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, 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.]

Thou, that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy, And hear his prayer’s low murmur at thy knee, And o’er his slumber bend in breathless joy, Come to this tomb!--it hath a voice for thee! 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 Thy thousand hopes, rejoicing to behold All the heart’s depths before thee bright with truth, All the mind’s treasures silently unfold, Look on this tomb!--for thee, too, speaks the grave, Where God hath seal’d the fount of hope He gave.

The lady of Sir David Wedderburn, Bart., and sister of the late Viscountess Hampden. The monument on which the lines are inscribed, is at Glynde, in Sussex, near Lord Hampden’s seat. This excellent lady only survived Mrs Hemans a few years.

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 free-- We 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 constancy-- Guide 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 tame.

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.

The Dorian flute that sigh’d of yore Along the wave, is still; The harp of Judah peals no more On Zion’s awful hill.

And Memnon’s lyre hath lost the chord That breathed the mystic tone; And the songs at Rome’s high triumphs pour’d Are with her eagles flown.

And mute the Moorish horn that rang O’er stream and mountain free; And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang Hath died in Galilee.

But thou art swelling on, thou deep! Through many an olden clime, Thy billowy anthem, ne’er to sleep Until the close of time.

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice To every wind and sky, And all our earth’s green shores rejoice In that one harmony.

It fills the noontide’s calm profound, The sunset’s heaven of gold; And the still midnight hears the sound, Even as first it roll’d.

Let there be silence, deep and strange, Where sceptred cities rose! Thou speak’st of One who doth not change-- So. may our hearts repose.

THE CHILD AND DOVE.

SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY’S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA RUSSELL.

Thou art a thing on our dreams to rise, Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies, And to fling bright dew from the morning back, Fair form! on each image of childhood’s track.

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, Thou joyous child with the clustering hair? Is it not spring that indeed breathes free And fresh o’er each thought, while we gaze on thee?

No! never more may we smile as thou Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow; Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine A memory of beauty undimm’d as thine--

To have met the joy of thy speaking face, To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace, To have linger’d before thee, and turn’d, and borne One vision away of the cloudless morn.

A DIRGE.

[The two first stanzas of this dirge may be found in the last scene of “The Siege of Valencia;” but they are more particularly worthy of the reader’s consideration, as having been selected for inscription on the tablet placed above the vault beneath St Ann’s Church, Dublin, where the remains of the author repose.]

Calm on the bosom of thy God, Young spirit! rest thee now! Even while with us thy footstep trod, His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath! Soul, to its place on high!-- They that have seen thy look in death, No more may fear to die.

Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, Whence thy meek smile is gone; But oh!--a brighter home than ours, In heaven, is now thine own.

SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE.

“Oh! fondly, fervently, those two had loved, Had mingled minds in Love’s own perfect trust; Had watch’d bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful years, ----And thus they met!”

“Haste, with your torches, haste! make firelight round!”-- They speed, they press: what hath the miner found? Relic or treasure--giant sword of old? Gems bedded deep--rich veins of burning gold? --Not so--the dead, the dead! An awe-struck band In silence gathering round the silent stand, Chain’d by one feeling, hushing e’en their breath, Before the thing that, in the might of death, Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay-- A sleeper, dreaming not!--a youth with hair Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair!) O’er his cold brow: no shadow of decay Had touch’d those pale, bright features--yet he wore A mien of other days, a garb of yore. Who could unfold that mystery? From the throng A woman wildly broke; her eye was dim, As if through many tears, through vigils long, Through weary strainings:--all had been for him! Those two had loved! And there he lay, the dead, In his youth’s flower--and she, the living, stood With her gray hair, whence hue and gloss had fled-- And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood Had long since ebb’d--a meeting sad and strange! --Oh! are not meetings in this world of change Sadder than partings oft! She stood there, still, And mute, and gazing--all her soul to fill With the loved face once more--the young, fair face, Midst that rude cavern, touch’d with sculpture’s grace, By torchlight and by death: until at last From her deep heart the spirit of the past Gush’d in low broken tones:--“And there thou art! And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part As for a few brief hours! My friend, my friend! First love, and only one! Is this the end Of hope deferr’d, youth blighted! Yet thy brow Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek Smiles--how unchanged!--while I, the worn, and weak, And faded--oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now, If thou couldst look on me!--a wither’d leaf, Sear’d--though for thy sake--by the blast of grief! Better to see thee thus! For thou didst go Bearing my image on thy heart, I know, Unto the dead. My Ulric! through the night How have I call’d thee! With the morning light How have I watch’d for thee!--wept, wander’d, pray’d, Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay’d, In search of thee!--bound my worn life to one-- One torturing hope! Now let me die! ’Tis gone. Take thy betrothed!” And on his breast she fell, Oh! since their youth’s last passionate farewell, How changed in all but love!--the true, the strong, Joining in death whom life had parted long! They had one grave--one lonely bridal-bed, No friend, no kinsman there a tear to shed! His name had ceased--her heart outlived each tie, Once more to look on that dead face, and die!

ENGLISH SOLDIERS SONG OF MEMORY.