Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 25 1829.pdf/8

For in thy heart there is a holy spot,
    As mid the waste an Isle of Fount and Palm,
For ever gone!—the world's breath enters not,
    The passion-tempests may not break its calm:
'Tis thine, all thine!

Thither, in trust unbaffled, mayst thou turn,
    From weary words, cold greetings, heartless eyes,
Quenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn,
    That fill'd with waters of sweet Memory lies
In its own shrine.

Thou hast thy home!—there is no power in change
    To reach that Temple of the Past;—no sway
In all Time brings of sudden, dark, or strange,
    To sweep the still transparent peace away
From its hush'd air.

And oh! that glorious Image of the Dead!
    Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest,
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed
    Its high gifts fearlessly!—I call thee blest,
If only there!

Blest, for the Beautiful within thee dwelling,
    Never to fade!—a refuge from distrust,
A spring of purer life, still freshly welling,
    To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust,
With flowers divine.

And thou hast been beloved!—it is no dream,
    No false mirage for thee, the fervent love,
The Rainbow still unreach'd, th' ideal gleam,
    That ever seems before, beyond, above,
Far off to shine.

But thou, from all the daughters of the earth
    Singled and mark'd, hast known its home and place,
And the high memory of its holy worth
    To this our life a glory and a grace
For thee hath given.

And art thou not still fondly, truly loved?
    —Thou art!—the love his spirit bore away
Was not for earth!—a treasure but removed,
    A bright bird parted for a clearer day—
Thine still in Heaven!