“Hush, child;” but, as the father spoke, Close to his ear the thunder broke, The child lay dead; while dark and still. THE CHILD'S FUNERAL. FAIR is thy site, Sorrento, green thy shore, Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire, Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue, Heap her green breast when April suns are bright, Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue, Or like the mountain frost of silvery white. Currents of fragrance, from the orange tree, Refresh the idle boatsman where they blow. Yet even here, as under harsher climes, Tears for the loved and early lost are shed; That soft air saddens with the funeral chimes, Those shining flowers are gathered for the dead. Here once a child, a smiling playful one, All the day long caressing and caressed, Died when its little tongue had just begun To lisp the names of those it loved the best. The father strove his struggling grief to quell, When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep. Within an inner room his couch they spread, His funeral couch; with mingled grief and love, They laid a crown of roses on his head, And murmured, "Brighter is his crown above." They scattered round him, on the snowy sheet, Sad hyacinths, and violets dim and sweet, And now the hour is come, the priest is there; Torches are lit and bells are tolled; they go, With solemn rites of blessing and of prayer, The door is opened; hark! that quick glad cry; Carlo has waked, has waked, and is at play; The little sisters laugh and leap, and try To climb the bed on which the infant lay. And there he sits alone, and gayly shakes In his full hands, the blossoms red and white, And smiles with winking eyes, like one who wakes From long deep slumbers at the morning light. THE BATTLE-FIELD. ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Encountered in the battle cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave— Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save. Now all is calm, and fresh, and still, And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry, Oh, be it never heard again! |