THE FUNERAL GENIUS; AN ANCIENT STATUE. "Debout, couronné de fleurs, les bras élevés et posés sur la tête, et le dos appuyé contre un pin, ce génie semble exprimer par son attitude le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefs des tombeaux offrent souvent des figures semblables." Visconti, Description des Antiques du Musée Royal. THOU shouldst be look'd on when the starlight falls And thou!-thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead Were crown'd of old, with pale spring-flowers like these: Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed, They fear'd not death, whose calm and gracious thought Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee! They fear'd not death!-yet who shall say his touch Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair? Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much Of tender beauty as thy features wear? Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes So still a night, a night of summer, lies! Had they seen aught like thee?-Did some fair boy Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour -Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part, But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe, That men pour'd out their gladdening spirit's flow, And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king In the dark bosom of the earth they laid Is it for us a darker gloom to shed O'er its dim precincts ?-do we not entrust -Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath, DIRGE OF A CHILD. No bitter tears for thee be shed, Whose all of life, a rosy ray, Blush'd into dawn, and pass'd away. Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath, Thou wert so like a form of light, And thou, that brighter home to bless, Art pass'd, with all thy loveliness! Oh! hadst thou still on earth remain'd, How soon thy brightness had been stain'd We rear no marble o'er thy tomb, No sculptured image there shall mourn; Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, Adorn'd with Nature's brightest wreath, Each glowing season shall combine Its incense there to breathe; And oft, upon the midnight air, Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. And oh! sometimes in visions blest, And bear from thine own world of rest, What form more lovely could be given Than thine, to messenger of Heaven? |