THE FUNERAL GENIUS;

AN ANCIENT STATUE.

“Debout, courouné 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
Through the blue stillness of the summer-air,
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls;
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare!
And thou!―thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams.

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,
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze :
And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom
Which of the grove seems breathing-not the tomb.

They fear'd not death, whose calm and gracious thought

Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee!
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,
And laid thy head against the forest-tree,
As that of one, by music's dreamy close,

On the wood-violets lull'd to deep repose.

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
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest?
-His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy,
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress'd!
And his eye veil'd so softly by its fringe,
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?

Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine!
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power

Came by a look, so tranquilly divine!

-Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part,
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart!

But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe,
Or love, or terror, in the days of old,

That men pour'd out their gladdening spirit's flow,
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold,

And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting?

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid
Far more than we-for loftier faith is ours!
Their gems were lost in ashes-yet they made
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers,
With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs array'd,
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade.

Is it for us a darker gloom to shed

O'er its dim precincts?-do we not entrust
But for a time, its chambers with our dead,
And strew immortal seed upon the dust?
-Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath,

When living light hath touch'd the brow of death?

DIRGE OF A CHILD.

No bitter tears for thee be shed,
Blossom of being! seen and gone!

With flowers alone we strew thy bed,

O blest departed one!

Whose all of life, a rosy ray,

Blush'd into dawn, and pass'd away.

Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power
To stain thy cherub soul and form,
Closed is the soft ephemeral flower,

That never felt a storm!

The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath,

All that it knew from birth to death.

Thou wert so like a form of light,
That Heaven benignly call'd thee hence,

Ere yet the world could breathe one blight

O'er thy sweet innocence:

And thou, that brighter home to bless,

Art pass'd, with all thy loveliness!

Oh! hadst thou still on earth remain'd,
Vision of beauty! fair, as brief!

How soon thy brightness had been stain'd

With passion or with grief!

Now not a sullying breath can rise,

To dim thy glory in the skies.

We rear no marble o'er thy tomb,

No sculptured image there shall mourn;

Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom

Such dwelling to adorn.

Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be

The only emblems meet for thee.

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
Adorn'd with Nature's brightest wreath,

Each glowing season shall combine

Its incense there to breathe ;