THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.1
"Ne me plaignez pas-si vous saviez
Combien de peines ce tombeau m'a epargnées !"
I STOOD beside thy lowly grave; Spring odours breathed around, And music, in the river wave, Passed with a lulling sound.
All happy things that love the sun In the bright air glanced by, And a glad murmur seemed to run Through the soft azure sky.
Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough That fringed the ruins near; Young voices were abroad-but thou Their sweetness couldst not hear.
And mournful grew my heart for thee! Thou in whose woman's mind The ray that brightens earth and sea, The light of song, was shrined.
Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low, With a dread curtain drawn Between thee and the golden glow Of this world's vernal dawn.
Parted from all the song and bloom Thou wouldst have loved so well, To thee the sunshine round thy tomb Was but a broken spell.
The bird, the insect on the wing,
In their bright reckless play, Might feel the flush and life of spring-- And thou wert passed away.
But then, e'en then, a nobler thought O'er my vain sadness came; The immortal spirit woke, and wrought Within my thrilling frame.
Surely on lovelier things, I said,
Thou must have looked ere now, Than all that round our pathway shed Odours and hues below.
1"Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one of many in the churchyard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey, that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it."-Tales by the O'Hara Family.
The shadows of the tomb are here, Yet beautiful is earth!
What see'st thou, then, where no dim fear, No haunting dream hath birth?
Here a vain love to passing flowers Thou gavest; but where thou art, The sway is not with changeful hours- There love and death must part.
Thou hast left sorrow in thy song, A voice not loud but deep
The glorious bowers of earth among, How often didst thou weep?
Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground Thy tender thoughts and high?— Now peace the woman's heart hath found, And joy the poet's eye.
They tell but dreams-a lonely spirit's dreams; Yet ever through their fleeting imagery Wanders a vein of melancholy love,
An aimless thought of home; as in the song Of the caged skylark ye may deem there dwells A passionate memory of blue skies and flowers, And living streams, far off!
A SPIRIT'S RETURN.
"This is to be a mortal,
And seek the things beyond mortality!"
THY Voice prevails-dear friend, my gentle friend! This long-shut heart for thee shall be unsealed, And though thy soft eye mournfully will bend Over the troubled stream, yet once revealed Shall its freed waters flow; then rocks must close For evermore, above their dark repose.
Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky
Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie;
Come to the woods, where all strange wandering sound
Is mingled into harmony profound;
Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind Fills with a viewless being, unconfined,
The trembling reeds and fountains-our own dell,
With its green dimness and Æolian breath, Shall suit the unveiling of dark records well- Hear me in tenderness and silent faith!
Thou knewest me not in life's fresh vernal morn- I would thou hadst !-for then my heart on thine Had poured a worthier love; now, all o'erworn By its deep thirst for something too divine, It hath but fitful music to bestow, Echoes of harp-strings broken long ago.
Yet even in youth companionless I stood, As a lone forest-bird 'midst ocean's foam; For me the silver cords of brotherhood Were early loosed; the voices from my home Passed one by one, and melody and mirth Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth.
But, with the fulness of a heart that burned For the deep sympathies of mind, I turned From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought In all wild scenes with thrilling murmurs fraught, In every still small voice and sound of power, And flute-note of the wind through cave and bower A perilous delight!-for then first woke My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest Of secret knowledge; and each tone that broke From the wood-arches or the fountain's breast, Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre, But ministered to that strange inborn fire.
'Midst the bright silence of the mountain dells, In noontide hours or golden summer-eves, My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves
Shakes out response. O thou rich world unseen! Thou curtained realm of spirits !-thus my cry Hath troubled air and silence-dost thou lie Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen Shut from us ever? The resounding woods, Do their depths teem with marvels ?—and the floods, And the pure fountains, leading secret veins Of quenchless melody through rock and hill, Have they bright dwellers ?—are their lone domains Peopled with beauty, which may never still Our weary thirst of soul? Cold, weak and cold, Is earth's vain language, piercing not one fold Of our deep being! Oh, for gifts more high! For a seer's glance to rend mortality!
For a charmed rod, to call from each dark shrine The oracles divine !
I woke from those high fantasies, to know My kindred with the earth-I woke to love : O gentle friend! to love in doubt and woe, Shutting the heart the worshiped name above, Is to love deeply-and my spirit's dower Was a sad gift, a melancholy power Of so adoring-with a buried care, And with the o'erflowing of a voiceless prayer, And with a deepening dream that day by day, In the still shadow of its lonely sway, Folded me closer, till the world held nought
Save the one being to my centred thought. There was no music but his voice to hear, No joy but such as with his step drew near;
Light was but where he looked-life where he moved: Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved.
Oh! but such love is fearful!--and I knew Its gathering doom: the soul's prophetic sight Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw O'er all things round a full, strong, vivid light, Too sorrowfully clear !-an under-tone Was given to Nature's harp, for me alone Whispering of grief. Of grief?-be strong, awake! Hath not thy love been victory, O my soul? Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake Death's fastnesses ?—a magic to control
Worlds far removed?-from o'er the grave to thee Love hath made answer; and thy tale should be Sung like a lay of triumph! Now return, And take thy treasure from its bosomed urn, And lift it once to light!
I said I loved-but yet a heavenly strain Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream, A joy flashed through the trouble of my dream! I knew myself beloved!-we breathed no vow, No mingling visions might our fate allow, As unto happy hearts; but still and deep, Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave, Like golden sand in some dark river's wave, So did my soul that costly knowledge keep So jealously!-a thing o'er which to shed, When stars alone beheld the drooping head, Lone tears! yet ofttimes burdened with the excess Of our strange nature's quivering happiness.
But, oh! sweet friend! we dream not of love's might Till death has robed with soft and solemn light The image we enshrine !-Before that hour, We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power Within us laid!-then doth the spirit-flame With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame; The wings of that which pants to follow fast Shake their clay-bars, as with a prisoned blast- The sea is in our souls!
On whom my lone devotedness was cast!
I might not keep one vigil by his side,
I, whose wrung heart watched with him to the last!
I might not once his fainting head sustain,
Nor bathe his parched lips in the hour of pain,
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