Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 34, Pages 861-865
HYMNS OF LIFE.
BY MRS HEMANS.
No. VII.
FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.
Once, when I look'd along the laughing earth,
Up the blue heavens, and through the middle air,
Joyfully ringing with the sky-lark's song,
I wept! and thought how sad for one so young
To bid farewell to so much happiness.
But Christ hath call'd me from the lower world.
Delightful though it be.
Wilson.
Apartment in an English Country-House.—Lilian reclining, as sleeping, on a couch. Her Mother watching beside her. Her Sister enters with flowers.
Mother. Hush, lightly tread! still tranquilly she sleeps,
As, when a babe, I rock'd her on my heart.
I've watch'd, suspending ev'n my breath, in fear
To break the heavenly spell. Move silently!
And oh! those flowers! dear Jessy, bear them hence—
Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears
That shook her trembling frame, when last we brought
The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know
What sudden longings for the woods and hills,
Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly,
These leaves and odours with strange influence wake
In her fast-kindled soul?
Jessy.Oh! she would pine,
Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld,
Mother! far more than now her spirit yearns
For the blue sky, the singing-birds and brooks,
And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome spring
Their blooms recall.
Lilian (raising herself.) Is that my Jessy's voice?
It woke me not, sweet mother! I had lain
Silently, visited by waking dreams,
Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness,
Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought flowers?
Nay, fear not now thy fond child's waywardness,
My thoughtful mother!—in her chasten'd soul
The passion-colour'd images of life,
Which, with their sudden startling flush awoke
So oft those burning tears, have died away;
And Night is there,—still, solemn, holy Night,
With all her stars, and with the gentle tune
Of many fountains, low and musical,
By day unheard.
Mother.And wherefore Night, my child?
Thou art a creature all of life and dawn,
And from thy couch of sickness yet shall rise,
And walk forth with the day-spring.
Lilian.Hope it not!
Dream it no more, my mother!—there are things
Known but to God, and to the parting soul,
Which feels His thrilling summons.
But my words
Too much o'ershadow those kind loving eyes.
