Maria Jane Jewsbury

Dreams of Heaven

Bright must they be, for there are none that die,
And none that weep, and none that say farewell.

                                Mrs. Hemans.

LEAVES may be counted on the linden tree,
Flowers in the field, and evening's starry host,
And warlike forces that on land or sea,
Have formed a Caesar's, or a Xerxes' boast;
But when were human dreams and thoughts of heaven,
Counted by man? to human numbers given?
From Adam, when the world to being sprung,
To the young child who sees that world grown old,
Heart never beat, mind thought, nor poet sung,
Through earth's wide regions, barren, fair, or cold,
Without a vision of untrodden spheres,
Some blissful refuge from a life of tears.
Oh! blame not then Elysium's phantom field,
Though there the hunter drew again his bow;
Valhalla's hall hung round with spear and shield,
And echoing war-songs o'er a vanquished foe;
Blame not the dreams of savage or of slave,
They told at least of life beyond the grave.
And they, the masters of the human mind,
Gods in dark ages, lords in our's of light,
Who turned from falsehood, if to truth still blind,
And the wrong hated, if they knew not right ;
Scorned oracle, and shrine, and priestly tale,
And if they found not Godhead, found his veil.

The sage, the poet, Christian weep for them!
For them whom dreams Elysian could not cheer;
Doomed the cold weltering waves of death to stem,
And seek the shore beyond with doubt and fear;
Thou, to whom God hath shown the truth, the way,
Blame not the mighty fallen bend and pray.
Thou, for whom Christ hath sojourned here, and died,
Making the sepulchre a place of bloom,
Thou, to whose eye the veil is rent aside
That hid the glorious scenes beyond the tomb,
How fair the visions that on thee may rise,
Favoured on earth whilst fitted for the skies!
Art thou a mourner? There's a dream of heaven
Can steal with downy pinion to thy breast,
Ev'n as the fabled bird when storms had striven,
Calmed the wild ocean; that sweet dream is, rest;
Rest from life's weary toil, grief's useless tears,
And all the vain, sad strife of hopes and fears.
Rest from the curse of memory's sleepless eye,
That the world's opiates have failed to close;
From hauntings of the heart, when those that die
Revive, return, are with us in repose,
Yet prove delusive when they nearest seem,
Mocking our grasp, like shadows on the stream.
The heaven for thee is home without a void,
A golden chain with each lost link restored;
Where love is freed from all that here alloyed,
And meets one family, around one board;
A home of peace, where none dispute, or strive,
And happy memories alone survive.
A mourner art thou? More perchance for sin,
Than aught beside that wounds thee in thy course,
Deep dwells the grieving thorn, thy heart within,
Nursed by remembrance, planted by remorse?
Weep on: thy vision is not dimmed by tears,
Brightest through showers the bow of peace appears.
God is thy heaven: to see him and to love,
Without a cloud, without a wandering thought,
See from thy bosom sin's last stain remove,
And perfect peace, in perfect goodness wrought:
For vain without were heaven itself to thee,
Its angel-melodies and chrystal sea!
How vain the beauty of its victor-palm,
If earthly weeds could round one branch entwine;
How vain its bright repose, its blissful calm,
If still the tumult of the heart were thine!
How vain its joys, if not from guilt secure
Oh! hush thy fears. as them shalt thou be pure!
Temple of God! Home of the ransomed soul!
Eden, whence man will never more be driven!
World, that no seasons gladden or control,
Or suns illuminate resplendent Heaven!
The dreams of man but make thy lustre dim,
Though unimagined loveliness to him!
Majestic dwelling place of truth and love,
And were thy inmates, radiant now and just,
Bright spirits singing in thy courts above,
Once like ourselves frail children of the dust?
Bore they like us vile bodies from their birth?
And was there o'er them uttered "earth to earth?"
Then joy for Hope, for Faith! let both arise,
Shake from the dust their garments and press on;
Myriads untold have entered in those skies,
Yet is there room, yet close the gates on none;
And new the joys to Abel, as the child
On whom but yesterday their glories smiled.
There sit the martyrs in immortal bloom,
Remembering with praise their bodies riven;
And infants snatched away from breast and womb,
Whose only memory of life, is heaven
And the twelve mighty ones, the heavenly brave,
Who bore the cross o'er mountain, wild, and wave.
The patriarchs, dwellers once 'neath tent and tree,
Blame not the will that made them pilgrims here;
The land that Canaan shadowed forth they see,
And call its wealth their own without a fear:
The fathers ere the flood, there too are they,
Whose thousand years now seem a single day.
There the rapt prophet views with blissful eye
The unsealed vision of the truths he taught;
And holy kings, and warrior-saints descry,
The mighty arm that oft salvation brought.
And he who once in vain besought the grace,
Beholds at last God's glory and his face.
Simeon is blest of Him whom as a child
He clasped with blessings to his aged breast;
And with him bows the leper late defiled,
And Lazarus risen twice from mortal rest.
And she, the lowly Virgin, whose reward
Is now to hail her Son as Christ and Lord.
There too a seraph in her blest abode,
The penitent is near her Saviour's feet,
But gone the tears that here fast o'er them flowed,
And needless now her box of odours sweet;
Her sighs are changed to songs that never cease,
And on her once worn brow is written Peace.
Oh! that at length within that glorious heaven
I might obtain a quiet resting-place!
Hear from my Judge that one sweet word, "Forgiven!"
The pledge of glory and the proof of grace
And oh! that 'mid its myriads might my heart
Meet its own loved ones meet no more to part.