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84 TO THE MEMORY OF BISHOP HEBER.
The warlike of the isles,
The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?
Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.
TO THE MEMORY OF BISHOP HEBER.
If it be sad to speak of treasures gone,
Of sainted genius callid too soon away,
Of light, from this worid taken, while it shone
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day ;-
How shall our griefs, if these things mournful be,
Flow forth, oh! thou of many gifts, for thee?
Hath not thy voice been here among us heard ?
And that deep soul of gentleness and power,
Have we not felt its breath in every word,
Wont from thy lip, as Hermon's dew, to shower! --Yes! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have burn'da Of Heaven they were, and thither have return'd. How shall we mourn thee?-With a lofty trust,
Our life's immortal birthright from above !
With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just,
Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love,
And yet can weep!--for nature thus deplores
The friend that leaves us, though for happier shores.
And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier,
One strain of solemn rapture be allow'd-'Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid carcer,
Not to decay, but unto death, hast bow'd:
In those bright regions of the rising sun,
Where victory ne'er a crown like tbine had won.
Praise ! for yet one more name with power endow'd,
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press;
Yet one more image, on the heart bestow'd,
To dwell there, beautiful in holiness!
Thine, Heber, thine! whose memory from the dead,
Sbines as the star which to the Saviour led.
Child, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away ;
Mother, with thine earnest eye
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve
Call'd thy harvest-work to leave;
Pray Sere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee !
Traveller, in the stranger's land
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, baunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone!
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!
Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun !
Woman, o'er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see
Lift the heart and bend the knee !
I come, I come ! ye have call'd me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song !
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the priinrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves, opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the south, and the chesnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains;
-But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb !
I have look'd o'er the bills of the stormy north,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright, where my foot hath been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note, by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain,
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest-boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!
Come forth, Oye children of gladness, come !
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose lip and the dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footsteps, to meet me dy!
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen!
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth!
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.
But ye !-ye are changed since ye met me last !
There is something bright from your features páss'd!
There is that come over your brow and eye,
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die !
-Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yet
Ob! what have ye look'd on since last we met?
Ye are changed, ye are changed !--and I see not here
All whom I saw in the vanish'd year;
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright,
Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light,
There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay
No faint remembrance of dull decay !
There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head,
As if for a banquet all earth were spread;
There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky,
And had not a sound of mortality ?
Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass'd?
-Ye have look'd on death since ye met me last !
I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now,
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow!
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace,
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race,
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown,
They are gone from among you in silence down!
They are gone from among you, the young and fair,
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair!
But I know of a land where there falls no blight,
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light!
Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may dwell,
I tarry no longer-farewell, farewell!
The summer is coming, on soft winds borne,
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn!
For me, I depart to a brighter shore,
Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more.
I go where the loved who have left you dwell,
And the flowers are not Death's fare ye well, farewell!
88 LANDING OF THE PIGRIM FATHERS.
THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM
The breaking waves dash'd high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods, against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tost;
And the heavy night bung dark
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted came,
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear,-
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard and the sea !
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free !
The ocean-eagle soar'd
From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd
This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair,
Amidst that pilgrim-band-
Why had they come to wither there
Away from their childhood's land ?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely higb,
And the fiery heart of youth.