Although the morning's earliest beams away: Her timid eyes to meet his own. She bends her lover's rest above, Which never yet spoke but in tears! Its imaged shade, its perfect grace. Love's likeness o'er Love's shadow spread. Since then, what passion and what power Has dwelt upon the painter's art! How has it soothed the absent hour, With looks that wear life's loveliest part! 12* STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF MRS. HEMANS. "The rose the glorious rose is gone." Nightingale's Death Song. BRING flowers to crown the cup and lute, Bring flowers, the bride is near; Bring flowers to soothe the captive's cell, - Bring flowers! thus said the lovely song; To her who linked the offering With feeling and with thought? Bring flowers, -the perfumed and the pure,— A sigh in every fragrant leaf, A tear on every hue. So pure, so sweet thy life has been, With odors and with loveliness, Till common scenes grew fair. Thy song around our daily path With universal love. Such gifts were thine, as from the block, The unformed and the cold, The sculptor calls to breathing life Some shape of perfect mould, So thou from common thoughts and things Didst call a charmed song, Which on a sweet and swelling tide Bore the full soul along. And thou from far and foreign lands A lofty strain of generous thoughts, And yet subdued and sweet, An angel's song, who sings of earth, Whose cares are at his feet. And yet thy song is sorrowful, Its beauty is not bloom; The hopes of which it breathes, are hopes That look beyond the tomb; Thy song is sorrowful as winds That wander o'er the plain, And ask for Summer's vanished flowers, Ah! dearly purchased is the gift, A fated doom is hers who stands The crowd - they only see the crown, They only hear the hymn; They mark not that the cheek is pale, Wound to a pitch too exquisite, The soul's fine chords are wrung; With misery and melody They are too highly strung. The heart is made too sensitive Life's daily pain to bear; It beats in music, but it beats It never meets the love it paints, It dazzles, only to divide, From those who wear it not. Didst thou not tremble at thy fame, Oh, Flower brought from Paradise, Let others thank thee -'t was for them Whose sweetness others breathe! And they have thanked thee — many a lip Has asked of thine for words, When thoughts, Life's finer thoughts, have touched How many loved and honored thee Which o'er the weary working world Like starry music came? With what still hours of calm delight I cannot choose but think thou wert The charms that dwelt in songs of thine My inmost spirit moved; And yet I feel as thou hadst been Not half enough beloved. They say that thou wert faint and worn Oh! weary one! since thou art laid |