XXXIX. O brave poets, keep back nothing, 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 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 V. So, LILY, from those July hours, VI. A Tuscan Lily,—only white, Of red corruption, wished aright VII. We could not wish her whiter,-her VIII. This July creature thought perhaps She sate upon her parents' laps And mimicked the gnat's humming; IX. Said 'father,' 'mother'—then left off, X. Babes! Love could always hear and see And do not thou forbid them.' XI. So, unforbidding, have we met, 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, 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, We catch up wild at parting saints XVIII. The wind that swept them out of sin, On the shut door that let them in, We beat with frantic gesture,— |