THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN. 179 THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN, ON CHANTREY'S MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL. [THE monument by Chantrey in Lichfield Cathedral, to the memory of the two children of Mrs Robinson, is one of the most affecting works of art ever executed. He has given a pathos to marble, which one who trusts to his natural feelings, and admires, and is touched only at their bidding, might have thought from any previous experience that it was out of the power of statuary to attain. The monument is executed with all his beautiful simplicity and truth. The two children, two little girls, are represented as lying in each other's arms, and, at first glance, appear to be sleeping: "But something lies, Too deep and still on those soft-sealed eyes." It is while lying in the helplessness of innocent sleep, that infancy and childhood are viewed with the most touching interest; and this and the loveliness of the children, the uncertainty of the expression at first view, the dim shadowing forth of that sleep from which they cannot be awakened, their hovering, as it were, upon the confines of life, as if they might still be recalled, all conspire to render the last feeling, that death is indeed before us, most deeply affecting. They were the only children of their mother, and she was a widow. A tablet commemorative of their father hangs over the monument. This stands at the end of one of the side aisles of the choir, where there is nothing to distract the attention from it, or weaken its effect. It may be contemplated in silence and alone. The inscription, in that subdued tone of strong feeling which seeks no relief in words, harmonizes with the character of the whole. It is as follows: Sacred to the Memory of ELLEN JANE and MARIANNE, only children Of the late Rev. WILLIAM ROBINSON, and ELLEN JANE, his wife, Their affectionate Mother, In fond remembrance of their heaven-loved innocence, FAIR images of sleep, Hallow'd, and soft, and deep, On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies, Like moonlight on shut bells Of flowers, in mossy dells, A. N. Fill'd with the hush of night and summer skies! How many hearts have felt Their strength to gushing tenderness away! From depths of buried years All freshly bursting, have confess'd your sway! Such drops from memory's troubled fountains wrungWhile hope hath blights to bear, While love breathes mortal air, While roses perish ere to glory sprung! Yet from a voiceless home, If some sad mother come, Fondly to linger o'er your lovely rest, As o'er the cheek's warm glow, And the sweet breathings low, Of babes that grew and faded on her breast; * From the Offering, an American annual. WOMAN AND FAME. 181 If then the dove-like tone Of those faint murmurs gone, O'er her sick sense too piercingly return; And brow and bosom fair, And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn; O gentle forms, entwined Like tendrils, which the wind A still small voice-a sound Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink! By all the pure meek mind In your pale beauty shrined, By childhood's love—too bright a bloom to die' O fairest, holiest dead! The faith, trust, joy, of immortality! WOMAN AND FAME. THOU hast a charmed cup, O Fame! Above mortality. Away! to me a woman-bring Sweet waters from affection's spring. Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine For that resplendent gift of thine, Give me from some kind hand a flower, Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone As when a trumpet's note hath blown, But mine, let mine--a woman's breast, A hollow sound is in thy song, A mockery in thine eye, To the sick heart that doth but long For kindly looks to cheer it on, For tender accents that are gone. Fame, Fame! thou canst not be the stay Unto the drooping reed, The cool fresh fountain in the day Of the soul's feverish need: Where must the lone one turn or flee? Not unto thee-oh! not to thee! A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. DREAMER! and would'st thou know If love goes with us to the viewless bourne ? A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. 183 Would'st thou bear hence th' unfathom'd source of woe In thy heart's lonely urn? What hath it been to thee, That power, the dweller of thy secret breast? A dove sent forth across a stormy sea, Finding no place of rest: A precious odour cast On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by; And winning no reply. Even were such answer thine Would'st thou be bless'd?-too sleepless, too profound, Are the soul's hidden springs; there is no line Do not words faint and fail When thou would'st fill them with that ocean's power? As thine own cheek, before high thoughts grows pale In some o'erwhelming hour. Doth not thy frail form sink Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot, When thy heart strives, held down by many a link, Where thy beloved are not? Is not thy very soul Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed, |