Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 34 1833.pdf/4



Husband.Dost thou grieve, Agnes! that thou hast follow'd o'er the deep An exile's fortunes? If it thus can be, Then, after many a conflict cheerily met, My spirit sinks at last.

Agnes. Forgive, forgive! My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild— —Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount Of unknown bitterness! Thou art my home! Mine only and my blessed one! Where'er Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness, There is my country! there my head shall rest, And throb no more. Oh! still by thy strong love Bear up the feeble reed! [Kneeling down with the child in her arms. And thou, my God! Hear my soul's cry from this dread wilderness, Oh! hear, and pardon me! If I have made This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness, Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume, Oh! pardon me ! If nature hath rebell'd, And from thy light turn'd wilfully away, Making a midnight of her agony, When the despairing passion of her clasp Was from its idol stricken at one touch Of thine Almighty hand—Oh, pardon me! By thy Son's anguish pardon! In the soul The tempests and the waves will know thy voice— Father, say, "Peace, be still!" [Giving the child to her Husband. Farewell, my babe! Go from my bosom now to other rest! With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow, And on thy pale calm cheek these contrite tears, I yield thee to thy Maker!

Husband. Now, my wife, Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more A light upon my path. Now shall I bear, From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose— With a calm, trustful heart.

Agnes.My Edmund, where— Where wilt thou lay him?

Husband.Seest thou where the spire Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun To burning gold?—there—o'er yon willow-tuft? Under that native desert-monument Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn, With the grey mosses of the wilderness Hath lined it closely through; and there breathed forth, E'en from the fulness of his own pure heart, A wild, sad forest-hymn—a song of tears, Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy Chanting it o'er his solitary task, As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves, Perchance unconsciously.

Agnes. My gentle son! Th' affectionate, the gifted!—With what joy— Edmund, rememberest thou?—with what bright joy His baby-brother ever to his arms