Oh! thou hast loved me nobly! thou didst take
An orphan to thy heart, a thing unprized,
And desolate; and thou didst guard her there,
That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl
Of richest price; and thou didst fill her soul
With the high gifts of an immortal wealth.
I bless, I bless thee! Never did thine eye
Look on me but in glistening tenderness,
My gentle Herbert! Never did thy voice
But in affection's deepest music speak
To thy poor Edith! Never was thy heart
Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine,
My faithful, generous Herbert! Woman's peace
Ne'er on a breast so tender and so true
Reposed before.—Alas! thy showering tears
Fall fast upon my cheek—forgive, forgive!
I should not melt thy noble strength away
In such an hour.
Herbert. Sweet Edith, no! my heart
Will fail no more; God bears me up through thee,
And by thy words, and by the heavenly light
Shining around thee, through thy very tears,
Will yet sustain me! Let us call on Him!
Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft,
Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him,
Th' all pitying One, to aid.
(They kneel.)
Oh! look on us,
Father above! in tender mercy look
On us, thy children! through th' o’ershadowing cloud
Of sorrow and mortality, send aid,
Save, or we perish! we would pour our lives
Forth as a joyous offering to Thy truth,
But we are weak;—we, the bruised reeds of earth,
Are sway’d by every gust. Forgive, O God!
The blindness of our passionate desires,
The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts,
Which cleave to this frail world. Forgive, accept
The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears,
Wrung forth from mortal pangs! And if our souls,
In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess,
Of their long-clasping love, have wander'd not,
Holiest! from thee; oh! take them to Thyself,
After the fiery trial, take them home,
To dwell, in that imperishable bond
Before Thee linked, for ever. Hear, through Him
Who meekly drank the cup of agony,
Who pass'd through death to victory, hear and save!
Pity us, Father! we are girt with snares;
Father in Heaven we have no help but Thee.
(They rise.)
Is thy love strengthened, my beloved one?
O, Edith! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice,
And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn
We loved in happier days?—the strain which tells
Of the dread conflict in the olive-shade?
Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 32 1832.pdf/12
