And, rare perfection! calm and sober sense But when our hearts have read Fate's mystic Yet, though the unpolluted soul requires Airs born in Heaven to fan her sacred fires, And mounts to God exulting to be free From fleshly chain that binds mortality, The world is hallow'd by her blest sojourn, And glory dwells for ever round her urn! Her skirts of beauty sanctify the air That felt her breathings and that heard her prayer; Vice dies where'er the radiant vision trod, And there e'en Atheists must believe in God! Such the proud triumphs that the good achieve! Such the blest gift that sinless spirits leave! The parted soul in god-given strength sublime, Streams undimm'd splendour o'er unmeasured time; Still on the earth the sainted hues survive, state, And musing virtue often can behold In vision high their plumes of wavy gold, And drink with tranced ear the silver sound Of seraphs hymning on their nightly round. By death untaught, our range of thought is small, Bound by the attraction of this earthly ball. Our sorrows and our joys, our hopes and fears, Ignobly pent within a few short years; book, On Heaven's gemm'd sphere we lift a joyful look, Hope turns to Faith, Faith glorifies the gloom, And life springs forth exulting from the tomb! Oh, blest ELIZA! though to me unknown Thine eye's mild lustre and thy melting tone; Though on this earth apart our lives were led, Nor my love found thee till thy soul was fled; Yet, can affection kiss thy silent clay, Oft 'mid the calm of mountain-solitude, I feel thy influence on my heart descend From thy own blessedness dispensing good; But now, I feel my pensive spirit turn, Where parents, brothers, sisters, o'er thee mourn. For though to all unconscious time supplies A strength of soul that stifles useless sighs; And in our loneliest hours of grief is given To our dim gaze a nearer glimpse of heaven, Yet, human frailty pines in deep distress, Even when a friend has soar'd to happiness, And sorrow, selfish from excess of love, Would glad recal the seraph from above! And, chief, to thee! on whose delighted breast, While, yet a babe, she play'd herself to rest, Who rock'd her cradle with requited care, And bless'd her sleeping with a silent prayer; To thee, who first beheld, with watchful eye, From her flush'd cheek health's natural radiance fly, And, though by fate denied the power to save, Smooth'd with kind care her passage to the grave, When slow consumption led with fatal bloom But thou hast comforts man could ne'er bestow; And e'en misfortune's long and gloomy roll Wakes dreams of glory in thy stately soul. For reason whispers, and religion proves, That God by sorrow chasteneth whom he loves; And suffering virtue smiles at misery's gloom, Cheer'd by the light that burns beyond the tomb. Steal on thy memory, and though tears will fall O'er scenes gone by that thou wouldst fain recal, Yet oft has faith with deeper bliss beguiled name. Thou feelst no more grief's palpitating start, Nor the drear night hangs heavy on thy heart. Though sky and star may yet awhile divide Thy mortal being from thy bosom's pride, Your spirits mingle-while to thine is given A loftier nature from the touch of heaven. EDITH AND NORA. A PASTORAL POET'S DREAM. SHE hath risen up from her morning-prayer, And chained the waves of her golden hair, Hath kissed her sleeping sister's cheek, And breathed the blessing she might not speak, Lest the whisper should break the dream that smil'd All Nature speaks of thy departed child, The flowery meadow, and the mountain-Round the snow-white brow of the sinless wild; Of her the lark 'mid sun-shine oft will sing, And torrents flow with dirge-like murmuring! The lake, that smiles to heaven a watery gleam, Shows in the vivid beauty of a dream Her, whose fine touch in mellowing hues array'd The misty summit and the woodland glade, The sparkling depth that slept in waveless rest, And verdant isles reflected on its breast. That holds communion with the promised skies, When Nature's beauty overpowers distress, The languid mien, the cheek of hectic dye, balm A dying vigour and deceitful calm, child. Her radiant Lamb and her purpling Dove Have ta'en their food from the hand they love; The low deep coo and the plaintive bleat And welcomed the hum of the earliest Bee 'Tis a lonely Glen! but the happy Child Hath friends whom she meets in the morningwild! As on she trips, her native stream, Or a lovelike joy is in his cry, As he wheels and darts and glances by. Is the Heron asleep on the silvery sand Of his little lake? Lo! his wings expand As a dreamy thought, and withouten dread, Cloudlike he floats o'er the Maiden's head. She looks to the birch-wood-glade, and lo! There is browzing there the mountain-roe, | Who lifts up her gentle eyes, nor moves As on glides the form whom all nature loves. Having spent in heaven an hour of mirth, The Lark drops down to the dewy earth, And as silence smooths his yearning breast In the gentle fold of his lowly nest, The Linnet takes up the hymn, unseen In the yellow broom or the bracken green. And now, as the morning-hours are glowing, From the hillside-cots the cocks are crowing, And the Shepherd's Dog is barking shrill From the mist fast rising from the hill, And the Shepherd's-self, with locks of gray. Hath blessed the Maiden on her way! And now she sees her own dear flock On a verdant mound beneath the rock, All close together in beauty and love, Like the small fair clouds in heaven above, And her innocent soul at the peaceful sight Is swimming o'er with a still delight. And how shall sweet Edith pass the day, From her home and her sister so far away, With none to whom she may speak the while, Or share the silence and the smile, When the stream of thought flows calm and deep, And the face of Joy is like that of Sleep? Fear not the long, still Summer-day On downy wings hath sailed away, And is melting unawares in Even, Like a pure cloud in the heart of Heaven, Nor Weariness nor Woe hath paid One visit to the happy Maid Sitting in sunshine or in shade. For many a wild tale doth she know, Framed in these valleys long ago By pensive Shepherds, unto whom The sweet breath of the heather-bloom Brought inspiration, and the sky Folding the hill-tops silently, And airs so spirit-like, and streams Aye murmuring through a world of dreams. A hundred plaintive tunes hath she— A hundred chaunts of sober gleeAnd she hath sung them o'er and o'er,— As, on some solitary shore, Tis said the Mermaid oft doth sing Beneath some cliffs o'ershadowing, While melteth o'er the waters clear A song which there is none to hear! Still at the close of each wild strain Hath gentle Edith lived again O'er long-past hours - while smiles and sighs Obeyed their own loved melodies. Now rose to sight the hawthorn-glade, Where that old blind Musician played So blithely to the dancing ring- An Image of young Edith's Life, This one still day-no noise-no strife— Alike calm-morning-noon-and even— And Earth to her as pure as Heaven. Now night comes wavering down the sky The clouds like ships at anchor lie, All gathered in the glimmering air, After their pleasant voyage: there One solitary bark glides on So slow, that its haven will ne'er be won. Are these the hills so steeped by day, That it well might dare th' eclipse of night? In their earthen cell-or their mossy nest- No toils have they, but in beauty blest, The slumber of the hills and sky That comes like an angel with his beams, Through a bosom, all suddenly filled with heaven. Oh! come ye from heaven ye blessed So silent with your silvery wings Those gracious Forms, on the verdant height "O, happy child! who livest in mirth And joy of thine own on this sinful Earth, Whose heart, like a lonely stream, keeps singing, Or, like a holy bell, is ringing And Happiness alone doth weep, "Fear not, sweet Edith! to come along With us, though the voice of the Fairy's Song Sound strange to thy soul thus murmuring near Fear not, for thou hast nought to fear! "O waft me there, ere my dream is gone. For dreams have a wild world all their own! And never was vision like to this O waft me away ere I wake from bliss! Put into my bosom, and bade us be Bring Nora here, and we two will take Yet we start at the shadows of mortal life; A sound of parting wings is heard, As when at night some wandering bird Flits by us, absent from its nest Beyond the hour of the Songsters' rest. For, the younger Fairy away hath flown, And hath Nora found in her sleep afone, Hath raised her up between her wings, And lulled her with gentlest murmurings, And borne her over plain and steep With soft smooth glide that breaks not sleep, And laid her down as still as death By Edith's side on the balmy heath, And all ere twice ten waves have broke On the Lake's smooth sand, or the aged oak Hath ceased to shiver its leaves so red Beneath the breeze that just touched its head. The heath-flowers all are shining bright, And every star has it own soft light, And all the quiet clouds are there, And the same sweet sound is in the air, From stream and echo mingling well In the silence of the glimmering dell,But no more is seen the radiant fold Of Fairy-wings bedropt with gold, Nor those sweet human faces! They Have melted like the dew away, And Edith and Nora never more Shall be sitting seen on the earthly shore! For they drift away with peaceful motion, Like birds into the heart of ocean, Some silent spot secure from storins— Who float on with their soft-plumed forms Whiter than the white sea-foam, Still dancing on from home to home; Fair Creatures! in their lonely glee Happier than Stars in Heaven or Sea. Long years are past-and every stone Of the Orphans' cot is with moss o'ergrown, And wild-stalks beautiful and tall Hang o'er the little garden-wall, And the clear well within the rock Lies with its smiling calm unbroke By dipping pitcher! There the hives! But no faint feeble hum survivesDead is that Cottage once so sweet, Shrouded as in a winding-sheetNor even the sobbing of the air Mourns o'er the life that once was there! O happy ye! who have flown afar From the sword of those ruthless men of war, That, for many a year, have bathed in blood Nor sound of terror on the breeze, By men whom God and Angels loved. When no kirk-bell is heard to toll, But Edith and Nora lead happy hours Glistening with many a lovely ray, A charm to its soul from the smiles of sorrow. Nor are the upper world and skies Withheld, when they list, from these Orphans' eyes— The shadow of green trees on earth Falls on the Lake and the small bird's mirth |