Felicia Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine Volume 32 1832/The Two Monuments

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For other versions of this work, see The Two Monuments.

Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 32, Pages 969-970


THE TWO MONUMENTS.

BY MRS HEMANS.

Oh! blest are they who live and die like "him,"
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn'd!
Wordsworth.

Banners hung drooping from on high
    In a dim Cathedral's nave,
Making a gorgeous canopy
    O'er a noble, noble grave!

And a marble warrior's form beneath,
    With helm and crest array'd,
As on his battle bed of death,
    Lay in their crimson shade.

Triumph yet linger'd in his eye,
    Ere by the dark night seal'd,
And his head was pillow'd haughtily
    On standard and on shield.

And shadowing that proud trophy-pile
    With the glory of his wing,
An eagle sat;—yet seem'd the while
    Panting through Heaven to spring.

He sat upon a shiver'd lance,
    There by the sculptor bound;
But in the light of his lifted glance
    Was that which scorn'd the ground,


And a burning flood of gem-like hues
    From a storied window pour'd,
There fell, there centred, to suffuse
    The conqueror and his sword.

A flood of hues!—but one rich dye
    O'er all supremely spread,
With a purple robe of royalty
    Mantling the mighty dead.

Meet was that robe for him whose name
    Was a trumpet-note in war,
His path-way still the march of fame,
    His eye the battle star.

But faintly, tenderly was thrown
    From the colour'd light one ray,
Where a low and pale memorial stone
    By the couch of glory lay.

Few were the fond words chisell'd there,
    Mourning for parted worth;
But the very heart of Love and Prayer
    Had given their sweetness forth.

They spoke of one whose life had been
    As a hidden streamlet's course,
Bearing on health and joy unseen,
    From its clear mountain source:

Whose young pure memory, lying deep
    Midst rock, and wood, and hill,
Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,[1]
    A soft light meek and still:

Whose gentle voice, too early call'd
    Unto Music's land away,
Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd,
    By words of silvery sway.

These were his victories—yet enroll'd
    In no high song of fame,
The Pastor of the mountain-fold
    Left but to heaven his name.

To Heaven and to the peasant's hearth,
    A blessed household sound—
And finding lowly love on earth,
    Enough, enough, he found!

Bright and more bright before me gleam'd
    That sainted image still;
Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd
    The regal fane to fill.

Oh! how my silent spirit turn'd
    From those proud trophies nigh;
How my full heart within me burn'd,
    Like Him to live and diel

  1. Love had he seen in huts where poor men lie.

    Wordsworth.