Lines

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE.

O wanderer! would thy heart forget Each earthly passion and regret, And would thy wearied spirit rise To commune with its native skies; Pause for a while, and deem it sweet To linger in this calm retreat; And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense, Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence.

Unmix’d with aught of meaner tone, Here Nature’s voice is heard alone: When the loud storm, in wrathful hour, Is rushing on its wing of power, And spirits of the deep awake, And surges foam, and billows break, And rocks and ocean-caves around Reverberate each awful sound-- That mighty voice, with all its dread control, To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul.

But when no more the sea-winds rave, When peace is brooding on the wave, And from earth, air, and ocean rise No sounds but plaintive melodies; Soothed by their softly mingling swell, As daylight bids the world farewell, The rustling wood, the dying breeze, The faint low rippling of the seas, A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast, A gleam reflected from the realms of rest.

Is thine a heart the world hath stung, Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung? Hast thou some grief that none may know, Some lonely, secret, silent woe? Or have thy fond affections fled From earth, to slumber with the dead?-- Oh! pause awhile--the world disown, And dwell with Nature’s self alone! And though no more she bids arise Thy soul’s departed energies, And though thy joy of life is o’er, Beyond her magic to restore; Yet shall her spells o’er every passion steal, And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal.

DIRGE OF A CHILD.

No bitter tears for thee be shed, Blossom of being! seen and gone! With flowers alone we strew thy bed, O blest departed One! Whose all of life, a rosy ray, Blush’d into dawn and pass’d away.

Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power To stain thy cherub-soul and form, Closed is the soft ephemeral flower That never felt a storm! The sunbeam’s smile, the zephyr’s breath, All that it knew from birth to death.

Thou wert so like a form of light, That heaven benignly call’d thee hence, Ere yet the world could breathe one blight O’er thy sweet innocence: And thou, that brighter home to bless, Art pass’d, with all thy loveliness!

Oh I hadst thou still on earth remain’d, Vision of beauty! fair, as brief! How soon thy brightness had been stain’d With passion or with grief! Now not a sullying breath can rise To dim thy glory in the skies.

We rear no marble o’er thy tomb-- No sculptured image there shall mourn; Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom Such dwelling to adorn. Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be The only emblems meet for thee.

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, Adorn’d with Nature’s brightest wreath; Each glowing season shall combine Its incense there to breathe; And oft, upon the midnight air, Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.

And oh! sometimes in visions blest, Sweet spirit! visit our repose; And bear, from thine own world of rest, Some balm for human woes! What form more lovely could be given Than thine to messenger of heaven?

INVOCATION.

Hush’d is the world in night and sleep-- Earth, sea, and air are still as death; Too rude to break a calm so deep Were music’s faintest breath. Descend, bright visions! from aërial bowers, Descend to gild your own soft silent hours.

In hope or fear, in toil or pain, The weary day have mortals pass’d; Now, dreams of bliss! be yours to reign, And all your spells around them cast; Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear, And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.

Oh, bear your softest balm to those Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead! To them that world of peace disclose Where the bright soul is fled: Whore Love, immortal in his native clime, Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time.

Or to his loved, his distant land On your light wings the exile bear, To feel once more his heart expand In his own genial mountain-air; Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat, And bless each note, as heaven’s own music sweet.

But oh! with fancy’s brightest ray, Blest dreams! the bard’s repose illume; Bid forms of heaven around him play, And bowers of Eden bloom! And waft his spirit to its native skies Who finds no charm in life’s realities.

No voice is on the air of night, Through folded leaves no murmurs creep, Nor star nor moonbeam’s trembling light Falls on the placid brow of sleep. Descend, bright visions! from your airy bower: Dark, silent, solemn is your favourite hour.

Vide Annotation from Quarterly Review, p. 62.