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Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There too she linger'd, from the diamond wave
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips,
And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow. At last the Fane was reach'd,
The Earth's One Sanctuary—and rapture hush'd
Her bosom, as before her, through the day,
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd
In light, like floating gold. But when that hour
Wan'd to the farewell moment, when the boy
Listed, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear
Turn’d from the white-rob’d priest, and round her
arm
Clung as the ivy clings—the deep spring-tide
Of Nature then swell'd high, and o'er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth, in mingled sounds

Of weeping and sad song.—“Alas,” she cried,

“Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes,
And now fond thoughts arise,
And silver cords again to earth have won me;
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart—

How shall I hence depart

“ 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
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,

Beholding thee so fair!

“ 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, I languish for thy voice, which past me still

Went like a singing rill?

“Under the palin-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, Who the young ravens heareth from their nest ?

Shall He not guard thy rest,
And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy ?

Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

“ 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,
My own, my beautiful, my undefild!

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;
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,

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,
'Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies,
And to fling bright dew from the morning back,
Fair form ! on each image of childhood's track.

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
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow;
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine

A memory of beauty undimm'd as thine.

To have met the joy of thy speaking face,
To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace,
To have linger'd before thee, and turn'd, and borne

One vision away of the cloudless morn.

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