The Easter Gift/The Magdalen
 Carlo Dolci pinx.S. Sangster sculp.
A MAGDALEN.
FISHER, SON & CO. LONDON, 1834 |
THE MAGDALEN.
The plaining murmur of the midnight wind,
Like mournful music is upon the air:
So sad, so sweet, that the eyes fill with tears,
Without a cause—ah! no, the heart is heaped
So full with perished pleasures, vain regrets,
That nature cannot sound one grieving note
Upon her forest lyre, but still it finds
Mute echo in the sorrowing human heart.
Now the wind wails among the yellow leaves,
About to fall, over the faded flowers,
Over all summer's lovely memories,
About to die; the year has yet in store
A few dim hours, but they are dark and cold:
Sunshine, green leaves, glad flowers, they all are gone;
And it has only left the worn-out soil,
The leafless bough, and the o'er-clouded sky.
And shall humanity not sympathize
With desolation which is like its own?
So do our early dreams fade unfulfilled;
So does our hope turn into memory
The one so glad—the other such despair,
(For who can find a comfort in the past;)
So do our feelings harden, or decay,
Encrusting with hard selfishness too late,
Or bearing that deep wound, whereof we die.
Where are the buoyant spirits of our youth?
Where are the dancing steps, that but kept time
To our own inward gladness—where the light
That flushed the cheek into one joyous rose:
That lit the lips, and filled the eyes with smiles?—
Gone, gone as utterly, as singing birds,
And opening flowers, and honey-laden bees,
And shining leaves, are from yon forest gone.
I know this from myself—the words I speak
Were written first with tears on mine own heart;
And yet, albeit, it was a lovely time!
Who would recall their youth, and be again,
The dreaming—the believing—the betrayed.
The feverishness of hope, the agony,
As every disappointment taught a truth;
For still is knowledge bought by wretchedness,
Who could find energy to bear again?
Ye clear bright stars, that from the face of heaven
Shine out in tranquil loveliness, how oft
Have ye been witness to my passionate tears;
Altho' beloved, and beautiful, and young;
Yet happiness was not with my unrest.
For I had pleasure, not content; each wish
Seemed granted, only to be weariness.
No hope fulfilled its promise; and no dream
Was ever worth its waking bitterness.
Then there was love, that crowding into one
All vanity, all sorrow, all remorse:
Till we loathe life, glad, beauteous, hoping life,
And would be fain to lay our burthen down,
Although we might but lay it in the grave,
All natural terror lost in hope of peace.
God of those stars, to which I once appealed
In a vain fantasy of sympathy,
How wretched I have been in my few years!
How have I wept throughout the sleepless nights
Then sank in heavy slumber, misery still
Haunting its visions: morning's cold gray light
Waked me reluctant, for though sleep had been
Anguish, yet I could say it was but sleep.
And then day came, with all those vanities
With which our nature mocks its wretchedness,
The toilsome pleasures, and the dull pursuits;
Efforts to fly ourselves, and made in vain.
Too soon I learnt the secret of our life,
That "vanity of vanities" is writ
Deep in the hidden soul of human things;
And then I sank into despondency,
And lived from habit, not from hope; and fear
Stood between me and death, and only fear;
I was a castaway: for, like the fool,
Within my soul I said there is no God.
But then a mighty and a glorious voice
Was speaking on the earth—thus said the Lord,
"Now come to me, ye that are heavy laden,
And I will give you rest"—and, lo, I came
Sorrowing,—and the broken contrite heart,
Lord, thou didst not despise. Now let me weep
Tears, and my dying Saviour's precious blood
Will wash away my sin. Now let me pray
In thankfulness that time is given for prayer;
In hope that, offer'd in my Saviour's name,
I may find favour in the sight of God.
Where is my former weariness of life,
Where is my former terror of the grave?
Out of my penitence there has grown hope;
I trust, and raise my suppliant eyes to heaven;
And, when my soul desponds, I meekly say,
"I know that my Redeemer liveth."
HYMN OF THE MAGDALEN.
There was a time, when I but sought
In life its pleasant things;
And ask'd each moment what it brought
Of pleasure on its wings.
I bound red roses in my hair,
And when they died away,
I only thought, fresh flowers there are
As beautiful as they.
And time past on—the bright and brief,
I led the dance and song,
As careless as the summer leaf
The wild wind bears along.
But the wind fails the leaf at last,
And down it sinks to die,
To perish with the perished past,
And gone as idly by.
So sink the spirits of those days,
That buoyant bore us on;
The joy declines, the hope decays
Ere we believe them gone.
Then memory rises like a ghost,
Whose presence brings to mind
The better things which we have lost,
The hopes we've left behind.
And what could memory bring to me
But sorrow, shame, and sin;
And wretched the worn heart must be,
With such dark guests within.
I said, accursed be a life
That mid such ills hath birth;
Where fate and nature in their strife,
Make desolate the earth.
But no more of that evil time,
An altered heart is mine:
Purified by a hope sublime,
And by a faith divine.
I weep; but tears of penitence
Still comfort as they flow;
And rise to heaven, and win from thence
A solace for below.
For I have learnt, my God, to trace
Thy love in all things here;
How wonderful the power and grace
In all thy works appear.
The vineyard dim with purple light,
The silvery olive tree,
The corn wherewith the plains are bright,
Speak to my soul of thee.
This loveliness is born to die;
Not so the race, for whom
The sun goes shining through the sky,
The world puts forth its bloom.
We know that to this lovely earth,
Will sure destruction come;
But though it be our place of birth,
Yet it is not our home.
For we are God's own chosen race,
Whom the Lord died to save;
This earth is but a trial-place,
Whose triumph is the grave.