THE SPANISH CHAPEL.*

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a veil o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or earth had profan'd what was born for the skies.
MOORE.

I MADE a mountain-brook my guide,
Thro' a wild Spanish glen,

And wandered, on its grassy side,
Far from the homes of men.

It lured me with a singing tone,
And many a sunny glance,

To a green spot of beauty lone,

A haunt for old romance.

Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the "Recollections of the Peninsula."

A dim and deeply-bosom'd grove

Of many an aged tree,

Such as the shadowy violets love,

The fawn and forest-bee.

The darkness of the chestnut bough

There on the waters lay,

The bright stream reverently below,
Check'd its exulting play;

And bore a music all subdued,

And led a silvery sheen,

On thro' the breathing solitude

Of that rich leafy scene.

For something viewlessly around

Of solemn influence dwelt,

In the soft gloom, and whispery sound,

Not to be told, but felt:

While sending forth a quiet gleam

Across the wood's repose,

And o'er the twilight of the stream,

A lowly chapel rose.

A pathway to that still retreat

Thro' many a myrtle wound,

And there a sight-how strangely sweet! My steps in wonder bound.

For on a brilliant bed of flowers,
Even at the threshold made,

As if to sleep thro' sultry hours,

To sleep?-oh! ne'er on childhood's eye,

And silken lashes press'd,

Did the warm living slumber lie,

With such a weight of rest!

Yet still a tender crimson glow

Its cheek's pure marble dyed

'Twas but the light's faint streaming flow Thro' roses heap'd beside.

I stoop'd-the smooth round arm was chill, The soft lip's breath was fled,

And the bright ringlets hung so still

The lovely child was dead!

"Alas!" I cried, "fair faded thing! Thou hast wrung bitter tears,

And thou hast left a wo, to cling

Round yearning hearts for years!"

But then a voice came sweet and low

I turn'd, and near me sate

A woman with a mourner's brow,

Pale, yet not desolate.

And in her still, clear, matron face,

All solemnly serene,

A shadow'd image I could trace

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Of that young slumberer's mien.

Stranger! thou pitiest me," she said,

With lips that faintly smil❜d,

"As here I watch beside

my. dead,

My fair, and precious child.

“But know, the time-worn heart may

By pangs in this world riven,

Keener than theirs who yield, like me,

An angel thus to Heaven!"

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