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Through tears no longer mayst thou see A Cot beneath the mountain's brow
That fairy Indian Isle.

Smiles through its shading sycamore.
The silence of the morning-air

Persuades our hearts to enter there.
Among the Cambrian hills we stand! In dreams all quiet things we love;
By dear compulsion chain'd unto the strand And sure no star that lies above,
of a still Lake, yet sleeping in the mist, Cradled in clouds, that also sleep,
The thin blue mist that beautifies the Enjoys a calm more husht and deep


Than doth this slumbering cell: Old Snowdon's gloomy brow the sun hath Yea! like a star it looketh down


In pleasure from its mountain-throne,
Till, rising like a giant from his bed, On its own little dell.
High o'er the mountainous sea he lifts his

The loneliness of Nature's reign adorning A lovelier form now meets mine eye,
With a calm majesty and pleasing dread. Than the loveliest cloud that sails the sky!
A spirit is singing from the coves And human feelings blend
Yet dim and dark; that spirit loves With the pleasure born of the glistening air,
To sing unto the Dawn,

As in our dreams uprises fair
When first he sees the shadowy veil, The face of a dear friend.
As if by some slow-stealing gale,

A vision glides before my brain,
From her fair face withdrawn.

Like her who lives beyond the Main! How the Lake brightens while we gaze! Breathing delight, the beauteous flower Impatient for the flood of rays

That Heaven had raised to grace this bower. That soon will bathe its breast;

To me this field is holy ground ! Where rock, and hill, and cloud and sky, Her voice is speaking in the sound Even like its peaceful self, will lie

That cheers the streamlet's bed. Ere long in perfect rest.

Sweet Maiden !-side by side we stand, The dawn hath brighten'd into day: While gently moves beneath my hand Blessings be on yon crescent-bay,

Her soft and silky head. Beloved in former years !

A moment's pause! and as I look Dolbardan! at this silent hour,

On the silent cot and the idle brook, More solemn far thy lonely tower

And the face of the quiet day, l'nto my soul appears,

I know from all that many a year Than when, in days of roaming youth, Hlath slowly past in sorrow here, I saw thee first, and scarce could tell Since Mary went away, If thou wert frowning there in truth, But that wreath of smoke now melting thin, Or only raised by Fancy's spell,

Tells that some being dwells within; An airy tower ʼmid an unearthly dell. And the balmy breath that stole

From the rose-tree, and jasmin, clustering

wide, 0! wildest Bridge, by human hand e'er O'er all the dwelling's blooming side,


Tells that whoe'er doth there abide, If so thou mayst be named :

Must have a gentle soul. Thou! wbo for many a year hast stood Cloth'd with the deep-green moss of age, As if thy tremulous length were living wood, Then gently breathe, and softly tread, Sprang from the bank on either side, As if thy steps were o'er the dead! Despising, with a careless pride,

Break not the slumber of the air, The tumults of the wintry flood,

Even by the whisper of a prayer,
And hill-born tempest's rage.

But in thy spirit let there be
Each flower upon thy moss I know, A silent Benedicite !
Or think I know; like things they seem Thine eye falls on the vision bright,
Fair and unchanged of a returning dream! As she sits amid the lonely light
While underneath the peaceful flow That gleams from her cottage-hearth:
of the smooth river to my heart

0! fear not to gaze on her with love! Brings back the thoughts that long ago For, though these looks are from above, I felt, when forced to part

She is a form of earth.
From the deep calm of Nature's reign, In the silence of her long distress,
To walk the world's loud scenes again. She sits with pious stateliness;
And let us with that river glide

As if she felt the eye of God
Around yon hillock's verdant side ;

Were on her childless lone abode. And lo! a gleam of sweet surprise, While her lips move with silent vows, Like sudden sunshine, warms thine eyes. With saintly grace the phantom bowe White as the spring's unmelted snow, Over a Book spread open on her knee. That lives though winter-storms be o'er, O blessed Book! such thoughts to wake!

It tells of Him who for our sake

No summer-gale, no winter-blast, Died on the cross,–Our Saviour's History. By day or night o'er her cottage pass'd, How beauteously hath sorrow shed

If her restless soul did wake, Its mildness round her aged head !

That brought not a Ship before her eyes; How beauteously her sorrow lies

Yea! often dying shrieks and cries
In the solemn light of her faded eyes! Sail'd o'er Llanberris Lake,
And lo! a faint and feeble trace

Though, far as the charm'd eye could view. Of hope yet lingers on her face,

Upon the quiet earth it lay,
That she may yet embrace again

Like the Moon amid the heavenly way,
Her child, returning from the Main; As bright and silent too.
For the brooding dove shall leave her nest,
Sooner than hope a mother's breast.

Hath she no friend whose heart may share

With her the burthen of despair,
Her long-lost child may still survive! And by her earnest, soothing voice,
That thought hath kept her wasted heart Bring back the image of departed joys

alive :

So vividly, that reconciled
And often, to herself unknown,

To the drear silence of her cot,
Hath mingled with the midnight-sigh, At times she scarcely miss her child ?
When she breathed, in a voice of agony, Or, the wild raving of the sea forgot,
Now every hope is gone!

Hear nought amid the calm profound,
"Twas this that gave her strength to look Save Mary's voice, a soft and silver sound?
On the mossy banks of the singing brook, No! seldom human footsteps come
Where Mary oft had play'd;

Unto her childless widow'd home; And duly, at one stated hour,

No friend like this e'er sits beside her fire: To go in calmness to the bower

For still doth selfish happiness Built in her favourite glade.

Keep far away from real distress, 'Twas this that made her, every morn,

Loath to approach, and eager to retire. As she bless'd it, bathe the ancient thorn The vales are wide, the torrents deep, With water from the spring;

Dark are the nights, the mountains steep, And gently tend each flow'ret's stalk, And many a cause, without a name, For she callid to mind who loved to walk Will from our spirits hide the blame, Through their fragrant blossoming. When, thinking of ourselves, we cease Yea! the voice of hope oft touch'd her ear To think upon another's peace; From the hymn of the lark that caroll’d clear, Though one short hour to sorrow given, Through the heart of the silent sky. Would chear the gloom, and win the ap Oh! such was my Mary's joyful strain!

plause of Heaven. And such she may haply sing again Yet, when by chance they meet her on the Before her Mother die.

Thus hath she lived for seven long years, Or lonely wandering by the sullen rill,
With gleams of comfort through her tears; By its wild voice to dim seclusion led,
Thus hath that beauty to her face been given the shepherds linger on their way,
And thus, though silver gray her hair, And unto God in silence pray,
And pale her cheek, yet is she fair

To bless her hoary head.
As any Child of Heaven !

In churchyard on the Sabbath-day
They all make room for her, even they

Whose tears are falling down in shower
Yet, though she thus in calmness sit, Upon the fading funeral flowers
Full many a dim and ghastly fit

Which they have planted o'er their children's Across her brain bath rollid:

clay. Oft hath she swoond away from pain; And though her faded cheeks be dry, And when her senses came again,

Her breast unmoved by groan or sigh, Her heart was icy-cold.

More piteous is one single smile Hard hath it been for her to bear

Of hers, than many a tear; The dreadful silence of the air

For she is wishing all the while At night, around her bed;

That her head were lying here, When her waking thoughts through the Since her dear daughter is no more,

darkness grew

Drown'd in the sea, or buried on the shore
Hideous as dreams, and for truth she knew
That her dear child was dead.
Things loved before seem alter'd quite, A sudden thought her brain hath crossd.
The sun himself yields no delight,

And in that thought all woes are lost,
She hears not the neighbouring waterfall, Though sad and wild it be :
Or, if she hear, the tones recall

Why must she still, from year to year,
The thought of her, who once did sing In lonely anguish linger here?
So kweetly to its murmuring,

Let her go, ere she die, unto the coast.

And dwell beside the sea ;

How calmly on the sand alighting, The sea that tore her child away,

To dress her silken plumes delighting! When glad would she have been to stay. See! how these tiny vessels glide An awful comfort to her soul

With all sails set, in mimic pride,
To hear the sleepless Ocean roll!

As they were ships of war.
To dream, that on his boundless breast, All leave the idle port to-day,
Somewhere her long-wept child might rest; And with oar and sheet the sunny bay
On some far island wreck’d, yet blest Is glancing bright and far.
Even as the sunny wave.
Or, if indeed her child is drown'd,
For ever let her drink the sound
That day and night still murmurs round

She sees the joy, but feels it not:
Her Mary's distant grave.

If e'er her child should be forgot -She will not stay another hour;

For one short moment of oblivious sleep, Her feeble limbs with youthful power

It seems a wrong to one so kind,
Now feel endow'd; she hath ta'en farewell Whose mother, left on earth behind,

Hath nought to do but weep.
Of her native stream, and hill and dell;
And with a solemn tone

For, wandering in her solitude,

Tears seem to her the natural food Upon the bower implores a blessing,

of widow'd childless age;
Where often she had sate caressing
Her who, she deems, is now a saint in Heaven. Which falling there is none to see,

And bitter though these tears must be,
Upon her hearth the fire is dead,
The smoke in air hath vanished;

Her anguish they assuage.
The last long lingering look is given,

A calm succeeds the storm of grief,

A settled calm, that brings relief, The shuddering start,—the inward groan,

And half partakes of pleasure, soft and mild; And the Pilgrim on her way hath gone.

For the spirit, that is sore distrest,
At length, when wearied into rest,

Will slumber like a child.
Behold her on the lone sea-shore,

And then, in spite of all her woe,
Listening unto the hollow roar

The bliss, that charm'd her long ago,
That with eternal thunder, far and wide,
Clothes the black-heaving Main ! she stands Bursts on her like the day.

Her child, she feels, is living still,
Upon the cold and moisten'd sands,
Nor in that deep trance sces the quickly- By God and angels kept from ill

On some isle far away.
flowing tide.

It is not doom'd that she must mourn
She feels it is a dreadful noise,
That in her bowed soul destroys

For ever ;-One may yet return
A Mother's hope, though blended with her Who soon will dry her tears :

And now that seven long years are flown, Bat surely she hath lost her child,

Though spent in anguish and alone,

How short the time appears!
For how could one so weak and mild
Endure the Ocean's strife,

She looks upon the billowy Main,
Who, at this moment of dismay,

And the parting-day returns again ; Howls like a monster o'er his prey!

Each breaking wavc she knows;

And when she listens to the tide,
But the tide is rippling at her feet,
And the murmuring sound, so wildly sweet, So like the past it flows.

Her child seems standing by her side ;
Dispels these torturing dreams:

She starts to hear the city-bell;
Ob! once again the sea behold,
O'er all its wavy fields of gold,

So toll'd it when they wept farewell !

She thinks the self-same smoke and cloud The playful sun-light gleams.

The city domes and turrets shroud;
These little harmless waves so fair,

The same keen flash of ruddy fire
Speak not of sorrow or despair;
How soft the zephyr's breath!

Is burning on the lofty spire;
It sings like joy's own chosen sound;

The grove of masts is standing there While life and pleasure dance around,

Unchanged, with all their ensigns fair;

The same the stir, the tuinult, and the hum, Why must thou muse on death?

As from the city to the shore they come.
Here even the timid child might come,
To dip her small feet in the foam;
And, laughing as she view'd
The billows racing to the shore,

Day after day, along the beach she roams, Lament when their short course was o'er, And evening finds her there, when to their Parsuing and pursued.

homes How calmly floats the white sea-mew All living things have gone. Amid the billows' verdant hue!

No terrors hath the surge or storm How calmly mounts into the air,

For her ;-on glides the aged form, As if the breezes blew her there!

Still restless and alone.


Familiar unto every eye

Through each tumultuous street,
She long hath been: her low deep sigh Still strikes the ear one darling tune,
Hath touch'd with pity many a thoughtless Sung hoarse, or warbled sweet;

breast :

Well doth it suit the first of June,
And prayers, unheard by her, are given, Britannia rule the Waves!
That in its mercy watchful Heaven
Would send the aged rest.
As on the smooth and harden'd sand,

What Ship is she that rises slow
In many a gay and rosy band,
Gathering rare shells, delighted children above the horizon?-White as snow,

And cover'd as she sails

stray, With pitying gaze they pass along,

By the bright sunshine, fondly wood

In her calm beauty, and pursued
And hush at once the shout and song,
When they chance to cross her way.

By all the ocean-gales ?

Well doth she know this glorious morn, The strangers, as they idly pace

And by her subject waves is borne.
Along the beach, if her they meet,

As in triumphal pride:
No more regard the sea: her face
Attracts them by its solemn grace,

And now the gazing crowd descry,

Distinctly floating on the sky,
So mournful, yet so sweet.
The boisterous sailor passes by

Her pendants long and wide,

The outward forts she now hath pass'd; With softer step, and o'er his eye

Loftier and loftier towers her mast; A haze will pass most like unto a tear;

You almost hear the sound For he hath heard, that, broken-hearted,

Of the billows rushing past her sides,
Long, long ago, that mother parted

As giant-like she calmly glides
With her lost daughter here.
Such kindness soothes her soul, I ween,

Through the dwindled ships around.

Saluting thunders rend the Main! As through the harbour's busy scene,

Short silence !—and they roar again, She passes weak and slow.

And veil her in a cloud : A comfort sad it brings to see

Then up leap all her fearless crew, That others pity her, though free

And cheer till shore, and city too,
Themselves from care or woe.

With echoes answer loud.
In peace and friendship doth she come,

Rejoicing to approach her home,
The playful voice of streams and rills,

After absence long and far: The echo of the cavernd hills,

Yet with like calmness would she go, The murmur of the trees,

Exulting to behold the foe,
The bleat of sheep, the song of bird,

And break the line of war.
Within her soul no more are heard ;
There sound for aye the seas.
Seldom she hears the ceaseless din
That stirs the busy port. Within

While all the noble Ship admire,
A murmur dwells, that drowns all other Why doth One from the crowd retire,


Nor bless the stranger bright? And oft, when dreaming of her child, So look'd the Ship that bore away Her tearful eyes are wandering wild, Her weeping child! She dares not stay. Yet nought behold around.

Death-sickening at the right. But hear and see she must this day; Like a ghost, she wanders up and down Her sickening spirit must obey

Throughout the still deserted town, The flashing and the roar

Wondering, if in that noisy throng,
That burst from fort, and ship, and tower, Amid the shout, the dance, the song,
While clouds of gloomy splendour lower One wretched heart there may not bc,
O'er city, sea, and shore.

That hates its own mad revelry!
The pier-head, with a restless crowd, One mother, who hath lost her child.
Seems all alive; there voices loud

Yet in her grief is reconciled
Oft raise the thundrous cheer,

To such unmeaning sounds as these ; While, from on board the ship of war, Yet this may be the mere disease The music-bands both near and far Of grief with her: for why destroy Are playing, faint or clear.

The few short hours of human joy. The bells ring quick a joyous peal, Though Reason own them not?-Shont on. Till the very spires appear to feel

she cries, The joy that stirs throughout their tapering Ye thoughtless, happy souls! A mother. height;

sighs Ten thousand flags and pendants fly Must not your bliss profane. Abroad, like meteors in the sky,

Yet blind must be that mother's heart So beautiful and bright.

Who loves thee, beanteous as thou art. And, while the storm of pleasure raves Thou Glory of the Main!


Towards the church-yard see the Matron | Oh! Thou alone mayst be turn!

The mother of that fairy-child : There surely she in solitude may mourn,

These tresses dark, these eyes so wild, Tormented not by such distracting noise. That face with spirit beautified, But there seems no peace for her this day, She owes them all tò thee. For a crowd advances on her way, As if no spot were sacred from their joys. -Fly not that crowd! for Heav is there! Silent and still the sailors stand, It breathes around thee in the air,

To see the meeting strange that now befell. Even now, when unto dim despair

Unwilling sighs their manly bosoms swell, Thy heart was sinking fast:

And o'er their eyes they draw the sun-burnt A cruel lot hath long been thine ;

hand, But now let thy face with rapture shine, To hide the tears that grace their cheeks For bliss awaiteth thee divine,

60 well. And all thy woes are past.

They lift the aged Matron from her swoon, Dark words she hears among the crowd, And not one idle foot is stirring there; Of a ship that hath on board

For unto pity melts the sailor soon, Three Christian souls, who on the coast And chief when helpless woman needs his Of some wild land were wreck'd long years


She wakes at last, and with a placid smile, When all but they were in a tempest lost, Such as a saint might on her death-bed give, And now by Heaven are rescued from their Speechless she gazes on her child awhile,


Content to die since that dear one doth live. And to their country wondrously restored. And much they fear that she indeed will die! The name, the blessed name, she hears, So cold and pale her cheek, so dim her eye;Of that beloved Youth,

And when her voice returns, so like the Whom once she call'd her son; but fears

breath To listen more, for it appears

It sounds, the low and tremulous tones of Too heavenly for the truth.

death. And they are speaking of a child,

Mark her distracted daughter seize Who looks more beautifully. wild

Her clay-cold hands, and on her knces Than pictured fairy in Arabian tale ; Implore that God would spare her hoary Wondrous her foreign garb, they say,

head; Adorn'd with starry plumage gay,

For sure, through these last lingering years,
While round her head tall feathers play, By one so good enough of tears
And dance with every gale.

Hath long ere now been shed.
The fairy-child is weeping too ;

For though her liappy heart can slightly Breathless upon the beach she stands,

know And lifts to Heaven her clasped hands, What she hath never felt, the pang of woe, And scarcely dares to turn her eye Yet to the holy power of Nature true, On yon gay barge fast rushing by. From her big heart the tears of pity flow, The dashing oar disturbs her brain As infant-morning sheds the purest dew. With hope, that sickens into pain.

Nought doth Fitz-Owen speak: he takes The boat appears so wondrous fair, His reverend mother on his filial breast, Her daughter must be sitting there! Nor fears that, when her worn-out soul finds And as her gilded prow is dancing

rest Through the land-swell, and gaily glancing In the new sleep of undisturbed love, Beneath the sunny gleams,

The gracious God who sees them from above, Her heart must own, so sweet a sight, Will save the parent for her children's sakes. So form'd to yield a strange delight, She ne'er felt even in dreams. Silent the music of the oar!

Nộr vain his pious hope: the strife The eager sailors leap on shore,

Of rapture ends, and she returns to life, And look, and gaze around,

With added beauty smiling in the lines Il 'mid the crowd they may descry By age and sorrow left upon her face. A wife's, a child's, a kinsman's eye, Her eye, cven now bedimm'd with anguish, Or hear one family-sound.

shines -No sailor, he, so fondly pressing With brightening glory, and a holy sense Yon fair child in his arms,

In her husht soul of heavenly Providence, Her eyes, her brow, her bosom kissing, Breathes o'er her bending frame a loftier And bidding her with many a blessing

grace. To hush her vain alarms.

-Her Mary tells in simple phrase, How fair that creature by his side, Of wildest perils past in former days, Who smiles with languid glee,

of shipwreck scarce remember'd by herself; Slow-kindling from a mother's pride! Then will she speak of that delightful isle,

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