A POET'S DYING HYMN.
Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,
Not for a place 'midst kingly minstrels dead,
But that perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,
A still small whisper in my song hath led
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne
Or but one hope, one prayer :-for this alone
I bless thee, O my God!
That I have loved-that I have known the love
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs,
Yet, with a coloring halo from above,
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things,
Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be,
Still weaving links for intercourse with thee:
I bless thee, O my God!
That by the passion of its deep distress,
And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer,
And by the yearning of its tenderness,
Too full for words upon their stream to bear,
I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine,
Well-spring of love, the unfathom'd, the divine:
I bless thee, O my God!
That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken,
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread,
Calm, rejoicingly, the things hath taken
Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed :
That passing storms have only fann'd the fire,
Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire,
I bless thee, O my God!
Now art thou calling me in every gale,
Each sound and token of the dying day:
Thou leavest me not, though early life grows pale,
I am not darkly sinking to decay;
But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud.
I bless thee, O my God!
And if this earth, with all its choral streams,
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies,
And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams,
Be lovely still in my departing eyes-
'Tis not that fondly I would linger here,
But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear:-
I bless thee, O my God!
And that, the tender shadowing I behold,
The tracery veining every leaf and flower,
Of glories cast in more consummate mould,
No longer vassals to the changeful hour;
That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring
Rich visions of imperishable spring:
I bless thee, O my God!
470 THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Yes! the young vernal voices in the skies
Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear,
Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies,
The spirit-music, imperturb'd and clear;
The full of soul, yet passionate no more-
Let me too, joining those pure strains, adore!
I bless thee, O my God!
Now aid, sustain me still!—to thee I come,
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are!
And for the hope of that immortal home,
And for thy Son, the bright and morning star,
The sufferer and the victor-king of death,
I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath!
I bless thee, O my God!
THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
May wail the dimming of our shining star."-Shakspeare
A GLORIOUS Voice hath ceased!—
Mournfully, reverently-the funeral chant
Breathe reverently! There is a dreamy sound,
A hollow murmur of the dying year,
In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad!
A more Æolian melancholy tone
Than ever wail'd o'er bright things perishing!
For that is passing from the darken'd land,
Which the green summer will not bring us back-
Though all her songs return. The funeral chant
Breathe reverently!-They bear the mighty forth,
The kingly ruler in the realms of mind-
They bear him through the household paths, the
Where every tree had music of its own
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love-
And he is silent!-Past the living stream
They bear him now; the stream, whose kindly voice
On alien shores his true heart burn'd to hear-
And he is silent! O'er the heathery hills,
Which his own soul had mantled with a light
Richer than autumn's purple, now they move-
And he is silent!-he, whose flexile lips
Were but unseal'd, and lo! a thousand forms,
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height,
In glowing life unsprang :-Vassal and chief,
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal,
Fast rushing through the brightly troubled air,
Like the wild huntsman's band. And still they live,
To those fair scenes imperishably bound,
And, from the mountain mist still flashing by,
Startle the wanderer who hath listen'd there
To the seer's voice: phantons of color'd thought,
THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Surviving him who raised.-O eloquence!
O power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead!
Who shall wake thee? lord of the buried past!
And art thou the e-to those dim nations join'd,
Thy subject-host so long?-The wand is dropp'd,
The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand
Touch'd, and the genii came!-Sing reverently
The funeral chant!-The mighty is borne home-
And who shall be his mourners ?-Youth and age,
For each hath felt his magic-love and grief,
For he hath communed with the heart of each;
Yes-the free spirit of humanity
May join the august procession, for to him
Its mysteries have been tributary things,
And all its accents known :-from field or wave,
Never was conqueror on his battle bier,
By the veil'd banner and the muffled drum,
And the proud drooping of the crested head,
More nobly follow'd home.-The last abode,
The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach'd
A still majestic spot: girt solemnly
With all th' imploring beauty of decay;
A stately couch 'midst ruins! meet for him
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant
Over the honor'd grave!-the grave !-oh, say
Rather the shrine-An altar for the love,
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths
Of years unborn-a place where leaf and flower,
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead,
Shall be made holy things where every weed
Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift
From buried glory breathed. And now, what stram,
Making victorious melody ascend
High above sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb
Where he that sway'd the nations thus is laid---
The crown'd of men?
A lowly, lowly song
Lowly and solemn be
Thy children's cry to thee,
Father divine!
hymn of suppliant breath,
Owning that life and death
Alike are thine!
A spirit on its way,
Sceptred the earth to sway,
From thee was sent :
Now call'st thou back thine own-
Hence is that radiance flown-
To earth but lent.
Watching in breathless awc,
The bright head bow'd we saw,
Beneath thy hand!
Fill'd by one hope, one fear,
Now o'er a brother's bier,
Weeping we stand.
How hath he pass'd!-the lord
Of each deep bosom chord,
To meet thy sight,
Unmantled and alone,
On thy bless'd mercy thrown,
O Infinite !
So from his harvest home,
Must the tired peasant come ;
So, in one trust,
Leader and king must yield
The naked soul, reveal'd
To thee, All Just!
The sword of many a fight-
What then shall be its might?
The lofty lay,
That rush'd on eagle wing-
What shall its memory bring?
What hope, what stay?
O Father! in that hour,
When earth all succoring power
Shall disavow
When spear, and shield, and crown,
In faintness are cast down-
Sustain us, Thou!
By Him who bow'd to take
The death-cup for our sake,
The thorn, the rod;
From whom the last dismay
Was not to pass away-
Aid us, O God!
Tremblers beside the grave,
We call on thee to save.
Hear, hear our suppliant breath,
Keep us, in life and death,
Thine, only thine!
THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGIO 1.
In the deep wilderness unseen she pray'd,
The daughter of Jerusalem; alone,
THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.
With all the still small whispers of the night,
And with the searching glances of the stars,
And with her God, alone:-she lifted up
Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o'er her head,
The dark leaves thrill'd with prayer-the tearful prayer
Of woman's quenchless, yet repentant love.
Father of Spirits, hear!
Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal'd
Look on the fountain of the burning tear,
Before thy sight in solitude unseal'd!
Hear, Father! hear, and aid!
If I have loved too well, if I have shed
In my vain fondness, o'er a mortal head,
Gifts, on thy shrine my God! more fitly laid.
If I have sought to live
But in one light, and made a human eye
The lonely star of mine idolatry,
Thou that art Love! oh, pity and forgive!
Chasten'd and school'd at last,
No more, no more my struggling spirit burns,
But fix'd on thee, from that wild worship turns-
What have I said ?-the deep dream is not past'
Yet hear!--if still I love,
Oh! still too fondly-if, for ever seen,
An earthly image comes, my heart between,
And thy calm glory, Father, throned above.
If still a voice is near,
(E'en while I strive these wanderings to control,)
An earthly voice, disquieting my soul
With its deep music, too intensely dear.
My lost affections back!-the dreaming eyes
Clear from their mist-sustain the heart that dies,
Give the worn soul once more its pinions free !
I must love on, O God!
This bosom must love on!—but let thy breath
Touch and make pure the flame that knows not death, Bearing it up to heaven-love's own abode !
Ages and ages past, the wilderness,
With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night,
With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds,
That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers.
How many such hath woman's bursting heart
Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed,
Like the dim night-flower's odor, up to God!
|