Making its banks green gems along the wild, There too she linger'd, from the diamond wave And softly parting clusters of jet curls To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reach'd, Turn'd from the white-rob'd priest, and round her arm Clung as the ivy clings-the deep spring-tide "Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me, And silver cords again to earth have won me; "How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing So late, along the mountains, at my side? And I, in joyous pride, By every place of flowers my course delaying "And oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day Turn'd from its door away? While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, "Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return, With the full water-urn; Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me, As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake, And watch for thy dear sake. "And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed? Wilt thou not vainly spread Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, A cry which none shall hear ? "What have I said, my child?—Will He not hear thee, And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, "I give thee to thy God-the God that gave thee, A wellspring of deep gladness to my heart! And precious as thou art, And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, And thou shalt be His child. "Therefore, farewell!-I go, my soul may fail me, As the hart panteth for the water-brooks, Yearning for thy sweet looks But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me; The Rock of Strength.-Farewell!" THE CHILD AND DOVE. SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY'S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA RUS SELL. THOU art a thing on our dreams to rise, And to fling bright dew from the morning back, 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 To have met the joy of thy speaking face, To have linger'd before thee, and turn'd, and borne 5 |