Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Departure of Miss Hannah More, from Barley Wood, April 18, 1828, at the Age of Eighty-three
THE DEPARTURE OF MISS HANNAH MORE, FROM BARLEY WOOD, APRIL 18, 1828, AT THE AGE OF EIGHTY-THREE.
It was a lovely scene,
That cottage 'mid the trees,
And peerless England's shaven green,
Peep'd, their interstices between,
While in each sweet recess, and grotto wild,
Nature conversed with Art, or on her labors smil'd.
It seem'd a parting hour,
And she whose hand had made
That spot so beautiful with woven shade
And aromatic shrub and flower,
Turns her from those haunts away,
Tho' spring relumes each charm and fondly woos her stay.
Yon mansion teems with legends for the heart:
There her lov'd sisters circled round her side,
To share in all her toils a part,
There too, with gentle sigh
Each laid her down to die:
Yet still, methinks, their beckoning phantoms glide,
Twining with tenderest ties
Of hoarded memories,
Green bower and quiet walk and vine-wreath'd spot:
Hark! where the cypress waves
Above their peaceful graves,
Seems not some echo on the gale to rise?
"Oh, sister, leave us not!"
Her lingering footstep stays
Upon that threshold stone,
And o'er the pictur'd wall, her farewell gaze
Rests on the portraits one by one,
Of treasur'd friends, before her gone,
To that bright world of bliss, where partings are unknown.
The wintry snows
That fourscore years disclose,
When slow to life's last verge, Time's lonely chariot goes,
Are on her temples and her features meek
Subdued and silent sorrow speak,
Yet still her arm in cheerful trust doth lean
On faithful friendship's prop,—that changeless evergreen.
Like Eve, from Paradise, she goes,
Yet not by guilt involv'd in woes,
Nor driven by angel bands,
The flaming sword is planted at her gate,
By menial hands:
Yes, those who at her table freely fed,
Despise the giver of their daily bread,
And from ingratitude and hate
The wounded patron fled.
Think not the pang was slight,
That thus within her uncomplaining breast
She cover'd from the light:
Though Knowledge o'er her mind had pour'd,
The full, imperishable hoard,
Tho' Virtue, such as dwells among the blest,
Came nightly, on Reflection's wing to sooth her soul to rest,
Tho' Fame to farthest earth her name had borne,
These brought no shield against the envious thorn;
Deem not the envenom'd dart
Invulnerable found her thrilling woman's heart.
Man's home is every where. On Ocean's flood,
Where the strong ship with storm-defying tether
Doth link in stormy brotherhood
Earth's utmost zones together,
Where'er the red gold glows, the spice-trees wave,
Where the rich diamond ripens, 'mid the flame
Of vertic suns that ope the stranger's grave,
He, with bronz'd cheek and daring step doth rove;
He with short pang and slight
Doth turn him from the chequer"d light
Of the fair moon thro' his own forests dancing,
Where music, joy and love
Were his young hours entrancing;
And where Ambition's thunder-claim
Points out his lot,
Or fitful Wealth allures to roam,
There, doth he make his home,
And still repineth not.
It is not thus with Woman. The far halls
Though ruinous and lone,
Where first her pleased ear drank a nursing-mother's tone,
The humble walls
Of that small garden where her childhood sported free,
Affection, with unfading tint recalls,
And every flower hath in its cup a bee,
Making fresh honey of remember'd things,
The flowers without a thorn, the bees bereft of stings.
The home, where erst with buoyant tread
She met the lov'd, the lost, the dead,
The household voices blended still
With the story-telling rill,
The valley, where with playmates true
She cull'd the strawberry wet with dew,
The bower where Love her youthful footsteps led,
The sacred hearth-stone where her children grew,
The soil where she hath cast
The flower-seeds of her hope and seen them bide the blast,
These are her soul's deep friends,
O'er whom in lone idolatry she bends,
And at the parting sound
The heart's adhesive tendril shrinking sends
As from some shuddering wound
Fresh drops of blood, that gushing stir
Unutter'd pangs, and ask an Angel-comforter.