Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir, 1830/The Magic Glass
THE MAGIC GLASS.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
How lived—how loved—how died they?
Byron.
I.
"The Dead! the glorious Dead!—And shall they rise?
Shall they look on thee with their proud, bright eyes?—
Thou ask'st a fearful spell!
Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall,
What kingly vision shall obey my call?—
The deep grave knows it well!
II.
"Wouldst thou behold earth's Conquerors?—Shall they pass
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass
With Triumph's long array?—
Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn,
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return,
As on their proudest day.
III.
"Or wouldst thou look upon the Lords of Song?—
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng
Shall waft a solemn gleam!
Passing with lighted eyes and radiant brows,
Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs,
But silent as a dream."
IV.
"Not these, O mighty Master!—Though their lays
Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise,
Hallowed for evermore!
And not the buried conquerors!—Let them sleep,
And let the flowery earth her sabbaths keep
In joy, from shore to shore!
V.
"But, if the narrow-house may be so moved,
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved,
Back from their couch of rest!
That I may learn if their meek eyes be filled
With peace; if human love hath ever stilled
The yearning human breast."
VI.
"Away, fond youth!—An idle quest is thine:
These have no trophy, no memorial shrine;
I know not of their place!
Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow,
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low,
Have passed, and left no trace.
VII.
"Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills,
And the wild sounds of melancholy rills,
This covering turf may bloom;
But ne'er hath Fame made relics of its flowers,—
Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers,
Or poet hailed their tomb."
VIII.
"Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell!
Some voice perchance by those lone graves may tell
That which I pine to know!
I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep,
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep,
Records of joy and woe."