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, And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, "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, 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 ; The Rock of Strength.-Farewell!" THE CHILD AND DOVE. SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY'S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA RUSSELL. THOU art a thing on our dreams to rise, And to fling bright dew from the morning back, 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 To have met the joy of thy speaking face, 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? Not when the fawn wakes, not when the lark The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet; 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. |