Felicia Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine Volume 32 1832/The Two Monuments
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 32, Pages 969-970
THE TWO MONUMENTS.
BY MRS HEMANS.
Oh! blest are they who live and die like "him,"
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn'd!
Wordsworth.
Banners hung drooping from on high
In a dim Cathedral's nave,
Making a gorgeous canopy
O'er a noble, noble grave!
And a marble warrior's form beneath,
With helm and crest array'd,
As on his battle bed of death,
Lay in their crimson shade.
Triumph yet linger'd in his eye,
Ere by the dark night seal'd,
And his head was pillow'd haughtily
On standard and on shield.
And shadowing that proud trophy-pile
With the glory of his wing,
An eagle sat;—yet seem'd the while
Panting through Heaven to spring.
He sat upon a shiver'd lance,
There by the sculptor bound;
But in the light of his lifted glance
Was that which scorn'd the ground,
And a burning flood of gem-like hues
From a storied window pour'd,
There fell, there centred, to suffuse
The conqueror and his sword.
A flood of hues!—but one rich dye
O'er all supremely spread,
With a purple robe of royalty
Mantling the mighty dead.
Meet was that robe for him whose name
Was a trumpet-note in war,
His path-way still the march of fame,
His eye the battle star.
But faintly, tenderly was thrown
From the colour'd light one ray,
Where a low and pale memorial stone
By the couch of glory lay.
Few were the fond words chisell'd there,
Mourning for parted worth;
But the very heart of Love and Prayer
Had given their sweetness forth.
They spoke of one whose life had been
As a hidden streamlet's course,
Bearing on health and joy unseen,
From its clear mountain source:
Whose young pure memory, lying deep
Midst rock, and wood, and hill,
Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,[1]
A soft light meek and still:
Whose gentle voice, too early call'd
Unto Music's land away,
Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd,
By words of silvery sway.
These were his victories—yet enroll'd
In no high song of fame,
The Pastor of the mountain-fold
Left but to heaven his name.
To Heaven and to the peasant's hearth,
A blessed household sound—
And finding lowly love on earth,
Enough, enough, he found!
Bright and more bright before me gleam'd
That sainted image still;
Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd
The regal fane to fill.
Oh! how my silent spirit turn'd
From those proud trophies nigh;
How my full heart within me burn'd,
Like Him to live and diel
- ↑ Love had he seen in huts where poor men lie.
Wordsworth.