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Even as the Spring comes to the rose,

And Alings its leaves apart, So what should woman's hand unclose ?-

The page of woman's heart.

The song is sad which thou hast sung:

Is sad how canst thou know
The loved, the lovely, and the young--

A single touch of woe.
Ah, yes! the fire is in thy breast,

The seal upon thy brow,
Life has no calm, no listless rest,

For such a one as thou ;

Thou, blending in thy barp and heart

The passionate, the wild,
The softness of the woman's part,

The sweetness of the child";
With feelings like the lute's fine strings,

A single touch will break;
With hopes that wear an angel's wings,

And make the heaven they seek.

The stern, the selfish, and the cold,

With feelings all repress'd-
The many cast in one base mould,

For them life yields her best :
They plod upon one even way,

Till time, not life, is o'er;
Death cảnnot make them colder clay

Than what they were before.

But thou-go ask thy lute what fate

May for thy future be,
And it will tell thee tears await

The path of one like thee :

78

TO THE AUTHOR OF ROSALIE.

Too sensitive, like early flowers,

One unkind breath to bear, What, in this weary world of ours,

But tears can be thy share?

Yet little would I that such words

Of prophecy were sooth;
I am so used to mournful chords,

To me they sound like truth.
And if Fate have one stainless leaf,

That page to thee belong :
Sweet lady, only dream of grief,

And let the dream be song.

I pity those who sigh for thee,

I envy those who love;
For loved thy nature's form’d to be,

As seraphs are above.
I Aing thee laurel offerings,

I own thy spirit's spell,
I greet the music of thy strings

Sweet lady, fare thee well.

ON THE

FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST*,

AT NIGHT, IN ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR.

BY THE REY. W. L. BOWLES.

The castle clock had toll’d midnight

With mattock and with spade, And silent, by the torches' light,

His corse in earth we laid.

The coffin bore his name, that those

Of other years might know,
When earth its secret should disclose,

Whose bones were laid below.

“Peace to the DEAD' no children sung,

Slow pacing up the nave;
No prayers were read, no knell was rung,

As deep we dug his grave.
We only heard the Winter's wind,

In many a sullen gust,
As o'er the open grave inclined,

We murmur'd, 'Dust to dust!
A moonbeam, from the arches' height,

Stream'd, as we placed the stone;
The long aisles started into light,

And all the windows shone.

* In the account of the burial of the king in Windsor Castle by Sir Thomas Herbert, the spot where the body was laid is described minutely, opposite the eleventh stall. The whole account is singularly impressive; but it is extraordinary it should ever have been supposed that the place of interment was unknown, when this description existed. At the late accidental disinterment, some of his hair was cut off. Soon after, the following lines were written, which I now set before the reader for the first time.

80

FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST.
We thought we saw the banners then,

That shook along the walls,
While the sad shades of mailed men,

Were gazing from the stalls.
'Tis gone! again, on tombs defaced,

Sits darkness more profound,
And only, by the torch, we traced

Our shadows on the ground.
And now the chilly, freezing air,

Without, blew long and loud ;
Upon our knees we breathed one prayer

Where he slept in his shroud.
We laid the broken marble floor-

No name, no trace appears
And when we closed the sounding door

We thought of him with tears.

THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN,

ON CHANTREY'S MONUMENT AT LICHFIELD.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

Thus tay
The gentle babes, thus girdling one another
Within their alabaster innocent arms.-SHAKSPEARE.

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, Fill'd with the hush of night and summer skies;

How many hearts have felt

Your silent beauty melt
Their strength to gushing tenderness away!

How many sudden tears,

From depths of buried years
All freshly bursting, have confess’d your sway!

How many eyes will shed

Still, o'er your marble bed, Such drops, from Memory's troubled fountains wrung!

While 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
To bend and linger o'er your lovely rest;

As o'er the cheek's warm glow,

And the soft breathings low
Of babes, that grew and faded on her breast;

If then the dovelike tone

Of those faint murmurs gone,
O'er her sick sense too piercingly return;

If for the soft bright hair,

And brow and bosom fair,
And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn;

O gentle forms entwined

Like tendrils, which the wind
May wave, so clasp’d, but never can unlink;

Send from your calm profound

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,

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