Ed. Oh! bear me up
Against the unutterable tenderness
Of earthly love, my God !-in the sick hour
Of dying human hope, forsake me not!
Herbert, my Herbert! even from that sweet home
Where it had been too much of Paradise [hand
To dwell with thee-even thence the oppressor's
Might soon have torn us; or the touch of death
Might one day there have left a widow'd heart,
Pining alone. We will go hence, beloved!
To the bright country where the wicked cease
From troubling, where the spoiler hath no sway;
Where no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs
The Sabbath-peace of love. We will go hence,
Together with our wedded souls, to heaven:
No solitary lingering, no cold void,
No dying of the heart! Our lives have been
Lovely through faithful love, and in our deaths
We will not be divided.
Of God is lying far within thine eyes,
Far underneath the mist of human tears
Lighting those blue, still depths, and sinking thence
On my worn heart. Now am I girt with strength,
Now I can bless thee, my true bride for heaven!
Ed. And let me bless thee, Herbert !-in this hour
Let my soul bless thee with prevailing might !
Oh! thou hast loved me nobly! thou didst take
An orphan to thy heart—a thing unprized
And desolate; and thou didst guard her there,
That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl
Of richest price; and thou didst fill her soul
With the high gifts of an immortal wealth.
I bless, I bless thee! Never did thine eye
Look on me but in glistening tenderness,
My gentle Herbert! Never did thy voice
But in affection's deepest music speak
To thy poor Edith! Never was thy heart
Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine,
My faithful, generous Herbert! Woman's peace
Ne'er on a breast so tender and so true
Reposed before. Alas! thy showering tears
Fall fast upon my cheek-forgive, forgive!
I should not melt thy noble strength away
In such an hour.
Her. Sweet Edith, no! my heart
Will fail no more. God bears me up through thee,
And by thy words, and by thy heavenly light
Shining around thee, through thy very tears,
Will yet sustain me! Let us call on Him!
Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft,
Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him,
Th' all-pitying One, to aid.
Father above!-in tender mercy look
On us, thy children !-through th' o'ershadowing
Of sorrow and mortality, send aid—
Save, or we perish! We would pour our lives
Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth;
But we are weak-we, the bruised reeds of earth,
Are sway'd by every gust. Forgive, O God!
The blindness of our passionate desires,
The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts
Which cleave to dust! Forgive the strife; accept
The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears,
From mortal pangs wrung forth! And if our souls,
In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess,
Of their long-clasping love, have wander'd not,
Holiest! from thee-oh! take them to thyself,
After the fiery trial-take them home
To dwell, in that imperishable bond
Before thee link'd, for ever.
Who meekly drank the cup of agony,
Who pass'd through death to victory, hear and save!
Pity us, Father! we are girt with snares:
Father in Heaven! we have no help but thee.
Is thy soul strengthen'd, my beloved one?
O Edith! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice,
And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn
We loved in happier days-the strain which tells
Of the dread conflict in the olive shade?
He knelt, the Saviour knelt and pray'd,
When but his Father's eye
Look'd through the lonely garden's shade
On that dread agony;
The Lord of all above, beneath,
Was bow'd with sorrow unto death.
The sun set in a fearful hour,
The stars might well grow dim, When this mortality had power
So to o'ershadow HIM!
That He who gave man's breath, might know The very depths of human woe.
He proved them all!-the doubt, the strife, The faint perplexing dread,
The mists that hang o'er parting life,
All gather'd round his head; And the Deliverer knelt to prayYet pass'd it not, that cup, away!
It pass'd not-though the stormy wave Had sunk beneath his tread
It pass'd not-though to Him the grave Had yielded up its dead.
But there was sent him from on High A gift of strength for man to die.
And was the Sinless thus beset
With anguish and dismay?
How may we meet our conflict yet,
In the dark, narrow way?
Through Him-through Him that path who trod. -Save, or we perish, Son of God!
Hark, hark! the parting signal.
[Prison attendants enter.
Fare thee well!
O thou unutterably loved, farewell!
Let our hearts bow to God!
Her. One last embrace
On earth the last! We have eternity
For love's communion yet! Farewell!-farewell!
"Tis o'er!-the bitterness of death is past!
FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF
"Once when I look'd along the laughing earth,
Up the blue heavens and through the middle air, Joyfully ringing with the skylark's song,
I wept! and thought how sad for one so young
To bid farewell to so much happiness.
But Christ hath call'd me from this lower world, Delightful though it be." WILSON.
Apartment in an English country-house. - LILIAN reclining, as sleeping on a couch. Her mother watching beside her. Her sister enters with flowers.
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
Their blooms recall.
Lilian, (raising herself.) Is that my Jessy's voice It woke me not, sweet mother! I had lain Silently, visited by waking dreams,
Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness,
Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought
flowers?
Nay, fear not now thy fond child's waywardness,
My thoughtful mother!-in her chasten'd soul
The passion-colour'd images of life,
Which, with their sudden, startling flush, awoke
So oft those burning tears, have died away;
And night is there-still, solemn, holy night!
With all her stars, and with the gentle tune
Of many fountains, low and musical,
By day unheard.
Mother. 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 dayspring.
Dream it no more, my mother!-there are things Known but to God, and to the parting soul, Which feels His thrilling summons.
Too much o'ershadow those kind, loving eyes.
Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step,
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
With sounds like childhood's laughter. Is that spot Mother. Hush! lightly tread! Still tranquilly Lovely as when our glad eyes hail'd it first?
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,
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep The clear brown wave with every passing wind? And through the shallower waters, where they lie 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?
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 long, 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 ringdove's wing is flitting o'er my head,
Casting at times a silvery shadow down
Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful!
How beautiful is all this fair, free world
Under God's open sky!
Mother. Thou art o'erwrought
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?
Mother. My Lilian! thou
Surely in thy bright life hast little known
Of lost things or of changed!
Lilian. 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 hath gentleness enough
To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!-
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,
Once more, my child! The dewy, trembling light Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die Presaging tears, again is in thine eye.
Oh, 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
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone-
(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!"
I thank Thee for these gifts, the precious links
Whereby my spirit unto Thee is drawn!
I thank Thee that the loveliness of earth
In tenderest falls away. Oh, bring thy harp,
Sister! A gentle heaviness at last
Hath touch'd mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep
Will come again.
[peasant's lay,
Jessy. What wouldst thou hear?-the Italian
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
Within the Alhambra city? or those notes
Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile's heart
Even unto death?
Lilian. No, sister! nor yet these-
Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret,
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 bear
The spirit upon slow yet 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."
JESSY sings to the Harp.
O Son of Man!
In thy last mortal hour
Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully! All that on us is laid,
All the deep gloom,
The desolation and the abandonment,
The dark amaze of death
All upon thee too fell,
Redeemer! Son of Man!
But the keen pang
Wherewith the silver cord
Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung; The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown Into the quick, strong heart;
This, this-the passion and the agony
Of battling love and death,
Surely was not for thee,
Holy One! Son of God!
Yes, my Redeemer !
E'en this cup was thine!
Fond, wailing voices call'd thy spirit back:
E'en midst the mighty thoughts
Of that last crowning hour-
E'en on thine awful way to victory,
Wildly they call'd thee back!
And weeping eyes of love
Unto thy heart's deep core
Pierced through the folds of death's mysterious veil.
Suffer! thou Son of Man!
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
Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain-
He, a pale sad watcher,
Met with looks of anguish
All the anguish in thy last meek glanceDying 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 each conflict cry,
And, in that tempest-hour, when love and life
Mysteriously must part,
When tearful eyes
To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze, Then, then forsake us not!
Shed on our spirits then
The faith and deep submissiveness of thine! Thou that didst love
Thou that didst weep and die— Thou that didst rise a victor glorified; Conqueror! thou Son of God!
"They dreamt not of a perishable home Who thus could build. Be mine in hours of fear Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here."
A DIM and mighty minster of old time!
A temple shadowy with remembrances
Of the majestic past! The very light
Streams with a colouring of heroic days
In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle
A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back
To other years !-and the rich fretted roof,
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves,
Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose-
The tenderest image of mortality—
Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts
Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves;-all these things
Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly,
On their heart's worship pour'd a wealth of love!
Honour be with the dead! The people kneel
Under the helms of antique chivalry,
And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, And midst the forms, in pale, proud slumber carved, Of warriors on their tombs. The people kneel Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell'd
On the flush'd brows of conquerors have been set;
Where the high anthems of old victories
Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain
thoughts!
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 [wings
Which the blasts call forth with their harping
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
Answering the electric notes. Join, join, my soul!
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness,
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.
In solemn joy aspire, Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain! On thy strong rushing wind Bear up from humankind
Thanks and implorings-be they not in vain!
Father, which art on high!
Weak is the melody
Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear,
Unless the heart be there,
Winging the words of prayer
With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.
Let, then, thy Spirit brood
Over the multitude
Be thou amidst them, thro' that heavenly Guest! So shall their cry have power
To win from thee a shower
Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.
What griefs that make no sign,
That ask no aid but thine,
Father of mercies! here before thee swell!
As to the open sky,
All their dark waters lie
To thee reveal'd, in each close bosom-cell.
The sorrow for the dead,
Mantling its lonely head
From 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.
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