SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTREY'S
THOU sleepest-but when wilt thou wake, fair child? When the fawn awakes in the forest wild?
When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of morn? When the first rich breath of the rose is born? Lovely thou sleepest! yet something lies Too deep and still on thy soft-sealed eyes; Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see- When will the hour of thy rising be?
Not when the fawn wakes-not when the lark On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark. Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet; Love, with sad kisses unfelt, hath pressed Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast;
And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee, Shall colour 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 even joy but a trembler be, Beautiful dust! when we look on thee?
* A butterfly, resting on a flower, is sculptured on the monument.
THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall— A joy thou art, and a wealth to all! A bearer of hope unto land and sea- Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee?
Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles; Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles Thou has lit up the ships and the feathery foam, And gladdened the sailor like words from home.
To the solemn depths of the forest-shades,
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades; And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.
I looked on the mountains-a vapour lay Folding their heights in its dark array: Thou brakest forth, and the mist became A crown and a mantle of living flame.
I looked on the peasant's lowly cot- Something of sadness had wrapt the spot; But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell, And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell.
To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, Flushing the waste like the rose's heart; And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed A tender smile on the ruin's head.
Thou takest through the dim church-aisle thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold.
And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave; Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.
Sunbeam of summer! oh, what is like thee? Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea!- One thing is like thee to mortals given,
The faith touching all things with hues of Heaven!
"Thou givest me flowers, thou givest me songs; Bring back
The love that I have lost!"
WHAT Wakest thou, Spring? Sweet voices in he woods, And reed-like echoes that have long been mute :
Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes,
The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, Even as our hearts may be.
And the leaves greet thee, Spring !-the joyous leaves, Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery shade, And happy murmurs, running through the grass,
Tell that thy footsteps pass.
And the bright waters-they too hear thy call;
Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep! Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall
Makes melody, and in the forests deep, Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray Their windings to the day.
And flowers-the fairy-peopled world of flowers ! Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours, And penciling the wood anemone :
-yet each to thoughtful eye
Silent they seem—;
Glows with mute poesy.
But what awakest thou in the heart, O Spring! The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs? Thou that givest back so many a buried thing, Restorer of forgotten harmonies !
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou artWhat wakest thou in the heart?
Too much, oh! there too much! We know not well Wherefore it should be thus; yet, roused by thee, What fond strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell Gush for the faces we no more may see! How are we haunted, in the wind's low tone, By voices that are gone!
Looks of familiar love, that never more, Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, Past words of welcome to our household door, And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet- Spring midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, Why, why reviv'st thou these?
Vain longings for the dead !-why come they back With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms? Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ? Yes, gentle Spring! no sorrow dims thine air, Breathed by our loved ones there!
"And slight, withal, may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever it may be a sound-
A tone of music-summer's breath, or spring
A flower-a leaf-the ocean which may wound,
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound."
THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore, And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken From some bright former state, our own no more; Is not this all a mystery? Who shall say
Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?
The sudden images of vanished things, That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why; Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings, Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by; A rippling wave-the dashing of an oar- A flower-scent floating past our parents' door;
A word-scarce noted in its hour perchance, Yet back returning with a plaintive tone;
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