The last long look to him who was so dear, The settled paleness on the cold dead cheek, The solemn chant, slow pealed by the sad bier, The reft one's grief, that is too deep to speak Woman's strong love, for which all words but thine are weak.
And thou hast thrown o'er all thy blessed songs A veil of feminine thought, that still doth greet The soul with joy that not to earth belongs,
A charm from thine own heart, that when we meet Thy much loved verse, it tells of thy retreat; E'en as those shells, thrown by the flowing sea In polished beauty at our careless feet.
More exquisitely fair than art can be, Far from their native ocean still repeat For ever its loved roar, in mimic murmurs sweet.
SPEAK low! the place is holy to the breath Of awful harmonies, of whispered prayer: Tread lightly!-for the sanctity of death Broods with a voiceless influence on the air! Stern, yet serene !—a reconciling spell Each troubled billow of the soul to quell.
Leave me to linger silently awhile!
-Not for the light that pours its fervid streams Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, Kindling old banners into haughty gleams. Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom.
Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing, Mighty as forest-sounds when winds are high; Nor yet for torch and cross, and stole, revealing
Through incense mists their sainted pageantry! Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power, Yet not for these Î ask one lingering hour.
But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound; Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have poured Their anguish forth, are with me and around; I look back on the pangs, the burning tears, Known to these altars of a thousand years.
Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse!
That here hast bowed with ashes on thy head And thou, still battling with the tempest's force, 'Thou, whose bright spirit through all time hath bled, Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer, Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair?
No voice, no breath!—of conflicts past no trace! -Doth not this hush give answer to my quest? Surely the dread religion of the place,
By every grief, hath made its might confessed! -Oh! that within my heart I could but keep
Holy to heaven a spot, thus pure, and still, and deep!
FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.
This song is said to have been composed by Schiller, in answer to the inquiries of his friends, respecting the fate of Thekla, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the tragedy of "Wallenstein's Death," after her resolution to visit the grave of her lover is made known.
ASK'ST thou my home?-my pathway wouldst thou know,
When from thine eye my floating shadow passed? Was not my work fulfilled, and closed below? Had I not lived and loved ?-my lot was cast.
Wilt thou ask where the nightingale is gone, That, melting into song her soul away,
Gave the spring breeze what witched thee in its tone? -But while she loved, she lived in that sad lay.
Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found? Yes! we are one, oh! trust me, we have met,— Where nought again may part what Love hath bound, Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret.
There shalt thou find us-there with us be blessed, If, as our love, thy love is pure and true!
There dwells my father,* sinless and at rest, Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue.
And well he feels, no error of the dust Drew to the stars of heaven his upward ken, There it is with us, e'en as is our trust, He that believes, is near the Holy then.
There shall each feeling, beautiful and high, Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day- Oh! fear thou not to dream with waking eye, There lies deep meaning oft in childish play.
Methinks it should have been impossible Not to love all things in a world like this, Where even the breezes and the common air
Contain the power and spirit of harmony.-Coleridge.
HARP of the winds! What music may compare With thy wild gush of melody ;—Or where 'Mid this world's discords, may we hope to meet Tones like to thine-so soothing and so sweet!
Harp of the winds! When Summer's Zephyr wings His airy flight across thy tremulous strings,
As if enamoured of his breath, they move
With soft low murmurs,-like the voice of Love Ere passion deepens it, or sorrow mars
Its harmony with sighs!-All earthborn jars Confess thy soothing power, when strains like these, From thy bliss-breathing chords, are borne upon the breeze!
But when a more pervading force compels Their sweetness into strength,-and swiftly swells Each tenderer tone to fulness,-what a strange And spirit-stirring sense that fitful change Wakes in my heart!-Visions of days long past,— Hope-joy-pride-pain-and passion-with the blast, Come rushing on my soul,-till I believe Some strong enchantment, purposed to deceive, Hath fixed its spell upon me, and I grieve I may not burst its bonds !-Anon the gale Softly subsides, and whisperings wild prevail Of inarticulate melody, which seem
Not music, but its shadow;-what a dream Is to reality;-or as the swell
(Those who have felt alone have power to tell,) Of the full heart, where love was late a guest, Ere it recovers from its sweet unrest!
The charm is o'er! Each warring thought flits by, Quelled by that more than mortal minstrelsy! Each turbulent feeling owns its sweet control, And peace once more returns, and settles on my soul !
Harp of the winds! thy ever-tuneful chords, In language far more eloquent than words Of earth's best skilled philosophers, do teach A deep and heavenly lesson! Could it reach, With its impressive truths, the heart of man, Then were he blest indeed; and he might scan His coming miseries with delight! The storm Of keen adversity would then deform
No more the calm stream of his thoughts, nor bring Its wonted "grisly train ;" but, rather wring Sweetness from out his grief, till even the string On which his sorrows hung, should make reply, However rudely swept, in tones of melody!
« ForrigeFortsæt » |