Poems (Hornblower)/Lines on Chantry's Monument of the Two Children in Lichfield Cathedral
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LINES,
ON CHANTRY'S MONUMENT OF THE TWO CHILDREN IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL.
They sleep—in what a deep and silent calm
Those gentle heads repose; how softly fair
Those young and tranquil features; with the dawn
Of youth and innocence, and tender girlhood,
Just traced upon them: the pure, stainless marble,
That gives again to life the pallid brow,
And opening beauty of the faded cheek,
Is not so pure as they were: those mild forms,
So fondly resting in each other's arms,
Sheltered by death, in their first loveliness,
Ere thought had cast a shade upon their smile,
Or grief had entered in their quiet hearts,
Or passion had disturbed then guileless lives,
Were gathered for eternity. They sleep—
The infant slumbering on its mother's breast,
Lies not so tranquil; no, the mariner,
When, vexed with many sleepless days and nights,
There comes a calm to close his wearied eyes,
Knows not a rest like this; no dream is here,
No vain anxiety, no fluttering hope,
To break the awful stillness; cold and fair,
Those tender images of infant love
Lie on each other's bosom; they will sleep—
The stranger's step disturbs them not; they fear
No stranger voices; and those closed lids,
That seem like drooping lilies in their whiteness,
Move at no passing gaze; no, they are sealed
In then eternal beauty; not a tear
Shall ever darken o'er them; not a cloud
Shall stain their early brightness: yet, perchance,
While the cold marble rests insensible,
They may be shining still,—they may have seen
The secrets of the things invisible,
And read the mysteries of time and death;
Perchance even now those soft and shaded orbs
Have opened on the far and unknown heaven,
And gazed on glory; they may have beheld
Scenes that the wise and good, with binning hearts,
Desire to look into; for who can see
The sweetness of those frail and fragile faces,
And feel no vision beaming on his soul
Of the eternal blest! O radiant dreams,
Such as attend on youth, and hope, and love,
And infant smiles, and woman's tenderness—
All such as breathe of rapture and of heaven,
Float round those sleeping heads—they rest in death,
But they are shrined in immortality—
They rest as buds to blossom for the skies,
Whose opening fragrance, even now, may shed
Its perfume on the purple clouds above,
And bear the incense of unbroken hearts
Up to the throne of God!—Sleep, lovely ones;
Ye shall not hear of pain, and strife, and crime,
The mournful records of humanity;
Ye shall not weep upon a loved one's grave;
And disappointed love shall never blight
The young hope of your bosoms, nor your ear
Be vexed with deeds of cruelty and wrong.
Ye did not know the world; ah that ye knew
Of innocent, and fair, and beautiful,
Is realised in heaven. O had ye lived,
How often had those gentle cheeks turned pale
At mortal suffering, and those soft eyes poured
The living stream: how often had your hearts
Been sick at scenes of human wretchedness,
And, pilgrim-like,looked weary, from the path
Of toils and thorns, to the untroubled tomb.
Now hath God gathered ye; the Eternal Shepherd
Hath called ye in your infant helplessness,
To his own fold of blessedness and love;
By the still waters, and the bright green pastures,
He leads ye forth; and, having taken ye
From the soft shelter of your mother's breast,
Hath granted ye, as spotless little ones,
Amidst his radiant and immortal band,
To join the chorus of eternal praise.
Those gentle heads repose; how softly fair
Those young and tranquil features; with the dawn
Of youth and innocence, and tender girlhood,
Just traced upon them: the pure, stainless marble,
That gives again to life the pallid brow,
And opening beauty of the faded cheek,
Is not so pure as they were: those mild forms,
So fondly resting in each other's arms,
Sheltered by death, in their first loveliness,
Ere thought had cast a shade upon their smile,
Or grief had entered in their quiet hearts,
Or passion had disturbed then guileless lives,
Were gathered for eternity. They sleep—
The infant slumbering on its mother's breast,
Lies not so tranquil; no, the mariner,
When, vexed with many sleepless days and nights,
There comes a calm to close his wearied eyes,
Knows not a rest like this; no dream is here,
No vain anxiety, no fluttering hope,
To break the awful stillness; cold and fair,
Those tender images of infant love
Lie on each other's bosom; they will sleep—
The stranger's step disturbs them not; they fear
No stranger voices; and those closed lids,
That seem like drooping lilies in their whiteness,
Move at no passing gaze; no, they are sealed
In then eternal beauty; not a tear
Shall ever darken o'er them; not a cloud
Shall stain their early brightness: yet, perchance,
While the cold marble rests insensible,
They may be shining still,—they may have seen
The secrets of the things invisible,
And read the mysteries of time and death;
Perchance even now those soft and shaded orbs
Have opened on the far and unknown heaven,
And gazed on glory; they may have beheld
Scenes that the wise and good, with binning hearts,
Desire to look into; for who can see
The sweetness of those frail and fragile faces,
And feel no vision beaming on his soul
Of the eternal blest! O radiant dreams,
Such as attend on youth, and hope, and love,
And infant smiles, and woman's tenderness—
All such as breathe of rapture and of heaven,
Float round those sleeping heads—they rest in death,
But they are shrined in immortality—
They rest as buds to blossom for the skies,
Whose opening fragrance, even now, may shed
Its perfume on the purple clouds above,
And bear the incense of unbroken hearts
Up to the throne of God!—Sleep, lovely ones;
Ye shall not hear of pain, and strife, and crime,
The mournful records of humanity;
Ye shall not weep upon a loved one's grave;
And disappointed love shall never blight
The young hope of your bosoms, nor your ear
Be vexed with deeds of cruelty and wrong.
Ye did not know the world; ah that ye knew
Of innocent, and fair, and beautiful,
Is realised in heaven. O had ye lived,
How often had those gentle cheeks turned pale
At mortal suffering, and those soft eyes poured
The living stream: how often had your hearts
Been sick at scenes of human wretchedness,
And, pilgrim-like,looked weary, from the path
Of toils and thorns, to the untroubled tomb.
Now hath God gathered ye; the Eternal Shepherd
Hath called ye in your infant helplessness,
To his own fold of blessedness and love;
By the still waters, and the bright green pastures,
He leads ye forth; and, having taken ye
From the soft shelter of your mother's breast,
Hath granted ye, as spotless little ones,
Amidst his radiant and immortal band,
To join the chorus of eternal praise.