THE CHILD AND DOVE.

SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY'S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA RUSSELL.

THOU art a thing on our dreams to rise, 'Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies,

And to fling bright dew from the morning back, Fair form! on each image of childhood's track.

Thou art a thing to recall the hours

When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers; When a world was our own in some dim sweet grove, And treasure untold in one captive dove.

Are they gone? can we think it, while thou art there,
Thou joyous child with the clustering hair?
Is it not spring that indeed breathes free
And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on thee?

No! never more may we smile as thou
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow;
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine
A memory of beauty undimm'd as thine.

To have met the joy of thy speaking face,
To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace,
To have linger'd before thee, and turn'd, and borne
One vision away of the cloudless morn.

A DIRGE.

CALM on the bosom of thy God,
Young spirit! rest thee now!
Even while with us thy footstep trod,
His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath!
Soul, to its place on high!—

They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to die.

Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers,
Whence thy meek smile is gone;
But oh!-a brighter home than ours,
In heaven, is now thine own.

SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE.

"O! fondly, fervently, those two had loved,
Had mingled minds in Love's own perfect trust;
Had watch'd bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful years;
And thus they met."

"HASTE, with your torches, haste! make firelight round!".

They speed, they press-what hath the miner found? Relic or treasure-giant sword of old?

Gems bedded deep-rich veins of burning gold?

Not so-the dead, the dead! An awe-struck band, In silence gathering round the silent stand, Chain'd by one feeling, hushing e'en their breath, Before the thing that, in the might of death, Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them layA sleeper, dreaming not!-a youth with hair Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair!) O'er his cold brow: no shadow of decay

Had touch'd those pale bright features-yet he wore
A mien of other days, a garb of yore.

Who could unfold that mystery? From the throng
A woman wildly broke; her eye was dim,
As if through many tears, through vigils long,
Through weary strainings:-all had been for him!
Those two had loved!-And there he lay, the dead,
In his youth's flower-and she, the living, stood
With her grey hair, whence hue and gloss had fled-
And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood
Had long since ebb'd-a meeting sad and strange!
-O! are not meetings in this world of change
Sadder than partings oft! She stood there, still,
And mute, and gazing-all her soul to fill

With the loved face once more-the young, fair face, 'Midst that rude cavern, touch'd with sculpture's

grace,

By torchlight and by death:-until at last

From her deep heart the spirit of the past

Gush'd in low broken tones: "And there thou art! And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part As for a few brief hours!-My friend, my friend! First-love, and only one! Is this the end

Of hope deferr'd, youth blighted? Yet thy brow VOL. IV.. -30

Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek Smiles-how unchanged!-while I, the worn, and weak.

And faded-oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now,
If thou couldst look on me!—a wither'd leaf,
Sear'd-though for thy sake-by the blast of grief!
Better to see thee thus! For thou didst go,
Bearing my image on thy heart, I know,
Unto the dead. My Ulric! through the night
How have I call'd thee! With the morning light
How have I watch'd for thee!-wept, wander'd,
pray'd,

Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay'd,
In search of thee!-bound my worn life to one-
One torturing hope! Now let me die! 'Tis gone.
Take thy betroth'd!"—And on his breast she fell,

Oh! since their youth's last passionate farewell,
How changed in all but love!—the true, the strong,
Joining in death whom life had parted long!
-They had one grave-one lonely bridal bed,
No friend, no kinsman there a tear to shed!
His name had ceased-her heart outlived each tie,
Once more to look on that dead face, and die!

ENGLISH SOLDIER'S SONG OF MEMORY.

TO THE AIR OF "AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN!"

SING, sing in memory of the brave departed,

Let song and wine be pour'd!

Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless-hearted, Our brethren of the sword!

ENGLISH SOLDIER'S SONG OF MEMORY. 351

Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices
Have mingled with our own;

Fill high the cup, but when the soul rejoices,
Forget not who are gone!

They that stood with us, 'midst the dead and dying,
On Albuera's plain;

They that beside us cheerly track'd the flying,
Far o'er the hills of Spain;

They that amidst us, when the shells were showering From old Rodrigo's wall,

The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle towering, First, first at Victory's call!

They that upheld the banners, proudly waving,
In Roncesvalles' dell;

With England's blood the southern vineyards laving,
Forget not how they fell!

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed,

Let song and wine be pour'd!

Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless-hearted, Our brethren of the sword!