The Poetical Works of Hemans, Heber, and Pollok

On rode the youth-and the boughs among,
Thus the free birds o'er his pathway sung:
"Wherefore so fast unto life away?
Thou art leaving for ever thy joy in our lay!

"Thou mayst come to the summer woods again,
And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain;
Afar from the foliage its love will dwell-
A change must pass o'er thee-farewell, farewell!"
On rode the youth :—and the founts and streams
Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams:
"We have been thy playmates through many a
day,

Wherefore thus leave us?-oh! yet delay!

"Listen but once to the sound of our mirth!
For thee 't is a melody passing from earth.
Never again wilt thou find in its flow,
The peace it could once on thy heart bestow.
"Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood's glee,
With the breath of the world on thy spirit free;
Passion and sorrow its depth will have stirred,
And the singing of waters be vainly heard.
"Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part-
What should it do for a burning heart?
Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill,
Thirst which no fountain on earth may still.
"Farewell!-when thou comest again to thine own,
Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone;
Mournfully true is the tale we tell-
Yet on, fiery dreamer! farewell, farewell!"
And a something of gloom on his spirit weighed,
As he caught the last sounds of his native shade;
But he knew not, till many a bright spell broke,
How deep were the oracles Nature spoke!

THE BEINGS OF THE MIND.

The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray,
And more beloved existence; that which Fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
Of mortal bondage.

Byron.

COME to me with your triumphs and your woes,
Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought!

I sit alone with flowers and vernal boughs,
In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought;
'Midst the glad music of the spring alone,
And sorrowful for visions that are gone!

Come to me! make your thrilling whispers heard,
Ye, by those masters of the soul endowed

With life, and love, and many a burning word,
That bursts from grief, like lightning from a
cloud,

And smites the heart, till all its chords reply,
As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by.

Come to me! visit my dim haunt!-the sound

Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath;
The stock-dove's note above; and all around,
Floats through the air, in rich and sudden streams,
The poesy that with the violet's breath
Mingling, like music, with the soul's deep dreams.
Friends, friends!-for such to my lone heart ye

are

Unchanging ones! from whose immortal eyes The glory melts not as a waning star,

And the sweet kindness never, never dies;
Bright children of the bard! o'er this green dell
Pass once again, and light it with your spell!
Imogen! fair Fidele! meekly blending

In patient grief, "a smiling with a sigh;"*
And thou, Cordelia! faithful daughter, tending
That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky;
Thou of the soft low voice!-thou art not gone!
Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone.
And come to me!-sing me thy willow-strain,

Sweet Desdemona! with the sad surprise
In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain,
Undimmed, unquenchable affection lies;
Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and scorn,
As a frail hyacinth, by showers o'erborne.

And thou, too, fair Ophelia! flowers are here,
That well might win thy footsteps to the spot-
Pale cowslips, meet for maiden's early bier,

And pansies for sad thoughts,t-but needed not!
Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light
In that wild eye still tremulously bright.

And Juliet, vision of the south! enshrining
All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong
The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining,
The soul its nightingales pour forth in song!
Thou, making death deep joy!—but couldst thou
die?

No!-thy young love hath immortality!

From earth's bright faces fades the light of morn,
From earth's glad voices drops the joyous tone;
But ye, the children of the soul, were born
Deathless, and for undying love alone;
And, oh! ye beautiful! 't is well, how well,
In the soul's world, with you, where change is not,
to dwell!

THE LYRE'S LAMENT.

A large lyre hung in an opening of the rock, and gave forth its melancholy music to the wind-but no human being was to be seen.-Salathiel.

A DEEP-TONED Lyre hung murmuring To the wild wind of the sea: "O melancholy wind," it sighed,

"What would thy breath with me?

"Thou canst not wake the spirit

That in me slumbering lies,

Thou strikest not forth th' electric fire Of buried melodies.

"Wind of the dark sea-waters!

Thou dost but sweep my strings

Into wild gusts of mournfulness,
With the rushing of thy wings.

"But the spell-the gift-the lightning-
Within my frame concealed,
Must I moulder on the rock away,

With their triumphs unrevealed?

"I have power, high power, for freedom To wake the burning soul!

I have sounds that through the ancient hills Like a torrent's voice might roll

"I have pealing notes of victory

That might welcome kings from war; I have rich deep tones to send the wail For a hero's death afar.

"I have chords to lift the pæan

From the temple to the sky, Full as the forest-unisons

When sweeping winds are high

"And Love-for Love's lone sorrow

I have accents that might swell Through the summer air with the rose's breath, Or the violet's faint farewell:

"Soft-spiritual-mournfulSighs in each note enshrined

But who shall call that sweetness forth? Thou canst not, ocean-wind!

"I pass without my glory,

Forgotten I decay

Where is the touch to give me life? -Wild fitful wind, away!"

So sighed the broken music

That in gladness had no part How like art thou, neglected Lyre, To many a human heart!

TASSO'S CORONATION.*

A crown of victory! a triumphal song!
Oh! call some friend, upon whose pitying heart
The weary one may calmly sink to rest:
Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch,
Pour the last prayer for mortal agony !

A TRUMPET's note is in the sky, in the glorious Roman sky,

Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice of victory;

There is crowding to the capitol, the imperial streets along,

For again a conqueror must be crowned,-a kingly child of song:

Yet his chariot lingers,
Yet around his home
Broods a shadow silently,
'Midst the joy of Rome.

A thousand thousand laurel boughs are waving wide and far,

To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car;

A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their wealth of flowers,

To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in gemlike showers.

Peace! within his chamber

Low the mighty lies;

With a cloud of dreams on his noble brów,
And a wandering in his eyes.

Sing, sing for him, the lord of song, for him, whose rushing strain

In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong wind o'er the main!

Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for ever there to dwell,

As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's holiest cell.

Yes! for him, the victor,
Sing,-but low, sing low!
A soft sad miserere chant
For a soul about to go!

The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way, Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of golden day;

Streaming through every haughty arch of the Casars' past renown

Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror for his crown!

Tasso died at Rome on the day before that appointed for his Coronation in the Capitol.

MRS. HEMANS' WORKS.

Shut the proud bright sunshine
From the fading sight!

There needs no ray by the bed of death,
Save the holy taper's light.

The wreath is twined, the way is strewn-the
lordly train are met-

The streets are hung with coronals-why stays the minstrel yet?

Shout! as an army shouts in joy around a royal chief

Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love and grief!

Silence! forth we bring him,

In his last array;

From love and grief the freed, the flownWay for the bier-make way!

THE BETTER LAND.

"I hear thee speak of the better land, Thou callest its children a happy band; Mother! oh where is that radiant shore? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?"

"Not there, not there, my child""

"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"

-"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?-
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?-
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"

-"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams can not picture a world so fair-
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
-It is there, it is there, my child!"

THE WOUNDED EAGLE. EAGLE! this is not thy sphere! Warrior bird! what seekest thou here? Wherefore by the fountain's brink Doth thy royal pinion sink?

Wherefore on the violet's bed
Layest thou thus thy drooping head?
Thou, that hold'st the blast in scom,
Thou, that wear'st the wings of morn!

Eagle! wilt thou not arise?
Look upon thine own bright skies!
Lift thy glance! the fiery sun
There his pride of place hath won!
And the mountain lark is there,
And sweet sound hath filled the air;
Hast thou left that realm on high?
Oh! it can be but to die!

Eagle, Eagle! thou hast bowed
From thine empire o'er the cloud!
Thou that hadst ethereal birth,
Thou hast stooped too near the earth,
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee,
And the toils of death have bound thee!
-Wherefore didst thou leave thy place,
Creature of a kingly race?

Wert thou weary of thy throne?

Was the sky's dominion lone?
Chill and lone it well might be,
Yet that mighty wing was free!
Now the chain is o'er it cast,
From thy heart the blood flows fast,
-Wo for gifted souls and high!
Is not such their destiny?

SADNESS AND MIRTH.

Nay these, wild fits of uncurbed laughter
Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind,
As it has lowered of late, so keenly cast,
Unsuited seem, and strange.

Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast,
Oh! nothing strange!
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud,
In the sunned glimpses of a troubled day,
Shiver in silvery brightness?

Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash
In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's path,
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake?
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad,
O, gentle friend!
And may be so to-morrow!-Joanna Baillie.

YE met at the stately feasts of old,
Where the bright wine foamed over sculptured
gold,

Sadness and Mirth!-ye were mingled there
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air;
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high,
Ye mixed in the gorgeous revelry.

For there hung o'er the banquets of yore a gloom,
A thought and a shadow of the tomb;

It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone,
To the rose a colouring not its own,
To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power-
Sadness and Mirth! ye had each your dower!

Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by,
With the Roman eagles through the sky!
I know that e'en then, in his hour of pride,
The soul of the mighty within him died;
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still,
Which the music of victory might never fill!

Thou wert there, oh! Mirth! swelling on the shout,
Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out;
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine,
All the rich voices in air were thine,

The incense, the sunshine-but, Sadness! thy part,

Deepest of all, was the victor's heart!

Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear;
Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier!
As the gleam from a sea-bird's white wing shed,
Crosses the storm in its path of dread;

As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky-
Sadness and Mirth! so ye come and fly!
Ye meet in the poet's haunted breast,
Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest!
When the breath of the violet is out in spring,
When the woods with the wakening of music ring,
O'er his dreamy spirit your currents pass,
Like shadow and sunlight o'er mountain grass.

When will your parting be, Sadness and Mirth?
Bright stream and dark one!-oh! never on earth;
Never while triumphs and tombs are so near,
While Death and Love walk the same dim sphere,
While flowers unfold where the storm may sweep,
While the heart of man is a soundless deep!

But there smiles a land, oh! ye troubled pair!
Where ye have no part in the summer air.
Far from the breathings of changeful skies,
Over the seas and the graves it lies;

Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done,
And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun!

The skies have lost their splendour,

The waters changed their tone, And wherefore, in the faded world, Should music linger on?

Where is the golden sunshine,

And where the flower-cup's glow? And where the joy of the dancing leaves, And the fountain's laughing flow?

A voice, in every whisper

Of the wave, the bough, the air, Comes asking for the beautiful, And moaning, "Where, oh! where?" Tell of the brightness parted,

Thou bee, thou lamb at play!

Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth!
-Are ye, too, passed away?

Mournfully, sing mournfully!
The royal rose

gone.

Melt from the woods, my spirit, melt
In one deep farewell tone!

Not so!-swell forth triumphantly,
The full, rich, fervent strain!
Hence with young love and life I go,
In the summer's joyous train.

With sunshine, with sweet odour,

With every precious thing,
Upon the last warm southern breeze
My soul its flight shall wing.
Alone I shall not linger,

When the days of hope are past,
To watch the fall of leaf by leaf,
To wait the rushing blast.

Triumphantly, triumphantly!
Sing to the woods, I go!
For me, perchance, in other lands,
The glorious rose may blow.
The sky's transparent azure,

And the greensward's violet breath, And the dance of light leaves in the wind,

May there know nought of death. No more, no more sing mournfully, Swell high, then break, my heart With love, the spirit of the woods, With summer I depart!

THE DIVER.

They learn in suffering what they teach in song.
Shelley

THOU hast been where the rocks of coral grow,
Thou hast fought with eddying waves;-
Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low,
Thou searcher of ocean's caves!

Thou hast looked on the gleaming wealth of old,
And wrecks where the brave have striven;
The deep is a strong and a fearful hold,
But thou its bar hast riven!

A wild and weary life is thine;

A wasting task and lone,

Though treasure-grots for thee may shine,
To all besides unknown!

A weary life! but a swift decay

Soon, soon shall set thee free;
Thou 'rt passing fast from thy toils away,
Thou wrestler with the sea!

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek,
Well are the death-signs read-
Go! for the pearl in its cavern seek,
Ere hope and power be fled!

And bright in beauty's coronal
That glistening gem shall be;
A star to all the festive hall-

But who will think on thee?

None!-as it gleams from the queen-like head, Not one 'midst throngs will say, "A life hath been like a rain-drop shed,

For that pale quivering ray.”

Wo for the wealth thus dearly bought!

-And are not those like thee,
Who win for earth the gems of thought?
O wrestler with the sea!

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go,
Where the passion-fountains burn,
Gathering the jewels far below
From many a buried urn:

Wringing from lava-veins the fire,

That o'er bright words is poured; Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre A spirit in each chord.

But, oh! the price of bitter tears,

Paid for the lonely power

That throws at last, o'er desert years,
A darkly-glorious dower!

Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread,
So radiant thoughts are strewed;
-The soul whence those high gifts are shed,
May faint in solitude!

And who will think, when the strain is sung,
Till a thousand hearts are stirred,
What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung,
Have gushed with every word?
None, none-his treasures live like thine,
He strives and dies like thee;

And hast thou found where living waters burst?
Thou, that didst pine amidst us, in the thirst
Of fever-dreams!

Are the true fountains thine for evermore?
Oh! lured so long by shining mists, that wore
The light of streams!

Speak! is it well with thee?-We call, as thou,
With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow,
Wert wont to call

On the departed! Art thou blest and free?
-Alas! the lips earth covers, even to thee
Were silent all!

Yet shall our hope rise fanned by quenchless faith,
As a flame, fostered by some warm wind's breath,
In light upsprings:

Freed soul of song! yes, thou hast found the
sought;

-Thou, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought,

O wrestler with the sea!

On morning's wings.

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