CCXLVI FIRE. Sweet Maiden, for so calm a life But thou hadst won thee, ere that strife, We miss thee in thy place at school, Where violets by the reedy pool Peep out so shyly gay: Where thou, a true and gentle guide, With all an elder sister's pride, 5 ΙΟ And rule with eye and hand. And if we miss, oh, who may speak The pallet where thy fresh young cheek 15 How many a tearful longing look In silence seeks thee yet, Where in its own familiar nook Thy fireside chair is set? And oft when little voices dim Are feeling for the note In chanted prayer, or psalm, or hymn, And wavering wildly float, Comes gushing o'er a sudden thought Of her who led the strain, How oft such music home she brought- 20 25 O say not so! the springtide air Is fraught with whisperings sweet; 30 Who knows how near, each holy hour, May linger, where in shrine or bower 35 The mourner's prayer is said? And He who willed thy tender frame (O stern yet sweet decree!) Should wear the martyr's robe of flame, 40 A garland in that region bright Where infant spirits reign, Tinged faintly with such golden light Nay, doubt it not his tokens sure 45 Were round her death-bed shown : Even as we read of Saints of yore: John Keble. 50 CCXLVII ON BEING PRESSED TO GO TO A MASQUED BALL Oh, lead me not in Pleasure's train, And such a homage disavow. But art thou sure the goddess leads 5 ΙΟ The fairest shells for me to seek, 15 Exulting in his form and face, Through the bright veil that beauty wove, A soul-all harmony and love! 20 Fair as the dreams by fancy given, 25 More lovely than the morning ray, And since that agonizing hour, That sowed the seed of mourning years, 30 Beauty has lost its cheering power, I see it through a mother's tears. Soon was my dream of bliss o'ercast, A few dark days of terror past, And joy and Frederick bloom no more. Melesina Trench. 35 CCXLVIII THE DEATH BED. We watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers, To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, 5 We thought her dying when she slept, For when the morn came dim and sad, Her quiet eyelids closed-she had 15 Thomas Hood. CCXLIX LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD, YORKSHIRE. Methinks it is good to be here; If Thou wilt, let us build-but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear, But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. Shall we build to Ambition? oh, no! Affrighted, he shrinketh away; For see! they would pin him below, 5 In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, To Beauty? ah, no!—she forgets Nor knows the foul worm that he frets ΙΟ The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, Shall we build to the purple of Pride The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside; And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed, But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud. To Riches? alas! 'tis in vain; Who hid, in their turns have been hid: The treasures are squandered again; 19 And here in the grave are all metals forbid, 25 To the pleasures which Mirth can afford The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, 30 Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah, no! they have withered and died, Or fled with the spirit above; Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 35 Unto Sorrow?—The dead cannot grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve! Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear— 40 |