Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE TWO MONUMENTS, by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE TWO MONUMENTS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Banners hung drooping from on high
Last Line: Like him to live and die!
Alternate Author Name(s): Browne, Felicia Dorothea
Subject(s): Monuments; Mourning; Bereavement


BANNERS hung drooping from on high
In a dim cathedral's nave,
Making a gorgeous canopy
O'er a noble, noble grave!

And a marble warrior's form beneath,
With helm and crest arrayed,
As on his battle-bed of death,
Lay in their crimson shade.

Triumph yet lingered in his eye,
Ere by the dark night sealed;
And his head was pillowed haughtily
On standard and on shield.

And shadowing that proud trophy-pile,
With the glory of his wing,
An eagle sat -- yet seemed the while
Panting through heaven to spring.

He sat upon a shivered lance,
There by the sculptor bound;
But in the light of his lifted glance
Was that which scorned the ground.

And a burning flood of gem-like hues,
From a storied window poured,
There fell, there centred, to suffuse
The conqueror and his sword.

A flood of hues -- but one rich dye
O'er all supremely spread,
With a purple robe of royalty
Mantling the mighty dead.

Meet was that robe for him whose name
Was a trumpet-note in war,
His pathway still the march of fame,
His eye the battle-star.

But faintly, tenderly was thrown,
From the coloured light, one ray,
Where a low and pale memorial-stone
By the couch of glory lay.

Few were the fond words chiselled there,
Mourning for parted worth;
But the very heart of love and prayer
Had given their sweetness forth.

They spoke of one whose life had been
As a hidden streamlet's course,
Bearing on health and joy unseen
From its clear mountain-source:

Whose young, pure memory, lying deep
Midst rock, and wood, and hill,
Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,
A soft light, meek and still:

Whose gentle voice, too early called
Unto Music's land away,
Had won for God the earth's enthralled
By words of silvery sway.

These were his victories -- yet, enrolled
In no high song of fame,
The pastor of the mountain-fold
Left but to heaven his name.

To heaven, and to the peasant's hearth,
A blessed household-sound;
And finding lowly love on earth,
Enough, enough, he found!

Bright and more bright before me gleamed
That sainted image still,
Till one sweet moonlight memory seemed
The regal fane to fill.

Oh! how my silent spirit turned
From those proud trophies nigh!
How my full heart within me burned
Like Him to live and die!





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