omen of his own fate; and the nervous anxiety with which he la bored to fulfil the task, had the effect of realizing his impression. He died within a few days after completing this magnificent piece of music, which was performed at his interment.]

"These birds of Paradise but long to flee
Back to their native mansion."

A REQUIEM!-and for whom?
For beauty in its bloom?

Prophecy of Dante

For valor fallen-a broken rose or sword?
A dirge for king or chief,

With pomp of stately grief,

Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored?
Not so it is not so!

The warning voice I know,

From other worlds a strange mysterious tone;
A solemn funeral air,

It call'd me to prepare,

And my heart answer'd secretly-my own!
One more then, one more strain,
In links of joy and pain,

Mighty the troubled spirit to inthrall!
And let me breathe my dower
Of passion and of power

Full into that deep lay-the last of all!

The last and I must go
From this bright world below,

This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound!
Must leave its festal skies,

With all their melodies,

That ever in my breast glad echoes found!

Yet have I known it long:

Too restless and too strong

Within this clay hath been th' o'ermastering flame;
Swift thoughts, that came and went,

Like torrents o'er me sent,

Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame.

Like perfumes on the wind,
Which none may stay or bind,

The beautiful comes floating through my soul;
I strive with yearnings vain

The spirit to detain

Of the deep harmonies that past me roll!

Therefore disturbing dreams

Trouble the secret streams

And founts of music that o'erflow my breast,
Something far more divine

Than may on earth be mine,

Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest.

4- -、-ཅ་མ་དག་མཐད་མ་

181

THE IMAGE IN LAVA.

Shall I then fear the tone

That breathes from worlds unknown ?--

Surely these feverish aspirations there

Shall grasp their full desire,

And this unsettled fire

Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air.

One more then, one more strain;
To earthly joy and pain

A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell!
I pour each fervent thought,

With fear, hope, trembling, fraught,
Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell.

THE IMAGE IN LAVA*

THOU thing of years departed!
What ages have gone by,
Since here the mournful seal was set
By love and agony?

Temple and tower have moulder'd,
Empires from earth have pass'd,
And woman's heart hath left a trace
Those glories to outlast!

And childhood's fragile image,
Thus fearfully enshrined,

Survives the proud memorials rear'd
By conquerors of mankind.

Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering
Upon thy mother's breast,
When suddenly the fiery tomb

Shut round each gentle guest?

A strange, dark fate o'ertook you,
Fair babe and loving heart!
One moment of a thousand pangs-
Yet better than to part!

Haply of that fond bosom

On ashes here impress'd,

Thou wert the only treasure, child!
Whereon a hope might rest.

Perchance all vainly lavish'd

Its other love had been,

And where it trusted, nought remain'd

But thorns on which to lean.

* The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum.

Far better, then, to perish,
Thy form within its clasp,

Than live and lose thee, precious one!
From that impassion'd grasp.

Oh! I could pass all relics
Left by the pomps of old,
To gaze on this rude monument
Cast in affection's mould.

Love, human love! what art thou?
Thy print upon the dust
Outlives the cities of renown
Wherein the mighty trust!

Immortal, oh! inmortal

Thou art, whose earthly glow
Hath given these ashes holiness-
It must, it must be so!

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

O LOVELY Voices of the sky
That hymn'd the Saviour's birth!
Are ye not singing still on high,
Ye that sang, "Peace on earth?"
To us yet speak the strains
Wherewith, in days gone by,
Ye bless'd the Syrian swains,
O voices of the sky!

O clear and shining light, whose beams
That hour Heaven's glory shed
Around the palms, and o'er the streams,
And on the shepherds' head;

Be near, through life and death
As in that holiest night
Of Hope, and Joy, and Faith,
O clear and shining light!

O star which led to him whose love
Brought down man's ransom free;
Where art thou ?-'Midst the hosts above

May we still gaze on thee?

In heaven thou art not set,

Thy rays earth might not dim-

Send them to guide us yet,

O star which led to him!

A FATHER READING THE BIBLE

183

A FATHER READING THE BIBLE.*

Twas early day, and sunlight stream'd
Soft through a quiet room,
That hush'd, but not forsaken seem'd,
Still, but with nought of gloom.
For there, serene in happy age,
Whose hope is from above,
A father communed with the page
Of Heaven's recorded love.

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright,
On his grey holy hair,

And touch'd the page with tenderest light,
As if its shrine were there!

But oh! that patriarch's aspect shone
With something lovelier far-
A radiance all the spirit's own,
Caught not from sun or star.

Some word of life e'en then had met
His calm, benignant eye;

Some ancient promise, breathing yet
Of Immortality!

Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow
Of quenchless faith survives ·

While every feature said-" I know
That my Redeemer lives ""

And silent stood his children by,
Hushing their very breath,
Before the solemn sanctity

Of thoughts o'ersweeping death.

*This little poem, which, as its Author herself expressed in a let er to Mrs. Joanna Baillie, was to her "a thing set apart," as being the last of her productions ever read to her beloved mother, was written at the request of a young lady, who thus made known her wish that Mrs. Hemans would embody in poetry a picture that so warmed a daughter's heart:"

Upon going into our dear father's sitting-room this morning, my sister and I found him deeply engaged reading his Bible, and being unwilling to interrupt such a holy occupation, we retired to the fur ther end of the apartment, to gaze unobserved upon the serene picture. The bright morning sun was beaming on his venerable silver hair, while his defective sight increased the earnestness with which he perused the blessed book. Our fancy led us to believe that some immortal thought was engaging his mind, for he raised his fine open brow to the light, and we felt we had never loved him more deeply. After an involuntary prayer had passed from our hearts, we whispered to each other, 'Oh! if Mrs. Hemans could only see our father at this moment, her glowing pen would detain the scene, for even as 'we gaze upon it the bright gleam is vanishing.''

"December 9, 1826."

Silent-yet did not each young breast
With love and reverence melt?
Oh! blest be those fair girls, and blest
That home where God is felt!

THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS *

"His early days

Were with him in his heart."--Wordsworth

THE Voices of two forest boys,

In years when hearts entwine,

Had fill'd with childhood's merry noise
A valley of the Rhine:

To rock and stream that sound was known,
Gladsome as hunter's bugle tone.

The sunny laughter of their eyes,
There had each vineyard seen:
Up every cliff whence eagles rise,
Their bounding step hath been:
Ay! their bright youth a glory threw,
O'er the wild place wherein they grew.
But this, as day-spring's flush was brief
As early bloom or dew;

Alas! 'tis but the wither'd leaf

That wears the enduring hue:

Those rocks along the Rhine's fair shore,
Might girdle in their world no more.
For now on manhood's verge they stood,
And heard life's thrilling call,

As if a silver clarion woo'd

To some high festival;

And parted as young brothers part,
With love in each unsullied heart.

They parted-soon the paths divide
Wherein our steps were one,
Like river branches, far and wide,
Dissevering as they run;

And making strangers in their course,
Of waves that had the same bright source.

Met they no more ?-once more they met,
Those kindred hearts and true!

"Twas on a field of death, where yet
The battle thunders flew,

Though the fierce day was well nigh past,
And the red sunset smiled its last.

*For the tale on which this little poem is founded, see L'Hermit en Italia.