76 TO THE AUTHOR OF ROSALIE. Too sensitive, like early flowers, Yet little would I that such words I pity those who sigh for thee, For loved thy nature's formed to be, I fling thee laurel offerings, I own thy spirit's spell, I greet the music of thy strings- ON THE FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST,* AT NIGHT, IN ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR, BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES. THE castle clock had tolled midnight— The coffin bore his name, that those When earth its secrets should disclose, "PEACE to the DEAD" no children sung, No prayers were read, no knell was rung, We only heard the Winter's wind, As o'er the open grave inclined, A moonbeam, from the arches' height, 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. 78 FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST. We thought we saw the banners then, 'Tis gone! again, on tombs defaced, And now the chilly, freezing air, We laid the broken marble floor- THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN, ON CHANTREY'S MONUMENT AT LICHFIELD. BY MRS. HEMANS. Thus lay The gentle babes, thus girdling one another FAIR images of sleep! On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies, of flowers in mossy dells, Filled 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 confessed your sway! How many eyes will shed 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, To bend and linger o'er your lovely rest; And the soft breathings low Of babes that grew and faded on her breast; If then the dovelike tone Of those faint murmurs gone, 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 By all the pure meek mind 80 THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN. By childhood's love-too bright a bloom to die! O'er her worn spirit shed, O fairest, holiest dead! The Faith, Trust, Light, of Immortality! MY OWN FIRESIDE. BY ALARIC A. WATTS. LET others seek for empty joys, 'Twixt book and lute the hours divide; My own Fireside! Those simple words And fill with tears of joy my eyes! A gentle form is near me now; A small white hand is clasped in mine; I gaze upon her placid brow, And ask what joys can equal thine! |