Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 34 1833.pdf/13

Thou hast wept mournfully, oh, human Love!
E'en on this green sward: night hath heard thy cry,
Heart-stricken one! thy precious dust above,
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply
Unto thine agony!
But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide,
Christ hath arisen, oh Love! thy tears shall all be dried.

Dark must have been the gushing of those tears,
Heavy the unsleeping Phantom of the tomb
On thine impassioned soul, in elder years
When, burden'd with the mystery of its doom,
Mortality's thick gloom
Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death.

By thee, sad Love, and by thy sister, Fear,
Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought
To vail that haunting shadow, still too near,
Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought,
And, where the board was fraught
With wine and myrtles in the summer bower,
Felt, e'en when disavow'd, a presence and a power.

But that dark night is closed: and o'er the dead,
Here, where the gleamy primrose tufts have blown,
And where the mountain heath a couch has spread,
And, settling oft on some grey-lettered stone,
The Redbreast warbles lone;
And the Wild-bee's deep, drowsy murmurs pass
Like a low thrill of harp-strings through the grass:

Here, midst the chambers of the Christian's sleep,
We o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye,
For Hope sits, dove-like, on the gloomy deep,
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie
Seem all one sanctuary
Of holiest thought—nor needs their fresh bright sod,
Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God.

Christ hath arisen!—oh! mountain peaks, attest,
Witness, resounding glen, and torrent wave,
The immortal courage in the human breast
Sprung from that victory—tell how oft the brave
To camp 'midst rock and cave,
Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne,
Planting the Cross on high above the clouds of morn.

The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day—
Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone
Have thrill'd their pines, when those that knelt to pray
Rose up to arm! the pure, high snows have known
A colouring not their own,
But from true hearts which by that crimson stain
Gave token of a trust that call'd no suffering vain.

Those days are past—the mountains wear no more
The solemn splendour of the martyr's blood,
And may that awful record, as of yore,
Never again be known to field or flood!
E'en though the faithful stood,
A noble army, in the exulting sight
Of Earth and Heaven, which bless'd their battle for the right!