Of us they told the seers
And monarch-bards of elder years,
Who walked on earth as powers;
And in their burning strains,
A spell of might and mystery reigns,
To guard our mountain towers.
-In Snowdon's caves a prophet lay,
Before his gifted sight
The march of ages passed away,
With hero-footsteps bright,
But proudest, in that long array
Was Glyndwr's path of light!
ON THE TOMB OF MADAME LANGHANS.
"To a mysteriously consorted pair,
This place is consecrate; to death, and life,
And to the best affections that procced
From this conjunction."
How many hopes were borne upon thy bier,
O bride of stricken love! in anguish hither!
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year,
Pluck'd on the bosom of the dead to wither;
Hopes, from their source all holy, though of earth,
All brightly gathering round affection's hearth.
Of mingled prayer they told; of sabbath hours;
Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meeting;
Of childhood's voice, amidst the household bowers,
And bounding step, and smile of joyous greeting.
But thou, young mother! to thy gentle heart,
Didst take thy babe, and meekly so depart.
How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence!
Their trace yet lights the dust, where thou art sleeping!
A solemn joy comes o'er me, and a sense
Of triumph, blunt with nature's gush of weeping,
As, kindling up the silent stone, I see,
The glorious vision, caught by faith of thee.
Slumberer! love calls thee, for the night is past;
Put on th' immortal beauty of thy waking
Captive! and hear'st thou not the trumpet's blast?
The long victorious note thy bondage breaking?
Thou hear'st, thou answerest-"God of earth and Heaven!
Here am I, with the child whom thou hast given."*
"My child, my child, thou leav'st me!-I shall hear
The gentle voice no more that blessed mine ear
With its first utterance :-I shall miss the sound
Of thy light footstep, midst the flowers around,
And thy soft-breathing hymn at evening's close,
And thy Good-night, at parting for repose.
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone,
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone
Among their tendrils, while I think of thee,
My child!-and thou, along the moonlight sea,
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance,
Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France
Fading to air! Yet blessings with thee go-
Love guard thee, gentlest! and the exile's woe
From thy young heart be far!-And sorrow not
For me, sweet daughter, in my lonely lot
God will be with me! Now farewell, farewell,
Thou that hast been what words may never tell
*Part of the monumental inscription.
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days
When thou wert pillowed there; and wont to raise
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye,
That still sought mine. These moments are gone by-
Thou too must go, my flower! yet round thee dwell
The peace of God! One, one more gaze-farewell!"
This was a mother's parting with her child-
A young, meek bride, on whom fair Fortune smiled,
And wooed her, with a voice of Love, away
From Childhood's home. Yet there, with fond delay,
She lingered on the threshold: heard the note
Of her caged bird through trellised rose-trees float;
And fell upon her mother's neck, and wept,
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept,
Streamed o'er her soul; and many a vanished day,
As in one picture traced, before her lay.
But the farewell was said; and on the deep,
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep,
With a stilled heart, young Madeline, ere long,
Poured forth her own low solemn vesper song
To chiming waves. Through stillness heard afar,
And duly rising with the first pale star,
That voice was on the waters; till at last
The sounding ocean-solitudes were passed,
And the bright land was reached; the youthful world
That glows along the West: the sails were furled
In its clear sunshine; and the gentle bride
Looked on the home, which promised hearts untried
A bower of bliss to be. Alas! we trace
The map of our own paths; and long ere years
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface,
Comes the swift storm, and blots them out in tears.
That home was darkened soon: the summer's breeze
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas!
Death unto one! and anguish, how forlorn
To her that, widowed in her marriage-morn,
Sat in the lonely dwelling, whence with him,
Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide,
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim,
As from the sun shut out on every side,
By the close veil of misery. Oh! but ill,
When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high heart Bears its first blow! It knows not yet the part
Which life will teach-to suffer and be still!
And with submissive love, to count the flowers
Which yet are spared; and through the future hours
To send no busy dream! She had not learned
Of sorrow till that blight, and therefore turned
In weariness from life. Then came th' unrest,
The vague sad yearnings of the exile's breast;
The haunting sounds of voices far away,
And household steps: until at last she lay
On her lone couch of sickness-lost in dreams
Of the gay vineyards and blue glancing streams,
Of her own sunny land-and murmuring oft
Familiar names in accents wild, yet soft,
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught. To strangers?-oh! could strangers raise the head, Gently as her's was raised?-did strangers shed The kindly tears which bathed that pale young brow, And feverish cheek, with half unconscious flow?Something was there, that through the heavy night Outwatches patiently the taper's light; Something that bows out to the day's distress, That knows not change, that fears not weariness: Love, true and perfect love!-Whence came that Upbearing through the storm the fragile flower? Whence?-who can ask?—the long delirium passed, And from her eyes the spirit looked at last Into her mother's face and, wakening, knew The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hueThe kind, sweet smile of old!-And had she come, Thus in life's evening from her distant home, To save her child? Even so. Nor yet in vainIn that young heart a light sprung up again! And lovely still, with so much love to give, Seemed this fair world, though faded; still to live Was not to pine forsaken! On the breast That rocked her childhood, falling in soft rest"Sweet mother! gentlest mother!-can it be?" The lorn one cried-" And do I gaze on thee? Take home thy wanderer from this fatal shorePeace shall be our's, amidst our vines once more!"
"Oh! that I had the wings of a Dove, that I might flee away: be at rest!"
OH! for thy wings, thou dove!
Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast;
That borne like thee above,
I too might flee away and be at rest!
Where wilt thou fold those plumes,
Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird?
In what rich leafy glooms,
By the sweet voice of hidden water stirred?
What roof with dark, deep suminer-foliage crowned,
O fair as Ocean's foam!
Shall thy bright bosom shed a gloom around?
Or seek'st thou some old shrine
Of nymph or saint, no more by Votary wooed,
Tho' still, as if divine,
Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude?
Yet wherefore ask thy way?
Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim, thou art!
Unto the greenwood spray
Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart!
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