[Prison attendants enter. And night is there-still, solemn, holy night,
Fare thee well!
With all her stars, and with the gentle tune
Of many fountains, low and musical,
O thou unutterably loved, farewell! Let our hearts bow to God!
And wherefore night, my child? Thou art a creature all of life and dawn, And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise, And walk forth with the day-spring. Lilian. Hope it not! Dream it no more, my mother! there are things Known but to God, and to the parting soul, Which feels his thrilling summons.
But my words Too much o'ershadow those kind loving eyes.
FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step
As, when a babe, I rock'd her on my heart.
I've watch'd, suspending e'en my breath, in fear
To break the heavenly spell. Move silently!
And oh those flowers! dear Jessy, bear them
hence-
Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears
That shook her trembling frame, when last we
brought
The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know
What sudden longings for the woods and hills,
Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly,
These leaves and odours with strange influence
wake
In her fast-kindled soul?
Jessy.
Oh! she would pine,
Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld.
Mother! far more than now her spirit yearns
For the blue sky, the singing birds and brooks
And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome
spring
Well do I see, hath not alone explored
The garden bowers, but freely visited
Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow sweet
Is from the cool green shadowy river nook, Where the stream chimes around th' old mossy
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Dimpling in light, do the vein'd pebbles gleam Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies, From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still Among the poplar-boughs ?
Jessy. All, all is there Which glad midsummer's wealthiest hours can bring:
All, save the soul of all, thy lightening smile! Therefore I stood in sadness, 'midst the leaves, And caught an under-music of lament
In the stream's voice; but Nature waits thee still,
And for thy coming piles a fairy throne
Of richest moss.
Lilian.
Alas! it may not be!
My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly,
To all these blessed haunts of song and thought;
Yet not the less I love to look on these,
Their dear memorials: strew them o'er my
couch,
Till it grow like a forest-bank in spring,
All flush'd with violets and anemones.
Ah! the pale brier rose! touch'd so tenderly,
As a pure ocean shell, with faintest red,
Melting away to pearliness!-I know
How its light festoons o'erarching hung
From the gray rock, that rises altar-like,
With its high waving crown of mountain ash,
'Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough
Of honey'd woodbine, tells me of the oak
Whose deep midsummer gloom sleeps heavily
Shedding a verdurous twilight o'er the face
Of the glade's pool. Methinks I see it now
I look up through the stirring of its leaves
Unto the intense blue crystal firmament.
The ring-dove's wing is flitting o'er my head,
Casting at times a silvery shadow down
'Midst the large water-lilics. Beautiful! How beautiful is all this fair, free world Under God's open sky!
Mother. Thou art o'erwrought Once more, my child! The dewy trembling light Presaging tears, again is in thine eye.
O, hush, dear Lilian! turn thee to repose.
Lilian. Mother, I cannot. In my soul the
thoughts
Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire;
Importunately to my lips they throng,
And with their earthly kindred seek to blend
Which makes the desolate Campagna ring
With "Roma, Roma!" or the Madrigal
Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily?
Or the old ditty left by Troubadours
To girls of Languedoc?
Lilian.
Oh, no! not these.
Jessy. What then? the Moorish melody still
known
Within the Alhambra city? or those notes
Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile's heart
Even unto death?
No, sister, nor yet these.
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone-Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret,
(For I must go)-then the remember'd words Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth, Will to thy fond heart be as amulets
Held there with life and love. And weep not thus!
Mother! dear sister! kindest, gentlest ones!
Be comforted that now I weep no more
For the glad earth and all the golden light
Whence I depart.
No! God hath purified my spirit's eye,
And in the folds of this consummate rose
I read bright prophecies. I see not there,
Dimly and mournfully, the word “farewell"
On the rich petals traced:-No-in soft veins
And characters of beauty, I can read-
"Look up, look heavenward!"
Blessed God of Love!
I thank thee for these gifts, the precious links
Whereby my spirit unto thee is drawn!
I thank thee that the loveliness of earth
Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these
But germs of things unperishing, that bloom
Beside th' immortal streams? Shall I not find
The lily of the field, the Saviour's flower,
In the serene and never-moaning air,
And the clear starry light of angel eyes,
A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far
Will not the violet's dusky purple glow,
When it hath ne'er been press'd to broken hearts,
A record of lost love?
My Lilian! thou Surely in thy bright life hast little known Of lost things or of changed!
Oh! little yet, For thou hast been my shield! But had it been My lot on this world's billows to be thrown Without thy love-O mother! there are hearts So perilously fashion'd, that for them God's touch alone had gentleness enough To waken, and not break, their thrilling strains!We will not speak of this!
By what strange spell Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers, I dream of music? Something in their hues All melting into colour'd harmonies, Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords, Of blended singing tones, that swell and die In tenderest falls away. O, bring thy harp, Sister! a gentle heaviness at last
Hath touch'd my eyelids: sing to me, and sleep Will come again.
Jessy. What wouldst thou hear? Th' Italian Peasant's Lay,
Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes
In the caressing sweetness of their tones,
For one who dies:-They would but woo me
back
To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds—
And vainly, vainly-No! a loftier strain,
A deeper music!-Something that may hear
The spirit up on slow yct mighty wings,
Unsway'd by gusts of earth: something, all fill'd
With solemn adoration, tearful prayer.-
Sing me that antique strain which once I deem'd
Almost too sternly simple, too austere
In its grave majesty! I love it now—
Now it seems fraught with holiest power, to hush
All billows of the soul, e'en like his voice
That said of old-"Be still!" Sing me that
strain-
"The Saviour's dying hour."
Mother-tears were mingled
With thy costly blood-drops,
In the shadow of the atoning cross;
And the friend, the faithful,
He that on thy bosom,
l'hence imbibing heavenly love, had lain—
He, a pale sad watcher-
Met with looks of anguish,
All the anguish in thy last meek glance-
Dying Son of Man!
Oh! therefore unto thee,
Thou that hast known all woes
Bound in the girdle of mortality!
Thou that wilt lift the reed
Which storms have bruised,
To thee may sorrow through cach conflict cry, And, in that tempest-hour when love and life
Mysteriously must part,
When tearful eyes
Are passionately bent
Memories of power and pride, which long ago,
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk
In twilight depths away.-Return, my soul!
The cross recalls thee-Lo! the blessed cross!
High o'er the banners and the crests of earth,
Fix'd in its meek and still supremacy!
And lo! the throng of beating human hearts,
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief,
All their full treasures of immortal hope,
Gather'd before their God! Hark! how the flood
Of the rich organ harmony bears up
Their voice on its high waves!-a mighty burst!
A forest-sounding music!- every tone
Which the blasts call forth with their harping
wings
From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent:
And the old minster-forest-like itself-
With its long avenues of pillar'd shade,
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not
One tomb unthrill'd by the strong sympathy
To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze, Answering the electric notes.-Join, join, my
Then, then forsake us not!
Shed on our spirits then
The faith and deep submissiveness of thine!
The sorrow for the dead,
Mantling its lonely head
the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free;
And the fond, aching love,
Thy minister, to move
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.
And doth not thy dread eye
Behold the agony
On the flush'd brows of conquerors have been set; In that most hidden chamber of the heart,
Where the high anthems of old victories
Have made the dust give echoes.-Hence, vain
Where darkly sits remorse,
Beside the secret source
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?
What hills, what woods, may shroud him from Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour
Not to the cedar shade
Let his vain flight be made;
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;
What, but the cross, can yield
The hope, the stay-the shield? Thence may the Atoner lead him up to Thee!
Be thou, be thou his aid!
Oh! let thy love pervade
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought!
There let the living stone
Be cleft-the seed be sown—
The song of fountains from the silence brought!
So shall thy breath once more
Within the soul restore
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,
Making them tremulous, when not a brecze
Disturbs the airy thistle down, or shakes
The light lines of the shining gossamer.
Child, (after a pause.) Dost thou believe it,
father?
Father.
Nay, my child,
We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now,
With something of a lingering love, I read
The characters, by that mysterious hour,
Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man
In visionary days; and thence thrown back
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign
Of the great sacrifice which won us Heaven,
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so!
Thine own first image-Holiest and most High! They do not wisely, that, with hurried hand,
Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery
Would pluck these salutary fancies forth
From their strong soil within the peasant's breast,
And scatter them-far, far too fast!-away
As worthless weeds :-Oh! little do we know
When they have soothed, when saved!
But come, dear boy!
My words grow tinged with thought too deep for
Come-let us search for violets.
Know you not More of the legends which the woodmen tell Amidst the trees and flowers?
Wilt thou know more i Bring then the folding leaf, with dark brown stains,
There-by the mossy roots of yon old beech,
'Midst the rich tuft of cowslips-see'st thou not
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree
Just bending o'er it, with a wild bee's weight.
Child. The Arum leaf?
Father. Yes, these deep inwrought marks.
The villager will tell thee (and with voice
Lower'd in his true heart's reverent earnestness'
Are the flower's portion from th' atoning blood
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew;
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf,
Catching from that dread shower of agony
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus
Unto the groves and hills, their scaling stains
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind
Never to waft away!
And hast thou seen Trembling, for ever trembling! though the lime The passion-flower?-It grows not in the woods, And chestnut boughs, and those long arching But 'midst the bright things brought from other
Child. What, the pale star-shaped flower, And o'er the pools, all still and darkly clear, with purple streaks
And light green tendrils?
Father.
Thou hast mark'd it well.
Yes, a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower,
As from a land of spirits!—To mine eye
Those faint wan petals-colourless and yet
Not white, but shadowy-with the mystic lines
(As letters of some wizard language gone)
Into their vapour-like transparence wrought,
Bear something of a strange solemnity,
Awfully lovely!-and the Christian's thought
Loves, in their cloudy pencilling, to find
Dread symbols of his Lord's last mournful pangs,
Set by God's hand-The coronal of thorns-
The cross-the wounds-with other meanings
deep,
Which I will teach thee when we meet again
That flower, the chosen for the martyr's wreath,
The Saviour's holy flower.
But let us pause:
Now have we reach'd the very inmost heart
Of the old wood.-How the green shadows close
Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round,
A luxury of gloom!-Scarce doth one ray,
Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal
O'er the bronzed pillars of those deep arcades;
Or if it doth, 'tis with a mellow'd hue
Of glow-worm colour'd light.
Here, in the days
Of pagan visions, would have been a place
For worship of the wood nymphs! Through
A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown
The quivering image of its Dorian shafts
On the stream's bosom; or a sculptured form,
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom,
Have bow'd its head o'er that dark crystal down,
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops
Under bright rain :-but we, my child, are here
With God, our God, a Spirit; who requires
Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth;
And this high knowledge-deep, rich, vast
enough
To fill and hallow all the solitude,
Makes consecrated earth where'er we move,
Without the aid of shrines.
What! dost thou feel
The solemn whispering influence of the scene
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand
Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child!
"Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here,
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope
With dark exuberance and beneath these plumes
Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds
In its pure crimson goblets, fresh and bright,
The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile,
And let me hear once more the woodland verse'
I taught thee late-'t was made for such a scene.
[Child speaks.
Broods there some spirit here?
The suminer leaves hang silent as a cloud,
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow J
And something of a tender cloistral gloom
Deepens the violet's bloom.
The very light that streams
Through the dim dewy veil of foliage round,
Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams,
As if it knew the place were holy ground,
And would not startle with too bright a burst,
Flowers, all divinely nursed.
Wakes there some spirit here?
A swift wind fraught with change, comes rush
ing by,
And leaves and waters, in its wild career,
Shed forth sweet voices-each a mystery!
Surely some awful influence must pervade
These depths of trembling shade!
There is a power, a presence in the woods;
Yes, lightly, softly move!
A viewless being, that, with life and love,
Informs the reverential solitudes;
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod-
Thou, thou art here, my God!
And if with awe we tread
The minster floor, beneath the storied pane,
And 'midst the mouldering banners of the dead,
Shall the green voiceful wild seem less thy fane,
Where thou alone hast built?-where arch and
The silence and the sound,
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee;
The temple twilight of the gloom profound,
The dew-cup of the frail anemone,
The reed by every wandering whisper thrill'd—
All, all with thee are fill'd!
More and yet more, by love and lowly thought,
Thy presence, holiest One! to recognize,
In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought
And 'midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear
Ever thy voice to hear!
And sanctify my heart
To meet the awful sweetness of that tone
But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own-
With no faint thrill or self-accusing start,
Joy, such as dwelt in Eden's glorious bowers
Ere sin had dimm'd the flowers.
Let me not know the change
O'er nature thrown by guilt!-the boding sky,
The hollow leaf sounds ominous and strange,
The weight wherewith the dark tree shadows he
Father! oh! keep my footsteps pure and free,
To walk the woods with thee!
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