208
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE SPANISH CHAPEL.[1]
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a veil o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or earth had profan'd what was born for the skies.
Moore.
I made a mountain-brook my guide,
Thro' a wild Spanish glen,
And wandered, 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.
- ↑ Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the "Recollections of the Peninsula."
