SHEW PITY, LORD

Words by J. Roby.Air from a modern Concerto.

Air from a modern Concerto.

Father, hear a suppliant's cry;Hear, oh hear, for Thou art nigh.Though the clouds of sorrow riseDarkly o'er these troubled skies;Speak the word, "Let there be light!"Bid the morning chase the night.Father, hear a suppliant's prayer;Darkness flies when Thou art there!

[Listen]

The Melody by J. Roby; the Harmonies varied by V. Novello.

[Extracted, by permission, from the Congregational and Chorister's Psalm and Hymn-Book. Dufour, Piccadilly.]

Shew Pity, Lord.

Shew pity, Lord! O Lord, forgive;Let a repenting rebel live.Are not thy mercies large and free?May not a sinner trust in Thee?My lips with shame my sins confess.Against thy law, against thy grace;Lord, should thy judgment grow severe,I am condemned, but Thou art clear.Yet save a humbling sinner, Lord,Whose hope, still hovering round thy word,Would light on some sweet promise there,Some sure support against despair.

Shew pity, Lord! O Lord, forgive;Let a repenting rebel live.Are not thy mercies large and free?May not a sinner trust in Thee?

My lips with shame my sins confess.Against thy law, against thy grace;Lord, should thy judgment grow severe,I am condemned, but Thou art clear.

Yet save a humbling sinner, Lord,Whose hope, still hovering round thy word,Would light on some sweet promise there,Some sure support against despair.

Some of the following short poems were composed early in life, while two or three of those last in order are of a very recent date. Those to which dates are appended are from another pen. It was intended by Mr. Roby that they should appear with his own productions. The survivor will be forgiven the mournful pleasure of thus partially fulfilling one of those purposes whose "inward light," was wont to

"Keep the path before him always bright."

Swiftly go, thou bounding bark,As with an arrow's flight;The untamed winds thy coursers wild,The waves thy chariot bright.—But there are hearts within that shrineWhere wilder billows swell,Where the last pang is quivering nowThe last fond word—"Farewell."Blow, ye breezes! Gently roll,Thou vast and troubled deep!On thy still waters let the sighOf dim-eyed sorrow sleep.Bright hearts, bright hearths, and merry homesTheir voice is on the wind.—Be hush'd, ye blasts; too loud ye bringTheir echoes on the mind.Soon these hallow'd shores shall fade,Fast as the summer cloud,And stranger climes and stranger formsPass, like a pageant proud.But blessings still your path pursue,Where'er that path may lie;Since every devious maze ye traceBeneath a guiding eye.Yon evening star that trembling dipsBeneath the western sea,Awhile, like him, your lonesome flight,Like his, your destiny.—Though setting now in clouds and gloom,The day-spring shall arise,And yon pale star, like you, appearIn pomp from eastern skies!MayHewhose word the billows calm'd,And sooth'd those seas to rest,Yet whisper in the gentlest winds,That breathe on ocean's breast.But there are waves of mightier powerHis voice alone can still,The soul's keen throb,—its louder surgeGrows peaceful at his will!Swiftly go, thou bounding bark,As with an arrow's flight,The untamed winds thy coursers wild,The waves thy chariot bright!But there are hearts within that shrineWhere wilder billows swell,Where the last pang is quivering nowThe last fond word—"Farewell!"

Blow, ye breezes! Gently roll,Thou vast and troubled deep!On thy still waters let the sighOf dim-eyed sorrow sleep.Bright hearts, bright hearths, and merry homesTheir voice is on the wind.—Be hush'd, ye blasts; too loud ye bringTheir echoes on the mind.

Soon these hallow'd shores shall fade,Fast as the summer cloud,And stranger climes and stranger formsPass, like a pageant proud.But blessings still your path pursue,Where'er that path may lie;Since every devious maze ye traceBeneath a guiding eye.

Yon evening star that trembling dipsBeneath the western sea,Awhile, like him, your lonesome flight,Like his, your destiny.—Though setting now in clouds and gloom,The day-spring shall arise,And yon pale star, like you, appearIn pomp from eastern skies!

MayHewhose word the billows calm'd,And sooth'd those seas to rest,Yet whisper in the gentlest winds,That breathe on ocean's breast.But there are waves of mightier powerHis voice alone can still,The soul's keen throb,—its louder surgeGrows peaceful at his will!

Swiftly go, thou bounding bark,As with an arrow's flight,The untamed winds thy coursers wild,The waves thy chariot bright!But there are hearts within that shrineWhere wilder billows swell,Where the last pang is quivering nowThe last fond word—"Farewell!"

An Album?—'Tis a pretty book I wis,Bound up in cow-skin—or sometimes in calf,All tool'd and gilt—where every pert-eyed miss,Her pretty pouting lips (too ripe by half),Hangs o'er the snow-white page—then steals a laugh,Something between a simper and a smile;—"Law, I can't write!—Ridiculous, to spoilI have no notion——Will an extract doFrom Moore or Byron?" "No, write something new."An Album?—'Tis a wide waste blank—a pageAll bright and glorious, like the morn of life,Not darken'd with rude blots;—no dim presageScrawl'd o'er the bliss-like future,—where no knife,Like eating care, obliterates.—The strife,The agony, those hours shall know, nor trace,Nor track, steals o'er their smooth, unruffled face.If joy or woe those opening leaves shall bring,Who shall unfold their dim foretokening?And would'st thou have me in that mirror look,Shadowing the first page in thy destiny,Or weave a frontlet to Fate's Album-book?It should be joyous were mine Fate's decree.Like opera-overtures, the melodyI know the story should foretoken, tellingOf love, hope, joy, and all that sort of thing;Or, like the pictures on a raree-show,Blazon the matchless wonders hid below.But I'm no prophet!—what these pages mayOr may not gather, hard to say methinks.'Tis somewhat strange, e'en for this marvellous day,Writing a preface to blank leaves,—a sphynx'Twould puzzle to undo, like Hymen's links!The paper's pretty, and a pretty book:So far seems certain. What may next be shookFrom Fate's grim bag,n'importe—umquhile, I trow,Time flits, hopes bud, and wither ere they blow.When closed the last page of this history,If joy or sorrow on that morn shall rise,What I may then, or thou shalt surely beI dare not mutter with articulate voice!And yet I'll try a word or so (no lies,I hate them); 'tis irrevocable fateI now unfold. Listen, as though there sateThe wizard seer thy destiny revealing;Bright hopes, grim horror, o'er thy vision stealing!

An Album?—'Tis a wide waste blank—a pageAll bright and glorious, like the morn of life,Not darken'd with rude blots;—no dim presageScrawl'd o'er the bliss-like future,—where no knife,Like eating care, obliterates.—The strife,The agony, those hours shall know, nor trace,Nor track, steals o'er their smooth, unruffled face.If joy or woe those opening leaves shall bring,Who shall unfold their dim foretokening?

And would'st thou have me in that mirror look,Shadowing the first page in thy destiny,Or weave a frontlet to Fate's Album-book?It should be joyous were mine Fate's decree.Like opera-overtures, the melodyI know the story should foretoken, tellingOf love, hope, joy, and all that sort of thing;Or, like the pictures on a raree-show,Blazon the matchless wonders hid below.

But I'm no prophet!—what these pages mayOr may not gather, hard to say methinks.'Tis somewhat strange, e'en for this marvellous day,Writing a preface to blank leaves,—a sphynx'Twould puzzle to undo, like Hymen's links!The paper's pretty, and a pretty book:So far seems certain. What may next be shookFrom Fate's grim bag,n'importe—umquhile, I trow,Time flits, hopes bud, and wither ere they blow.

When closed the last page of this history,If joy or sorrow on that morn shall rise,What I may then, or thou shalt surely beI dare not mutter with articulate voice!And yet I'll try a word or so (no lies,I hate them); 'tis irrevocable fateI now unfold. Listen, as though there sateThe wizard seer thy destiny revealing;Bright hopes, grim horror, o'er thy vision stealing!

"Oft shall wearied hope expire,Bliss none other bosom knows,Love shall scorch thee with its fire,Maiden, ere these pages close."Oft shall visions warm and bright,Glimmer on thine aching brain,Swifter fading from thy sight,Ne'er shall dawn those dreams again."Oft shall throb that wearied breast,Pulse on pulse in anguish beating,Oft shall sink that storm to rest,Hope and love those wild waves meeting."Love and hate, and joy and fear,Shall thy bosom oft o'erflow,All that woman's heart may bear,All that woman's breast may know."Oft shall friends thy bosom cherish'd,Change to deeper, deadlier foes.Love shall die and hope have perish'd,Maiden, ere these pages close!"

"Oft shall wearied hope expire,Bliss none other bosom knows,Love shall scorch thee with its fire,Maiden, ere these pages close.

"Oft shall visions warm and bright,Glimmer on thine aching brain,Swifter fading from thy sight,Ne'er shall dawn those dreams again.

"Oft shall throb that wearied breast,Pulse on pulse in anguish beating,Oft shall sink that storm to rest,Hope and love those wild waves meeting.

"Love and hate, and joy and fear,Shall thy bosom oft o'erflow,All that woman's heart may bear,All that woman's breast may know.

"Oft shall friends thy bosom cherish'd,Change to deeper, deadlier foes.Love shall die and hope have perish'd,Maiden, ere these pages close!"

We have met and we have parted,Meet it were that love should die;Teach the winds, thou fond false-hearted,Teach the light wave constancy!We have loved as we shall neverDare on earth to love again!Hearts thus twined, when they shall sever,Wear no more love's bootless chain.Tell the waves to calm their motion,Tell the wind thy power to flee,Bid the chafed and restless oceanSleep, aye, sleep unchangeably.Will the lash'd wave cease its wailing?Will the moaning billow rest?Then may Hope with joys unfailing,Fled like mine, appease thy breast.

Tell the waves to calm their motion,Tell the wind thy power to flee,Bid the chafed and restless oceanSleep, aye, sleep unchangeably.Will the lash'd wave cease its wailing?Will the moaning billow rest?Then may Hope with joys unfailing,Fled like mine, appease thy breast.

"Lightly o'er the moon-lit seaBounds my lover's bark to me;The breeze hath woo'd the fluttering sail,Fast flies the prow from the wanton gale."The lady sung.—'Twas the lone sea-mewO'er the waters wail'd, as he wistfully flew."Swiftly through the curling foam,Waft, ye winds, my true love home:I hear not yet the dripping oar,The surge uncleft yet greets the shore."The lady gazed.—'Twas the rushing blast,Like some spirit of might, on the waters pass'd!Darkly o'er the troubled deep,Ruder winds the billows sweep;The lady hath left her lattice bower,—"Why tarries my love till the midnight hour?"Swift answer came.—'Twas a shuddering moan,As her lover's cold corse at her feet was thrown!

"Swiftly through the curling foam,Waft, ye winds, my true love home:I hear not yet the dripping oar,The surge uncleft yet greets the shore."The lady gazed.—'Twas the rushing blast,Like some spirit of might, on the waters pass'd!

Darkly o'er the troubled deep,Ruder winds the billows sweep;The lady hath left her lattice bower,—"Why tarries my love till the midnight hour?"Swift answer came.—'Twas a shuddering moan,As her lover's cold corse at her feet was thrown!

Forgotten so soonAre thy vows when we parted,Have other links bound thee,Thou fickle false-hearted?Go fling to the winds thy last tenderest vow,They are not so changing, so reckless as thou.Can the tear on thy cheek,The warm gush from thy heart,So soon dry their torrent?So quickly depart?Like dew on the flower, like the web when 'tis broken,—Oh frailer than these, woman's vows when they're spoken.And was it for this,In my heart's holiest shrine,No memory was hidden,No image but thine?And I deem'd thee some hallow'd, some heaven-given thing,Entwined round my bosom for ever to cling.I had perill'd my allOn that treacherous bark,A woman's fond love;—When the billows grew dark,The bright sea was ruffled, the loud storm rush'd on,My hopes are all wreck'd, and that light bark is gone.Go, faithless, and weep!For I scorn thy words now;Yet no tears thou wilt shedCan heal one broken vow;No weeping can cleanse that one foul perjured stain,Or quench the keen fire that now scorches my brain.Yet stay, false one, stay;There's a worm in thy breast,A gloom on thy soulWhere no sunshine shall rest;To which e'en the agony thou hast made mineIs blessing and bliss when compared but with thine.

Forgotten so soonAre thy vows when we parted,Have other links bound thee,Thou fickle false-hearted?Go fling to the winds thy last tenderest vow,They are not so changing, so reckless as thou.

Can the tear on thy cheek,The warm gush from thy heart,So soon dry their torrent?So quickly depart?Like dew on the flower, like the web when 'tis broken,—Oh frailer than these, woman's vows when they're spoken.

And was it for this,In my heart's holiest shrine,No memory was hidden,No image but thine?And I deem'd thee some hallow'd, some heaven-given thing,Entwined round my bosom for ever to cling.

I had perill'd my allOn that treacherous bark,A woman's fond love;—When the billows grew dark,The bright sea was ruffled, the loud storm rush'd on,My hopes are all wreck'd, and that light bark is gone.

Go, faithless, and weep!For I scorn thy words now;Yet no tears thou wilt shedCan heal one broken vow;No weeping can cleanse that one foul perjured stain,Or quench the keen fire that now scorches my brain.

Yet stay, false one, stay;There's a worm in thy breast,A gloom on thy soulWhere no sunshine shall rest;To which e'en the agony thou hast made mineIs blessing and bliss when compared but with thine.

Merry, merry elves we be,O'er the bright and bounding sea,Dancing merrily.We glide to the shore in our fairy bark,When the moon looks out on high,And the waves twinkle round us in many a spark,Like radiant melody.We dance to the sound of the calm cold billow,Ere it sleeps on the sand, ere it dies on its pillow.Merry, merry elves we be,Under the greenwood tree,Dancing merrily.And the moon through yon white and fleecy cloud,Pale, silent, and softly creeps,Like a spectre clad in a silvery shroud,While nature quietly sleeps.We merrily trip it with twinkling feet,As the leaves rustle o'er us in melody sweet.Away, away,At break of day,For night is the fairies' holiday.

Merry, merry elves we be,Under the greenwood tree,Dancing merrily.And the moon through yon white and fleecy cloud,Pale, silent, and softly creeps,Like a spectre clad in a silvery shroud,While nature quietly sleeps.We merrily trip it with twinkling feet,As the leaves rustle o'er us in melody sweet.Away, away,At break of day,For night is the fairies' holiday.

Fare thee well! the dream is o'er;Loved one fare thee well!Tears and vows deceive no more,When broken every spell.Stars that fade in morning light,Suns that set shall rise;But no dawn illumes the night,When Hope's last glimmer dies!Oh! lay me where the willows weep,On some dreary shore;Calm shall be that colder sleep,Life's dark vision o'er.Though earthly joys for ever fled,Yet mercy whispers nigh,Immortal life beyond the dead,And bliss beyond the sky.

Fare thee well! the dream is o'er;Loved one fare thee well!Tears and vows deceive no more,When broken every spell.

Stars that fade in morning light,Suns that set shall rise;But no dawn illumes the night,When Hope's last glimmer dies!

Oh! lay me where the willows weep,On some dreary shore;Calm shall be that colder sleep,Life's dark vision o'er.

Though earthly joys for ever fled,Yet mercy whispers nigh,Immortal life beyond the dead,And bliss beyond the sky.

On yon dark bosom'd mountainThe sunbeams are glancing,On lake and on fountain,The light ray is dancing.But yon mountain is dark, though the sunbeams are bright,And yon fountain is cold, though 'tis quivering with light.So one bosom with sadnessFeels dark and opprest,While around, mirth and gladnessIllumine each breast.And the smiles that to others with rapture may glow,Leave that bosom alone to its darkness and woe.

So one bosom with sadnessFeels dark and opprest,While around, mirth and gladnessIllumine each breast.And the smiles that to others with rapture may glow,Leave that bosom alone to its darkness and woe.

I've seen the smile on woman's cheek,The tear in woman's eye;But as I gazed, that smile grew dim,That liquid fount was dry.Oh, I have heard her say she loved,And kiss'd the plighted token:—But I have lived to feel how falseWhat woman's lip hath spoken!Yes, lighter than the lightest breathThat skims the morning airIs woman's vow, that binds the heartIn witchery or despair!How she hath wrung this bleeding breast,I may not, dare not tell!I only know that I have lovedToo fondly, and too well.

I've seen the smile on woman's cheek,The tear in woman's eye;But as I gazed, that smile grew dim,That liquid fount was dry.

Oh, I have heard her say she loved,And kiss'd the plighted token:—But I have lived to feel how falseWhat woman's lip hath spoken!

Yes, lighter than the lightest breathThat skims the morning airIs woman's vow, that binds the heartIn witchery or despair!

How she hath wrung this bleeding breast,I may not, dare not tell!I only know that I have lovedToo fondly, and too well.

Say, what is Love?—a bubbleOn life's dull current fleeting,A thousand hues and visions brightOn its frail surface meeting;It breaks, and where that vision fair?Ocean's dark depth may answer, Where?Say what is Love?—'tis lightOn life's dark billows thrown;Oh, glorious the first glanceThat on those waters shone!'Tis gone,—those waves, illum'd no more,Roll darkly on life's desert shore.Say what is Love?—a glimpse,Life's stormy clouds between,Of that bright heaven, where allIs cloudless and serene;A look, ere night and darkness come,Beyond the terrors of the tomb!Come all whose blighted bosom,Love's cruel pangs deceive,Say what shall be the garlandFor lovers' brows to weave?A lone leaf on a blasted tree,This, this Love's coronal shall be!

Say, what is Love?—a bubbleOn life's dull current fleeting,A thousand hues and visions brightOn its frail surface meeting;It breaks, and where that vision fair?Ocean's dark depth may answer, Where?

Say what is Love?—'tis lightOn life's dark billows thrown;Oh, glorious the first glanceThat on those waters shone!'Tis gone,—those waves, illum'd no more,Roll darkly on life's desert shore.

Say what is Love?—a glimpse,Life's stormy clouds between,Of that bright heaven, where allIs cloudless and serene;A look, ere night and darkness come,Beyond the terrors of the tomb!

Come all whose blighted bosom,Love's cruel pangs deceive,Say what shall be the garlandFor lovers' brows to weave?A lone leaf on a blasted tree,This, this Love's coronal shall be!

The following lines were written to the air No. 4, in the 5th book of Mendelsohn's "Lieder ohne Wörte."

Oh, say not, lady,That ought could everThis fond heart severFrom love and theeGo, bid the billowNow calm its motion,The restless oceanRest endlessly!Should'st thou deceive me,—All earthly blessing,Not worth possessing,—Away I'd flee.And far from home, love—My lost hopes mourning—Nor thence returning,—I'd pray for thee!And though a strangerTo earthly gladness,There is a sadnessMore glad than mirth,—The joy of sorrow;The sweetest pleasure,A tear-bought treasureOf heavenly birth!Though all around meWere darkness veiling,Yet light unfailingIn death shall rise!Though day departeth,Nor cloud nor sorrowShall dim that morrowIn yonder skies!

Oh, say not, lady,That ought could everThis fond heart severFrom love and theeGo, bid the billowNow calm its motion,The restless oceanRest endlessly!

Should'st thou deceive me,—All earthly blessing,Not worth possessing,—Away I'd flee.And far from home, love—My lost hopes mourning—Nor thence returning,—I'd pray for thee!

And though a strangerTo earthly gladness,There is a sadnessMore glad than mirth,—The joy of sorrow;The sweetest pleasure,A tear-bought treasureOf heavenly birth!

Though all around meWere darkness veiling,Yet light unfailingIn death shall rise!Though day departeth,Nor cloud nor sorrowShall dim that morrowIn yonder skies!

There is a friend, whose loveIs closer than a brother's,—Tender, endearing,—'tis aboveE'en fondness like a mother's:—She may forget her suckling's cry,His ear attends the feeblest sigh.On Him thy panting breast,By care and anguish riven,Bleeding and torn, hath found its rest,From other refuge driven:—And earth, with all its joys and fears,Hath ceased to bring or smiles or tears.Morn's dew-enamell'd flowers,The cloud through azure sweeping,Their brightness owe to sadder hours,Their calm, to storms and weeping.—That Friend shall thus each tear illume,To forms of glory shape that gloom.Eve's sapphire cloud hath beenDark as the brow of sorrow;Those dew pearls wreath'd in emerald green,Once wept a coming morrow:—But glory sprang o'er earth and sky,And all was light and ecstacy.Yon star upon the browOf night's grey coronet,Morn's radiant blush, eve's ruddy glow,Had yon bright sun ne'er set,Were hidden still from mortal sight,Lost in impenetrable light.Then should afflictions come,Dark as the shroud of even,A thousand glories glitter fromThe burning arch of heaven!Though earth be wrapt in doubt and gloom,New splendours dawn o'er daylight's tomb.And who that azure hungWith lamps of living fire?Who, when the hosts of morning sung,First listen'd to their quire?The Man of Sorrows mercy sent,—In heav'n theGod!—the Omnipotent!Heis that friend, whose loveNor life nor death shall sever!Eternal as yon throne above,Unchanged, endures for ever.What would'st thou more, frail fabric of the dust;Omnipotencethy Shield!—thy Refuge!—Trust!

There is a friend, whose loveIs closer than a brother's,—Tender, endearing,—'tis aboveE'en fondness like a mother's:—She may forget her suckling's cry,His ear attends the feeblest sigh.

On Him thy panting breast,By care and anguish riven,Bleeding and torn, hath found its rest,From other refuge driven:—And earth, with all its joys and fears,Hath ceased to bring or smiles or tears.

Morn's dew-enamell'd flowers,The cloud through azure sweeping,Their brightness owe to sadder hours,Their calm, to storms and weeping.—That Friend shall thus each tear illume,To forms of glory shape that gloom.

Eve's sapphire cloud hath beenDark as the brow of sorrow;Those dew pearls wreath'd in emerald green,Once wept a coming morrow:—But glory sprang o'er earth and sky,And all was light and ecstacy.

Yon star upon the browOf night's grey coronet,Morn's radiant blush, eve's ruddy glow,Had yon bright sun ne'er set,Were hidden still from mortal sight,Lost in impenetrable light.

Then should afflictions come,Dark as the shroud of even,A thousand glories glitter fromThe burning arch of heaven!Though earth be wrapt in doubt and gloom,New splendours dawn o'er daylight's tomb.

And who that azure hungWith lamps of living fire?Who, when the hosts of morning sung,First listen'd to their quire?The Man of Sorrows mercy sent,—In heav'n theGod!—the Omnipotent!

Heis that friend, whose loveNor life nor death shall sever!Eternal as yon throne above,Unchanged, endures for ever.What would'st thou more, frail fabric of the dust;Omnipotencethy Shield!—thy Refuge!—Trust!

What though thy form I ne'er beheld,Yet fancy oft would traceExpression, features, look, with allTheir witchery or grace.What though thy voice were never heard,I felt its melting tone,That came like some mysterious spell,Unbidden and alone!I saw thee in the wingéd beam,First-born of morning light;In darkness oft I saw thee still,A vision of the night.And though unheard, unseen,—thy nameThe same sweet image brings,And fancy o'er the mimic scene,Her own bright halo flings.Oh who shall tell the wondrous glimpseImagination threw,As though past, present, and to comeWere open to her view!As though the hidden sense had now,From earthly dross refin'd,Pierc'd this material and leftMortality behind!And is not this a ray that breaks,With unquench'd potency,Forth from the Omnipotent,—a lightFrom his omniscient eye?A spark from that eternal mind,First breath'd into our breast;An image of the Infinite,On finite pow'rs impress'd.And though debas'd, degraded, dim,From heav'n's own light they shine,Imagination, fancy, thought,Their origin divine!

What though thy form I ne'er beheld,Yet fancy oft would traceExpression, features, look, with allTheir witchery or grace.

What though thy voice were never heard,I felt its melting tone,That came like some mysterious spell,Unbidden and alone!

I saw thee in the wingéd beam,First-born of morning light;In darkness oft I saw thee still,A vision of the night.

And though unheard, unseen,—thy nameThe same sweet image brings,And fancy o'er the mimic scene,Her own bright halo flings.

Oh who shall tell the wondrous glimpseImagination threw,As though past, present, and to comeWere open to her view!

As though the hidden sense had now,From earthly dross refin'd,Pierc'd this material and leftMortality behind!

And is not this a ray that breaks,With unquench'd potency,Forth from the Omnipotent,—a lightFrom his omniscient eye?

A spark from that eternal mind,First breath'd into our breast;An image of the Infinite,On finite pow'rs impress'd.

And though debas'd, degraded, dim,From heav'n's own light they shine,Imagination, fancy, thought,Their origin divine!

It stood alone on the green hill side,That fairy birchen tree,Its yellow leaves in the autumn breezeWere flutt'ring heavily.The early frosts brought those pale leaves down,Ere the storms of winter came;And stripp'd and bare stood my birchen tree,But a wreck to tell its name.I pass'd the place when the streams were still,When the earth was chang'd to stone,On the leafless boughs a hoary show'r,As a spell of heav'n was thrown.The glistening sprays by the wind were stirr'd,Like a banner gently furl'd;It seem'd, in its pure and peerless grace,A gift from another world.And even thus in our inner life,When the early frosts are come,When the greenness has pass'd from life away,And the music of earth is dumb;'Tis then that the light and hope of heav'n,O'er the lonely heart are flung,And our spirit knows a holier joyThan that to which erst it clung.And year by year is the type renew'd,That our wayward hearts may learn,There is peace for the stripp'd and wearied ones,Who in faith to their Father turn.1841.

It stood alone on the green hill side,That fairy birchen tree,Its yellow leaves in the autumn breezeWere flutt'ring heavily.

The early frosts brought those pale leaves down,Ere the storms of winter came;And stripp'd and bare stood my birchen tree,But a wreck to tell its name.

I pass'd the place when the streams were still,When the earth was chang'd to stone,On the leafless boughs a hoary show'r,As a spell of heav'n was thrown.

The glistening sprays by the wind were stirr'd,Like a banner gently furl'd;It seem'd, in its pure and peerless grace,A gift from another world.

And even thus in our inner life,When the early frosts are come,When the greenness has pass'd from life away,And the music of earth is dumb;

'Tis then that the light and hope of heav'n,O'er the lonely heart are flung,And our spirit knows a holier joyThan that to which erst it clung.

And year by year is the type renew'd,That our wayward hearts may learn,There is peace for the stripp'd and wearied ones,Who in faith to their Father turn.

1841.

'Tis said that in the burning starsThe fate of man is writ:Yet quail not, Christian, at the sign;ByLovethose lamps are lit.1848.

'Tis said that in the burning starsThe fate of man is writ:Yet quail not, Christian, at the sign;ByLovethose lamps are lit.

1848.

Suggested by the story of a child, whose father, an educated man, but an infidel, if not an atheist, had not allowed him to receive any religious culture. Being one day reproved by a friend for using profane language, on the ground that it was displeasing toGod, he enquired who was meant. He instantly apprehended with delight all that was told him of the nature and attributes of the Supreme Being, as if the idea had been latent in his mind, until thus called forth into recognised existence.

Shadows o'er the infant mind,Floating dimly undefin'dLike a picture scarce design'd.Melody but half express'd,Inarticulate at best,Haunting ever that young breast.But the magic word is spoken,And the shades of night are broken,And by that same lustrous token."God the mighty One," now near,Memnon music on the earFalls articulate and clear.And the day of life begunBy the newly risen sun,In that light its paths are run.Even so, whenGodreveal'dTo the eye by Death unseal'd,Shall completed being yield,Will the shadows which now lie,As dim portents to the eye,From the spirit's vision fly.And the mystic sounds and sweet,Which the untaught ear oft greet,Shall a lucid tale repeat.And mysterious spirit-life—Past its agony and strife—Be with seven-fold Glory rife.1848.

Shadows o'er the infant mind,Floating dimly undefin'dLike a picture scarce design'd.

Melody but half express'd,Inarticulate at best,Haunting ever that young breast.

But the magic word is spoken,And the shades of night are broken,And by that same lustrous token.

"God the mighty One," now near,Memnon music on the earFalls articulate and clear.

And the day of life begunBy the newly risen sun,In that light its paths are run.

Even so, whenGodreveal'dTo the eye by Death unseal'd,Shall completed being yield,

Will the shadows which now lie,As dim portents to the eye,From the spirit's vision fly.

And the mystic sounds and sweet,Which the untaught ear oft greet,Shall a lucid tale repeat.

And mysterious spirit-life—Past its agony and strife—Be with seven-fold Glory rife.

1848.

Faint falls the twilight dim,Woods, waves, their ev'ning hymnMurmur to Thee.One pale star ocean seeks,One waveless glimmer breaksO'er that lone sea.Softly the passing gale,Sighs like love's parting tale,Whispers not words.Clouds come not o'er that night,Stars burn with purer lightThan earth affords.Come, Night, around this breast,Thy soothing dreamy restWaft o'er my soul;While thoughts of heav'nly birth,Untouch'd by aught of earth,Undimm'd may roll.—Then like yon star may weMeet death's calm silent sea,Setting to rise.Bright'ning still while we sink,On that dread ocean brink,To other skies!

Faint falls the twilight dim,Woods, waves, their ev'ning hymnMurmur to Thee.One pale star ocean seeks,One waveless glimmer breaksO'er that lone sea.

Softly the passing gale,Sighs like love's parting tale,Whispers not words.Clouds come not o'er that night,Stars burn with purer lightThan earth affords.

Come, Night, around this breast,Thy soothing dreamy restWaft o'er my soul;While thoughts of heav'nly birth,Untouch'd by aught of earth,Undimm'd may roll.—

Then like yon star may weMeet death's calm silent sea,Setting to rise.Bright'ning still while we sink,On that dread ocean brink,To other skies!

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Scene—Mantua.

A Room in the Duke's Palace at Mantua.

Enter theDukeandRidolfi.

ridolfi.Hermione again visits my house.—Your presence, good my lord, with your fair dame,I would solicit.

duke.Well, Ridolfi, be it so:—to-day,If nought forbid the time:—Hermione,Thou say'st?—I do remember, yet so slight, 'tis scarceThe shadow of her form. But once, my brother,'Twas one fair summer's eve, awhile I sawThy sprightly coz: a laughter-loving spirit,She threw quick mirth as the unbidden shaftsOf innocent love, scattering with hand profuseHer joyous pranks. I was but newly wedded,Scarce past the honey-moon; Beatrice hungFondly upon mine arm, and we too laugh'd,On that still night, until the whisp'ring woodsGrew loud, and thousand voices started forthFrom bough and hoary stem, bursting as ifTo riotous life; and yet her giddy face,Playful and changing as the restless wave,I cannot fashion now from memory's storehouse—How fares thy cousin?

ridolfi.Still by love, my lord,She comes untamed; but time, one delicate shadeHath slightly pass'd upon her wanton mirth,Softening the ruder bursts of her high spirit,Tinged ofttime now with gentler thought.

duke.'Tis wellWhen ripening years mellow the gaudy hueOf youth's rich fancies, sparkling else too brightFor its repose.——We visit thee to-day.—This tribute say we give Hermione.

ridolfi.Much honour hold we from your presence:Our poorer hospitality excuse,As you are wont. Adieu! No costly feastWe give, but our glad welcome.[Exit.

duke.A brother still,—a friendTo cheer my way through life's dark wilderness.Thou art a feeble light, and yet I loveTo watch thy tremulous blaze, blessing the gloom,And shedding round my path its thousand gems,Sprinkling perchance some loathed and hideous formWith thy pale gleam. How tender hast thou beenTo my worst weaknesses, my foibles, allHeart-withering cares! Though born to humbler honours,I call thee friend. Well hast thou earn'd from meThat sacred name! One bosom nourish'd us:One hand our childhood rear'd; twining we grewUnto one stem, till riches and high birthBore me brief space from that beloved soil,—That home, to which our very nature yetSeems most akin.——Of proud descent, unsullied as mine own,Thou yet canst boast: if not of titled wealth,Of outward garb, thy suit becomes thee well;And I do love thee more than if array'dIn ducal coronet. Beatrice tooHath prized him for my sake, and her esteemI do repay with tenfold love.——Fierce, feverish love!—thine idle dreams,—fleetingAs cloud-fed vapour, yon o'erarching bowBestrides,—fade as the sunbeam on the skyDispels the glowing mist. 'Tis well, if thenThe welkin clear'd, each circumstance and form,—Fashion'd realities by truth impress'dUpon the craving eye-balls,—O 'tis wellIf on these fix'd and palpable imagesOf roused and wakening sense, the eye may restWith unappeased delight! But if the whileLove's light-wing'd visions fade, nought fills the voidSave chilling wastes, trackless, unlimited,That echo back their own grim desolationTo the appalled spirit. What escapeThe shrinking soul is left, save one dark pathTo unappointed death? I thank thee, Heaven,Thou sparest me this trial! Love hath stillWith proud esteem held equal sway: in peace,Untroubled they divide their several empire.——But I must hence; Beatrice I would greetFirst with these tidings of Hermione.[Exit.

A Hall in the House of Ridolfi.

Enter Servants, preparing for an Entertainment.

roland.Help me with this wine, Stephano.

stephano.Help thee? yea, my wishes be thy help. I hope thou wilt have unhelped speed.

roland.Truce to thy wit, comrade, for it helpeth me not, save an' my fingers to this cudgel, and thine hide to a basting.

stephano.Nay, spare thy wit, and thy cudgel to boot: mine hide endureth it not tenderly. If I should wince, thou mightest come to harm. A dainty flagon this: would that thy mouth were as dry as my lips, and our bellies had changed occupants! Thy lazy body would be lighter, methinks, and I better able to carry thee.——

roland.The Lady Hermione! Oh, how I do love her sweet face, Stephano! She smiles an' it were so temptingly when she speaks! "Good Roland," says she, "give me of that wine."—"Kind Roland, do go to the bath, and carry my little spaniel:"—or thus, "Honest master Roland, pray take my basket, and bring me thy master's garden mittens." This house, I trow, Stephano, she makes like to some gay palace, when she visits it; as pleasant and full of goodness as theDuke's pantry, who comes to the feast to-day. She was here some two years agone, and I thought I should have pined away at heart when she left.

stephano.Tush! thou star-stricken marmoset! Is she not a woman? Are not all women as full of deceit as their grandmothers? Is not Eve's flesh upon the bones of the very best jade in Christendom? and this blowzy-bell of thine, beshrew me, has no better a covering than the rest of 'em. This dainty hoyden thou delightest to worship, man, can be as chary of her winning looks as any of her sisterhood; and if I have not seen a storm brewing in her face, I have seen a water-spout in her eye, marry, which is almost fathomless. Mark me, Roland; if any good comes of her mummery, I am no true prophet, that's all.

roland.Envious in this, I do guess, Stephano. Why does she not smile on thee—eh? Thy stupid face, seamed like a beggar's coat; thy marvellous bright eyes and small nostrils; or, mayhap, I might the rather mean, thy marvellous bright nostrils and small eyes, make tears come into her delicate organs by sympathy, like the stroke of a dull razor. I tell thee, man, she cannot smile fronting thy mis-shapened countenance. I know many gentlewomen that bear not an ugly serving-man about them; and the delicate Hermione, I should bethink me, hath aversion to such.—I like her the better, Stephano, for thine ugliness.

stephano.Thou mis-shapen cur, time serves not to correct thee. What! dost brag if thy grinning leer provoke her mirth? "Sweet Roland," ah, "good Roland," put thy nose to the curling irons, and twist thy mouth with thy garters. I cantell thee, "Master Roland," this favourite hath her privy counsellors, and she not a wit loth to trust 'em. Ah, ah! "honest Roland," perhaps thou didst help her to the terrace key o' yesternight; and it was "kind Roland, fetch me"—oh, her pretty spaniel was it, "Master Roland?"

roland.Nay, thou art in jest. Sawest thou the Lady Hermione with the key last night?

stephano.I heard a noise in the gallery, and I jumped hastily from my mattress, and who should I see but Hermione, with her chamber-lamp, opening the door which leads to the garden terrace. What sayest thou, Roland?

roland.The key I fetched not.

stephano.Then, it seems, she lacks not other "honest" friends for matters of more need, and they in nothing loth to serve her.

roland.Didst thou watch her further?

stephano.Ay, good Roland, or I do not deserve to know the worth of a pretty secret.

roland.Well?—

stephano.Thou art curious, i' faith. What makes thee look so wistful?

roland.Come, thou lucky knave, I want the burden of thy song.How sped she?

stephano.I hied me to the topmost lattice, overlooking—

roland.Who was the gallant?

stephano.Why truly he had a brighter face than thine own, but shorn off somewhat from the left cheek.

roland.Thou speakest parables, Stephano. Out with it, friend: a secret cometh to no good if kept in thy stomach.

stephano.A fair face; eyes, mouth, and nose, though none of the best;—I think not half so well made as mine own.

roland.In troth, a dainty lover. What more?

stephano.But then she gave him such a look of devotion, it would have done thine heart good to have watched the turn of her face, and to have looked at the glistening of her eye,—and yet this platter-faced gallant seemed all unmoved.

roland.His name knowest thou?

stephano.Verily, he hath many titles, and I should be puzzled to suit my respect with his proper quality, should we meet.

roland.I'll watch to-night;—but pr'ythee whisper me his namegently; I am not quick at solving a riddle.

stephano.Nay, nay; watch and satisfy thine own prying fancy, as I have mine. If she walks to-night I'll call thee.[Exeunt.

A Chamber in Ridolfi's House.

Hermione,sitting at a Table.

hermione.Two years agone—this self-same chamber—Just as 'twas wont;—that ebony casket—stillYon little crucifix hung o'er the mirror,—That plaited riband, on its flower-carved pillars,I wore in sport for love's fair guerdon;Its chequer'd noose I vow'd to cast on himWho caught me first in some wild reckless gameOf wanton mirth; but none, as I remember,The adventure gain'd,—it hangs unclaiméd still.But why this heaviness?—as if some secret,Some long-forgotten grief, waked from its slumber,Roused at the voice of these loud recollections.Ah! dread dissembler! once I thought thee dead,And thou but slept! Away! haunt not my spirit!Is it thy form, fell demon? Hence!—thy strengthIs nurtured but with present loneliness,And on the wings of some reviving thoughtAdmittance hast thou gain'd to mock me.[Knocking without.Who knocks?—

blanch.'Tis time, lady, you adorn for the guests. The Duke sends word he will attend, and with it his gracious love to Hermione. This billet greets you with his welcome.

hermione.A billet!—Welcome!—Stay.Thou shalt attire me in some simple garb,Some unassuming robe; its modest hueUnnoticed, I can there observeThe humours of this feast.

blanch.Your crimson bodice, lady, becomes you best, and your lilac kerchief with the blue purfle——or do you choose your orange tiffany dress, and your coif and farthingale?

hermione.Neither, good Blanch. Where is mine old spotted robe, with the silk sleeves and violet-flowered stomacher?

blanch.Lady, what unlucky accident should bethink you of the garment? I fear your memory is but indifferently served. Once, my kind mistress, you gave it to me: and I remember well I said the dress was too gay, when straight you replied, with a sigh (and I do always grieve to hear you sigh, lady), "Take it, good Blanch; I wear it not again:" which I the more marvelled at, being, as you remember, made up for your last visit to Mantua, nor did you inquire for it, after you left this gay city; but methinks none other serves you so well for this same soft-air'd clime. I will away for it speedily, right glad, I trow, the roguish pedler hath not fetched it, who gathers the cast-off dresses from your house. I have not worn the apparel, lady.

hermione.Thou art a kind-hearted gossip. Choose thee the best suit from my clothes-press, and take it for the exchange.—Nay, good Blanch, I allow not thy gainsay:—it will, peradventure, help thee to a husband.

blanch.I will but keep it then, my sweet mistress, to answer at your bidding; mayhap, you will fancy it on your wedding-day.

hermione.I shall need no garment then, but the one thy grandmother wore when she scared thy father in the forest.

blanch.Save you, my lady! mean you her winding-sheet?

hermione.I mean mine own, Blanch; hers being worn out, belike, ere now, with much travel.

blanch.Oh, mercy!—but you are ever at a jest.

hermione.Nay, girl, my spirits are too heavy.

blanch.What mean you, fair mistress? I do fear me a few hours of this Mantuan air have wrought untowardly with you. Are you ill, lady?

hermione.No, girl.

blanch.It is a secret that disturbs you?

hermione.Thou canst sing, Blanch?—

blanch.Ay, sweet lady, that can I,—and your favourite carol too. List.[Sings.

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