But could not bear to have him die, To see his stately neck bowed low, She brought to him his own bright brand, And bade him, by his own right hand, In vain; the Roman fire was cold It is not painful, Pætus :-Ay! Professor of a purer creed, Nor scorn, nor yet condemn the deed, Ages, since then, have swept along,— Yet still is woman's love as strong,- Is love's word in the hour of ill. A child is playing on the green, Again his laugh thrills wild and high: And nought shall have the power to keep A youth sits with his burning glance That he will do in future time,— Repaid by deathless fame at last : He thinks not of the moments gone,- And such was I. Sunken those eyes, and worn that brow, ZARACH CHANTREY'S SLEEPING CHILDREN. BY THE REV. W. LISLE BOWLES. Look at those sleeping children!-softly tread, ""Tis morn, awake! awake!" Ah! they are dead!— Of spring and flowers!—of flowers?--Yet nearer stand— 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 shall pass away, 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 Mothers, till ruin the round world hath rent, Shall gaze with tears upon the monument! And fathers sigh, with half-suspended breath, "How sweetly sleep the innocent in death!" Literary Souvenir. WOMAN'S TRUTH. My love is not of heavenly birth, No blazing suns adorn her head, Her mouth no glittering pearls can boast; But there's a calm domestic trace Of love in every word and feature, 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, 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 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, 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, 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! |