Page:Hemans Miscellaneous Poetry 2.pdf/14



That scene is closed!—that wild, tumultuous breast, With all its pangs and passions, is at rest! He, too, is fallen, the master-power of strife, Who woke those passions to delirious life; And days, prepared a brighter course to run, Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun!

It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth O'er the bleak mountains of the shadowy north, And with one radiant glance, one magic breath, Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death; While the glad voices of a thousand streams, Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams!

But Peace hath nobler changes! O'er the mind, The warm and living spirit of mankind, Her influence breathes, and bids the blighted heart, To life and hope from desolation start! She with a look dissolves the captive's chain, Peopling with beauty widow'd homes again; Around the mother, in her closing years, Gathering her sons once more, and from the tears Of the dim past but winning purer light, To make the present more serenely bright.

Nor rests that influence here. From clime to clime, In silence gliding with the stream of time, Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze With healing on its wings, o'er isles and seas. And as Heaven's breath call'd forth, with genial power, From the dry wand the almond's living flower, So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love; While round its pathway nature softly glows, And the wide desert blossoms as the rose.

Yes! let the waste lift up the exulting voice! Let the far-echoing solitude rejoice! And thou, lone moor! where no blithe reaper’s song E'er lightly sped the summer hours along, Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain-source Rushing in joy, make music on their course! Thou, whose sole records of existence mark The scene of barbarous rites in ages dark, And of some nameless combat; hope's bright eye Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy! Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest, And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast! Yet shall thy cottage smoke, at dewy morn, Rise in blue wreaths above the flowering thorn,