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Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear?'

“What have I said, my child ?_Will He not hear thee, Who the young ravens heareth from their nest ?

Shall He not guard thy rest,
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy ?

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

“I give thee to thy God—the God that gave thee,
A wellspring of deep gladness to my heart !

And precious as thou art,
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefild !

And thou shalt be His child.

“ Therefore, farewell !-I go, my soul may fail me,
As the hart panteth for the water-brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks-
But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me;
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,

The Rock of Strength.-Farewell !”

THE CHILD AND DOVE.

SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY'S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA RUS

SELL.

Thou art a thing on our dreams to rise,
'Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies,
And to fling bright dew from the morning back,
Fair form! on each image of childhood's track.

Thou art a thing to recall the hours,
When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers,
When a world was our own in some dim sweet grove,
And treasure untold in one captive dove.

Are they gone? can we think it, while thou art there,
Thou joyous child with the clustering hair ?
Is it not Spring that indeed breathes free
And fresh o’er each thought, while we gaze on thee?

No! never more may we smile as thou
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow;
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine
A memory of beauty undimm'd as thine.

To have met the joy of thy speaking face,
To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace,
To have linger'd before thee, and turn’d, and borne
One vision away of the cloudless morn.

THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP.

ON A MONUMENT BY CHANTREY FOR AN INFANT DAUGHTER OF

SIR THOMAS ACKLAND.

Thou sleepest-but when wilt thou wake, fair child?
-When the fawn awakes 'midst the forest wild?
When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of morn,
When the first rich breath of the rose is boru ?
-Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies
Too deep and still on thy soft-seald eyes ;
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see-
When will the hour of thy rising be?

Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark-
Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet;
Love with sad kisses unfelt hath prest
Thy meek dropt eyelids and quiet breast;

And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee,
Shall color all blossoms, fair child, but thee.

Thou'rt gone from us, bright one-that thou shouldst die,
And life be left to the butterfly !*
Thou'rt gone, as a dew-drop is swept from the bough,
-Oh ! for the world where thy home is now !
How may we love but in doubt and fear,
How may we anchor our fond hearts here,
How should e'en Joy but a trembler be,
Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?

* A butterfly, as if fluttering on a flower, is sculptured on the monument.

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