Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 13 1825.pdf/10



The hour the mother loves!—for me beloved it hath not been, Yet ever in its purple smile thou smil'st, a blessed scene! A scene whose beauty o'er my soul through distant years will come; Yet what but as the Dead to thee shall I be then, my home? "Not as the Dead!—no, not the Dead!—we speak of them, we keep Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep! We hallow ev'n the lyre they touch'd, we love the lay they sung, We pass with softer step the place they fill'd, our band among! But I depart like sounds, like dews, like aught that leaves on earth No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth! I go!—the echo of the rocks a thousand songs may swell, When mine is a forgotten voice—woods, mountains, home, farewell!

"And farewell, mother!—I have borne in lonely silence long, But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong! And I will speak, though but the winds that wander through the sky, And but the dark, deep-rustling pines, and rolling streams reply! Yes, I will speak!—within my breast whate'er hath seem'd to be, There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gush'd for thee! Brightly it would have gush'd; but thou, my mother! thou hast thrown Back on the forests and the wilds, what should have been thine own!

"Then fare thee well! I leave thee not in loneliness to pine, Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow than mine! Forgive me that thou couldst not love!—it may be, that a tone Yet, From my burning heart may pierce through thine, when I am gone! And thou perchance may'st weep for him, on whom thou ne'er hast smiled, And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected child! —Might but my spirit then return, and midst its kindred dwell, And quench its thirst with Love's free tears!—'tis all a dream—farewell!"