Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Song of Penitence
THE SONG OF PENITENCE.
UNFINISHED.
He pass'd from earth
Without his fame,—the calm, pure, starry fame
He might have won, to guide on radiantly
Full many a noble soul,—he sought it not;
And e'en like brief and barren lightning pass'd
The wayward child of genius. And the songs
Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life,
Had shower'd forth recklessly, as ocean-waves
Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed,
They died before him;—they were winged seed,
Scattered afar, and, falling on the rock
Of the world's heart, had perished. One alone,
One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain,
The deep beseeching of a stricken breast,
Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls
Of the kind few that loved him, with a love
Faithful to even its disappointed hope,
That song of tears found root, and by their hearths
Full oft in low and reverential tones,
Fill'd with the piety of tenderness,
Is murmured to their children, when his name
On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls,
Far from the world's rude voices, far away.
Oh! hear, and judge him gently; 'twas his last.
I come alone, and faint I come,
To nature's arms I flee;
The green woods take their wanderer home,
But Thou, O Father! may I turn to Thee?
The earliest odour of the flower,
The bird's first song is thine;
Father in Heaven! my day-spring's hour
Poured its vain incense on another shrine.
Therefore my childhood's once-loved scene
Around me faded lies;
Therefore, remembering what hath been,
I ask, is this mine early paradise?
It is, it is,—but Thou art gone,
Or if the trembling shade
Breathe yet of thee, with altered tone
Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismayed.