The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN,
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
179
THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN,
ON CHANTREY'S MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL.
180
Fair images of sleep,
Hallow'd, and soft, and deep,
On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies,
Like moonlight on shut bells
Of flowers, in mossy dells,
Fill'd with the hush of night and summer skies!
Hallow'd, and soft, and deep,
On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies,
Like moonlight on shut bells
Of flowers, in mossy dells,
Fill'd with the hush of night and summer skies!
How many hearts have felt
Your silent beauty melt
Their strength to gushing tenderness away!
How many sudden tears,
From depths of buried years
All freshly bursting, have confess'd your sway!
Your silent beauty melt
Their strength to gushing tenderness away!
How many sudden tears,
From depths of buried years
All freshly bursting, have confess'd your sway!
How many eyes will shed
Still, o'er your marble bed,
Such drops from memory's troubled fountains wrung—
While hope hath blights to bear,
While love breathes mortal air,
While roses perish ere to glory sprung!
Still, o'er your marble bed,
Such drops from memory's troubled fountains wrung—
While hope hath blights to bear,
While love breathes mortal air,
While roses perish ere to glory sprung!
Yet from a voiceless home,
If some sad mother come,
Fondly to linger o'er your lovely rest,
As o'er the cheek's warm glow,
And the sweet breathings low,
Of babes that grew and faded on her breast;
If some sad mother come,
Fondly to linger o'er your lovely rest,
As o'er the cheek's warm glow,
And the sweet breathings low,
Of babes that grew and faded on her breast;
181
If then the dove-like tone
Of those faint murmurs gone,
O'er her sick sense too piercingly return;
If for the soft bright hair,
And brow and bosom fair,
And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn;
Of those faint murmurs gone,
O'er her sick sense too piercingly return;
If for the soft bright hair,
And brow and bosom fair,
And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn;
O gentle forms, entwined
Like tendrils, which the wind
May wave, so clasp'd, but never can unlink!
Send from your calm profound
A still small voice—a sound
Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink!
Like tendrils, which the wind
May wave, so clasp'd, but never can unlink!
Send from your calm profound
A still small voice—a sound
Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink!
By all the pure meek mind
In your pale beauty shrined,
By childhood's love—too bright a bloom to die!
O'er her worn spirit shed,
O fairest, holiest dead!
The faith, trust, joy, of immortality!
In your pale beauty shrined,
By childhood's love—too bright a bloom to die!
O'er her worn spirit shed,
O fairest, holiest dead!
The faith, trust, joy, of immortality!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |