The subtle schoolman, weighing thistle down
In the great balance of the universe,
Sleeps in the oblivion which his folios earned;
The sage, to whom the earth, the sea and sky
Revealed their sacred secrets, in the dust,
Unknown unto himself, lies cold and still;
The dark eyes and the rosy lips of love,
That basked in passion's blaze till madness came,
Have mouldered in the darkness of the ground;
The lover, and the soldier, and the bard-
The brightness, and the beauty, and the pride
Have vanished-and the grave's great heart is still!
Alas, that sculptured pyramid outlives
The name it should perpetuate! alas!
That obelisk and temple should but mock
With effigies the form that breathes no more.
The cypress, the acacia, and the yew
Mourn with a deep low sigh o'er buried power
And mouldered loveliness and soaring mind,
"Faith surmounts the storm of death !”
Beautiful city of the dead! to sleep
Amid thy shadowed solitudes, thy flowers,
Thy greenness and thy beauty, where the voice,
Alone heard, whispers love—and greenwood choirs
Sing 'mid the stirring leaves-were very bliss
Unto the weary heart and wasted mind,
Broken in the world's warfare, yet still doomed
To bear a brow undaunted! Oh, it were
A tranquil and a holy dwelling-place
To those who deeply love but love in vain,
To disappointed hopes and baffled aims
And persecuted youth. How sweet the sleep
Of such as dream not-wake not-feel not here,
Beneath the starlight skies and. flowery earth,
'Mid the green solitudes of Pere La Chaise!
AN EVENING. SONG OF PIEDMONT.
Ave Maria! 't is the midnight hour,
The starlight wedding of the earth and heaven,
When music breathes its perfume from the flower,
And high revealings to the heart are given ;
Soft o'er the meadows steals the dewy air,
Like dreams of bliss, the deep blue ether glows,
And the stream murmurs round its islets fair
The tender nightsong of a charmed repose.
Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love,
The kiss of rapture and the linked embrace,
The hallowed converse in the dim still grove,
The elysium of a heart-revealing face,
When all is beautiful-for we are blest,
When all is lovely-for we are beloved,
When all is silent-for our passions rest,
When all is faithful-for our hopes are proved.
Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer,
Of hushed communion with ourselves and heaven, When our waked hearts their inmost thoughts declare, High, pure, far-searching like the light of even;
AN EVENING SONG OF PIEDMONT.
When hope becomes fruition and we feel
The holy earnest of eternal peace,
That bids our pride before the Omniscient kneel,
That bids our wild and warring passions cease.
Ave Maria! soft the vesper hymn
Floats through the cloisters of yon holy pile,
And 'mid the stillness of the nightwatch dim
Attendant spirits seem to hear and smile!
Hark! hath it ceased? The vestal seeks her cell,
And reads her heart-a melancholy tale!
A song of happier years, whose echoes swell
O'er her lost love like pale bereavement's wail.
Ave Maria! let our prayers ascend For them whose holy offices afford
No joy in heaven on earth without a friend-
That true though faded image of the Lord!
For them in vain the face of nature glows,
For them in vain the sun in glory burns,
The hollow breast consumes in fiery woes,
And meets despair and death where'er it turns.
Ave Maria! in the deep pine wood,
On the clear stream and o'er the azure sky
Bland midnight smiles, and starry solitude
Breathes hope in every breeze that wanders by.
Ave Maria! may our last hour come
As bright, as pure, as gentle, heaven! as this!
Let faith attend us smiling to the tomb,
And life and death are both the heirs of bliss!
This poem was written at the request of my friend John Howard Payne, on the occasion of Charles X. laying the corner stone of the monument, in the square of the Tuilleries, to Louis XVI.; one of the most unpopular acts which an ill-established monarch ever committed.
Hear ye the rush that, like the mountain storm,
Rolls deep and awfully along?
Lo! what mute horror, like a sorcerer's charm,
Holds that upgazing throng!
Amazed the unfettered vassal stands
Before his captive lord!
See how he gazes on his blood-red hands
And shakes the purple drops from his uplifted sword.
Where is the monarch? where his train
Of lords and ladies fair?
And where the adoring crowd, whose hearts, like rain
Or dew in summer's air,
Shed light and joy and regal pride
Round Bourbon's royal son?
Hark! 't was a groan as if a monarch died!
The earthquake has begun!
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