Fill with forgetfulness, fill high !-
-Yet stay-
Tis from the past we shadow forth the land
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way,
And the soul's friends be wreath'd in one bright
band.
Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill-
I must remember still.
["The Songs of the Affections' were published in the summer of 1830. This collection of lyrics has been, perhaps, less popular than other of Mrs Hemans's later works. It was hardly, indeed, to be expected that the principal poem, A Spirit's Return,' the origin and subject of which we have already described, should appeal to the feelings of so large a circle as had borne witness to the truth of the tales of actual life and sacrifice and suffering contained in the Records of Woman. But there are parts of the poem solemnly and impressively powerful. The passages in which the speaker describes her youth-the disposition born with her to take pleasure in spiritual contemplations, and to listen to that voice in nature which speaks of another state of being beyond this visible world-prepare us most naturally for the agony of her desire-when he, in whom she had devotedly embarked all her earthly hopes and affections
till the world held naught
Save the one being to my centred thought,'
For their sake, for the dead-whose image naught
May dim within the temple of my breast-
For their love's sake, which now no earthly
May shake or trouble with its own unrest, Though the past haunt me as a spirit-yet I ask not to forget.
was taken away from her for ever-to see him, if but for a moment-to speak with him only once again!
As the crisis of interest approaches, the variety given by alternate rhymes to the heroic measure in which the tale was written, is wisely laid aside, and it proceeds with a resistless energy
'Hast thou been told, that from the viewless bourne
The dark way never hath allow'd return ?' etc. "The conclusion of this fine poem is far from fulfilling the promise of its commencement; but it was impossible to imagine any events, or give utterance to any feelings, succeeding those so awful and exciting, which should not appear feeble, and vague, and exhausted. Mrs Hemans would sometimes regret that she had not bestowed more labour upon the close of her work this, it is true, might have been more carefully elaborated, but, from the nature of her subject, I doubt the possibility of its having been substantially improved."--Chorley's Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 101 5.]
[On a monument in a Venetian church is an epitaph, recording that the remains beneath are those of a noble lady, who expired suddenly while standing as a bride at the altar.]
"We bear her home! we bear her home'
Over the murmuring salt sea's foam;
One who has fled from the war of life,
From sorrow, pain, and the fever strife."
BRIDE! upon thy marriage-day,
When thy gems in rich array
Made the glistening mirror seem
As a star-reflecting stream;
When the clustering pearls lay fair
Midst thy braids of sunny hair,
And the white veil o'er thee streaming,
Like a silvery halo gleaming,
Mellow'd all that pomp and light
Into something meekly bright;
Did the fluttering of thy breath
Speak of joy or woe beneath?
And the hue that went and came
O'er thy check, like wavering flame,
Flow'd that crimson from th' unrest
Or the gladness of thy breast?
-Who shall tell us? From thy bower,
Brightly didst thou pass that hour;
With the many-glancing oar,
And the cheer along the shore,
And the wealth of summer flowers
On thy fair head cast in showers,
And the breath of song and flute,
And the clarion's glad salute,
Swiftly o'er the Adrian tide
Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride ↓
Mirth and music, sun and sky,
Welcomed thee triumphantly!
Yet, perchance, a chastening thought
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, as untold it blent
With the sounds of merriment-
"From the home of childhood's glee,
From the days of laughter free,
From the love of many years,
Thou art gone to cares and fears;
To another path and guide,
To a bosom yet untried!
Bright one! oh, there well may be
Trembling midst our joy for thee!"
Bride! when through the stately fane,
Circled with thy nuptial train,
Midst the banners hung on high
By thy warrior-ancestry,
Midst those mighty fathers dead,
In soft beauty thou wast led;
When before the shrine thy form
Quiver'd to some bosom-storm,
When, like harp-strings with a sigh
Breaking in mid-harmony,
On thy lip the murmurs low
Died with love's unfinish'd vow;
When, like scatter'd rose-leaves, fled
From thy cheek each tint of red,
And the light forsook thine eye,
And thy head sunk heavily;
Was that drooping but th' excess
Of thy spirit's blessedness?
Or did some deep feeling's might,
Folded in thy heart from sight,
With a sudden tempest-shower
Earthward bear thy life's young flower?
-Who shall tell us? On thy tongue
Silence, and for ever, hung!
Never to thy lip and cheek
Rush'd again the crimson streak;
Never to thine eye return'd
That which there had beam'd and burn'd!
With the secret none might know,
With thy rapture or thy woe,
With thy marriage robe and wreath,
Thou wert fled, young bride of death!
One, one lightning moment there
Struck down triumph to despair;
Beauty, splendour, hope, and trust,
Into darkness-terror-dust!
There were sounds of weeping o'er thee, Bride! as forth thy kindred bore thee,
Shrouded in thy gleaming veil,
Deaf to that wild funeral wail.
Yet perchance a chastening thought
In some deeper spirit wrought,
Whispering, while the stern, sad knell
On the air's bright stillness fell-
"From the power of chill and change
Souls to sever and estrange;
From love's wane-a death in life,
But to watch-a mortal strife;
From the secret fevers known
To the burning heart alone,
Thou art fled-afar, away-
Where these blights no more have sway!
Bright one! oh, there well may be
Comfort midst our tears for thee!"
"A long war disturb'd your mind-
Here your perfect peace is sign'd;
'Tis now full tide 'twixt night and day-
End your moan, and come away!"
WEBSTER," Duchess of Malfy."
THERE were faint sounds of weeping; fear and gloom
And midnight vigil in a stately room
Of Lusignan's old halls. Rich odours there
Fill'd the proud chamber as with Indian air,
And soft light fell from lamps of silver, thrown
On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone
Over a gorgeous couch: there emeralds gleam'd,
And deeper crimson from the ruby stream'd
Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set,
Hiding from sunshine. Many a carcanet
Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain
Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain,
And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath
Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death,
Hung drooping solemnly,-for there one lay.
Passing from all earth's glories fast away,
Amidst those queenly treasures. They had been
Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands;
And for his sake, upon their orient sheen
She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands
Had press'd them to her languid heart once more,
Melting in childlike tears. But this was o'er-
Love's last, vain clinging unto life; and now
A mist of dreams was hovering o'er her brow;
Her eye was fix'd, her spirit seem'd removed,
Though not from earth, from all it knew or loved,
Far, far away! Her handmaids watch'd around,
In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound
A might, a mystery; and the quivering light
Of wind-sway'd lamps made spectral in their sight
The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair,
Gleaming along the walls with braided hair,
Long in the dust grown dim; and she, too, saw,
But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe,
Those pictured shapes!- —a bright, yet solemn train
Beckoning, they floated o'er her dreamy brain,
Clothed in diviner hues; while on her ear
Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear,
-Sweet, yet profoundly mournful, as the sigh
Of winds o'er harp-strings through a midnight
sky;
And thus it seem'd, in that low, thrilling tone,
Th' ancestral shadows call'd away their own.
Come, come, come! Long thy fainting soul hath yearn'd For the step that ne'er return'd; Long thine anxious ear hath listen'd, And thy watchful eye hath glisten'd With the hope, whose parting strife Shook the flower-leaves from thy life. Now the heavy day is done: Home awaits thee, wearied one!
Come, come, come!
From the quenchless thoughts that burn
In the seal'd heart's lonely urn;
From the coil of memory's chain
Wound about the throbbing brain;
From the veins of sorrow deep,
Winding through the world of sleep;
From the haunted halls and bowers,
Throng'd with ghosts of happier hours!
Come, come, come!
On our dim and distant shore
Aching love is felt no more!
We have loved with earth's excess-
Past is now that weariness !
We have wept, that weep not now-
Calm is each once-beating brow!
We have known the dreamer's woes-
All is now one bright repose!
Come, come, come !
Weary heart that long hast bled,
Languid spirit, drooping head,
Restless memory, vain regret,
Pining love whose light is set,
Come away!-'tis hush'd, 'tis well,
Where by shadowy founts we dwell,
All the fever-thirst is still'd,
All the air with peace is fill'd,-
Come, come, come !
And with her spirit wrapt in that wild lay, She pass'd, as twilight melts to night, away!
"How lived, how loved, how died they ?"-BYRON.
“THE dead! the glorious dead !—and shall they rise? [eyes?
Shall they look on thee with their proud bright
Thou ask'st a fearful spell!
Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall,
What kingly vision shall obey my call?
The deep grave knows it well!
"Wouldst thou behold earth's conquerors? shall they pass
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass
With triumph's long array?
Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn,
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return,
As on their proudest day.
"Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song?
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng
Shall waft a solemn gleam!
Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows,
Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs,
But silent as a dream."
"Not these, O mighty master!-though their lays
Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise,
Hallow'd for evermore !
And not the buried conquerors-let them sleep,
And let the flowery earth her sabbaths keep
In joy, from shore to shore !
"But, if the narrow house may so be moved,
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved
Back from their couch of rest!
That I may learn if their meek eyes be fill'd
With peace, if human love hath ever still'd
The yearning human breast."
"Away, fond youth !—an idle quest is thine: These have no trophy, no memorial shrine; I know not of their place! Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow, Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and Have pass'd, and left no trace [low
Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught, Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer,
Even lowliest hearts have bled?
Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair?
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