XXXIX.

O brave poets, keep back nothing,
Nor mix falsehood with the whole;
Look up Godward; speak the truth in
Worthy song from earnest soul:
Hold, in high poetic duty,

Truest Truth the fairest Beauty!

Pan, Pan is dead.

A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE.

A.A.E.C.

BORN, JULY, 1848. DIED, NOVEMBER, 1849.

I.

Or English blood, of Tuscan birth, What country should we give her? Instead of any on the earth,

The civic Heavens receive her.

II.

And here among the English tombs
In Tuscan ground we lay her,
While the blue Tuscan sky endomes
Our English words of prayer.

III.

A little child!—how long she lived,

By months, not years, is reckoned: Born in one July, she survived

Alone to see a second.

IV.

Bright-featured, as the July sun
Her little face still played in,
And splendours, with her birth begun,
Had had no time for fading.

V.

So, LILY, from those July hours,
No wonder we should call her;
She looked such kinship to the flowers,
Was but a little taller.

VI.

A Tuscan Lily,—only white,
As Dante, in abhorrence

Of red corruption, wished aright
The lilies of his Florence.

VII.

We could not wish her whiter,-her
Who perfumed with pure blossom
The house a lovely thing to wear
Upon a mother's bosom !

VIII.

This July creature thought perhaps
Our speech not worth assuming;

She sate upon her parents' laps

And mimicked the gnat's humming;

IX.

Said 'father,' 'mother'—then left off,
For tongues celestial, fitter:
Her hair had grown just long enough
To catch heaven's jasper-glitter.

X.

Babes! Love could always hear and see
Behind the cloud that hid them.
'Let little children come to Me,

And do not thou forbid them.'

XI.

So, unforbidding, have we met,
And gently here have laid her,
Though winter is no time to get

The flowers that should o'er-spread her:

XII.

We should bring pansies quick with spring, Rose, violet, daffodilly,

And also, above everything,

White lilies for our Lily.

XIII,

Nay, more than flowers, this grave exacts,-

Glad, grateful attestations

Of her sweet eyes and pretty acts,

With calm renunciations.

Her

XIV.

very mother with light feet Should leave the place too earthy, Saying, 'The angels have thee, Sweet, Because we are not worthy.'

XV.

But winter kills the orange-buds,
The gardens in the frost are,
And all the heart dissolves in floods,
Remembering we have lost her.

XVI.

Poor earth, poor heart,-too weak, too weak To miss the July shining!

Poor heart!-what bitter words we speak When God speaks of resigning!

XVII.

Sustain this heart in us that faints,
Thou God, the self-existent !

We catch up wild at parting saints
And feel Thy heaven too distant.

XVIII.

The wind that swept them out of sin,
Has ruffled all our vesture:

On the shut door that let them in,

We beat with frantic gesture,—