Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 28 1830.pdf/11



Oh! might a voice, a whisper low, Forth from those lips of beauty flow! Couldst thou but speak of all the tears, The conflicts, and the pangs of years, Which, at thy secret shrine reveal'd, Have gush'd from human hearts unseal'd!

Surely to thee hath woman come, As a tired wanderer back to home! Unveiling many a timid guest, And treasured sorrow of her breast, A buried love—a wasting care— Oh! did those griefs win peace from prayer?

And did the poet's fervid soul To thee lay bare its inmost scroll? Those thoughts, which pour'd their quenchless fire And passion o'er th' Italian lyre, Did they to still submission die, Beneath thy calm, religious eye?

And hath the crested helmet bow'd Before thee, 'midst the incense-cloud? Hath the crown'd leader's bosom lone, To thee its haughty griefs made known? Did thy glance break their frozen sleep, And win the unconquer'd one to weep?

Hush'd is the anthem—closed the vow— The votive garland wither’d now; Yet holy still to me thou art, Thou that hast soothed so many a heart! And still must blessed influence flow From the meek glory of thy brow.

Still speak to suffering woman's love, Of rest for gentle hearts above; Of Hope, that hath its treasure there, Of Home, that knows no changeful air! Bright form, lit up with thoughts divine, Ave! such power be ever thine!