154 The Forsaken Hearth. But scattered are those pleasant smiles afar by mount and shore, Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed to meet no more. Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other's joy or mirth, Unbound is that sweet wreath of home-alas! the lonely hearth! The voices that have mingled here now speak another tongue, Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs their mother sung. Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound each household tone: The hearth, the hearth is desolate! the bright fire quenched and gone! But are they speaking, singing yet, as in their days of glee? Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on earth or sea? Oh! some are hushed, and some are changed, and never shall one strain Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again. And of the hearts that here were linked by long-remembered years, Alas! the brother knows not now when fall the sister's tears! One haply revels at the feast, while one may droop alone: For broken is the household chain, the bright fire quenched and gone! The Wings of the Dove. 155 Not so 'tis not a broken chain; thy memory binds them still, Thou holy hearth of other days! though silent now and chill. The smiles, the tears, the rites, beheld by thine attesting stone, Have yet a living power to mark thy children for thine own. The father's voice, the mother's prayer, though called from earth away, With music rising from the dead, their spirits yet shall sway; And by the past, and by the grave, the parted yet are one, Though the loved hearth be desolate, the bright fire quenched and gone! THE WINGS OF THE DOVE. "Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away and be at rest."-PSALM lv. OH, for thy wings, thou dove! Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast; I too might flee away, and be at rest! Where wilt thou fold those plumes, Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird? By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirred? 156 The Wings of the Dove. Over what blessed home, What roof with dark, deep summer foliage crowned, Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around? Or seek'st thou some old shrine Of nymph or saint, no more by votary wooed, Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude? Yet wherefore ask thy way? Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim, thou art! Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart! No echoes that will blend A sadness with the whispers of the grove; Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove! Oh! to some cool recess Take, take me with thee on the summer wind, And all the fever of this life behind: The aching and the void Within the heart, whereunto none reply, The young bright hopes destroyed- Wild wish, and longing vain, And brief upspringing to be glad and free! My soul is bound and held—I may not flee. The Homes of England. For even by all the fears 157 And thoughts that haunt my dreams-untold, unknown, And burning woman's tears, Poured from mine eyes in silence and alone; Had I thy wings, thou dove! High midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar, Soon the strong cords of love Would draw me earthwards-homewards—yet once more. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. "Where's the coward that would not dare HE stately homes of England! THE How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, The deer across their greensward bound, And the swan glides past them with the sound The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! 158 The Homes of England. There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along The blessed homes of England! Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! The cottage homes of England! They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair homes of England! Where first the child's glad spirit loves |