It was a winter's evening ;—clear, but still: Earth's goal for hoary age, and beauty's smiling bloom. We talk'd of life's last hour,--the varied forms And features it assumes;-how some men die As sets the sun when dark clouds threaten storms, And starless night; others whose evening sky Resembles those which to the outward eye Seem full of promise :—and with soften'd tone, At seasons check'd by no ungrateful sigh, The death of one sweet grandchild of his own Was by that hoary man most tenderly made known. She was, he said, a fair and lovely child Or seeing, fondly love; of manners mild, But her more common mood of mind was one In ten brief years her little course had run,— Though some might deem her pensive, if not sad, In which the stars of heaven at noon are seen, But, though no boisterous playmate, her fond smile, Loving and kind, her thoughts, words, deeds, the while In groves impervious to the noontide ray;- [gay. All these she loved as much as those who seem'd more Yet more she loved the word, the smile, the look Of those who rear'd her with religious care; With fearful joy she conn'd that holy book, At whose unfolded page full many a prayer, In which her weal immortal had its share, Recurr'd to memory; for she had been trained, Young as she was, her early cross to bear; And taught to love, with fervency unfeign'd, The record of His life whose death salvation gain'd. I dare not linger, like my ancient friend, On every charm and grace of this fair maid; Was long with fond prolixity delay'd; Though rightly fancy had its close portray'd Yet only wither here to bloom in life more bless'd? My theme is one of joy, and not of grief; I would not loiter o'er such flower's decay, Nor stop to paint it, slowly, leaf by leaf, Fading, and sinking towards its parent clay: She sank, as sinks the glorious orb of day, His glories brightening at his journey's close! Yet with that chasten'd, soft, and gentle ray In which no dazzling splendour fiercely glows, But on whose mellow'd light our eyes with joy repose. Her strength was failing, but it seem'd to sink 'Twas like a rippling wave on ocean's brink, Yet more and more she sought and loved to be alone. One summer morn they miss'd her: she had been, As usual, to the garden arbour brought, After their morning meal; her placid mien Had worn no seeming shade of graver thought, A little space;-but when she there was sought, Their arbour's sweetest flower had left its leafy screen. They found her in her chamber, by the bed They stole on her devotions, when the air Of her meek countenance the truth made known ; To heaven and endless joy from earth and grief had flown. BERNARD BARTON. THE PAINTER'S DREAM. As calm, by the tomb of Ali, dream'd All arm'd he stood, and sternly bright As, on Ohod's field, he bore his brow, With that heron plume, before whose light The lords of the earth are proud to bow ; And the two-edg'd sword, as erst it flamed But the eyes-the eyes-the matchless eyes,- Quick, quick, the pallet, inspired he took, Like magic beneath the Painter's touch, But the eyes, the eyes—O far too much Was the task for earth such eyes to trace. Better that they were veiled, or blind, To dream what eyes so bright must be! L |