Poems (Hale)/To Mrs. Hemans

by Mary Whitwell Hale

TO MRS. HEMANS.

 

SUGGESTED BY "MEMOIRS BY HER SISTER."

Brightest of England's minstrel band!
 How dear the memory of thy name!
Not from that proud and storied land
 Alone, dost thou thy guerdon claim.
The million voices of "the Free"
Swell the high tribute paid to thee.

How sweetly from thy muse are shed
 Thy mingling notes of bliss and pain!
As Memory's harp, when day has fled,
 Breathes on the soul its varied strain
Or night's sweet dream reveals some lay,
Which dies as wakes morn's beaming ray.

We weep in sadness o'er thy fate,—
 A widow's lot, though wedded, thine;
In Fame's proud temple desolate,
 Though rich the gift that graced thy shrine.
Far dearer was the low-breathed tone
Which spoke one human heart thine own.

How did thy woman's spirit yearn,
 Thou crowned with Fame's most glorious flowers,
From that proud boon thy brow to turn,
 And rest thy heart in love's sweet bowers!
How were its inmost fountains stirred
By one low-uttered "household word!"

Thou hast thy praise, sweet minstrel, thou!
 Nobler than Fame's triumphant peal;
The King of kings upon thy brow
 Had stamped the Christian's glorious seal;
Nor could grief's heaviest touch efface
The record of His conquering grace.

Calmly as fades day's farewell beam,
 Thy weary spirit sank to rest,
To waken from earth's fitful dream,
 In the fair mansions of the blest,
And tune to more seraphic strains
Thy harp, where endless rapture reigns.