74

TO THE AUTHOR OF ROSALIE.

And that the magic of thy words

Is even as thy song

The sweetness of the sea-shell chords
The night winds bear along.

I will believe all they can say
Of fairy charm is thine-
My lips are murmuring now thy lay,
My tears on thy last line :
I've drank the music, sweet and low,
Waked by thy graceful hand;
I must speak of thee-I am now
"Beneath the enchanter's wand."

I dream thee beautiful and bright,
Amid the festal crowd,

With lip and eye of flashing light,
Thy own self disavowed.

They see the loveliness that burns,
The splendour round the shrine-
But not the poet soul which turns
Thy nature to divine.

I dream thee in thy lonely hour,
Thy long dark hair unbound,
The braiding pearl, the wreathing flower,
Flung careless on the ground;
The crimson eager on thy cheek,

The light dark in thine eye

While from thy parted lips there break
Sweet sounds, half song, half sigh.

A tale of feminine fond love,

The tender and the tried,

The heart's sweet faith, which looks above,
Long after hope has died.

TO THE AUTHOR OF ROSALIE.

Even as the Spring comes to the rose,
And flings its leaves apart,

So what should woman's hand unclose ?-
The page of woman's heart.

The song is sad which thou hast sung:
Is sad! how canst thou know-
The loved, the lovely, and the young-
A single touch of woe.

Ah, yes! the fire is in thy breast,
The seal upon thy brow,

Life has no calm, no listless rest,
For such a one as thou ;-

Thou, blending in thy harp and heart
The passionate, the wild,

The softness of the woman's part,
The sweetness of the child;

With feelings like the lute's fine strings,
A single touch will break;

With hopes that wear an angel's wings,
And make the heaven they seek.

The stern, the selfish, and the cold,
With feelings all repressed-
The many cast in one base mould,
For them life yields her best:
They plod upon one even way,
Till time, not life, is o'er;
Death cannot make them colder clay
Than what they were before.

But thou-go ask thy lute what fate
May for thy future be,

And it will tell thee tears await

The path of one like thee:

75

76

TO THE AUTHOR OF ROSALIE.

Too sensitive, like early flowers,
One unkind breath to bear,
What, in this weary world of ours,
But tears can be thy share?

Yet little would I that such words
Of prophecy were sooth;
I am so used to mournful chords,
To me they sound like truth.
And if Fate have one stainless leaf,
That page to thee belong :
Sweet lady, only dream of grief,
And let the dream be song.

I pity those who sigh for thee,
I envy those who love;
For loved thy nature's formed to be,
As seraphs are above.

I fling thee laurel offerings,

I own thy spirit's spell,

I greet the music of thy strings-
Sweet lady, fare thee well.

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-
With mattock and with spade,
And silent, by the torches' light,
His corse in earth we laid.

The coffin bore his name, that those

Of other years might know,

When earth its secrets should disclose,
Whose bones were laid below.

"PEACE to the DEAD" no children sung,
Slow pacing up the nave ;

No prayers were read, no knell was rung,
As deep we dug his grave.

We only heard the Winter's wind,
In many a sullen gust,

As o'er the open grave inclined,
We murmured, "Dust to dust!"

A moonbeam, from the arches' height,
Streamed, as we placed the stone;
The long aisles started into light,

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,
That shook along the walls,
While the sad shades of mailed men,
Were gazing from the stalls.

'Tis gone! again, on tombs defaced,
Sits darkness more profound,
And only, by the torch, we traced
Our shadows on the ground.

And now the chilly, freezing air,
Without, blew long and loud;
Upon our knees we breathed one prayer
Where he slept in his shroud.

We laid the broken marble floor-
No name, no trace appears-
And when we closed the sounding door
We thought of him with tears.

THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN,

ON CHANTREY'S MONUMENT AT LICHFIELD.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

Thus lay

The gentle babes, thus girdling one another
Within their alabaster innocent arms.-SHAKSPEre.

FAIR images of sleep!

Hallowed, and soft, and deep;

On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies,
Like moonlight on shut bells

Of flowers in mossy dells,

Filled with the hush of night and summer skies;