I MADE a mountain brook my guide Through a wild Spanish glen, And wandered on its grassy side, Far from the homes of honest men. It lured me with a singing tone, And many a sunny glance, To a green spot of beauty lone -- A haunt for old romance. A dim and deeply bosomed grove Of many an aged tree, Such as the shadowy violets love, The fawn and forest bee. The darkness of the chestnut-bough There on the waters lay, The bright stream reverently below Checked its exulting play; And bore a music all subdued, And led a silvery sheen On through the breathing solitude Of that rich leafy scene. For something viewlessly around Of solemn influence dwelt, In the soft gloom and whispery sound Not to be told, but felt; While sending forth a quiet gleam Across the wood's repose, And o'er the twilight of the stream, A lowly chapel rose. A pathway to that still retreat Through many a myrtle wound, And there a sight -- how strangely sweet My steps in wonder bound. For on a brilliant bed of flowers, E'en at the threshold made, As if to sleep through sultry hours, A young fair child was laid. To sleep? -- oh! ne'er on childhood's eye And silken lashes pressed, Did the warm living slumber lie With such a weight of rest! Yet still a tender crimson glow Its cheeks' pure marble died -- 'Twas but the light's faint streaming flow Through roses heaped beside. I stooped -- the smooth round arm was chill, The soft lips' breath was fled, And the bright ringlets hung so still -- The lovely child was dead! "Alas!" I cried, "fair faded thing Thou hast wrung bitter tears, And thou hast left a woe, to cling Round yearning hearts for years!" But then a voice came sweet and low -- I turned, and near me sate A woman with a mourner's brow, Pale, yet not desolate. And in her still, clear, matron face, All solemnly serene, A shadowed image I could trace Of that young slumberer's mien. "Stranger! thou pitiest me," she said With lips that faintly smiled, "As here I watch beside my dead, My fair and precious child. "But know, the time-worn heart may be By pangs in this world riven, Keener than theirs who yield, like me, An angel thus to heaven!" |