Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 14 1825/Ulla, or the Adjuration

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The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 14, Pages 259-260


"Thou 'rt gone! thou 'rt slumbering low
    With the sounding seas above thee,
It is but a restless woe,
    But a haunting dream to love thee!
Thrice the glad swan has sung
    To greet the sunny hours,
Since thine oar at parting flung

    The white spray up in showers.
There 's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth and round thy home,

Come to me from the ocean's dead!—thou 'rt surely of them—come!"

'Twas Ulla's voice!—alone she stood
    In the Iceland summer night,
Far gazing o'er a glassy flood,

    From a dark rock's beetling height.

"I know thou hast thy bed
    Where the sea-weed's coil hath bound thee.
The storm sweeps o'er thy head,

    But the depths are hush'd around thee!

What wind shall point the way
    To the chambers where thou rt lying?
—Come to me thence, and say

    If thou thought'st on me in dying?
I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and cheek—

Come to me from the ocean's dead!—thou 'rt surely of them—speak!"

She listen'd—'twas the wind's low moan,
    'Twas the ripple of the wave;
'Twas the wakening osprey's cry alone,

    As it started from its cave.

"I know each fearful spell
    Of the ancient Runic lay,
Whose mutter'd words compel
    The tempests to obey!
But I adjure not thee
    By magic, sign, or song,
My voice shall stir the sea

    By love—the deep, the strong!
By the might of woman's tears, by the passion of her sighs,

Come to me from the ocean's dead!—thou 'rt surely of them—rise!"

Again she gazed with an eager glance,
    Wandering and wildly bright;
—She saw but the sparkling water's dance

    In the arrowy northern light.

"By the slow and struggling death
    Of Hope that loath'd to part,
By the fierce and withering breath
    Of Despair on Youth's high heart,
By the weight of gloom which clings
    To the mantle of the night,
By the heavy dawn which brings

    Nought lovely to the sight,
By all that from my weary soul, thou hast wrung of grief and fear,

Come to me from the ocean's dead!—awake, arise, appear!"

Was it her yearning spirit's dream,
    Or did a pale form rise,
And o'er the hush'd wave glide and gleam,

With bright, still, mournful eyes?

"Have the depths heard?—they have!
    My voice prevails—thou 'rt there!
Dim from thy watery grave,
    Oh! thou that wert so fair!
Yet take me to thy rest!
    There dwells no fear with love,
Let me slumber on thy breast,

    While the billow rolls above!
Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the bright ones have their home,

We will sleep among the ocean's dead!—stay for me—stay! I come!"

There was a sullen plunge below,
    A flashing on the main,
And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's woe,

    Shut—and grew still again!