On alien shores his true heart burn'd to hear—
And he is silent! O'er the heathery hills,
Which his own soul had mantled with a light
Richer than Autumn's purple, now they move—
And he is silent!—he, whose flexile lips
Were but unseal'd, and, lo! a thousand forms,
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height,
In glowing life upsprang:—Vassal and chief,
Rider and steed, with shout and bugle-peal,
Fast rushing through the brightly troubled air,
Like the Wild Huntsman's band. And still they live,
To those fair scenes imperishably bound,
And from the mountain-mist still flashing by,
Startle the wanderer who hath listen'd there,
To the Seer's voice: Phantoms of colour'd thought,
Surviving him who raised.—O Eloquence!
O Power, whose breathings thus could wake the dead!
Who shall wake Thee? Lord of the buried past!
And art thou there—to those dim nations join'd,
Thy subject-host so long?—The wand is dropp'd,
The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand
Touch'd, and the Genii came!—Sing reverently
The funeral chant!—The Mighty is borne home—
And who shall be his mourners?—Youth and Age,
For each hath felt his magic:—Love and Grief,
For he hath communed with the heart of each:
Yes—the free spirit of humanity
May join the august procession, for to him
Its mysteries have been tributary things,
And all its accents known:—from field or wave,
Never was conqueror on his battle-bier
By the vail'd banner and the muffled drum,
And the proud drooping of the crested head,
More nobly follow'd home.—The last abode,
The voiceless dwelling of the Bard is reach'd:
A still majestic spot! girt solemnly
With all th' imploring beauty of decay;
A stately couch midst ruins! meet for him
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant
Over the honour’d grave!—the grave!—oh! say
Rather the shrine!—An altar for the love,
The light, soft pilgrim-steps, the votive wreaths
Of years unborn:—a place where leaf and flower,
By that which dies not of the sovereign Dead,
Shall be made holy things:—where every weed
Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift
From buried glory breath'd. And now, what strain,
Making victorious melody ascend
High above sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb,
Where He that sway'd the nations, there is laid,
The crown'd of men?
A lowly, lowly song.
Lowly and solemn be
Thy children's cry to thee,
Father divine!
A hymn of suppliant breath,
Owning that Life and Death
Alike are thine!
Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 32 1832.pdf/17
