Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 7 1823.pdf/15



shouldst be look'd on when the starlight falls Through the blue stillness of the summer-air; Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls, It hath too fitful and too wild a glare; And thou!—thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams.

Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the Dead† Were crown'd of old, with pale spring-flowers like these: Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed, As from the wing of some faint southern breeze: And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom, Which from the grove seems gather'd, not the tomb.

They fear'd not Death, whose calm and gracious thought Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee! They, who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought, And laid thy head against the foret-tree, As that of one, by music's dreamy close, On the wood-violets lull'd to deep repose.

They fear'd not Death!—yet who shall say his touch Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair? Doth he bestow, or can he leave so much Of shaded beauty as thy features wear? Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes So soft a night, a night of summer, lies!

Had they seen aught like thee?—did some fair boy Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest? His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy, But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress'd? And his eye veil'd so softly by its fringe, And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?