The Ivy-Song.[416]

Oh! how could fancy crown with thee, In ancient days, the God of Wine, And bid thee at the banquet be Companion of the Vine? Ivy! thy home is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o’er; Where song and beaker once went round, But now are known no more; Where long-fallen gods recline, There the place is thine.

The Roman, on his battle-plains, Where kings before his eagles bent, With thee, amidst exulting strains, Shadow’d the victor’s tent. Though, shining there in deathless green, Triumphantly thy boughs might wave, Better thou lovest the silent scene Around the victor’s grave-- Urn and sculpture half divine Yield their place to thine.

The cold halls of the regal dead, Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, Where hollow sounds the lightest tread-- Ivy! they know thee well! And far above the festal vine Thou wavest where once proud banners hung, Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine-- The Rhine, still fresh and young! Tower and rampart o’er the Rhine, Ivy! all are thine!

High from the fields of air look down Those eyries of a vanish’d race, Where harp, and battle, and renown, Have pass’d, and left no trace. But thou art there!--serenely bright, Meeting the mountain-storms with bloom, Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, Or crown the lowliest tomb! Ivy! Ivy! all are thine, Palace, hearth, and shrine.

’Tis still the same: our pilgrim-tread O’er classic plains, through deserts free, On the mute path of ages fled, Still meets decay and thee. And still let man his fabrics rear, August in beauty, stern in power-- Days pass--thou Ivy never sere, And thou shalt have thy dower. All are thine, or must be thine-- Temple, pillar, shrine!

This song, as originally written, the reader will have met with in an earlier part of this publication, (p. 354.) Being afterwards completely remodelled by Mrs Hemans, perhaps no apology is requisite for its re-insertion here.

“Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”--Lycidas.

THE MUSIC OF ST PATRICK’S.

[The choral music of St Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, is almost unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific skill. The majestic harmony of effect thus produced is not a little deepened by the character of the church itself, which, though small, yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and old monumental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to recognise it as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old--a place to witness the solitary vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at the burial of some warlike king.]

“All the choir Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas.”--Milton.

Again! oh! send that anthem-peal again Through the arch’d roof in triumph to the sky! Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain, The banners thrill as if with victory!

Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might have heard, While arm’d for fields of chivalrous renown: Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirr’d, While throbbing still beneath the recent crown!

Those notes once more!--they bear my soul away, They lend the wings of morning to its flight; No earthly passion in th’ exulting lay Whispers one tone to win me from that height.

All is of Heaven! Yet wherefore to mine eye Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source, Even while the waves of that strong harmony Roll with my spirit on their sounding course?

Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal Thus by the burst of sorrow’s token shower! --Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel Our nature’s limit in its proudest hour?

[The mention of Neukomm’s magnificent organ-playing brings to remembrance one great enjoyment of Mrs Hemans’s residence in Dublin--the exquisite “Music of St Patrick’s,” of which she has recorded her impressions in the little poem so entitled. Its effect is, indeed, such as, once heard, can never be forgotten. If ever earthly music can be satisfying, it must surely be such as this, bringing home to our bosoms the solemn beauty of our own holy liturgy, with all its precious and endeared associations, in tones that make the heart swell with ecstasy, and the eyes overflow with unbidden tears. There was one anthem, frequently heard within those ancient walls, which Mrs Hemans used to speak of with peculiar enthusiasm--that from the 3d Psalm--“Lord, how are they increased that trouble me!” The consummate skill exhibited in the adaptation of sound to sense in this noble composition is, in truth, most admirable. The symphony to the 5th verse--“I laid me down and slept”--with its soft, dreamy vibrations, gentle as the hovering of an angel’s wing--the utter abandon, the melting into slumber, implied by the half-whispered words that came breathing as from a world of spirits--almost “steep the senses in forgetfulness,” when a sudden outbreak, as it were, of life and light, bursts forth with the glad announcement, “I awaked, for the Lord sustained me;” then the old sombre arches ring with an almost overpowering peal of triumph, bearing to Heaven’s gate the exulting chorus of the 6th and 8th verses.--Memoir, p. 260-1.]

KEENE; OR, LAMENT OF AN IRISH MOTHER OVER HER SON.

[This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and deep pathos, and other characteristics analogous to those of the national music.]

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark!

There is blood upon the threshold Whence thy step went forth at morn Like a dancer’s in its fleetness, O my bright first-born!

At the glad sound of that footstep My heart within me smiled;-- Thou wert brought me back all silent On thy bier, my child!

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark!

I thought to see thy children Laugh on me with thine eyes; But my sorrow’s voice is lonely Where my life’s flower lies.

I shall go to sit beside thee, Thy kindred’s graves among; I shall hear the tall grass whisper-- I shall not hear it long.

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark!

And I, too, shall find slumber With my lost one in the earth;-- Let none light up the ashes Again on our hearth!

Let the roof go down!--let silence On the home for ever fall, Where my boy lay cold, and heard not His lone mother’s call!

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on; Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair’d son! Silent and dark!