The Song Of Penitence.[431]

UNFINISHED.

[We learn from the Rev. R. P. Graves, that “The Song of Penitence,” if it had been finished in time, was intended for insertion among the “Scenes and Hymns of Life.”]

He pass’d from earth Without his fame,--the calm, pure, starry fame He might have won, to guide on radiantly Full many a noble soul,--he sought it not; And e’en like brief and barren lightning pass’d The wayward child of genius. And the songs Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life, Had shower’d forth recklessly, as ocean-waves Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed, They died before him;--they were winged seed Scatter’d afar, and, falling on the rock Of the world’s heart, had perish’d. One alone, One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain, The deep beseeching of a stricken breast, Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls Of the kind few that loved him, with a love Faithful to even its disappointed hope, That song of tears found root, and by their hearths Full oft, in low and reverential tones, Fill’d with the piety of tenderness, Is murmur’d to their children, when his name On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls, Far from the world’s rude voices, far away. Oh! hear, and judge him gently; ’twas his last.

I come alone, and faint I come-- To nature’s arms I flee; The green woods take their wanderer home, But Thou, O Father! may I turn to thee?

The earliest odour of the flower, The bird’s first song is thine; Father in heaven! my dayspring’s hour Pour’d its vain incense on another shrine.

Therefore my childhood’s once-loved scene Around me faded lies; Therefore, remembering what hath been, I ask, is this mine early paradise?

It is, it is--but Thou art gone; Or if the trembling shade Breathe yet of thee, with alter’d tone Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismay’d.

Suggested by the late Mrs Fletcher’s story of The Lost Life, published in the Amulet for 1830.

TROUBADOUR SONG.

They rear’d no trophy o’er his grave, They hade no requiem flow; What left they there to tell the brave That a warrior sleeps below?

A shiver’d spear, a cloven shield, A helm with its white plume torn, And a blood-stain’d turf on the fatal field, Where a chief to his rest was borne.

He lies not where his fathers sleep, But who hath a tomb more proud? For the Syrian wilds his record keep, And a banner is his shroud.

THE ENGLISH BOY.

“Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt They owe their ancestors; and make them swear To pay it, by transmitting down entire Those sacred rights to which themselves were born.” Akenside.

Look from the ancient mountains down, My noble English boy! Thy country’s fields around thee gleam In sunlight and in joy.

Ages have roll’d since foeman’s march Pass’d o’er that old, firm sod; For well the land hath fealty held To freedom and to God!

Gaze proudly on, my English boy! And let thy kindling mind Drink in the spirit of high thought From every chainless wind!

There, in the shadow of old Time, The halls beneath thee lie Which pour’d forth to the fields of yore Our England’s chivalry.

How bravely and how solemnly They stand, midst oak and yew! Whence Cressy’s yeomen haply framed The bow, in battle true.

And round their walls the good swords hang Whose faith knew no alloy, And shields of knighthood, pure from stain: Gaze on, my English boy!

Gaze where the hamlet’s ivied church Gleams by the antique elm, Or where the minster lifts the cross High through the air’s blue realm.

Martyrs have shower’d their free heart’s blood That England’s prayer might rise, From those gray fanes of thoughtful years, Unfetter’d, to the skies.

Along their aisles, beneath their trees, This earth’s most glorious dust, Once fired with valour, wisdom, song, Is laid in holy trust.

Gaze on--gaze farther, farther yet-- My gallant English boy! Yon blue sea bears thy country’s flag, The billows’ pride and joy!

Those waves in many a fight have closed Above her faithful dead; That red-cross flag victoriously Hath floated o’er their bed.

They perish’d--this green turf to keep By hostile tread unstain’d, These knightly halls inviolate, Those churches unprofaned.

And high and clear their memory’s light Along our shore is set, And many an answering beacon-fire Shall there be kindled yet!

Lift up thy heart, my English boy! And pray, like them to stand, Should God so summon thee, to guard The altars of the land.

TO THE BLUE ANEMONE.

Flower of starry clearness bright! Quivering urn of colour’d light! Hast thou drawn thy cup’s rich dye From the intenseness of the sky? From a long, long fervent gaze Through the year’s first golden days, Up that blue and silent deep, Where, like things of sculptured sleep, Alabaster clouds repose, With the sunshine on their snows? Thither was thy heart’s love turning, Like a censer ever burning, Till the purple heavens in thee Set their smile, Anemone?

Or can those warm tints be caught Each from some quick glow of thought? So much of bright soul there seems In thy bendings and thy gleams, So much thy sweet life resembles That which feels, and weeps, and trembles, I could deem thee spirit-fill’d, As a reed by music thrill’d, When thy being I behold To each loving breath unfold, Or, like woman’s willowy form, Shrink before the gathering storm! I could ask a voice from thee, Delicate Anemone!

Flower! thou seem’st not born to die With thy radiant purity, But to melt in air away, Mingling with the soft Spring-day, When the crystal heavens are still, And faint azure veils each hill, And the lime-leaf doth not move, Save to songs that stir the grove, And earth all glorified is seen, As imaged in some lake serene; --Then thy vanishing should be, Pure and meek Anemone!

Flower! the laurel still may shed Brightness round the victor’s head; And the rose in beauty’s hair Still its festal glory wear; And the willow-leaves drop o’er Brows which love sustains no more: But by living rays refined, Thou, the trembler of the wind, Thou the spiritual flower, Sentient of each breeze and shower, Thou, rejoicing in the skies, And transpierced with all their dyes; Breathing vase, with light o’erflowing, Gem-like to thy centre glowing, Thou the poet’s type shalt be, Flower of soul, Anemone!

SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE.