Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 34 1833.pdf/25

 Be comforted that now I weep no more For the glad earth and all the golden light Whence I depart. No! God hath purified my spirit's eye, And in the folds of this consummate rose I read bright prophecies: I see not there, Dimly and mournfully, the word "farewell" On the rich petals traced: No—in soft veins And characters of beauty, I can read— "Look up, look heavenward!" Blessed God of Love! I thank thee for these gifts, the precious links Whereby my spirit unto thee is drawn! I thank thee that the loveliness of Earth Higher than Earth can raise me! Are not these But, germs of things unperishing, that bloom Beside th' immortal streams? Shall I not find The lily of the field, the Saviour's flower, In the serene and never-moaning air, And the clear starry light of angel eye, A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far Will not the violet's dusky purple glow, When it hath ne'er been press'd to broken hearts, A record of lost love?

Mother.My Lilian! Thou Surely in thy bright life hast little known Of lost things or of changed!

Lilian.Oh! little yet, For thou hast been my shield! But had it been My lot on this world's billows to be thrown Without thy love—O mother! there are hearts So perilously fashioned, that for them God's touch alone hath gentleness enough To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings! —We will not speak of this! By what strange spell Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers, I dream of music! Something in their hues All melting into colour'd harmonies, Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords, Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die In tenderest falls away.—Oh! bring thy harp, Sister! a gentle heaviness at last Hath touch'd mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep Will come again.

Jessy. What wouldst thou hear? Th' Italian Peasant's Lay, Which makes the desolate Campagna ring With "Roma, Roma!"—or the Madrigal Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily? Or the old ditty left by Troubadours To girls of Languedoc?

Lilian.Oh, no! not these.

Jessy. What then? the Moorish melody still known Within th' Alhambra city? or those notes Born of the Alps, which pierce the Exile's heart Even unto death?

Lilian.No, sister, nor yet these. —Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret, Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes In the caressing sweetness of their tones, For one who dies:—They would but woo me back To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds—