The Image In Lava.[366]

Thou thing of years departed! What ages have gone by Since here the mournful seal was set By love and agony?

Temple and tower have moulder’d, Empires from earth have pass’d, And woman’s heart hath left a trace Those glories to outlast!

And childhood’s fragile image, Thus fearfully enshrined, Survives the proud memorials rear’d By conquerors of mankind.

Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering Upon thy mother’s breast When suddenly the fiery tomb Shut round each gentle guest?

A strange, dark fate o’ertook you, Fair babe and loving heart! One moment of a thousand pangs-- Yet better than to part!

Haply of that fond bosom On ashes here impress’d, Thou wert the only treasure, child! Whereon a hope might rest.

Perchance all vainly lavish’d Its other love had been, And where it trusted, naught remain’d But thorns on which to lean.

Far better, then, to perish, Thy form within its clasp, Than live and lose thee, precious one! From that impassion’d grasp.

Oh! I could pass all relics Left by the pomps of old, To gaze on this rude monument Cast in affection’s mould. Love! human love! what art thou? Thy print upon the dust Outlives the cities of renown Wherein the mighty trust!

Immortal, oh! immortal Thou art, whose earthly glow Hath given these ashes holiness-- It must, it must be so!

The impression of a woman’s form, with an infant clasped to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum.

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

O lovely voices of the sky, That hymn’d the Saviour’s birth! Are ye not singing still on high, Ye that sang “Peace on earth?” To us yet speak the strains Wherewith, in days gone by, Ye bless’d the Syrian swains, O voices of the sky!

O clear and shining light! whose beams That hour heaven’s glory shed Around the palms, and o’er the streams, And on the shepherd’s head; Be near, through life and death, As in that holiest night Of Hope, and Joy, and Faith, O clear and shining light!

O star! which led to Him whose love Brought down man’s ransom free; Where art thou?--Midst the hosts above May we still gaze on thee? In heaven thou art not set, Thy rays earth might not dim-- Send them to guide us yet, O star which led to Him!

A FATHER READING THE BIBLE.

’Twas early day, and sunlight stream’d Soft through a quiet room, That hush’d, but not forsaken seem’d, Still, but with naught of gloom. For there, serene in happy age Whose hope is from above, A father communed with the page Of heaven’s recorded love.

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, On his gray holy hair, And touch’d the page with tenderest light, As if its shrine were there! But oh! that patriarch’s aspect shone With something lovelier far-- A radiance all the spirit’s own, Caught not from sun or star.

Some word of life e’en then had met His calm, benignant eye; Some ancient promise, breathing yet Of immortality! Some martyr’s prayer, wherein the glow Of quenchless faith survives: While every feature said--“I know That my Redeemer lives!”

And silent stood his children by, Hushing their very breath, Before the solemn sanctity Of thoughts o’ersweeping death. Silent--yet did not each young breast With love and reverence melt? Oh! blest be those fair girls, and blest That home where God is felt!

[This little poem, which, as its Author herself expressed in a letter to Mrs Joanna Baillie, was to her “a thing set apart,” as being the last of her productions ever read to her beloved mother, was written at the request of a young lady, who thus made known her wish “that Mrs Hemans would embody in poetry a picture that so warmed a daughter’s heart:”--

“Upon going into our dear father’s sitting-room this morning, my sister and I found him deeply engaged reading his Bible, and, being unwilling to interrupt such a holy occupation, we retired to the further end of the apartment, to gaze unobserved upon the serene picture. The bright morning sun was beaming on his venerable silver hair, while his defective sight increased the earnestness with which he perused the blessed book. Our fancy led us to believe that some immortal thought was engaging his mind, for he raised his fine open brow to the light, and we felt we had never loved him more deeply. After an involuntary prayer had passed from our hearts, we whispered to each other, ‘Oh! if Mrs Hemans could only see our father at this moment, her glowing pen would detain the scene; for even as we gaze upon it, the bright gleam is vanishing.’

“December 9, 1826.”