THE MEMORIAL PILLAR.
[On the road-side, between Penrith and Appleby, stands a small pillar, with this inscription:—“This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess-Dowager of Pembroke, for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess-Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d April 1616.”—See notes to the Pleasures of Memory.]
Mother and child! whose blending tears
Have sanctified the place,
Where, to the love of many years,
Was given one last embrace—
Oh! ye have shrined a spell of power
Deep in your record of that hour!
A spell to waken solemn thought—
A still, small under tone,
That calls back days of childhood, fraught
With many a treasure gone;
And smites, perchance, the hidden source,
Though long untroubled—of remorse.
For who, that gazes on the stone
Which marks your parting spot,
Who but a mother’s love hath known—
The one love changing not?
Alas! and haply learn’d its worth
First with the sound of “Earth to earth!”
But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou,
O’er whose bright honour’d head
Blessings and tears of holiest flow
E’en here were fondly shed—
Thou from the passion of thy grief,
In its full burst, couldst draw relief.
For, oh! though painful be th’ excess,
The might wherewith it swells,
In nature’s fount no bitterness
Of nature’s mingling dwells;
And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride,
Poison’d the free and healthful tide.
But didst thou meet the face no more
Which thy young heart first knew?
And all—was all in this world o’er
With ties thus close and true?
It was! On earth no other eye
Could give thee back thine infancy.
No other voice could pierce the maze
Where, deep within thy breast,
The sounds and dreams of other days
With memory lay at rest;
No other smile to thee could bring
A gladdening, like the breath of spring.
Yet, while thy place of weeping still
Its lone memorial keeps,
While on thy name, midst wood and hill,
The quiet sunshine sleeps,
And touches, in each graven line,
Of reverential thought a sign;
Can I, while yet these tokens wear
The impress of the dead,
Think of the love embodied there
As of a vision fled?
A perish’d thing, the joy and flower
And glory of one earthly hour?
Not so!—I will not bow me so
To thoughts that breathe despair!
A loftier faith we need below,
Life’s farewell words to bear.
Mother and child!—your tears are past—
Surely your hearts have met at last.
THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.[352]
I stood beside thy lowly grave;
Spring odours breathed around,
And music, in the river wave,
Pass’d with a lulling sound.
All happy things that love the sun
In the bright air glanced by,
And a glad murmur seem’d to run
Through the soft azure sky.
Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough
That fringed the ruins near;
Young voices were abroad—but thou
Their sweetness couldst not hear.
And mournful grew my heart for thee!
Thou in whose woman’s mind
The ray that brightens earth and sea,
The light of song, was shrined.
Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low,
With a dread curtain drawn
Between thee and the golden glow
Of this world’s vernal dawn.
Parted from all the song and bloom
Thou wouldst have loved so well,
To thee the sunshine round thy tomb
Was but a broken spell.
The bird, the insect on the wing,
In their bright reckless play,
Might feel the flush and life of spring—
And thou wert pass’d away.
But then, e’en then, a nobler thought
O’er my vain sadness came;
Th’ immortal spirit woke, and wrought
Within my thrilling frame.
Surely on lovelier things, I said,
Thou must have look’d ere now,
Than all that round our pathway shed
Odours and hues below.
The shadows of the tomb are here,
Yet beautiful is earth!
What see’st thou, then, where no dim fear,
No haunting dream hath birth?
Here a vain love to passing flowers
Thou gavest; but where thou art,
The sway is not with changeful hours—
There love and death must part.
Thou hast left sorrow in thy song,
A voice not loud but deep!
The glorious bowers of earth among,
How often didst thou weep?
Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground
Thy tender thoughts and high?—
Now peace the woman’s heart hath found,
And joy the poet’s eye.
[352] “Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one of many in the churchyard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey, that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it.”—Tales by the O’Hara Family.