The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems Part 11

LINES WRITTEN ON READING THE MEMOIRS OF MISS SMITH.

Peace to the dead! the voice of Nature cries, Even o'er the grave where guilt or frailty lies; Compa.s.sion drives each sterner thought away, And all seem good when mouldering in the clay.

For who amid the dim religious gloom, The solemn sabbath brooding o'er the tomb, The holy stillness that suspends our breath When the soul rests within the shade of death, What heart could then with-hold the pensive sigh Reflection pays to poor mortality, Nor sunk in pity near allied to love, E'en bless the being we could ne'er approve!

The headstrong will with innocence at strife, The restless pa.s.sions that deform'd his life, Desires that spurn'd at reason's weak controul, And dimm'd the native l.u.s.tre of the soul, The look repulsive that like ice repress'd The friendly warmth that play'd within the breast, The slighting word, through heedlessness severe, Wounding the spirit that it ought to chear, Lie buried in the grave! or if they live, Remembrance only wakes them to forgive; While vice and error steal a soft relief From the still twilight of a mellowing grief.

And oh! how lovely do the tints return Of every virtue sleeping in the urn!

Each grace that fleeted un.o.bserved away, Starts into life when those it deck'd decay; Regret fresh beauty on the corse bestows, And self-reproach is mingled with our woes.

But n.o.bler sorrows lift the musing mind, When soaring spirits leave their frames behind, Who walked the world in Nature's generous pride, And, like a sun-beam, lighten'd as they died!

Hope, resignation, the sad soul beguile, And Grief's tear drops 'mid Faith's celestial smile: Then burns our being with a holy mirth That owns no kindred with this mortal earth; For hymning angels in blest vision wave Their wings' bright glory o'er the seraph's grave!

Oh thou! whose soul unmoved by earthly strife, Led by the pole-star of eternal life, Own'd no emotion stain'd by touch of clay, No thought that angels might not pleased survey; Thou! whose calm course through Virtue's fields was run From youth's fair morning to thy setting sun, Nor vice e'er dared one little cloud to roll O'er the bright beauty of thy spotless soul; Thou! who secure in good works strong to save, Resign'd and happy, eyed'st the opening grave, And in the blooming summer of thy years Scarce felt'st regret to leave this vale of tears; Oh! from thy throne amid the starry skies, List to my words thus interwove with sighs, And if the high resolves, the cherish'd pain That prompt the weak but reverential strain, If love of virtue ardent and sincere Can win to mortal verse a cherub's ear, Bend from thy radiant throne thy form divine, And make the adoring spirit pure as thine!

When my heart muses o'er the long review Of all thy bosom felt, thy reason knew, O'er boundless learning free from boastful pride, And patience humble though severely tried, Judgment unclouded, pa.s.sions thrice refined, A heaven-aspiring loftiness of mind, And, rare perfection! calm and sober sense Combined with fancy's wild magnificence; Struck with the pomp of Nature's wondrous plan, I hail with joy the dignity of man, And soaring high above life's roaring sea, Spring to the dwelling of my G.o.d and Thee.

Short here thy stay! for souls of holiest birth Dwell but a moment with the sons of earth; To this dim sphere by G.o.d's indulgence given, Their friends are angels, and their home is heaven.

The fairest rose in shortest time decays; The sun, when brightest, soon withdraws his rays; The dew that gleams like diamonds on the thorn, Melts instantaneous at the breath of morn; Too soon a rolling shade of darkness shrouds The star that smiles amid the evening clouds; And sounds that come so sweetly on the ear, That the soul wishes every sense could hear, Are as the Light's unwearied pinions fleet, As scarce as beauteous, and as short as sweet.

Yet, though the unpolluted soul requires Airs born in Heaven to fan her sacred fires, And mounts to G.o.d, exulting to be free From fleshly chain that binds mortality, The world is hallow'd by her blest sojourn, And glory dwells for ever round her urn!

Her skirts of beauty sanctify the air That felt her breathings, and that heard her prayer; Vice dies where'er the radiant vision trod, And there e'en Atheists must believe in G.o.d!

Such the proud triumphs that the good achieve!

Such the blest gift that sinless spirits leave!

The parted soul in G.o.d-given strength sublime, Streams undimm'd splendour o'er unmeasured time; Still on the earth the sainted hues survive, Dead in the tomb, but in the heart alive.

In vain the tide of ages strives to roll A bar to check the intercourse of soul; The hovering spirits of the good and great With fond remembrance own their former state, And musing virtue often can behold In vision high their plumes of wavy gold, And drink with tranced ear the silver sound Of seraphs hymning on their nightly round.

By death untaught, our range of thought is small, Bound by the attraction of this earthly ball.

Our sorrows and our joys, our hopes and fears, Ign.o.bly pent within a few short years; But when our hearts have read Fate's mystic book, On Heaven's gemm'd sphere we lift a joyful look, Hope turns to Faith, Faith glorifies the gloom, And life springs forth exulting from the tomb!

Oh, blest ELIZA! though to me unknown, Thine eye's mild l.u.s.tre and thy melting tone; Though on this earth apart our lives were led, Nor my love found thee till thy soul was fled; Yet, can affection kiss thy silent clay, And rend the glimmering veil of death away: Fancy beholds with fixed, delighted eye, Thy white-robed spirit gently gliding by; Deep sinks thy smile into my quiet breast, As moonlight steeps the ocean-wave in rest!

While thus, bright shade! thine eyes of mercy dwell On that fair land thou loved'st of old so well, What holy raptures through thy being flow, To see thy memory blessing all below, Virtue re-kindle at thy grave her fires, And vice repentant shun his low desires!

This the true Christian's heaven! on earth to see The sovereign power of immortality At war with sin, and in triumphant pride Spreading the empire of the crucified.--

Oft 'mid the calm of mountain solitude, Where Nature's loveliness thy spirit woo'd; Where lonely cataracts with sullen roar To thy hush'd heart a fearful rapture bore, And caverns moaning with the voice of night, Steep'd through the ear thy mind in strange delight, I feel thy influence on my heart descend Like words of comfort whispered by a friend, And every cloud in lovelier figures roll, Shaped by the power of thy presiding soul!

And when, slow-sinking in a blaze of light, The sun in glory bathes each radiant height, Amid the glow thy form seraphic seems To float refulgent with unborrow'd beams; For thou, like him, hadst still thy course pursued, From thy own blessedness dispensing good; Brightly thy soul in life's fair morn arose, And burn'd like him, more glorious at its close.

But now, I feel my pensive spirit turn, Where parents, brothers, sisters, o'er thee mourn.

For though to all unconscious time supplies A strength of soul that stifles useless sighs; And in our loneliest hours of grief is given To our dim gaze a nearer glimpse of heaven, Yet, human frailty pines in deep distress, Even when a friend has soar'd to happiness, And sorrow, selfish from excess of love, Would glad recal the seraph from above!

And, chief, to thee! on whose delighted breast, While, yet a babe, she play'd herself to rest, Who rock'd her cradle with requited care, And bless'd her sleeping with a silent prayer; To thee, who first beheld, with watchful eye, From her flush'd cheek health's natural radiance fly, And, though by fate denied the power to save, Smooth'd with kind care her pa.s.sage to the grave, When slow consumption led with fatal bloom A rosy spectre smiling to the tomb; The strain of comfort first to thee would flow, But thou hast comforts man could ne'er bestow; And e'en misfortune's long and gloomy roll Wakes dreams of glory in thy stately soul.

For reason whispers, and religion proves, That G.o.d by sorrow chasteneth whom he loves; And suffering virtue smiles at misery's gloom, Chear'd by the light that burns beyond the tomb.

All Nature speaks of thy departed child, The flowery meadow, and the mountain wild; Of her the lark 'mid sun-s.h.i.+ne oft will sing, And torrents flow with dirge-like murmuring!

The lake, that smiles to heaven a watery gleam, Shows in the vivid beauty of a dream Her, whose fine touch in mellowing hues array'd The misty summit and the woodland glade, The sparkling depth that slept in waveless rest, And verdant isles reflected on its breast.

As down the vale thy lonely footsteps stray, While eve steals dimly on retiring day, And the pale light that nameless calm supplies, That holds communion with the promised skies, When Nature's beauty overpowers distress, And stars soft-burning kindle holiness, Thy lips in pa.s.sive resignation move, And peace broods o'er thee on the wings of love.

The languid mien, the cheek of hectic die, The mournful beauty of the radiant eye, The placid smile, the light and easy breath Of nature blooming on the brink of death, When the fair phantom breathed in twilight balm A dying vigour and deceitful calm, The tremulous voice that ever loved to tell Thy fearful heart, that all would soon be well, Steal on thy memory, and though tears will fall O'er scenes gone by that thou would'st fain recal, Yet oft has faith with deeper bliss beguiled A parent weeping her departed child, Than love maternal, when her baby lay Hush'd at her breast, or smiling in its play, And, as some glimpse of infant fancy came, Murmuring in scarce-heard lisp some broken name.

Thou feel'st no more grief's palpitating start, Nor the drear night hangs heavy on thy heart.

Though sky and star may yet awhile divide Thy mortal being from thy bosom's pride, Your spirits mingle--while to thine is given A loftier nature from the touch of heaven.

HYMN TO SPRING

How beautiful the pastime of the Spring!

Lo! newly waking from her wintry dream, She, like a smiling infant, timid plays On the green margin of this sunny lake, Fearing, by starts, the little breaking waves (If riplings rather known by sound than sight May haply so be named) that in the gra.s.s Soon fade in murmuring mirth; now seeming proud To venture round the edge of yon far point, That from an eminence softly sinking down, Doth from the wide and homeless waters shape A scene of tender, delicate repose, Fit haunt for thee, in thy first hours of joy, Delightful Spring!--nor less an emblem fair, Like thee, of beauty, innocence, and youth.

On such a day, 'mid such a scene as this, Methinks the poets who in lovely hymns Have sung thy reign, sweet Power, and wished it long, In their warm hearts conceived those eulogies, That, lending to the world inanimate A pulse and spirit of life, for aye preserve The sanct.i.ty of Nature, and embalm Her fleeting spectacles in memory's cell In spite of time's mutations. Onwards roll The circling seasons, and as each gives birth To dreams peculiar, yea destructive oft Of former feelings, in oblivion's shade Sleep the fair visions of forgotten hours.

But Nature calls the poet to her aid, And in his lays beholds her glory live For ever. Thus, in winter's deepest gloom, When all is dim before the outward eye, Nor the ear catches one delightful sound, They who have wander'd in their musing walks With the great poets, in their spirits feel No change on earth, but see the unalter'd woods Laden with beauty, and inhale the song Of birds, airs, echoes, and of vernal showers.

So hath it been with me, delightful Spring!

And now I hail thee as a friend who pays An annual visit, yet whose image lives From parting to return, and who is blest Each time with blessings warmer than before.

Oh! gracious Power! for thy beloved approach The expecting earth lay wrapt in kindling smiles, Struggling with tears, and often overcome.

A blessing sent before thee from the heavens, A balmy spirit breathing tenderness, Prepared thy way, and all created things Felt that the angel of delight was near.

Thou camest at last, and such a heavenly smile Shone round thee, as beseem'd the eldest-born Of Nature's guardian spirits. The great Sun, Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile, Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymn Was by the low Winds chaunted in the sky; And when thy feet descended on the earth, Scarce could they move amid the cl.u.s.tering flowers By Nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field, To hail her blest deliverer!--Ye fair Trees, How are ye changed, and changing while I gaze!

It seems as if some gleam of verdant light Fell on you from a rainbow; but it lives Amid your tendrils, brightening every hour Into a deeper radiance. Ye sweet Birds, Were you asleep through all the wintry hours, Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves?

There are, 'tis said, birds that pursue the spring, Where'er she flies, or else in death-like sleep Abide her annual reign, when forth they come With freshen'd plumage and enraptured song, As ye do now, unwearied choristers, Till the land ring with joy. Yet are ye not, Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful Than the young lambs, that from the valley-side Send a soft bleating like an infant's voice, Half happy, half afraid! O blessed things!

At sight of this your perfect innocence, The sterner thoughts of manhood melt away Into a mood as mild as woman's dreams.

The strife of working intellect, the stir Of hopes ambitious; the disturbing sound Of fame, and all that wors.h.i.+pp'd pageantry That ardent spirits burn, for in their pride, Fly like disparting clouds, and leave the soul Pure and serene as the blue depths of heaven.

Now, is the time in some meek solitude To hold communion with those innocent thoughts That bless'd our earlier days;--to list the voice Of Conscience murmuring from her inmost shrine, And learn if still she sing the quiet tune That fill'd the ear of youth. If then we feel, That 'mid the powers, the pa.s.sions, and desires Of riper age, we still have kept our hearts Free from pollution, and 'mid tempting scenes Walk'd on with pure and unreproved steps, Fearless of guilt, as if we knew it not; Ah me! with what a new sublimity Will the green hills lift up their sunny heads, Ourselves as stately: Smiling will we gaze On the clouds whose happy home is in the heavens; Nor envy the clear streamlet that pursues His course 'mid flowers and music to the sea.

But dread the beauty of a vernal day, Thou trembler before memory! To the saint What sight so lovely as the angel form That smiles upon his sleep! The sinner veils His face ashamed,--unable to endure The upbraiding silence of the seraph's eyes!--

Yet awful must it be, even to the best And wisest man, when he beholds the sun Prepared once more to run his annual round Of glory and of love, and thinks that G.o.d To him, though sojourning in earthly shades, Hath also given an orbit, whence his light May glad the nations, or at least diffuse Peace and contentment over those he loves!

His soul expanded by the breath of Spring, With holy confidence the thoughtful man Renews his vows to virtue,--vows that bind To purest motives and most useful deeds.

Thus solemnly doth pa.s.s the vernal day, In abstinence severe from worldly thoughts; Lofty disdainings of all trivial joys Or sorrows; meditations long and deep On objects fit for the immortal love Of souls immortal; weeping penitence For duties (plain though highest duties be) Despised or violated; humblest vows, Though humble strong as death, henceforth to walk Elate in innocence; and, holier still, Warm gus.h.i.+ngs of his spirit unto G.o.d For all his past existence, whether bright, As the spring landscape sleeping in the sun, Or dim and desolate like a wintry sea Stormy and boding storms! Oh! such will be Frequent and long his musings, till he feels As all the stir subsides, like busy day Soft-melting into eve's tranquillity, How blest is peace when born within the soul.

And therefore do I sing these pensive hymns, O Spring! to thee, though thou by some art call'd Parent of mirth and rapture, wors.h.i.+pp'd best With festive dances and a choral song.

No melancholy man am I, sweet Spring!

Who, filling all things with his own poor griefs, Sees nought but sadness in the character Of universal Nature, and who weaves Most doleful ditties in the midst of joy.

Yet knowing something, dimly though it be, And therefore still more awful, of that strange And most tumultuous thing, the heart of man, It chanceth oft, that mix'd with Nature's smiles My soul beholds a solemn quietness That almost looks like grief, as if on earth There were no perfect joy, and happiness Still trembled on the brink of misery!

Yea! mournful thoughts like these even now arise, While Spring, like Nature's smiling infancy, Sports round me, and all images of peace Seem native to this earth, nor other home Desire or know. Yet doth a mystic chain Link in our hearts foreboding fears of death With every loveliest thing that seems to us Most deeply fraught with life. Is there a child More beauteous than its playmates, even more pure Than they? while gazing on its face, we think That one so fair most surely soon will die!

Such are the fears now beating at my heart.

Ere long, sweet Spring! amid forgotten things Thou and thy smiles must sleep: thy little lambs Dead, or their nature changed; thy hymning birds Mute;--faded every flower so beautiful;-- And all fair symptoms of incipient life To fulness swollen, or sunk into decay!

Such are the melancholy dreams that filled In the elder time the songs of tenderest bards, Whene'er they named the Spring. Thence, doubts and fears Of what might be the final doom of man; Till all things spoke to their perplexed souls The language of despair; and, mournful sight!

Even hope lay prostrate upon beauty's grave!-- Vain fears of death! breath'd forth in deathless lays!

O foolish bards, immortal in your works, Yet trustless of your immortality!

Not now are they whom Nature calls her bards Thus daunted by the image of decay.

They have their tears, and oft they shed them too, By reason unreproach'd; but on the pale Cold cheek of death, they see a spirit smile, Bright and still brightening, even like thee, O Spring!

Stealing in beauty through the winter-snow!--

Season, beloved of Heaven! my hymn is closed!

And thou, sweet Lake! on whose retired banks I have so long reposed, yet in the depth Of meditation scarcely seen thy waves, Farewell!--the voice of wors.h.i.+p and of praise Dies on my lips, yet shall my heart preserve Inviolate the spirit whence it sprung!

Even as a harp, when some wild plaintive strain Goes with the hand that touch'd it, still retains The soul of music sleeping in its strings.

MELROSE ABBEY.