And oft such strains of breezy music pouring,
As, with the floating sweetness of their sighs,
Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring
Awhile that freshness left in Paradise;
Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal?
What the rich fruitage to man's kindred soul
From wealth of thine bequeathed? O strong and

high,

And sceptred intellect! thy goal confess'd
Was the Redeemer's Cross-thy last bequest
One lesson breathing thence profound humility!

DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE.

THEY float before my soul, the fair designs
Which I would body forth to life and power,
Like clouds, that with their wavering hues and lines
Portray majestic buildings:-dome and tower,
Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the
shower

Points to th' unchanging stars; and high arcade,
Far-sweeping to some glorious altar, made
For holiest rites. Meanwhile the waning hour
Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o'erwrought,
I sink. O friend! O link'd with each high thought!
Aid me, of those rich visions to detain
All I may grasp; until thou see'st fulfill'd,
While time and strength allow, my hope to build
For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane!

18th October.

HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH

NATURE.

IF e'er again my spirit be allow'd
Converse with Nature in her chambers deep,

Where lone, and mantled with the rolling cloud,
She broods o'er new-born waters, as they leap
In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep
From caves of mystery ;-if I roam once more
Where dark pines quiver to the torrent's roar,
And voiceful oaks respond;-may I not reap
A more ennobling joy, a loftier power,
Than e'er was shed on life's more vernal hour
From such communion? Yes! I then shall know
That not in vain have sorrow, love, and thought
Their long, still work of preparation wrought,
For that more perfect sense of God reveal'd below.

DREAMS OF THE DEAD.

OFT in still night-dreams a departed face
Bends o'er me with sweet carnestness of eye,
Wearing no more of earthly pains a trace,
But all the tender pity that may lie
On the clear brow of Immortality,

Calm, yet profound. Soft rays illume that mien;
Th' unshadow'd moonlight of some far-off sky
Around it floats transparently serene

As a pure veil of waters. O rich Sleep!
The spells are mighty in thy regions deep,
To glorify with reconciling breath,
Effacing, brightening, giving forth to shine
Beauty's high truth; and how much more divine
Thy power when link'd, in this, with thy strong
brother-Death!

THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS.

NOBLY thy song, O minstrel ! rush'd to meet
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast,
With darkness round him as a mantle cast,
And cherubim to waft his flying seat.
Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet,
With trumpet-voice thy spirit call'd aloud,
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat,
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud.
But far more gloriously to earth made known
By that high strain, than by the thunder's tone,
The flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll,
Jehovah spake, through thee imbreathing fire,
Nature's vast realms for ever to inspire
With the deep worship of a living soul.

DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION.

"Par correr miglior acqua alza le vele,

Omai la navicella del mio Intelletto."-Danyr.

My soul was mantled with dark shadows, born
Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain ;
Its phantoms hung around the star of morn,
A cloud-like, weeping train:

Thro' the long day they dimm'd the autumn gold
On all the glistening leaves, and wildly roll'd,
When the last farewell flush of light was glowing

Across the sunset sky,

O'er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing One melancholy dye.

And when the solemn night
Came rushing with her might
Of stormy oracles from caves unknown,
Then with each fitful blast
Prophetic murmurs pass'd;

Wakening or answering some deep Sybil-tone Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise With every gusty wail that o'er the wind-harp flies.

"Fold, fold thy wings," they cried, "and strive

no more

Faint spirit! strive no more: for thee too strong Are outward ill and wrong,

And inward wasting fires! Thou canst not soar Free on a starry way,

Beyond their blighting sway,

At heaven's high gate serenely to adore!
How shouldst thou hope earth's fetters to unbind!
O passionate, yet weak! O trembler to the wind!

"Never shall aught but broken music flow
From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe-
Such homeless notes as through the forest sigh,
From the reeds' hollow shaken,
When sudden breezes waken

Their vague, wild symphony.

No power is theirs, and no abiding-place
In human hearts; their sweetness leaves no trace-
Born only so to die!

"Never shall aught but perfume, faint and vain, On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour, From thy bruised life again

A moment's essence breathe;
Thy life, whose trampled flower
Into the blessed wreath

Of household-charities no longer bound,
Lies pale and withering on the barren ground.

"So fade, fade on! Thy gift of love shall cling A coiling sadness round thy heart and brainA silent, fruitless, yet undying thing,

All sensitive to pain!

And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall O'er thy mind's world, a daily darkening pall. Fold, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued In cold and unrepining quietude!"

Then my soul yielded: spells of numbing breath
Crept o'er it heavy with a dew of death-
Its powers, like leaves before the night-rain, closing;
And, as by conflict of wild sea-waves toss'd
On the chill bosom of some desert coast,
Mutely and hopelessly I lay reposing.

When silently it seem'd

As if a soft mist gleam'd

Before my passive sight, and, slowly curling,
To many a shape and hue

Of vision'd beauty grew,

Like a wrought banner, fold by fold unfurling. Oh! the rich scenes that o'er mine inward eye

Unrolling then swept by

With dreamy motion! Silvery seas were there,
Lit by large dazzling stars, and arch'd by skies
Of southern midnight's most transparent dyes;
And gemm'd with many an island, wildly fair,
Which floated past me into orient day,
Still gathering lustre on th' illumin'd way,
Till its high groves of wondrous flowering-trees
Colour'd the silvery seas.

And then a glorious mountain-chain uprose,
Height above spiry height !

A soaring solitude of woods and snows,
All steep'd in golden light!

While as it pass'd, those regal peaks unveiling,
I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings,
And mighty sounds, as if the vision hailing,
From lyres that quiver'd through ten thousand
strings-

Or as if waters, forth to music leaping

From many a cave, the Alpine Echo's hall, On their bold way victoriously were sweeping, Link'd in majestic anthems!-while through all That billowy swell and fall, Voices, like ringing crystal, fill'd the air With inarticulate melody, that stirr'd My being's core; then, moulding into word Their piercing sweetness, bade me rise, and bear

In that great choral strain my trembling part, Of tones by love and faith struck from a human heart.

Return no more, vain bodings of the night! A happier oracle within my soul

Hath swell'd to power; a clear, unwavering light
Mounts through the battling clouds that round
And to a new control
[me roll;
Nature's full harp gives forth rejoicing tones,

Wherein my glad sense owns

The accordant rush of elemental sound
To one consummate harmony profound-
One grand Creation-Hymn,
Whose notes the seraphim

Lift to the glorious height of music wing'd and

crown'd.

Shall not those notes find echoes in my lyre, Faithful though faint? Shall not my spirit's fire, If slowly, yet unswervingly, ascend

Now to its fount and end?

Shall not my earthly love, all purified,
Shine forth a heavenward guide,

An angel of bright power-and strongly bear
My being upward into holier air,

Where fiery passion-clouds have no abode, And the sky's temple-arch o'erflows with God?

The radiant hope new-born
Expands like rising morn

In my life's life: and as a ripening rose
The crimson shadow of its glory throws
More vivid, hour by hour, on some pure stream;
So from that hope are spreading
Rich hues, o'er nature shedding
Each day a clearer, spiritual gleam.

Let not those rays fade from me!-once enjoy'd,
Father of Spirits! let them not depart-
Leaving the chill'd earth, without form and void,
Darken'd by mine own heart!

Lift, aid, sustain me! Thou, by whom alone
All lovely gifts and pure

In the soul's grasp endure;

Thou, to the steps of whose eternal throne
All knowledge flows-a sea for evermore
Breaking its crested waves on that sole shore-
Oh, consecrate my life! that I may sing
Of thee with joy that hath a living spring,
In a full heart of music! Let my lays
Through the resounding mountains waft thy praise,
And with that theme the wood's green cloisters fill.
And make their quivering, leafy dimness thrill
To the rich breeze of song! Oh! let me wake

The deep religion, which hath dwelt from yore
Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake,
And wildest river-shore !

R

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