A Poet’s Dying Hymn

“Be mute who will, who can,Yet I will praise thee with impassion’d voice!Me didst thou constitute a priest of thineIn such a temple as we now behold,Rear’d for thy presence; therefore am I boundTo worship, here and every where.”--Wordsworth.

The blue, deep, glorious heavens!--I lift mine eye,And bless thee, O my God! that I have metAnd own’d thine image in the majestyOf their calm temple still!--that, never yet,There hath thy face been shrouded from my sightBy noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night:I bless thee, O my God!

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse,I see the mercy of thine aspect shine,Touching death’s features with a lovely glanceOf light, serenely, solemnly divine,And lending to each holy star a rayAs of kind eyes, that woo my soul away:I bless thee, O my God!

That I have heard thy voice nor been afraid,In the earth’s garden--midst the mountains old,And the low thrillings of the forest-shade,And the wild sound of waters uncontroll’d--And upon many a desert plain and shore--No solitude--for there I felt thee more:I bless thee, O my God!

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shedThe gift, the vision of the unseal’d eye,To pierce the mist o’er life’s deep meanings spread,To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lieFar in man’s heart--if I have kept it freeAnd pure, a consecration unto thee:I bless thee, O my God!

If my soul’s utterance hath by thee been fraughtWith an awakening power--if thou hast madeLike the wing’d seed, the breathings of my thought,And by the swift winds bid them be convey’dTo lands of other lays, and there becomeNative as early melodies of home:I bless thee, O my God!

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,Not for a place midst kingly minstrels dead,But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath,A still small whisper, in my song hath ledOne struggling spirit upwards to thy throne,Or but one hope, one prayer,--for this aloneI bless thee, O my God!

That I have loved--that I have known the loveWhich troubles in the soul the tearful springs,Yet, with a colouring halo from above,Tinges and glorifies all earthly things,Whate’er its anguish or its woe may be,Still weaving links for intercourse with thee:I bless thee, O my God!

That by the passion of its deep distress,And by the o’erflowing of its mighty prayer,And by the yearning of its tenderness,Too full for words upon their stream to bear,I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine,Well-spring of love, the unfathom’d, the divine,I bless thee, O my God!

That hope hath ne’er my heart or song forsaken,High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or dread,Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath takenWhereby its torchlight for the race was fed:That passing storms have only fann’d the fireWhich pierced them still with its triumphal spire,I bless thee, O my God!

Now art thou calling me in every gale,Each sound and token of the dying day;Thou leav’st me not--though early life grows pale,I am not darkly sinking to decay;But, hour by hour, my soul’s dissolving shroudMelts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud.I bless thee, O my God!

And if this earth, with all its choral streams,And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies,And mountain sanctuaries for poet’s dreams,Be lovely still in my departing eyes--’Tis not that fondly I would linger here,But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear:I bless thee, O my God!

And that the tender shadowing I behold,The tracery veining every leaf and flower,Of glories cast in more consummate mould,No longer vassals to the changeful hour;That life’s last roses to my thoughts can bringRich visions of imperishable spring:I bless thee, O my God!

Yes! the young, vernal voices in the skiesWoo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear,Seem heralds of th’ eternal melodies,The spirit-music, imperturb’d and clear--The full of soul, yet passionate no more:Let me, too, joining those pure strains, adore!I bless thee, O my God!

Now aid, sustain me still. To thee I come--Make thou my dwelling where thy children are,And for the hope of that immortal home,And for thy Son, the bright and morning star,The sufferer and the victor-king of death,I bless thee with my glad song’s dying breath!I bless thee, O my God!

Poet’s Dying Hymn.’ It appeared in the last number of Blackwood,”(April 1832.)--Letter from Mrs Hemans.