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Through tears no longer mayst thou see A Cot beneath the mountain's brow
Smiles through its shading sycamore.
Persuades our hearts to enter there.
Than doth this slumbering cell: Old Snowdon's gloomy brow the sun hath Yea! like a star it looketh down
In pleasure from its mountain-throne,
As in our dreams uprises fair
A vision glides before my brain,
Like her who lives beyond the Main! How the Lake brightens while we gaze! Breathing delight, the beauteous flower Impatient for the flood of rays
That Heaven had raised to grace this bower. That soon will bathe its breast;
To me this field is holy ground ! Where rock, and hill, and cloud and sky, Her voice is speaking in the sound Even like its peaceful self, will lie
That cheers the streamlet's bed. Ere long in perfect rest.
Sweet Maiden !-side by side we stand, The dawn hath brighten'd into day: While gently moves beneath my hand Blessings be on yon crescent-bay,
Her soft and silky head. Beloved in former years !
A moment's pause! and as I look Dolbardan! at this silent hour,
On the silent cot and the idle brook, More solemn far thy lonely tower
And the face of the quiet day, l'nto my soul appears,
I know from all that many a year Than when, in days of roaming youth, Hlath slowly past in sorrow here, I saw thee first, and scarce could tell Since Mary went away, If thou wert frowning there in truth, But that wreath of smoke now melting thin, Or only raised by Fancy's spell,
Tells that some being dwells within; An airy tower ʼmid an unearthly dell. And the balmy breath that stole
From the rose-tree, and jasmin, clustering
wide, 0! wildest Bridge, by human hand e'er O'er all the dwelling's blooming side,
Tells that whoe'er doth there abide, If so thou mayst be named :
Must have a gentle soul. Thou! wbo for many a year hast stood Cloth'd with the deep-green moss of age, As if thy tremulous length were living wood, Then gently breathe, and softly tread, Sprang from the bank on either side, As if thy steps were o'er the dead! Despising, with a careless pride,
Break not the slumber of the air, The tumults of the wintry flood,
Even by the whisper of a prayer,
But in thy spirit let there be
0! fear not to gaze on her with love! Brings back the thoughts that long ago For, though these looks are from above, I felt, when forced to part
She is a form of earth.
As if she felt the eye of God
Were on her childless lone abode. And lo! a gleam of sweet surprise, While her lips move with silent vows, Like sudden sunshine, warms thine eyes. With saintly grace the phantom bowe White as the spring's unmelted snow, Over a Book spread open on her knee. That lives though winter-storms be o'er, O blessed Book! such thoughts to wake!
It tells of Him who for our sake
No summer-gale, no winter-blast, Died on the cross,–Our Saviour's History. By day or night o'er her cottage pass'd, How beauteously hath sorrow shed
If her restless soul did wake, Its mildness round her aged head !
That brought not a Ship before her eyes; How beauteously her sorrow lies
Yea! often dying shrieks and cries
Though, far as the charm'd eye could view. Of hope yet lingers on her face,
Upon the quiet earth it lay,
Like the Moon amid the heavenly way,
Hath she no friend whose heart may share
With her the burthen of despair,
So vividly, that reconciled
To the drear silence of her cot,
Hear nought amid the calm profound,
Unto her childless widow'd home; And duly, at one stated hour,
No friend like this e'er sits beside her fire: To go in calmness to the bower
For still doth selfish happiness Built in her favourite glade.
Keep far away from real distress, 'Twas this that made her, every morn,
Loath to approach, and eager to retire. As she bless'd it, bathe the ancient thorn The vales are wide, the torrents deep, With water from the spring;
Dark are the nights, the mountains steep, And gently tend each flow'ret's stalk, And many a cause, without a name, For she callid to mind who loved to walk Will from our spirits hide the blame, Through their fragrant blossoming. When, thinking of ourselves, we cease Yea! the voice of hope oft touch'd her ear To think upon another's peace; From the hymn of the lark that caroll’d clear, Though one short hour to sorrow given, Through the heart of the silent sky. Would chear the gloom, and win the ap Oh! such was my Mary's joyful strain!
plause of Heaven. And such she may haply sing again Yet, when by chance they meet her on the Before her Mother die.
To bless her hoary head.
In churchyard on the Sabbath-day
Whose tears are falling down in shower
Which they have planted o'er their children's Across her brain bath rollid:
clay. Oft hath she swoond away from pain; And though her faded cheeks be dry, And when her senses came again,
Her breast unmoved by groan or sigh, Her heart was icy-cold.
More piteous is one single smile Hard hath it been for her to bear
Of hers, than many a tear; The dreadful silence of the air
For she is wishing all the while At night, around her bed;
That her head were lying here, When her waking thoughts through the Since her dear daughter is no more,
Drown'd in the sea, or buried on the shore
And in that thought all woes are lost,
Why must she still, from year to year,
Let her go, ere she die, unto the coast.
And dwell beside the sea ;
How calmly on the sand alighting, The sea that tore her child away,
To dress her silken plumes delighting! When glad would she have been to stay. See! how these tiny vessels glide An awful comfort to her soul
With all sails set, in mimic pride,
As they were ships of war.
She sees the joy, but feels it not:
If e'er her child should be forgot -She will not stay another hour;
For one short moment of oblivious sleep, Her feeble limbs with youthful power
It seems a wrong to one so kind,
Hath nought to do but weep.
For, wandering in her solitude,
Tears seem to her the natural food Upon the bower implores a blessing,
of widow'd childless age;
And bitter though these tears must be,
Her anguish they assuage.
A calm succeeds the storm of grief,
A settled calm, that brings relief, The shuddering start,—the inward groan,
And half partakes of pleasure, soft and mild; And the Pilgrim on her way hath gone.
For the spirit, that is sore distrest,
Will slumber like a child.
And then, in spite of all her woe,
The bliss, that charm'd her long ago,
Her child, she feels, is living still,
On some isle far away.
It is not doom'd that she must mourn
For ever ;-One may yet return
And now that seven long years are flown, Bat surely she hath lost her child,
Though spent in anguish and alone,
How short the time appears!
She looks upon the billowy Main,
And the parting-day returns again ; Howls like a monster o'er his prey!
Each breaking wavc she knows;
And when she listens to the tide,
Her child seems standing by her side ;
She starts to hear the city-bell;
So toll'd it when they wept farewell !
She thinks the self-same smoke and cloud The playful sun-light gleams.
The city domes and turrets shroud;
The same keen flash of ruddy fire
Is burning on the lofty spire;
The grove of masts is standing there While life and pleasure dance around,
Unchanged, with all their ensigns fair;
The same the stir, the tuinult, and the hum, Why must thou muse on death?
As from the city to the shore they come.
Day after day, along the beach she roams, Lament when their short course was o'er, And evening finds her there, when to their Parsuing and pursued.
homes How calmly floats the white sea-mew All living things have gone. Amid the billows' verdant hue!
No terrors hath the surge or storm How calmly mounts into the air,
For her ;-on glides the aged form, As if the breezes blew her there!
Still restless and alone.
Familiar unto every eye
Through each tumultuous street,
Well doth it suit the first of June,
What Ship is she that rises slow
And cover'd as she sails
stray, With pitying gaze they pass along,
By the bright sunshine, fondly wood
In her calm beauty, and pursued
By all the ocean-gales ?
Well doth she know this glorious morn, The strangers, as they idly pace
And by her subject waves is borne.
As in triumphal pride:
And now the gazing crowd descry,
Distinctly floating on the sky,
Her pendants long and wide,
The outward forts she now hath pass'd; With softer step, and o'er his eye
Loftier and loftier towers her mast; A haze will pass most like unto a tear;
You almost hear the sound For he hath heard, that, broken-hearted,
Of the billows rushing past her sides,
As giant-like she calmly glides
Through the dwindled ships around.
Saluting thunders rend the Main! As through the harbour's busy scene,
Short silence !—and they roar again, She passes weak and slow.
And veil her in a cloud : A comfort sad it brings to see
Then up leap all her fearless crew, That others pity her, though free
And cheer till shore, and city too,
With echoes answer loud.
Rejoicing to approach her home,
After absence long and far: The echo of the cavernd hills,
Yet with like calmness would she go, The murmur of the trees,
Exulting to behold the foe,
And break the line of war.
While all the noble Ship admire,
Nor bless the stranger bright? And oft, when dreaming of her child, So look'd the Ship that bore away Her tearful eyes are wandering wild, Her weeping child! She dares not stay. Yet nought behold around.
Death-sickening at the right. But hear and see she must this day; Like a ghost, she wanders up and down Her sickening spirit must obey
Throughout the still deserted town, The flashing and the roar
Wondering, if in that noisy throng,
That hates its own mad revelry!
Yet in her grief is reconciled
To such unmeaning sounds as these ; While, from on board the ship of war, Yet this may be the mere disease The music-bands both near and far Of grief with her: for why destroy Are playing, faint or clear.
The few short hours of human joy. The bells ring quick a joyous peal, Though Reason own them not?-Shont on. Till the very spires appear to feel
she cries, The joy that stirs throughout their tapering Ye thoughtless, happy souls! A mother. height;
sighs Ten thousand flags and pendants fly Must not your bliss profane. Abroad, like meteors in the sky,
Yet blind must be that mother's heart So beautiful and bright.
Who loves thee, beanteous as thou art. And, while the storm of pleasure raves Thou Glory of the Main!
Towards the church-yard see the Matron | Oh! Thou alone mayst be turn!
The mother of that fairy-child : There surely she in solitude may mourn,
These tresses dark, these eyes so wild, Tormented not by such distracting noise. That face with spirit beautified, But there seems no peace for her this day, She owes them all tò thee. For a crowd advances on her way, As if no spot were sacred from their joys. -Fly not that crowd! for Heav is there! Silent and still the sailors stand, It breathes around thee in the air,
To see the meeting strange that now befell. Even now, when unto dim despair
Unwilling sighs their manly bosoms swell, Thy heart was sinking fast:
And o'er their eyes they draw the sun-burnt A cruel lot hath long been thine ;
hand, But now let thy face with rapture shine, To hide the tears that grace their cheeks For bliss awaiteth thee divine,
60 well. And all thy woes are past.
They lift the aged Matron from her swoon, Dark words she hears among the crowd, And not one idle foot is stirring there; Of a ship that hath on board
For unto pity melts the sailor soon, Three Christian souls, who on the coast And chief when helpless woman needs his Of some wild land were wreck'd long years
She wakes at last, and with a placid smile, When all but they were in a tempest lost, Such as a saint might on her death-bed give, And now by Heaven are rescued from their Speechless she gazes on her child awhile,
Content to die since that dear one doth live. And to their country wondrously restored. And much they fear that she indeed will die! The name, the blessed name, she hears, So cold and pale her cheek, so dim her eye;Of that beloved Youth,
And when her voice returns, so like the Whom once she call'd her son; but fears
breath To listen more, for it appears
It sounds, the low and tremulous tones of Too heavenly for the truth.
death. And they are speaking of a child,
Mark her distracted daughter seize Who looks more beautifully. wild
Her clay-cold hands, and on her knces Than pictured fairy in Arabian tale ; Implore that God would spare her hoary Wondrous her foreign garb, they say,
head; Adorn'd with starry plumage gay,
For sure, through these last lingering years,
Hath long ere now been shed.
For though her liappy heart can slightly Breathless upon the beach she stands,
know And lifts to Heaven her clasped hands, What she hath never felt, the pang of woe, And scarcely dares to turn her eye Yet to the holy power of Nature true, On yon gay barge fast rushing by. From her big heart the tears of pity flow, The dashing oar disturbs her brain As infant-morning sheds the purest dew. With hope, that sickens into pain.
Nought doth Fitz-Owen speak: he takes The boat appears so wondrous fair, His reverend mother on his filial breast, Her daughter must be sitting there! Nor fears that, when her worn-out soul finds And as her gilded prow is dancing
rest Through the land-swell, and gaily glancing In the new sleep of undisturbed love, Beneath the sunny gleams,
The gracious God who sees them from above, Her heart must own, so sweet a sight, Will save the parent for her children's sakes. So form'd to yield a strange delight, She ne'er felt even in dreams. Silent the music of the oar!
Nộr vain his pious hope: the strife The eager sailors leap on shore,
Of rapture ends, and she returns to life, And look, and gaze around,
With added beauty smiling in the lines Il 'mid the crowd they may descry By age and sorrow left upon her face. A wife's, a child's, a kinsman's eye, Her eye, cven now bedimm'd with anguish, Or hear one family-sound.
shines -No sailor, he, so fondly pressing With brightening glory, and a holy sense Yon fair child in his arms,
In her husht soul of heavenly Providence, Her eyes, her brow, her bosom kissing, Breathes o'er her bending frame a loftier And bidding her with many a blessing
grace. To hush her vain alarms.
-Her Mary tells in simple phrase, How fair that creature by his side, Of wildest perils past in former days, Who smiles with languid glee,
of shipwreck scarce remember'd by herself; Slow-kindling from a mother's pride! Then will she speak of that delightful isle,