Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 17 1826/The Spanish Chapel

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search
For other versions of this work, see The Spanish Chapel.

The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 17, Pages 474-475


THE SPANISH CHAPEL.*[1]

I made a mountain-brook my guide
    Through a wild Spanish glen,
And wander'd, on its grassy side,
    Far from the homes of 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 bosom'd grove
    Of many an aged tree,
Such as the shadowy violets love,
    The fawn and forest-bee.

The darkness of the chesnut bough
    There on the water lay,
While, as in reverent love below,
    The bright stream check'd its 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
    Even 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 press'd,
Did the warm living slumber lie
    With such a weight of rest!

Yet still a tender crimson glow
    Its cheek's pure marble dyed;—
'Twas but the light's faint streaming flow
    Through roses heap'd beside.

I stoop'd—the smooth round arm was chill,
    The soft lip's 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 turn'd—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 shadow'd 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 unto Heaven!"F. H.

  1. * This little poem was suggested by a scene beautifully described in the "Recollections of the Peninsula."