Felicia Hemans

Nature doth mourn for thee.There is no needFor Man to strike his plaintive lyre and fail,As fail he must, if he attempt thy praise.The little plant that never sang before,Save one sad requiem, when its blossoms fell,Sighs deeply through its drooping leaves for thee,As for a florist fallen. The ivy wreath'dRound the grey turrets of a buried race,And the tall palm that like a prince doth rearIts diadem neath Asia's burning sky,With their dim legends blend thy hallow'd name.Thy music, like baptismal dew, did makeWhate'er it touch'd most holy. The pure shell,Laying its pearly lip on Ocean's floor,The cloister'd chambers, where the sea-gods sleep,And the unfathom'd melancholy main,Lament for thee, through all the sounding deeps.Hark! from snow-breasted Himmaleh, to whereSnowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud,From the scath'd pine tree, near the red man's hut,To where the everlasting banian buildsIts vast columnac temple, comes a moanFor thee, whose ritual made each rocky heightAn altar, and each cottage-home, the hauntOf Poesy.

Yea, thou didst find the linkThat joins mute Nature to ethereal mind,And make that link a melody.The couchOf thy last sleep, was in the native climeOf song and eloquence and ardent soul,Spot fitly chosen for thee. Perchance, that isleSo lov'd of favoring skies, yet bann'd by fate,Might shadow forth thine own unspoken lot.For at thy heart, the ever-pointed thornDid gird itself, until the life-stream ooz'dIn gushes of such deep and thrilling song,That angels poising on some silver cloudMight linger 'mid the errands of the skies,And listen, all unblam'd.How tenderlyDoth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest,And like a nurse, with finger on her lip,Watch lest some step disturb thee, striving stillFrom other touch, thy sacred harp to guard.Waits she thy waking, as the Mother waitsFor some pale babe, whose spirit sleep hath stolenAnd laid it dreaming on the lap of Heaven?We say not thou art dead. We dare not. No.For every mountain stream and shadowy dellWhere thy rich harpings linger, would hurl backThe falsehood on our souls. Thou spak'st alikeThe simple language of the freckled flower,And of the glorious stars. God taught it thee.And from thy living intercourse with manThou shalt not pass away, until this earthDrops her last gem into the doom's-day flame.

Thou hast but taken thy seat with that blest choir,Whose hymns thy tuneful spirit learn'd so wellFrom this sublunar terrace, and so longInterpreted.Therefore, we will not sayFarewell to thee; for every unborn ageShall mix thee with its household charities.The sage shall greet thee with his benison,And Woman shrine thee as a vestal-flameIn all the temples of her sanctity,And the young child shall take thee by the handAnd travel with a surer step to Heaven.