Section 10

As oft it rose and fell ; And memory still those sounds prolong,
As with a magic spell.
Ah ! sing again, who e'er thou art,
I'll hsten tho' it kill ; Within the chambers of my heart,
Those sounds are echoing still.
Song.
Thou didst lure me from the circle. Of the cherished and the true ;
Midst streams and hills and woodlands, Alone to dwell w^ith you.
But the joyous dream is fleeting.
As fast the moments roll ; It is our last wild meeting,
To mingle soul with soul.
In sorrow I must wander,
O'er scenes that's fair no more ;
156 MBS. munday's poems.
And oft my heart will ponder, 1
On blissful hours o'er.
Fare thee well ! farewell forever !
Since we, alas ! must part ; 'Twere hard indeed to sever,
'Twill break — 'twill break my heart.
When the moon's pale beam reposes,
Along the quiet sea ; Then in thy bower of roses.
Oh ! dearest, think of me.
I
^OLI AN MELODIES.
Where of ye, 0 Tempests, is the goal ?
Are ye like those that shake the human breast,
Or do ye find, like eagles, some high nest 1— Byron.
The winds, the loud high winds, whose mournful choir
Of many voice blent, sends forth their varied notes,
From the hoarse roaring of assembled floods,
To the low whispers breathed to trembling flowers.
As they upon soft summer's lap expire ;
Oh ! these, from sinless childhood's rosy dawn,
Have a strange spell upon my spirit flung —
While floating round my brain, were shad'wy thoughts
Of dream-like beauty, as my spirit oft
Caught the strange meaning of their anthems wild.
Are they not messengers divine, whose songs,
Eternal, are forever fraught with sounds.
Caught from celestial spheres ? And then again,
So near the earth they seem to bend their wings.
That their glad strains are blent with wailing tones
Of mortal cares.
And oft in mine imagings, I've heard commingling with their shrieking songs, .^ Voices, which rose from earth in sad lament, For those — the lov'd — the good — the brave — the pure —
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158
MRS. MUNDAy's poems.
The beautiful and true — too early lost !
When o'er fair Nature's cheek stern autumn casts
The fitful hectic of decay, I've heard,
As wand'ring through the vistas blue,
Of woodlands beautiful, this minstrel band
Come moaning up the vales, and wildly breathe
Their dirge-like melodies.
'Tis then my soul, With sweet intelligences rapt, communion sweet^ Communion most divine — doth seem to hold ; And to shuffle off this mortal coil 1 long. Of all its earthly film, to have my vision cleared ; To feel my soul expand its unknown powers : Its wings stretch forth, and far beyond these fields Of azure soar, where, in the bless'd abodes. Of etherializing joys I might forever dwell. But hark ! e'en now amid the giant bouo-hs Of yonder towering woods, in war-like strife. Their trumpet blasts I hear — and sorrowing tales, To those of exiled spirits lost akin, Unto my rapt and list'ning ears are borne.
1
The Exile^s Lament.
They bear me hence, my native land,
Far, far away from thee ; From loving friends — a kindred band —
^OLIAN MELODIES 159
On o'er the surgino; sea. They bear me hence o'er foaming deeps,
To that benighted shore ; Where many a weary exile sleeps,
To wake and weep no more.
They waft me from thy happy scenes.
Thy merry dancing rills ; Thy waving woods and vales serene,
And heaven-soaring hills ; While from the dark pines waving high.
With deep and solemn swell, Are wafted on the wind's low sigh.
Sad murmure of farewell.
Now lowly cot, and vaulted dome.
Are fading fast from view ; And thou, alas ! my boyhood's home.
Must vanish with them too. Yet will the glory of your skies.
Your ever flashing streams, And many a glance from loving eyes.
Still haunt my fever-dreams.
Ah ! now they're gone — they're shut from sight.
Behind the ocean wave ; Oh ! for one glance, those visions bright.
In memory's glass to save ; Where is the wrong ? — may I not know .'' —
Ye men of power, tell why.
160 MRS. munday's poems.
To alien climes why doom'd to go — In gloom to toil and die ?
Cease — cease, my bursting heart give o'er,
Since exile chains are thme ; Once more adieu, my native shore,
Britannia, home of mine.
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Like flute notes sweet the waving whispers glide, Then swelling on, so mournful and yet wild, That its deep tones still float within my heart.
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But hark ! there is a gush of melody,
Strange and sweet, as when the summer winds, low
And tremulous, over rich harp-strings sweep ;
And on those chaunting cadences of sound, methinks
Some sorrowing spiiit's voice in haunting tones is borne.
The Broken Hearted.
The moon is forth, the stars are bright, The earth is passing fair to-night, But still mine eyes with tears are wet. For one whom I can ne'er forget ; Who round my brows once loved to twine. The pale white rose and myrtle vine ; Oh ! he is gone — and joy has flown. My broken heart has lost its tone.
JEOLIAN MELODIES. 161
And burning tears and wasting care, Have chased the smiles I used to wear.
Alone I roam o'er hill and dell, To cull the flowers he lov'd so well, And by the shadowy lake I stray, Where oft we met at close of day. Ah ! there I've vainly hoped to see, My once fond lover come to me. Oh ! have I loved him all too well ? Let ray woe and anguish tell ; By all that yields me no relief, By my sleepless nights of grief. By my brain's wild misery, I have worship'd faithfully, With the soul's most mad'ning thrill. And as madly worship still.
Tell me, ye winds, ye spheres divine^
If aught ye know of lover mine ?
Tell me, ye viewless sprites of air.
Is he false to me — the young and fair ?
At another's shrine doth Theon dare
To breathe the same impassioned prayer,
That was his wont in happier hour
To breathe within this rose-wreath'd bow'r ^
And doth he for that maiden's sake.
His charmed mandolin awake ?
Or sleeps he 'neath the ocean wave.
In a pearl-spared cell of the sea maid's cave ?
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162 MRS. MtmDAY'S POEMS.
Or battling 'mid the stern and brave, Hath my hero found a glorious grave t
1 have mourned my life away,
And the hectic of decay,
O'er my cheek and o'er my brow.
Burns intensely even now.
I have sighed and wailed for him.
Till life and all its joys look dim ; •
But the wasted, broken heart,
May suffer on — endure the smart ;
And so intense may be its woe.
That its tears will cease to flow :
The brain maj^ burn with Passion's fire,
The spirit break, and not expire.
Wrapt in shadows pale and dim. Where I shall not dream of him, I soon shall know death's placid sleep. And o'er me roses pale shall weep. Oh ! parent earth, upon thy breast. Take thy woe-worn child to rest.
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The lute-like winds now faintly fall.
And down the distant glades in sorrowing tones expire.
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But hark ! again those melancholy sounds,
Like plaintive voices on the sobbing winds arise.
And as they fall upon my listening ear
Methinks their tones from dying innocence were caught,
JEOLIAN MELODIES. 163
As o'er its lowly couch soft zephyrs sighed, And with the chime of many mingling sounds, With odors, dew, and summer flowers were blent, And gently wafted on. Tell us, ye winds, Do we not hear upon your murmurs borne. Some deathless spirit's voice, whose yearning eaT Hath drank the music of angelic choirs ?
The Dying Boy.
Mother ! where am I ? — and what ails me now .'' Oh ! I'm so weary — and — I cannot rest ; For some strong hand is pressing on my breast, The damps of death are settling on my brow.
I scarce can hear your voice — your face looks dim— Oh I mother shall I ne'er behold thee more ? Hark ! nearer they come, from heaven's celestial shore, Those voices soft of harping seraphim.
Oh ! mother, shall I ne'er go forth with thee. O'er the sweet fields and by the sparkling streams } Shall none of all my boyhood's glory dreams Be here fulfilled ? Oh, speak to me !
And shall I ne'er behold the morning sun. Or watch the mountain clouds that chase along the sky ; Or the pale moon that beams at noon of night on high, Or count the «tars when the bright day is done ?
164 MRS. munday's poems.
No, mother, no ; for from beyond yon brilliant dome, Methinks some heavenly seraph now is hov'ring near; And this sweet summon falls upon mine ear; Sweet brother mine, come to the skies with me,
Come home.
And now I feel death's icy surges round me swell. Oh, mother ! mother ! weep not when I'm gone ; For we shall meet again upon that other dawn ; Then wipe away your tears — 'twill not be long — farewell !
Like Memnon's sweet uncertain sun-awaken'd strains,
Those plaintive murmurs died away.
More sadly still the grieving zephyrs sigh,
As tho' upon the sorrow-laden air
A fearful change had pass'd ; its fitful moan.
Along the purple hills and twilight vales.
In sobbing accents falls, so mournful and yet wild.
As tho' the heart with anguish full would break.
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The Mother'^s Lament.
Alas ! my only hope of this cold gloomy earth. Last link of life — my dream — my pride — my joy-« Thou wert to me, my gentle, darling boy ; But now thou art gone, leaving desolate my hearth^
Gone — gone, indeed ! — and yet how sadly sweet Death's stillness, like a robe, lays gently round thee
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^OLIAN MELODIES. 165
That I could almost dream thou didst but sleep, And soon again would wake thy mother's smile to greet.
How sweet the smile thy pleasant eyes could give ; And oh ! how oft these locks of sunny hair I've paited from thy brow, so ivory white and fair, While in thy gentle voice my very soul did live.
As some rude child with untaught sway, O'er a voluptuous harp oft idly flings His uncouth hands across its strinjrs. Sundering chords attuned to sweetest lay —
So death, with blackened wings.
Hath swept his icy fingers o'er thy heart ;
Where gushing sweet did living harmonies upstart,
And severed all its thousand strino-s.
The cup is full — the music of my life is hushed — Come soon, O death, and grant thy Lethean sleep ;■ There is no grandeur here for thee to reap. My being's light is p;one — my heart is crushed.
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i)ied on the summer air the melting strain. And as the sighing gales flew softly by. They seemed to nestle in the tall rank grass, And fold their dewy wings.
And yet again, 'Shose gentle airs in whispers low did breathe
166 MRS. MUNDAT^S POEMS.
Unto the trembling flowers of earth-born cares, Who bent their weeping heads and quivering leaves, And sighed their tender perfumes on the night.
The Orphans.
Why, brother, is thy brave young brow, Where soft the dark locks lay,
All shaded o'er with sorrow now, When all the world looks gay }
Oh ! ask me not, my sister dear, Too young and fair thou art.
To know what brings the swelling tear. The anguish of my heart.
For we are orphans now. alone, From place to place must roam ;
Our parents, once so kind, are gone. We have no friends or home.
Where stands embower'd on the hill A cottage white, around whose walls The creeping woodbine twines, and sti^ The gay glad streamlet falls.
There, once in happiness we dwelt.
And oft the altar round. In prayerful breathings lowly knelt.
While peace our labors crowned.
JEOLIAN MELODIES. 167
But change came o'er the scene of bliss,
And draped our hearts in gloon ; Then came the misery of this.
Our dark and early doom.
In freedom's wars our father died,
Upon a distant shore ; Fain would I slumber by his side.
To wake and weep no Knore.
Then o'er each heart and brow there came
Dark clouds of doubt and fear ; We were too sad to breathe his name,
He was to us so dear.
For strangers cold our home we left.
In grief and want to dwell ; Each heart grew sick — of hope bereft.
And sighed to home — Farewell !
•to'
At length our gentle mother died.
Who used to love us so. No friend have we — no home — Ah ! me :
Oh, who'll protect us now !
*
In low complainings ceased those wind-waked strains ^ But now my solemn ear drinks in a wail of woe, So sad, 'twould seem the very winds did weep.
168 MRS. munday's poems.
The Bereaved.
Ob, heavily the hours glide,
For she who erst dwelt by my side,
Is now no more — my gentle bride,
Lost, lost lannie !
Her tender eyes were like the hue,
Of modest voilets shining through
A tissuey veil of pearly dew —
Lovely lannie !
Soft on her brow the silken hair.
Lay goldenly in tresses fair ;
Her cheek was like the r©se-bud rare —
Beautiful lannie !
Joyous and happy as a child, Would she sing so sweetly wild : Oh, she was gay and yet so mild.
Gentle lannie !
But now my dreams of joy are o'er ;
The star hath set that I adore ;
Its beams will glad my soul no more —
Lost, lost lannie !
I have loved the wildly well ; O, what can my heart's anguish quell ? 'Tis nought but death ! Till then— Farewell, Sweet, sweet lannie !
-EOLIAN MELODIES. 169
Distant, in sobbing tones, the viewless winds,
Amid the dark green pines, arise and softly sigh
In syllables of breezy sound — Farewell !
But now, like angry floods, harsh tones awake,
And fiercely roar along the bending sky.
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The Captive Chief.
Long years in these prison walls I have pined, With the tyrant's chain over me ever ;
And long have I stiuggled the chain to unbind, This thraldom dark to sever.
Alas ! 'twill be my only tomb,
Companioned for age by silence and gloom.
They may bind these limbs with burning chains;
They may rack this writhing frame : But they never can conquer with torturing pains,
A fearless spirit of flame. They cannot subdue the chainless mind, Nor the freeborn soul with fetters bind.
Curse on, curse on, ye minions of power;
Bring fire, bring faggot — I reck not my fate ; Nor lament I in sadness the soul-mad'ning hour.
That ye bound me in chains, and thus taught me to hate. Aly spirit is free in these prison walls, As the sky-soaring bird in its forest-halls.
170 MRS. munday's poems.
And proud as the eagle that swoops o'er the hills, Is my tameless soul and its fetterless will ; Your mercy I spurn, and your tortures defy, And sooner than yield I gladly would die.
Aye, whatever betide, I ne'er will give o'er ;
For the soul that can triumph o'er death and its foes,
Fair Freedom shall weep when I am no more,
And love, though afar, shed a tear to my woes.
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Now swelling on, one piercing shriek it gives.
And on swift pinions takes its flight through space
Dying in echoes low amid the trees.
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With transing spell some viewless sprite now sweeps
Its breezy lyre, and soft eeolian warblings wake,
While on the dreamy murmurs come sweet strains
Of long ago, and memories of home.
The Captive Exile,
Oh sad was my fate when in youth's sweet prime.
From my vine-clad home I strayed, Alone to roam in a foreign clime.
Where fate my footsteps staid. In dreams I wander back again.
To childhood's joyous hour, To friends and home — the heart's sweet fane.
Beyond oppression's power.
^OLIAN MELODIES.
171
How oft have I loved in my mountain streams,
'Nealh the forest shades to lave ; Where the glory of boyhood's elfin dreams
Went floating on the wave ; And glad through the aisles of the voiceful woods,
Resounded the hunter's horn ; Where swift o'er twilight fell and flood,
The light fawn skip'd at njorn.
The herds I see from the dim blue hills,
Wend o'er the distant plain ; The dark-eyed maid her rude lay trills —
My heart drinks in the strain ; Sweet haunting memories arise.
And float around my soul, Of voices dear and radiant eyes.
And home the young heart's goal.
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A fearful change shrieks on the yelling blast.
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'Tis vain — 'tis vain — o'er my cheek and brow. Grief's plague spot, like a cankering fire.
Intensely burns. My sad soul now Knows only one desire ;
A boon that death alone can give- One draught from Lethe's midnight wav«
Oh ! dying heart, how long canst thou thus live ! Answer O Death ! 0 Grave !
17,2 MRS. munday's poems.