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But could not bear to have him die,
The sport of each plebeian eye;
To see his stately neck bowed low,
Beneath the headsman's dastard blow.
She brought to him his own bright brand,
She bent a suppliant knee,
And bade him, by his own right hand,
Die, freeman 'mid the free.
In vain ;-the Roman fire was cold
Within the fallen warrior's mould:-
Then rose the wife and woman high,
And died—to teach him how to die !
It is not painful, Pætus :-Ay!
Such words could Arria say,
And view with an unaltered eye
Her life-blood ebb away.
Professor of a purer creed,
Nor scorn, nor yet condemn the deed,
Which proved—unaided from above-
The deep reality of love;
Ages, since then, have swept along,
Arria is but a name;-
Yet still is woman's love as strong, -
Still woman's soul the same ;-
Still soothes the mother and the wife,
Her cherished ones, 'mid care and strife.
It is not painful, Pætus— still
Is love's word in the hour of ill.
A child is playing on the green,
With rosy cheek and radiant mien;
But sorrow comes—the smile's departed, -
He weeps, as he were broken-hearted;
But see, ere yet his tears are dry,
Again his laugh thrills wild and high :
As lights and shades each other chase,
So pain and joy flit o'er his face;
And nought shall have the power to keep
His eyes, one moment, from their sleep;-
And such was I.
A youth sits with his burning glance
Turned upwards to heaven's blue expanse :
What is it o'er his pale cheek flushing?
What thought has set the life-blood gushing ?
It is of many a deed sublime,
That he will do in future time,-
Of many a struggle to be past,
Repaid by deathless fame at last:
He thinks not of the moments gone, —
He lives in fiery hope alone;-
And such was I.
Sunken those eyes, and worn that brow,
Yet more of care,
than years, they shew;
There 's something in that cheek revealing
The bosom-wound, that knows no healing :
He lives, and will live on, and smile,
And thoughts he cannot lose, beguile;
He 'll shun no duty-break no tie,
But his star's fallen from the sky.
Oh! pitying heaven, the wretch forgive,
That bears but wishes not to live;-
And such am I.
CHANTREY'S SLEEPING CHILDREX.
BY THE REV. W. LISLE BOWLES.
Look at those sleeping children !-softly tread,
Lest thou do mar their dream; and come not nigh
Till their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry
“ 'Tis morn, awake! awake!" Ah! they are dead!-
Yet folded in each others arms they lie-
So still—oh, look! so still and smilingly-
So breathing and so beautiful they seem,
As if to die in youth were but to dream
Of spring and flowers !-of flowers ?--Yet nearer stand-
There is a lily in one little hand,
Broken, but not faded yet,
As if its cup with tears was wet.
So sleeps that child; not faded, though in death, -
And seeming still to hear her sister's breath,
As when she first did lay her head to rest
Gently on that sister's breast,
And kissed her ere she fell asleep!
The' archangel's trump alone shall wake that slumber deep.
“ Take up those flowers that fell
From the dead hand, and sigh a long farewell !
Your spirit rests in bliss !
Yet ere with parting prayers we say
Farewell for ever! to the' insensate clay,
Poor maid, those pale lips we will kiss !"
Ah! 't is cold marble ! - Artist, who hast wrought
This work of nature, feeling, and of thought,-
Thine, Chantrey, be the fame
That joins to immortality thy name.
-For these sweet children that so sculptured rest-
A sister's head upon a sister's breast-
Age after age
Nor shall their beauty fade, their forms decay.
For here is no corruption--the cold worm
Can never prey upon that beauteous form:
The smile of death that fades not, shall engage
The deep affections of each distant age !
Mothers, till ruin the round world hath rent,
gaze with tears upon the monument !
And fathers sigh, with half-suspended breath,
“How sweetly sleep the innocent in death!” Literary Souvenir.
My love is not of heavenly birth,
No-frail and mortal is her form;
Her smiles are not too sweet for earth,
Nor are her fondest looks too warm.
No blazing suns adorn her head,
Her mouth no glittering pearls can boast;
Though sweet her lips, they do not shed
The incense of Arabia's coast.
But there's a calm domestic trace
Of love in every word and feature,
More dear to me than all the grace
Of all the goddesses in nature.
And many a sun has risen and set,
And many a storm has blown around us,
Since first our throbbing bosoms met,
And love and law together bound us.
And hopes have fall'n, and friends have changed,
And flowers that promised much been blighted; Yet never were our hearts estranged
One moment from the faith we plighted.
Harp on, ye bards—soar to the skies,
Bring down the fairest stars that brighten
That beauteous world—each lady's eyes
May then Love's zig-zag path enlighten.
Go search in climes beneath the sun,
Where Nature's sweetest flowers are blowingTell each “dear girl" you found not one
To match the rose, her soft cheek shewing.
Should she, cold sceptic! doubt thee still,
Up-up on Fancy's wings to heaven, Swear that even angel's harps are shrill,
To the wild notes her lips have given.
Oh, woman, source of every bliss
That heaven to this cold world dispenses, Can such romantic praise as this
Charm thy soft heart, and chain thy senses !
Yes-hours in all our lives there are,
From power and pride, to want's pale train, When thou canst seem-oh! lovelier far
Than all young, dreaming poets feign.
It is not in thine hour of prime,
When friends are fond, and hopes are springing, It is not at the witching time,
When Love his first wild strain is singing ;
But at the couch that mocks repose,
Where some beloved form may languish, Hoping—yet dreading life's last close,
With aching brow, and heart of anguish.
While in the ranks of health and glee,
His fate may scarce one sigh awaken, O woman! then 't is thine to be
Near-though by all the world forsaken!