Page:Records of Woman.pdf/218

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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 Thro' many a myrtle wound, And there a sight—how strangely sweet! My steps in wonder bound.

For on a brilliant bed of flowers, Even at the threshold made, As if to sleep thro' sultry hours, A young fair child was laid.

To sleep?—oh! ne'er on childhood's eye, And silken lashes press'd, Did the warm living slumber lie, With such a weight of rest!