I little thought such wish to prove, Was pillowed on a colder bed Farewell, farewell, my dearest! They told me victory's laurels wreath'd That "victory!" from his lips was breathed The last exulting sound Cold comfort to a mother's ear, That longed his living voice to hear- E'en so thy gallant father died, What earthly voice shall comfort me?- C. BOWLES. THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN. ON CHANTREY'S MONUMENT AT LICHFIELD. FAIR images of sleep! Hallowed, and soft, and deep; On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies, Like moonlight on shut bells of flowers in mossy dells, Filled with the hush of night and summer skies; How many hearts have felt Your silent beauty melt Their strength to gushing tenderness away! How many sudden tears, From depths of buried years All freshly bursting, have confessed your sway; How many eyes will shed, Still o'er your marble bed, Such drops, from memory's troubled fountains wrung! While hope hath blights to bear, While love breathes mortal air, While roses perish, heirs to glory sprung. Yet from a voiceless home If some sad mother come To bend and linger o'er your lovely rest; And the soft breathings low Of babes that grew and faded on her breast; If then the dove-like tone Of those faint murmurs gone, O'er her sick sense too piercingly return; If for the soft bright hair, And brow and bosom fair, And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn; O gentle forms entwined Like tendrils which the wind May wave, so clasped, but never can unlink; A still small voice, a sound Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink. By all the pure meek mind By childhood's love-too bright a bloom to die! O'er her worn spirit shed, O fairest, holiest dead! The faith, trust, light of immortality. HEMANS. THE BLIND GIRL, TO HER MOTHER. MOTHER, they say the stars are bright, And blend with thoughts of thee. And when I hear thy voice, 1 deem When my sad heart to thine is pressed, Sweet pleasure warms my beating breast, And this I say is Herven. O mother, will the God above, Forgive my faults like thee? Will he bestow such care and love On a blind thing like me? Dear mother leave me not alone! Go with me when I die Lead thy blind daughter to the throne, G. SEDLY. LOVE'S LAST BEQUEST. In the fresh and sunny spring-time When all young things are gay, When the flowers are bursting through the mould And the leaf-buds on the spray, Alone, in bitterness of soul Beside the widow'd bed, One, with a strong man's agony, But a tender orphan bud had sprung The winter of the heart. When Nature wakes from winter's sleep And springs, fresh robed, all loveliness, Methinks then is the hour of peace, That seemeth in its gladsomeness Pure as a weaned child; |