Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 34 1833.pdf/24

 Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step, Well do I see, hath not alone explored The garden bowers, but freely visited Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet Is from the cool green shadowy river-nook, Where the stream chimes around th' old mossy stones, With sounds like childhood's laughter. Is that spot Lovely as when our glad eyes hail'd it first? Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep The clear brown wave with every passing wind? And thro' the shallower waters, where they lie Dimpling in light, do the vein'd pebbles gleam Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies, From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still Among the poplar-boughs?

Jessy.All, all is there Which glad midsummer's wealthiest hours can bring; All, save the soul of all, thy lightening smile! Therefore I stood in sadness midst the leaves, And caught an under-music of lament In the stream's voice; but Nature waits thee still, And for thy coming piles a fairy throne Of richest moss.

Lilian.Alas! it may not be! My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly, To all these blessed haunts of song and thought; Yet not the less I love to look on these, Their dear memorials;—strew them o'er my couch, Till it grow like a forest-bank in spring, All flush'd with violets and anemones. Ah! the pale brier-rose! touch'd so tenderly, As a pure ocean-shell, with faintest red, Melting away to pearliness!—I know How its long light festoons o'erarching hung From the grey rock, that rises altar-like, With its high waving crown of mountain-ash, Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough Of honey'd woodbine, tells me of the oak Whose deep midsummer gloom sleeps heavily, Shedding a verdurous twilight o'er the face Of the glade's pool. Methinks I see it now; I look up through the stirring of its leaves Unto the intense blue crystal firmament. The ring-dove's wing is flitting o'er my head, Casting at times a silvery shadow down Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful! How beautiful is all this fair free world, Under God's open sky!

Mother.Thou art o'erwrought Once more, my child! The dewy trembling light Presaging tears, again is in thine eye. —Oh! hush, dear Lilian! turn thee to repose.

Lilian. Mother! I cannot. In my soul the thoughts Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire; Importunately to my lips they throng, And with their earthly kindred seek to blend Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone— (For I must go)—then the remember'd words Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth, Will to thy fond heart be as amulets Held there with life and love. And weep not thus! Mother! dear sister! kindest, gentlest ones!