Make no deep scrutiny Past all dishonour, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eye's family— Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily, Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other? Alas! for the rarity Oh! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Thrown from its eminence, Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night. The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: In she plunged boldly, Lave in it, drink of it, Take her up tenderly, Ere her limbs frigidly Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, Perishing gloomily, Into her rest. Cross her hands humbly, Owning her weakness, Her evil behaviour, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour. T. Hood. CLXXVII. HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNI. AST thou a charm to stay the morning star Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy, Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing-there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale! And you, ye five wild torrents* fiercely glad! Besides the rivers Arvé and Arveiron, which have their sources at the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within Who called you forth from night and utter death, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, And who commanded (and the silence came), Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! Ye signs and wonders of the element ! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, a few paces of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers with its 'flowers of loveliest blue.' |