Telling wild legends round the winter-hearth, Yet, if the glee of life's fresh budding years In those pure aspects may no more be read, Thence, too, hath sorrow melted—and the tears Which o'er their mother's holy dust they shed, Are all effaced; there earth hath left no sign Save its deep love, still touching every line. But, oh! more soft, more tender, breathing more A thought of pity, than in vanish'd days: While, hovering silently and brightly o'er The lone one's head, they meet her spirit's gaze With their immortal eyes, that seem to say, "Yet, sister, yet we love thee-come away!" "Twill fade, the radiant dream! and will she not Wake with more painful yearning at her heart? Will not her home seem yet a lonelier spot, Her task more sad, when those bright shadows part? And the green summer after them look dim, And sorrow's tone be in the bird's wild hymn? But let her hope be strong, and let the dead A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD. 231 A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD. These lines were given to Sir Walter Scott, at the gate of Abbotsford, in the summer of 1829. He was then apparently in the vigour of an existence whose energies promised long continuance; and the glance of his quick, smiling eye, and the very sound of his kindly voice, seemed to kindle the gladness of his own sunny and benignant spirit in all who had the happiness of approaching him. HOME of the gifted! fare thee well, While the heather waves its purple bell While stream to stream around thee calls And braes with broom are drest, Glad be the harping in thy halls- While the high voice from thee sent forth Joy to thy hearth, and board, and bower! And hearts of proof, and hands of power, By the merry step of childhood, still May thy free sward be prest! -While one proud pulse in the land can thrill, O'CONNOR'S CHILD. This piece was suggested by a picture in the possession of Mrs. Lawrence of Wavertree Hall.-It represents the "Hero's Child" of Campbell's Poem, seated beside a solitary tomb of rock, marked with a cross, in a wild and desert place. A tempest seems gathering in the angry skies above her, but the attitude of the drooping figure expresses the utter carelessness of desolation, and the countenance speaks of entire abstraction from all external objects. A bow and quiver lie beside her, amongst the weeds and wild-flowers of the desert. "I fled the home of grief At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall, His bow still hanging on our wall; CAMPBELL. THE sleep of storms is dark upon the skies. And gird the form whose beauty grief hath bow'd O'CONNOR'S CHILD. Tell her of revelries in bower and hall, 233 Where gems are glittering, and bright wine is pour'd; Where to glad measures chiming footsteps fall, And soul seems gushing from the harp's full chord; And richer flowers amid fair tresses wave, Than the sad "Love lies bleeding" of the grave. Oh! little know'st thou of the o'ermastering spell, Wherewith love binds the spirit strong in pain, To the spot hallow'd by a wild farewell, A parting agony,-intense, yet vain, A look and darkness when its gleam hath flown, A voice and silence when its words are gone! She hears thee not; her full, deep, fervent heart Is set in her dark eyes;-and they are bound Unto that cross, that shrine, that world apart, Where faithful blood hath sanctified the ground; And love with death striven long by tear and prayer, And anguish frozen into still despair. Yet on her spirit hath arisen at last A light, a joy, of its own wanderings born; Around her path a vision's glow is cast, Back, back her lost one comes in hues of morn!1 For her the gulf is fill'd-the dark night fled, Whose mystery parts the living and the dead. 1 "A son of light, a lovely form, CAMPBELL. And she can pour forth in such converse high, And more forlorn, amidst the world's gay throng, THE PRAYER FOR LIFE. O SUNSHINE and fair earth! Sweet is your kindly mirth, Angel of death! yet, yet awhile delay! Too sad it is to part, Thus in my spring of heart, With all the light and laughter of the day. For me the falling leaf Touches no chord of grief, No dark void in the rose's bosom lies: Not one triumphal tone, One hue of hope, is gone From song or bloom beneath the summer skies. Death, Death! ere yet decay, Call me not hence away, Over the golden hours no shade is thrown; The poesy that dwells Deep in green woods and dells, Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone. |