What hills, what woods, may shroud him from Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,
Not to the cedar shade
Let his vain flight be made;
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;
What, but the cross, can yield
The hope, the stay-the shield?
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to Thee!
Be thou, be thou his aid!
Oh! let thy love pervade
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought!
There let the living stone
Be cleft-the seed be sown
The song of fountains from the silence brought!
So shall thy breath once more
Within the soul restore
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze
Disturbs the airy thistle down, or shakes
The light lines of the shining gossamer.
Child, (after a pause.) Dost thou believe it,
father?
Father.
Nay, my child,
We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now,
With something of a lingering love, I read
The characters, by that mysterious hour,
Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man
In visionary days; and thence thrown back
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign
Of the great sacrifice which won us Heaven,
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so!
Thine own first image-Holiest and most High! They do not wisely, that, with hurried hand,
As a clear lake is fill'd
With hues of Heaven, instill'd
Down to the depths of its calm purity.
Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves
There-by the mossy roots of yon old beech,
'Midst the rich tuft of cowslips-see'st thou not?
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree
Just bending o'er it, with a wild bee's weight.
Child. The Arum leaf?
Father. Yes, these deep inwrought marks,
The villager will tell thee (and with voice
Lower'd in his true heart's reverent earnestness)
Are the flower's portion from th' atoning blood
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew;
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf,
Catching from that dread shower of agony
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus
Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains,
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind
Never to waft away!
And hast thou seen Trembling, for ever trembling! though the lime The passion-flower?-It grows not in the woods, And chestnut boughs, and those long arching But 'midst the bright things brought from other
Child. What, the pale star-shaped flower, And o'er the pools, all still and darkly clear, with purple streaks
And light green tendrils?
Father. Thou hast mark'd it well. Yes, a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower, As from a land of spirits!-To mine eye Those faint wan petals-colourless-and yet Not white, but shadowy-with the mystic lines (As letters of some wizard language gone) Into their vapour-like transparence wrought, Bear something of a strange solemnity, Awfully lovely!-and the Christian's thought Loves, in their cloudy pencilling, to find Dread symbols of his Lord's last mournful pangs, Set by God's hand-The coronal of thornsThe cross-the wounds-with other meanings deep,
Which I will teach thee when we meet again That flower, the chosen for the martyr's wreath, The Saviour's holy flower.
But let us pause: Now have we reach'd the very inmost heart Of the old wood.-How the green shadows close Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round, A luxury of gloom!-Scarce doth one ray, Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal O'er the bronzed pillars of those deep arcades; Or if it doth, 'tis with a mellow'd hue Of glow-worm colour'd light.
Here, in the days Of pagan visions, would have been a place For worship of the wood nymphs! Through
A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown
The quivering image of its Dorian shafts
On the stream's bosom; or a sculptured form,
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom,
Have bow'd its head o'er that dark crystal down,
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops
Under bright rain :-but we, my child, are here
With God, our God, a Spirit; who requires
Heart-worship, given in spirit and in truth;
And this high knowledge-deep, rich, vast
enough
To fill and hallow all the solitude,
Makes consecrated earth where'er we move,
Without the aid of shrines.
What! dost thou feel
The solemn whispering influence of the scene
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand
Faster in thine? Nay, fear not, gentle child!
'Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here,
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope
With dark exuberance and beneath these plumes
Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds
In its pure crimson goblets, fresh and bright,
The starry dews of morning. Rest awhile,
And let me hear once more the woodland verse
I taught thee late-'t was made for such a scene.
[Child speaks.
Broods there some spirit here? The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud,
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow'd; And something of a tender cloistral gloom Deepens the violet's bloom.
And my thoughts faint, and shadows o'er them roll,
E'en when I deem'd them scraph-plumed, to sweep
Far beyond earth's control.
Wherefore is this?-I see the stars returning,
Let the now darken'd earth and curtain'd heaven
Back to his vision with thy face be given!
Bear him on high once more,
But in thy strength to soar,
And wrapt and still by that o'ershadowing might,
Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chasten-
ed sight.
Or if it be, that like the ark's lone dove,
My thoughts go forth, and find no resting place,
No sheltering home of sympathy and love,
In the responsive bosom of my race,
And back return, a darkness, and a weight,
Till my unanswer'd heart grows desolate-
Yet, yet sustain me, Holicst!-I am vow'd
To solemn service high!
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow'd,
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary,
Fainting beneath the burden of the day,
Because no human tone,
Unto the altar-stone,
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate,
Where it should make eternal truth its mate,
Fire after fire in Heaven's rich temple burning-May cheer the sacred solitary way?
Fast shine they forth-my spirit friends, my Oh! be the whisper of thy voice within
guides,
Bright rulers of my being's inmost tides;
They shine
-but faintly, through a quivering
Oh! is the dimness mine which clouds those rays? They from whose glance my childhood drank delight!
A joy unquestioning-a love intense
They, that unfolding to more thoughtful sight,
The harmony of their magnificence,
Drew silently the worship of my youth
To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth!
Shall they shower blessings, with their beams di-
Down to the watcher on the stormy sea,
And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine
Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine,
And to the wanderer lone
On wastes of Afric thrown,
And not to me?
Am I a thing forsaken,
And is the gladness taken
From the bright pinion'd nature which hath soar'd
Through realms by royal eagle ne'er explored,
And, bathing there in streams of fiery light,
Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite?
And now an alien !-Wherefore must this be?
How shall I rend the chain?
How drink rich life again
Enough to strengthen! Be the hope to win
A more deep-seeing homage for thy name,
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame!
Make me thine only! let me add but one
To those refulgent steps all undefiled,
Which glorious minds have piled
Thro' bright self-offering, earnest, childlike, lone,
For mounting to thy throne!
And let my soul, upborne
On wings of inner morn,
Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense
Of that blest work, its own high recompense.
The dimness melts away,
That on your glory lay,
O ye majestic watchers of the skies!
Through the dissolving veil,
Which made each aspect pale,
Your glad'ning fires once more I recognize;
And once again a shower
Of hope, and joy, and power,
Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes.
And, if that splendour to my sober'd sight
Come tremulous, with more of pensive light-
Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught,
With more that pierces through each fold of
thought
Than I was wont to trace
On Heaven's unshadow'd face-
Be it e'en so!-be mine, though set apart
From those pure urns of radiance swelling free? Unto a radiant ministry, yet still
Father of Spirits! let me turn to thee!
Oh! if too much exulting in her dower,
My soul not yet to lowly thought subdued,
Hath stood without thee on her hill of power-
A fearful and a dazzling solitude!
And therefore from that haughty summit's crown,
To dim desertion is by thee cast down;
Behold! thy child submissively hath bow'd-
Shine on him through the cloud!
A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart;
Bow'd before thee, O Mightiest! whose blest will
All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil.
THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG.
FATHER, guide me! Day declines,
Hollow winds are in the pines;
BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT'S CHILD IN THE FORESTS.
SCENE.-The banks of a solitary river in an
American forest. A tent under pine-trees in
the foreground. AGNES sitting before the tent
with a child in her arms, apparently sleeping.
Agnes. Surely 't is all a dream-a fever.
dream!
The desolation and the agony-
The strange red sunrise-and the gloomy woods,
So terrible with their dark giant boughs,
And the broad lonely river! all a dream!
And my boy's voice will wake me, with its clear
Wild, singing tones, as they were wont to come,
Through the wreath'd sweet-brier at my lattice
In happy, happy England! Speak to me!
Speak to my mother, bright one! she hath
watch'd
All the dread night beside thee, till her brain
Is darken'd by swift waves of fantasies,
And her soul faint with longing for thy voice.
Oh! I must wake him with one gentle kiss
On his fair brow!
(Shudderingly) The strange damp thrilling touch!
The marble chill! Now, now it rushes back-
Now I know all !-dead-dead!-a fearful word!
My boy hath left me in the wilderness,
To journey on without the blessed light
In his deep loving eyes-he's gone-he's gone!
[Her HUSBAND enters.
Husband. Agnes, my Agnes! hast thou look'd
thy last
On our sweet slumberer's face? The hour is
Where wilt thou lay him?
Husband.
Seest thou where the spire:
Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun
To burning gold?-there-o'er yon willow-tuft?
Under that native desert monument
Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn, With the gray mosses of the wilderness
Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth,
E'en from the fullness of his own pure heart,
A wild, sad forest hymn-a song of tears,
Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy
Chanting it o'er his solitary task,
As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves,
Perchance unconsciously.
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But strengthen me, my God! and melt my heart,
Even to a well-spring of adoring tears,
For many a blessing left.
(Bending over the Child.) Once more farewell! Oh! the pale piercing sweetness of that look! How can it be sustain'd? Away, away!
[After a short pause. Edmund, my woman's nature still is weakI cannot see thee render dust to dust! Go thou, my husband, to thy solemn task; I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer Till thy return.
Husband. Then strength be with thy prayer! Peace with thy bosom! Faith and heavenly hope Unto thy spirit! Fare thee well awhile, We must be pilgrims of the woods again, After this mournful hour.
[He goes out with the child. AGNES kneels in prayer. After a time, voices without are heard singing
THE FUNERAL HYMN.
Where the long reeds quiver,
Where the pines make moan,
By the forest river,
Sleeps our babe alone;
England's field flowers may not deck his grave,
Cypress shadows o'er him darkly wave.
Woods unknown receive him,
'Midst the mighty wild;
Yet with God we leave him,
And our tears gush o'er his lovely dust,
Blessed, blessed child!
Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust.
Though his eye hath brighten'd
Oft our weary way,
And his clear laugh lighten'd
Half our hearts' dismay;
Still in hope we give back what was given,
Yielding up the beautiful to Heaven.
And to her who bore him,
Her who long must weep,
Yet shall Heaven restore him
From his pale, sweet sleep!
Those blue eyes of love and peace again
Through her soul will shine, undimm'd by pain
Where the long reeds quiver, Where the pines make moan, Leave we by the river,
Earth to earth alone!
God and Father! may our journeyings on Lead to where the blessed boy is gone!
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