Was in her cradle-coffin lying;

Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:

So soon to' exchange the imprisoning womb
For darker closets of the tomb !

She did but ope an eye, and put

A clear beam forth, then straight up shut

For the long dark: ne'er more to see
Through glasses of mortality.

Riddle of destiny, who can show,

What thy short visit meant, or know

What thy errand here below?

Shall we say, that Nature blind

Checked her hand, and changed her mind
Just when she had exactly wrought

A finished pattern without fault?
Could she flag, or could she tire,

Or lacked she the Promethean fire

(With her nine moons' long workings sickened)
That should thy little limbs have quickened?
Limbs so firm, they seemed to' assure
Life of health, and days mature:
Woman's self in miniature !

Limbs so fair, they might supply
(Themselves now but cold imagery)
The sculptor to make Beauty by.
Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry
That babe or mother, one must die;
So in mercy left the stock,

5

IO

15

20

25

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And cut the branch; to save the shock
Of young years widowed, and the pain
When Single State comes back again
To the lone man who, reft of wife,
Thenceforward drags a maimèd life?
The economy of Heaven is dark,

35

And wisest clerks have missed the mark

Why human buds, like this, should fall
More brief than fly ephemeral

40

That has his day; while shrivelled crones
Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
And crabbed use the conscience sears
In sinners of an hundred years.
-Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:
Rites, which custom does impose,
Silver bells, and baby clothes;

45

Coral redder than those lips

50

Which pale death did late eclipse;

Music framed for infant's glee,

Whistle never tuned for thee;

Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,

Child of a day, thou knowest not
The tears that overflow thine urn,
The gushing eyes that read thy lot;
Nor, if thou knewest, could'st return!

And why the wish! the pure and blest
Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep:
O peaceful night! O envied rest!
Thou wilt not ever see her weep.

Walter Savage Landor.

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5

CCXLVI

FIRE.

Sweet Maiden, for so calm a life
Too bitter seemed thine end;

But thou hadst won thee, ere that strife,
A more than earthly Friend.

We miss thee in thy place at school,
And on thine homeward way,

Where violets by the reedy pool

Peep out so shyly gay:

Where thou, a true and gentle guide,
Wouldst lead thy little band,
With all an elder sister's pride,
And rule with eye and hand.

And if we miss, oh, who may speak
What thoughts are hovering round

The pallet where thy fresh young cheek
Its evening slumber found?

15

Are feeling for the note

In chanted prayer, or psalm, or hymn,
And wavering wildly float,

Comes gushing o'er a sudden thought

Of her who led the strain,

How oft such music home she brought-
But ne'er shall bring again.

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O say not so! the springtide air
Is fraught with whisperings sweet;
Who knows but heavenly carols there
With ours may duly meet?

Who knows how near, each holy hour,
The pure and child-like dead

May linger, where in shrine or bower
The mourner's prayer is said?

And He who willed thy tender frame

(O stern yet sweet decree!)

Should wear the martyr's robe of flame,
He hath prepared for thee

A garland in that region bright
Where infant spirits reign,

Tinged faintly with such golden light
As crowns his martyr train.

Nay, doubt it not his tokens sure
Were round her death-bed shown:
The wasting pain might not endure,
'Twas calm ere life had flown,

Even as we read of Saints of yore:
Her heart and voice were free
To crave one quiet slumber more
Upon her mother's knee.

CCXLVII

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John Keble.

ON BEING PRESSED TO GO TO A MASQUED BALL NOT MANY MONTHS AFTER THE DEATH OF MY

CHILD.

Oh, lead me not in Pleasure's train,
With faltering step and faded brow;
She such a votary would disdain,
And such a homage disavow.