COME HOME. THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION. 235
Telling of answers, in some far-off sphere,
To the deep souls that find no echo here.
COME hoIne!-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!
ONE draught, kind fairy! from that fountain deep,
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast,
* Quoted from a letter of Lord Byron's. He describes the impres sion 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,-'Im
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 drauglit of that sweet wave!
Yet, mortal, pause!-within thy mind is laid
Wealth, gather'd 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
Pour from the fount! and let the draught efface
All the vain lore by memory's pride amass'd,
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 daydreams would recall?
-Think-would'st 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 reunion, heart to heart at last,
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn?
Would'st thou erase all records of delight
That make such visions bright?
Fill with forgetfulness, fill high!-yet stay-
'Tis 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
On & monument in a Venetian church is an epitaph, recording that the remains beneath are those of a noble lady, who expired suddenly while standing as a bride at the altar.
"We bear her home! we bear her home!
Over the murmuring salt sea's foam:
One who has fled from the war of life,
From sorrow, pain, and the fever strife."--Barry Cornwais
BRIDE! upon thy marriage-day
When thy gems in rich array
Made the glistening mirror seem
As a star-reflecting stream;
When the clustering pearls lay fair
'Midst thy braids of sunny hair,
And the white veil o'er thee streaming,
Like a silvery halo gleaming,
Mellow'd all that pomp and light
Into something meekly bright;
Did the fluttering of thy breath
Speak of joy or woe beneath?
And the hue that went and came
O'er thy cheek, like wavering flame,
Flow'd that crimson from the unrest,
Or the gladness of thy breast?
-Who shall tell us? from thy bower.
Brightly didst thou pass that hour;
With the many-glancing oar,
And the cheer along the shore,
And the wealth of summer flowers
On thy fair head cast in showers,
And the breath of song and flute,
And the clarion's glad salute,
Swiftly o'er the Adrian tide
Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride
Mirth and music, sun and sky,
Welcome thee triumphantly!
Yet, perchance, a chastening thought,
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, as untold it blent
With the sounds of merriment,
"From the home of childhood's glee,
From the days of laughter free,
From the love of many years,
Thou art gone to cares and fears;
To another path and guide,
To a bosom yet untried!
Bright one! oh! there well may be
Trembling 'midst our joy for thee."
Bride! when through the stately fane,
Circled with thy nuptial train,
'Midst the banners hung on high
By thy warrior-ancestry,
'Midst those mighty fathers dead,
In soft beauty thou wast led;
When before the shrine thy form
Quiver'd to some bosom storm,
When, like harp-strings with a sigh
Breaking in mid-harmony,
On thy lip the murmurs low
Died with love's unfinish'd vow;
When like scatter'd rose-leaves, fled
From thy cheek each tint of red,
And the light forsook thine eye,
And thy head sank heavily;
Was that drooping but the excess
Of thy spirit's blessedness?
Or did some deep feeling's might,
Folded in thy heart from sight,
With a sudden tempest-shower,
Earthward bear thy life's young flower?
-Who shall tell us?-on thy tongue
Silence, and for ever, hung!
Never to thy lip and cheek
Rush'd again the crimson streak,
Never to thine eye return'd
That which there had beam'd and burn'd!
With the secret none might know,
With thy rapture or thy woe,
With thy marriage-robe and wreath,
Thou wert fled, young bride of death!
One, one lightning moment there
Struck down triumph to despair,
Beauty, splendor, hope, and trust,
Into darkness-terror-dust!
There were sounds of weeping o'er thee,
Bride! as forth thy kindred bore thee,
Shrouded in thy gleaming veil,
Deaf to that wild funeral wail,
Yet perchance a chastening thought,
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering while the stern, sad knell
On the air's bright stillness fell;
"From the power of chill and change Souls to sever and estrange;
From love's wane-a death in life
But to watch-a mortal strife;
From the secret fevers known
To the burning heart alone,
Thou art fled-afar, away-
Where these blights no more have sway
Bright one! oh! there well may be
Comfort 'midst our tears for thee!"
"A long war disturb'd your mind-
Here your perfect peace is sign'd;
Tis now full tide 'twixt night and day,
End your moan, and come away!"
WEBSTER-Duchess of Malfy.
THERE were faint sounds of weeping-fear and gloom And midnight vigil in a stately room
Of Lusignan's old halls :-rich odors there
Fill'd the proud chamber as with Indian air,
And soft light fell, from lamps of silver, thrown
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone
Over a gorgeous couch-there emeralds gleam'd,
And deeper crimson from the ruby stream'd
Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set,
Hiding from sunshine,-Many a carcanet
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain,
And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath
Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death,
Hung drooping solemnly;-for there one lay,
Passing from all earth's glories fast away,
Amidst those queenly treasures: They had been
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands,
And for his sake, upon their orient sheen
She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands
Had press'd them to her languid heart once more,
Melting in childlike tears. But this was o'er-
Love's last vain clinging unto life; and now-
A mist of dreams was hovering o'er her brow,
Her eye was fix'd, her spirit seem'd removed,
Though not from earth, from all it knew or loved,
Far, far away! her handmaids watch'd around,
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound
A might, a mystery; and the quivering light
Of wind-sway'd lamps, made spectral in their sight
The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair,
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair,
Long in the dust grown dim; and she, too, saw,
But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe,
Those pictured shapes!-a bright, yet solemn train
Beckoning, they floated o'er her dreamy brain,
Clothed in diviner hues; while on her ear
Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear,
Sweet, yet profoudly mournful, as the sigh
Of winds o'er harp-strings through a midnight sky;
|