HOU art so fair, so excellently framed, There is such mind in thy soul-breathing eye, As if its purer home in heaven it claimed, And thence alone could draw its witchery; Thy voice hath such a soothing melody, And on thy lightest thought such magic plays, Like a bright fountain on the gladdened sky; Methinks as on thy perfect form I gaze,

In peace should be thy paths, in pleasantness thy ways.

244

A RECOLLECTION.

But when I think upon the syren world

Whose arms would clasp thee in their false embrace,

Whose glittering banner in thy sight unfurled
From better views would turn thy lovely face;
Moulding thy docile spirit's winning grace

To the fair treasons of its painted wiles;

I fain would snatch thee from that fatal race,

Whose giddy round each better thought beguiles,

And leaves the victor nought but pale and hollow smiles.

So, when before the eyes of lofty Rome

The Anglian captives stood, a blooming band,
Breathing of beauty from their sea-girt home,
And proudly in that far and foreign land
Recalling their white island's rocky strand;
The patriarch spake with mild and pitying eye,
And said, as their majestic forms he scanned,
"Worthy their name!-like angels pure and high,
Angelic too should be their path and destiny!"

A RECOLLECTION.

HERE was a boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
And islands of Winander !—many a time
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake:

ANON.

A RECOLLECTION.

And there with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he as through an instrument,

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,

That they might answer him. And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,

Responsive to his call,-with quivering peals,
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud,
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild

Of jocund din! And when there came a pause
Of silence, such as baffled his best skill,
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received
Into the bosom of the steady lake.

This boy was taken from his mates, and died

In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.

Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale

Where he was born: the grassy churchyard hangs

Upon a slope above the village-school;

And through that churchyard when my way has led
On summer evenings, I believe that there
A long half-hour together I have stood
Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies!

WORDSWORTH.

245

OOK 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 other's 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

CHANTREY'S SLEEPING CHILDREN.

247

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 spirits rest 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! 'tis 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;
This smile of death that fades not shall engage

The deep affections of each distant age;
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!"

LISLE BOWLES.