Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Monody on Mrs. Hemans
MONODY ON MRS. HEMANS.
Nature doth mourn for thee. There comes a voice
From her far solitudes, as though the winds
Murmured low dirges, or the waves complain'd.
Even the meek plant, that never sang before,
Save one brief requiem, when its blossoms fell,
Seems through its drooping leaves to sigh for thee,
As for a florist dead. The ivy wreathed
Round the gray turrets of a buried race,
And the proud palm-trees, that like princes rear
Their diadems 'neath Asia's sultry sky,
Blend with their ancient lore thy hallowed name.
Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make
Whate'er it touched more holy. The pure shell,
Pressing its pearly lip to ocean's floor,
The cloister'd chambers where the sea-gods sleep,
And the unfathom'd, melancholy main,
Lament for thee, through all the sounding deeps.
Hark! from sky-piercing Himmaleh, to where
Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud,
From the scath'd pine-tree near the red-man's hut,
To where the everlasting banian builds
Its vast columnar temple, comes a wail
For her who o'er the dim cathedral's arch,
The quivering sunbeam on the cottage wall,
Or the sere desert, pour'd the lofty chant
And ritual of the muse: who found the link
That joins mute nature to ethereal mind,
And made that link a melody.
The vales
Of glorious Albion heard thy tuneful fame,
And those green cliffs, where erst the Cambrian bards
Swept their indignant lyres, exulting tell
How oft thy fairy foot in childhood climb'd
Their rude, romantic heights. Yet was the couch
Of thy last slumber in yon verdant isle
Of song, and eloquence, and ardent soul,
Which, loved of lavish skies, though bann'd by fate,
Seem'd as a type of thine own varied lot,
The crown'd of genius, and the child of wo.
For at thy breast the ever-pointed thorn
Did gird itself in secret, mid the gush
Of such unstain'd, sublime, impassion'd song,
That angels, poising on some silver cloud,
Might listen mid the errands of the skies,
And linger all unblamed.
How tenderly
Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest,
And like a nurse, with finger on her lip,
Watch that no step disturb thee, and no hand
Profane thy sacred harp. Methinks she waits
Thy waking, as some cheated mother hangs
O'er the pale babe, whose spirit death hath stolen,
And laid it, dreaming, on the lap of Heaven.
Said we that thou art dead? We dare not. No.
For every mountain, stream, or shady dell
Where thy rich echoes linger, claim thee still,
Their own undying one. To thee was known
Alike the language of the fragile flower
And of the burning stars. God taught it thee.
So, from thy living intercourse with man,
Thou shalt not pass, until the weary earth
Drops her last gem into the doomsday flame.
Thou hast but taken thy seat with that bless'd choir,
Whose harmonies thy spirit learn'd so well
Through this low, darken'd casement, and so long
Interpreted for us.
Why should we say
Farewell to thee, since every unborn age
Shall mix thee with its household charities?
The hoary sire shall bow his deafen'd ear,
And greet thy sweet words with his benison;
The mother shrine thee as a vestal flame
In the lone temple of her sanctity;
And the young child who takes thee by the hand,
Shall travel with a surer step to Heaven.