# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Monody on Mrs. Hemans

MONODY ON MRS. HEMANS.
Nature doth mourn for thee. There comes a voice From her far solitudes, as though the winds Murmured low dirges, or the waves complain'd. Even the meek plant, that never sang before, Save one brief requiem, when its blossoms fell, Seems through its drooping leaves to sigh for thee, As for a florist dead. The ivy wreathed Round the gray turrets of a buried race, And the proud palm-trees, that like princes rear Their diadems 'neath Asia's sultry sky, Blend with their ancient lore thy hallowed name.
Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make Whate'er it touched more holy. The pure shell, Pressing its pearly lip to 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 sky-piercing Himmaleh, to where Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud, From the scath'd pine-tree near the red-man's hut, To where the everlasting banian builds Its vast columnar temple, comes a wail For her who o'er the dim cathedral's arch, The quivering sunbeam on the cottage wall,
Or the sere desert, pour'd the lofty chant And ritual of the muse: who found the link That joins mute nature to ethereal mind, And made that link a melody.
 The vales Of glorious Albion heard thy tuneful fame, And those green cliffs, where erst the Cambrian bards Swept their indignant lyres, exulting tell How oft thy fairy foot in childhood climb'd Their rude, romantic heights. Yet was the couch Of thy last slumber in yon verdant isle Of song, and eloquence, and ardent soul, Which, loved of lavish skies, though bann'd by fate, Seem'd as a type of thine own varied lot, The crown'd of genius, and the child of wo. For at thy breast the ever-pointed thorn Did gird itself in secret, mid the gush Of such unstain'd, sublime, impassion'd song, That angels, poising on some silver cloud, Might listen mid the errands of the skies, And linger all unblamed.
 How tenderly Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest, And like a nurse, with finger on her lip, Watch that no step disturb thee, and no hand Profane thy sacred harp. Methinks she waits Thy waking, as some cheated mother hangs O'er the pale babe, whose spirit death hath stolen, And laid it, dreaming, on the lap of Heaven.
Said we that thou art dead? We dare not. No. For every mountain, stream, or shady dell Where thy rich echoes linger, claim thee still, Their own undying one. To thee was known Alike the language of the fragile flower And of the burning stars. God taught it thee. So, from thy living intercourse with man, Thou shalt not pass, until the weary earth Drops her last gem into the doomsday flame. Thou hast but taken thy seat with that bless'd choir, Whose harmonies thy spirit learn'd so well Through this low, darken'd casement, and so long Interpreted for us.
 Why should we say Farewell to thee, since every unborn age Shall mix thee with its household charities? The hoary sire shall bow his deafen'd ear, And greet thy sweet words with his benison; The mother shrine thee as a vestal flame In the lone temple of her sanctity; And the young child who takes thee by the hand, Shall travel with a surer step to Heaven.