# Scenes and Hymns of Life, with Other Religious Poems/Flowers and Music in a Room of Sickness

FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.
Once, when I look'd along the laughing earth, Up the blue heavens, and through the middle air, Joyfully ringing with the sky-lark's song, I wept! and thought how sad for one so young To bid farewell to so much happiness. But Christ hath call'd me from this lower world. Delightful though it be. Wilson.
Apartment in an English Country-House.—Lilian reclining, as sleeping on a couch. Her Mother watching beside her. Her Sister enters with flowers.
Mother. Hush, lightly tread! still tranquilly she sleeps, As, when a babe, I rock'd her on my heart.
I've watch'd, suspending e'en my breath, in fear To break the heavenly spell. Move silently! And oh! those flowers! dear Jessy, bear them hence— Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears That shook her trembling frame, when last we brought The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know What sudden longings for the woods and hills, Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly, These leaves and odours with strange influence wake In her fast-kindled soul?
Jessy.Oh! she would pine, Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld, Mother! far more than now her spirit yearns For the blue sky, the singing-birds and brooks, And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome spring Their blooms recall.
Lilian,(raising herself.) Is that my Jessy's voice? It woke me not, sweet mother! I had lain Silently, visited by waking dreams, Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness,
Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought flowers? Nay, fear not now thy fond child's waywardness, My thoughtful mother!—in her chasten'd soul The passion-colour'd images of life, Which, with their sudden startling flush awoke So oft those burning tears, have died away; And night is there—still, solemn, holy night, With all her stars, and with the gentle tune Of many fountains, low and musical, By day unheard.
Mother.And wherefore night, my child? Thou art a creature all of life and dawn, And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise, And walk forth with the day-spring.
Lilian.Hope it not! Dream it no more, my mother!—there are things Known but to God, and to the parting soul, Which feels his thrilling summons. But my words Too much o'ershadow those kind loving eyes.
Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step, Well do I see, hath not alone explored The garden bowers, but freely visited Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet Is from the cool green shadowy river nook, Where the stream chimes around th' old mossy stones With sounds like childhood's laughter. Is that spot Lovely as when our glad eyes hail'd it first? Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep The clear brown wave with every passing wind? And thro' the shallower waters, where they lie Dimpling in light, do the vein'd pebbles gleam Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies, From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still Among the poplar boughs?
Jessy.All, all is there Which glad midsummer's wealthiest hours can bring; All, save the soul of all, thy lightening smile! Therefore I stood in sadness 'midst the leaves, And caught an under-music of lament
In the stream's voice; but Nature waits thee still, And for thy coming piles a fairy throne Of richest moss.
Lilian.Alas! it may not be! My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly, To all these blessed haunts of song and thought; Yet not the less I love to look on these, Their dear memorials;—strew them o'er my couch, Till it grow like a forest bank in spring, All flush'd with violets and anemones. Ah! the pale brier rose! touch'd so tenderly, As a pure ocean shell, with faintest red, Melting away to pearliness!—I know How its long light festoons o'erarching hung From the grey rock, that rises alter-like, With its high waving crown of mountain ash, 'Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough Of honey'd woodbine, tells me of the oak Whose deep midsummer gloom sleeps heavily, Shedding a verdurous twilight o'er the face
Of the glade's pool. Methinks I see it now; I look up through the stirring of its leaves Unto the intense blue crystal firmament. The ring-dove's wing is flitting o'er my head, Casting at times a silvery shadow down 'Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful! How beautiful is all this fair free world Under God's open sky!
Mother.Thou art o'erwrought Once more, my child! The dewy trembling light Presaging tears, again is in thine eye. O, hush, dear Lilian! turn thee to repose.
Lilian. Mother! I cannot. In my soul the thoughts Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire; Importunately to my lips they throng, And with their earthly kindred seek to blend Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone— (For I must go)—then the remember'd words Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth,
Will to thy fond heart be as amulets Held there with life and love. And weep not thus! Mother! dear sister! kindest, gentlest ones! Be comforted that now I weep no more For the glad earth and all the golden light Whence I depart, No! God hath purified my spirit's eye, And in the folds of this consummate rose I read bright prophecies. I see not there, Dimly and mournfully, the word "farewell" On the rich petals traced: No—in soft veins And characters of beauty, I can read— "Look up, look heavenward!" Blessed God of Love! I thank thee for these gifts, the precious links Whereby my spirit unto thee is drawn! I thank thee that the loveliness of earth Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these But germs of things unperishing, that bloom Beside th' immortal streams? Shall I not find
The lily of the field, the Saviour's flower, In the serene and never-moaning air, And the clear starry light of angel eyes, A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far Will not the violet's dusky purple glow, When it hath ne'er been press'd to broken hearts, A record of lost love?
Mother.My Lillian! thou Surely in thy bright life hast little known Of lost things or of changed!
Lilian.Oh! little yet, For thou hast been my shield! But had it been My lot on this world's billows to be thrown Without thy love—O mother! there are hearts So perilously fashioned, that for them God's touch alone hath gentleness enough To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!— We will not speak of this! By what strange spell Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers,
I dream of music? Something in their hues All melting into colour'd harmonies, Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords, Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die In tenderest falls away.—O, bring thy harp, Sister! a gentle heaviness at last Hath touch'd mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep Will come again.
Jessy. What wouldst thou hear? Th' Italian Peasant's Lay, Which makes the desolate Campagna ring With "Roma, Roma?" or the Madrigal Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily? Or the old ditty left by Troubadours To girls of Languedoc?
Lilian.Oh, no! not these.
Jessy. What then? the Moorish melody still known Within th' Alhambra city? or those notes Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile's heart
Even unto death?
Lilian.No, sister, nor yet these.— Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret, Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes In the caressing sweetness of their tones, For one who dies:—They would but woo me back To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds— And vainly, vainly—No! a loftier strain, A deeper music!—Something that may bear The spirit up on slow yet mighty wings, Unsway'd by gusts of earth: something, all fill'd With solemn adoration, tearful prayer.— Sing me that antique strain which once I deem'd Almost too sternly simple, too austere In its grave majesty! I love it now— Now it seems fraught with holiest power, to hush All billows of the soul, e'en like His voice That said of old—"Be still!"—Sing me that strain— "The Saviour's dying hour."
[Jessy sings to the Harp.
O Son of Man! In thy last mortal hour Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully! All that on us is laid, All the deep gloom, The desolation and th' abandonment, The dark amaze of death; All upon thee too fell, Redeemer! Son of Man!
But the keen pang Wherewith the silver cord Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung; Th' uptearing of those tendrils which have grown Into the quick strong heart; This, this, the passion and the agony Of battling love and death,
Surely was not for thee, Holy one! Son of God!
Yes, my Redeemer! E’en this cup was thine! Fond wailing voices call'd thy spirit back: E’en 'midst the mighty thoughts Of that last crowning hour; E'en on thine awful way to victory, Wildly they call'd thee back! And weeping eyes of love Unto thy heart's deep core, Pierc'd thro' the folds of death's mysterious veil— Sufferer! thou Son of Man!
Mother-tears were mingled With thy costly blood-drops, In the shadow of th' atoning cross; And the friend, the faithful, He that on thy bosom,
Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain— He, a pale sad watcher— Met with looks of anguish, All the anguish in thy last meek glance— Dying Son of Man!
Oh! therefore unto thee, Thou that hast known all woes Bound in the girdle of mortality! Thou that wilt lift the reed Which storms have bruis'd, To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry, And, in that tempest-hour when love and life Mysteriously must part, When tearful eyes Are passionately bent To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze— Then, then forsake us not! Shed on our spirits then The faith and deep submissiveness of thine!
Thou that didst love, Thou that didst weep and die— Thou that didst rise, a victor glorified! Conqueror! thou Son of God!