"He would not hear thy voice, fair child!
He may not come to thee;

The face that once like spring-tide smiled,
On earth no more thou'lt see.

"A rose's brief bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given;
Go-thou must play alone, my boy!
Thy brother is in heaven."

"And has he left his birds and flowers;

And must I call in vain ?

And through the long long summer hours,
Will he not come again?

"And by the brook and in the glade Are all our wanderings o'er?

Oh, while my brother with me played,

Would I had loved him more !"

F. HEMANS.

CXXIII

TO A CHILD IN SICKNESS.

Sleep breathes at last from out thee,

My little patient boy;

And balmy rest about thee

Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down and think
Of all thy winning ways;

Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;
The little trembling hand

That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that
Dread memories for years.

may demand

Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly midst my dear ones
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,—
The tears are in their bed.

Ah, first-born of thy mother
When life and hope were new,

Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father, too:
My light where 'er I go,

My bird when prison bound,
My hand-in-hand companion,-no,
My prayers shall hold thee round.

To say "he has departed,

Ilis voice, his face is gone!" To feel impatient-hearted

Yet feel we must bear on! Ah, I could not endure

To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep ensure That it will not be so.

Yes; still he's fixed and sleeping!
This silence, too, the while-
Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile.
Something divine and dim
Seems going by mine ear
Like parting wings of Seraphim
"We've finished here."

Who say,

CXXIV

THE SPANISH CHAPEL.

I made a mountain-brook my guide
Through a wild Spanish glen,
And wandered on its grassy side,
Far from the homes of men.

It lured me with a singing tone
And many a sunny glance,
To a green spot of beauty lone,
A haunt for old romance.

L. HUNT.

A dim and deeply bosomed grove
Of many an aged tree,

Such as the shadowy violets love,
The fawn and forest-bee.

The darkness of the chestnut-bough
There on the waters lay,

The bright stream reverently below
Checked its exulting play ;

And bore a music all subdued,
And led a silvery sheen
On through the breathing solitude
Of that rich leafy scene.

For something viewlessly around
Of solemn influence dwelt,

In the soft gloom and whispery sound,
Not to be told but felt;

While, sending forth a quiet gleam
Across the wood's repose,

And o'er the twilight of the stream,
A lowly chapel rose.

A pathway to that still retreat
Through many a myrtle wound,

And there a sight-how strangely sweet!
My steps in wonder bound.

For on a brilliant bed of flowers,
Even at the threshold made,

As if to sleep through sultry hours,
young fair child was laid.

A

To sleep?-Oh! ne'er, on childhood's eye

And silken lashes pressed,
Did the warm living slumber lie
With such a weight of rest!

Yet still a tender crimson glow

Its cheek's pure marble dyed'Twas but the light's faint streaming flow Through roses heaped beside.

I stooped-the smooth round arm was chill,
The soft lip's breath was fled,
And the bright ringlets hung so still-
The lovely child was dead!

"Alas! I cried, "fair faded thing!
Thou hast wrung bitter tears,
And thou hast left a woe, to cling
Round yearning hearts for years!"

But then a voice came sweet and low-
I turned, and near me sate

A woman with a mourner's brow,

Pale, yet not desolate.