Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 32 1832.pdf/9

 And shall I listen to his voice again? And lay my head upon his faithful breast, Weeping there in my gladness? Will this be? —Blessings upon thee, father my quick heart Hath deem'd thee stern—say, wilt thou not forgive The wayward child, too long in sunshine rear'd, Too long unused to chastening? Wilt thou not?— —But, Herbert, Herbert! Oh, my soul hath rush'd On a swift gust of sudden joy away Forgetting all beside! Speak, Father, speak! Herbert—is he too free? His freedom lies In his own choice—a boon like thine. Thy words Fall changed and cold upon my boding heart. Leave not this dim suspense o’ershadowing me. Let all be told! The monarchs of the earth Shower not their mighty gifts without a claim Unto some token of true vassalage, Some mark of homage. Oh! unlike to Him, Who freely pours the joy of sunshine forth, And the bright quickening rain, on those who serve, And those who heed him not! (laying a paper before her.) Is it so much That thine own hand should set the crowning seal To thy deliverance? Look, thy task is here! Sign but these words for liberty and life. (examining, and then throwing it from her.) Sign but these words! and wherefore saidst thou not, "Be but a traitor to God’s light within!" —Cruel, oh, cruel! thy dark sport hath been With a young bosom's hope! Farewell, glad life! Bright opening path to love and home, farewell! And thou—now leave me with my God alone! Dost thou reject Heaven's mercy? Heaven’s! doth Heaven Woo the free spirit for dishonour'd breath To sell its birthright? doth Heaven set a price On the clear jewel of unsullied Faith, And the bright calm of Conscience? Priest, away! God hath been with me midst the holiness Of England's mountains—not in sport alone I trode their heath-flowers—but high thoughts rose up From the broad shadow of the enduring rocks, And wander'd with me into solemn glens, Where my soul felt the beauty of His word. I have heard voices of immortal truth, Blent with the everlasting torrent-sounds That make the deep hills tremble—Shall I quail? Shall England's daughter sink?—No! He who there Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm, Will not forsake his child! (turning from her.) Then perish! lost In thine own blindness! (suddenly throwing herself at his feet.) Father! hear me yet! Oh! if the kindly touch of human love Hath ever warmed thy breast. Away—away! I know not love.