THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP. SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREY'S. THOU sleepest-but when wilt thou wake, fair child? When the fawn awakes in the forest wild? When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of morn? When the first rich breath of the rose is born?— Lovely thou sleepest, yet something lies Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet; Love with sad kisses, unfelt, hath press'd Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast; And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee, Shall colour 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, * A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on the monument. THE SUNBEAM. THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall, Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles; Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles; Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam, And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home. To the solemn depths of the forest shades, I look'd on the mountains,—a vapour lay I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot,- And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell. To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, Thou tak'st thro' the dim church-aisle thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bath'd in a flood as of molten gold. And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave; Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. Sunbeam of summer! oh! what is like thee? One thing is like thee to mortals given, The faith touching all things with hues of Heaven! |