And the wind ceased-it ceased! that word And slumber settled on the deep, And silence on the blast; They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep When sultry day is past. O Thou! that in its wildest hour Didst rule the tempest's mood, Send thy meek spirit forth in power, Soft on our souls to brood! Thou that didst bow the billow's pride EPITAPH OVER THE GRAVE OF TWO BROTHERS, A CHILD AND A YOUTH. [Amongst the numerous friends Mrs Hemans was fortunate enough to possess in Scotland, there was one to whom she was linked by so peculiar a bond of union, and whose unwearied kindness is so precious an inheritance to her children, that it is hoped the owner of a name so dear to them, (though it be a part of her nature to shrink from publicity,) will forgive its being introduced into these pages. This invaluable friend was Lady Wedderburn,1 the mother of those "two brothers, a child and a youth," for whose monument Mrs Hemans had written an inscription, which, with its simple pathos, has doubtless sunk deep into the heart of many a mourner, as well as of many a yet rejoicing parent, there called upon to remember that for them, too, "Speaks the grave, Where God hath seal'd the fount of hope He gave." Into the gentle heart, which has found relief for its own sorrows in soothing the griefs and promoting the enjoyments of others, the author of this sacred tribute was taken with a warmth and loving-kindness which extended its genial influence to all belonging to her; and during their stay in Edinburgh, whither they proceeded from Abbotsford, Mrs Hemans and her children were cherished with a true home welcome at the house of Sir David Wedderburn.-Memoir, p. 192.] Pray! Thou art blest-ask strength for sorrow's hour: Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken flower. Thou that art gathering from the smile of youth MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION. EARTH! guard what here we lay in holy trust, That which hath left our home a darken'd place, Wanting the form, the smile, now veil'd with dust, The light departed with our loveliest face. Yet from thy bonds our sorrow's hope is freeWe have but lent the beautiful to thee. But thou, O heaven! keep, keep what thou hast taken, And with our treasure keep our hearts on high; The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken, The faith, the love, the lofty constancyGuide us where these are with our sister flown: They were of Thee, and thou hast claim'd thine own!, THE SOUND OF THE SEA. THOU art sounding on, thou mighty sea! For ever and the same; The ancient rocks yet ring to thee Those thunders naught can tamę. Oh! many a glorious voice is gone From the rich bowers of earth, And hush'd is many a lovely one Of mournfulness or mirth. THOU art a thing on our dreams to rise, Thou art a thing to recall the hours When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers, When a world was our own in some dim sweet grove, And treasure untold in one captive dove. Are they gone? can we think it, while thou art there, No! ever more may we smile as thou To have met the joy of thy speaking face, To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace, SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE. "Oh! fondly, fervently, those two had loved, Had mingled minds in Love's own perfect trust; 'HASTE, with your torches, haste! make firelight [wore Those two had loved! And there he lay, the dead, By torchlight and by death: until at last And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part Of hope deferr'd, youth blighted! Yet thy brow And faded-oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now, Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay'd, In search of thee !-bound my worn life to one- ENGLISH SOLDIER'S SONG OF MEMORY. TO THE AIR OF "AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN! SING, sing in memory of the brave departed, Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices Have mingled with our own; Fill high the cup! but when the soul rejoices, Forget not who are gone. They that stood with us, midst the dead and dying, On Albuera's plain; They that beside us cheerily track'd the flying, Far o'er the hills of Spain; They that amidst us, when the shells were showering From old Rodrigo's wall, The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle towerFirst, first at Victory's call; They that upheld the banners, proudly waving Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, HAUNTED GROUND. "And slight, withal, may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it wouling Aside for ever-it may be a sound, A tone of music, summer eve, or spring, A flower-the wind-the ocean-which shall væl, Striking the electric train, wherewith we are dar c YES, it is haunted, this quiet scene, Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and And spirits that dwell where the water p Oh! in the heart there are stronger powe That sway, though viewless, this world of Have I not lived midst these lonely dells, And loved, and sorrow'd, and heard farewe And learn'd in my own deep soul to look, And tremble before that mysterious book! Have I not, under these whispering leaves. ( Woven such dreams as the young heart we Shadows-yet unto which life seem'd bou And is it not-is it not haunted ground?, -were worked up into a plausible narrative, admirably cal culated to excite the sympathies of its readers. But how far it was really deserving of them, may be judged by the following extract from a letter to a friend who had been similarly mystified:-"I send you a North American Review, which will mortify C. and you with the sad intelligence that John Hunter-even our own John Dunn-the man of the panther's skin-the adopted of the Kansas-the shooter with the rifleno, with the long bow-is, I blush to say it, neither more nor less than an impostor; no better than Psalmanazar; no, no better than Carraboo herself. After this, what are we to believe again? Are there any Loo Choo Islands? Was there ever any Robinson Crusoe? Is there any Rammohun Roy? All one's faith and trust is shaken to its foundations. No one here sympathises with me properly on this annoying occasion; but you, I think, will know how to feel, who have been quite as much devoted to that vile John Dunn as myself."-Memoir, pp. 95-6.] Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods, Where the red Indian lays his father's dust, And, by the rushing of the torrent floods, To the Great Spirit bows in silent trust? Doth not thy soul o'ersweep the foaming main, To pour itself upon the wilds again? They are gone forth, the desert's warrior race, By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe; But where art thou, the swift one in the chase, With thy free footstep and unfailing bow? Their singing shafts have reach'd the panther's lair, And where art thou?-thine arrows are not there. They rest beside their streams-the spoil is won They hang their spears upon the cypress bough; The night-fires blaze, the hunter's work is doneThey hear the tales of old-but where art thou? The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine, And there a place is fill'd that once was thine. For thou art mingling with the city's throng, E'en as ourselves, by life's tempestuous tide. But will this be? and canst thou here find rest? Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert's breast. Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear From the savannah land, the land of streams? Hear'st thou not murmurs which none else may hear? Is not the forest's shadow on thy dreams? They call-wild voices call thee o'er the main, Back to thy free and boundless woods again. Hearthem not! hear them not!-thou canst not find In the far wilderness what once was thine! |