Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS, by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Sweets of the wild! That breathe and bloom
Last Line: She seeks despair, with heart-reviving smile!
Alternate Author Name(s): Browne, Felicia Dorothea
Subject(s): Flowers; Ruins


SWEETS of the wild! that breathe and bloom
On this lone tower, this ivied wall;
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall;
Though doomed, remote from careless eye,
To smile, to flourish, and to die
In solitude sublime,
Oh! ever may the Spring renew,
Your balmy scent and glowing hue,
To deck the robe of time!

Breathe, fragrance! breathe, enrich the air,
Though wasted on its wing unknown!
Blow, flow'rets! blow, though vainly fair,
Neglected, and alone!
These towers that long withstood the blast,
These mossy towers, are mouldering fast,
While Flora's children stay;
To mantle o'er the lonely pile,
to gild destruction with a smile,
And beautify decay!

Sweets of the wild! uncultured blowing,
Neglected in luxuriance glowing;
From the dark ruins frowning near,
Your charms in brighter tints appear,
And richer blush assume;
You smile with softer beauty crowned,
Whilst all is desolate around,
Like sunshine on a tomb!

Thou hoary pile! majestic still,
Memento of departed fame!
While roving o'er the moss-clad hill,
I ponder on thine ancient name!

Here grandeur, beauty, valour sleep,
That here, so oft have shone supreme;
While glory, honour, fancy weep,
That vanished is the golden dream!

Where are the banners, waving proud,
To kiss the summer-gale of even?
All purple as the morning-cloud,
All streaming to the winds of heaven!

Where is the harp, by rapture strung,
To melting song, or martial story?
Where are the lays the minstrel sung,
To loveliness, or glory?

Lorn echo of these mouldering walls.
To thee no festal measure calls;
No music through the desert-halls,
Awakes thee to rejoice!
How still thy sleep! as death profound,
As if, within this lonely round,
A step -- a note -- a whispered sound,
Had ne'er aroused thy voice!

Thou hear'st the zephyr murmuring, dying,
Thou hear'st the foliage, waving, sighing;
But ne'er again shall harp or song,
These dark, deserted courts along,
Disturb thy calm repose;
The harp is broke, the song is fled,
The voice is hushed, the bard is dead;
And never shall thy tones repeat,
Or lofty strain, or carol sweet,
With plaintive close!

Proud castle! though the days are flown,
When once thy towers in glory shone;
When music through thy turrets rung,
When banners o'er thy ramparts hung,
Though 'midst thine arches, frowning lone,
Stern desolation rear his throne;
And silence, deep and awful, reign
Where echoed once the choral strain;
Yet oft, dark ruin! lingering here,
The muse will hail thee with a tear;
Here when the moonlight, quivering, beams,
And through the fringing ivy streams,
And softens every shade sublime,
And mellows every tint of time --
Oh! here shall contemplation love,
Unseen and undisturbed, to rove;
And bending o'er some mossy tomb,
Where valour sleeps or beauty's bloom,
Shall weep for glory's transient day,
And grandeur's evanescent ray!
And listening to the swelling blast,
Shall wake the spirit of the past --
Call up the forms of ages fled,
Of warriors and of minstrels dead;
Who sought the field, who struck the lyre,
With all ambition's kindling fire!

Nor wilt thou, Spring! refuse to breathe,
Soft odours on this desert-air;
Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath,
And fringe these towers with garlands fair!

Sweets of the wild, oh! ever bloom
Unheeded on this ivied wall!
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall!

Thus round Misfortune's holy head,
Would Pity wreaths of honour spread;
Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile,
She seeks despair, with heart-reviving smile!





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