CHANTREY'S SLEEPING CHILDREN.

BY THE REV. W. LISLE BOWLES.

Look at those sleeping children!-softly tread,
Lest thou do mar their dream; and come not nigh
Till their fond mother, with a kiss, shall cry
""Tis morn, awake! awake!" Ah! they are dead!-
Yet folded in each others arms they lie-
So still-oh, look! so still and smilingly-
So breathing and so beautiful they seem,
As if to die in youth were but to dream

Of spring and flowers!-of flowers?-Yet nearer stand-
There is a lily in one little hand,
Broken, but not faded yet,

As if its cup with tears was wet.

So sleeps that child; not faded, though in death,—

And seeming still to hear her sister's breath,

As when she first did lay her head to rest

Gently on that sister's breast,

And kissed her ere she fell asleep!

The' archangel's trump alone shall wake that slumber deep.

"Take up those flowers that fell

From the dead hand, and sigh a long farewell!

Your spirit rests in bliss!

Yet ere with parting prayers we say

Farewell for ever! to the' insensate clay,

Poor maid, those pale lips we will kiss!”

Ah! 'tis cold marble!-Artist, who hast wrought

This work of nature, feeling, and of thought,—

Thine, Chantrey, be the fame

That joins to immortality thy name.

-For these sweet children that so sculptured rest

A sister's head upon a sister's breast—

Age after age shall pass away,

Nor shall their beauty fade, their forms decay.

For here is no corruption—the cold worm
Can never prey upon that beauteous form :
The smile of death that fades not, shall engage
The deep affections of each distant age!

Mothers, till ruin the round world hath rent, Shall gaze with tears upon the monument! And fathers sigh, with half-suspended breath, "How sweetly sleep the innocent in death!" Literary Souvenir.

WOMAN'S TRuth.

My love is not of heavenly birth,
No-frail and mortal is her form;
Her smiles are not too sweet for earth,
Nor are her fondest looks too warm.

No blazing suns adorn her head,

Her mouth no glittering pearls can boast;
Though sweet her lips, they do not shed
The incense of Arabia's coast.

But there's a calm domestic trace

Of love in every word and feature,
More dear to me than all the grace
Of all the goddesses in nature.

And many a sun has risen and set,

And many a storm has blown around us,

Since first our throbbing bosoms met,

And love and law together bound us.

And hopes have fall'n, and friends have changed,
And flowers that promised much been blighted;

Yet never were our hearts estranged

One moment from the faith we plighted.

Harp on, ye bards—soar to the skies,

Bring down the fairest stars that brighten
That beauteous world-each lady's eyes
May then Love's zig-zag path enlighten.

Go search in climes beneath the sun,

Where Nature's sweetest flowers are blowing— Tell each "dear girl" you found not one

To match the rose, her soft cheek shewing.

Should she, cold sceptic! doubt thee still,
Up-up on Fancy's wings to heaven,
Swear that even angel's harps are shrill,
To the wild notes her lips have given.

Oh, woman, source of every bliss

That heaven to this cold world dispenses, Can such romantic praise as this

Charm thy soft heart, and chain thy senses!

Yes-hours in all our lives there are,

From power and pride, to want's pale train, When thou canst seem- -oh! lovelier far

Than all young, dreaming poets feign.

It is not in thine hour of prime,

When friends are fond, and hopes are springing,

It is not at the witching time,

When Love his first wild strain is singing;

But at the couch that mocks repose,

Where some beloved form may languish, Hoping yet dreading life's last close, With aching brow, and heart of anguish.

While in the ranks of health and glee,

His fate may scarce one sigh awaken, O woman! then 't is thine to be

Near-though by all the world forsaken!

'Tis eve! 't is fading eve! how fair the scene,
Tinged with the soft hues of the glowing west!
Dim hills afar, and happy vales between,

With the tall corn's deep furrow calmly blest!
More near, the sea by eve's mild gale caressed,
And groves of living green that fringe its tide,
White sails that gleam on ocean's bounding breast,
And the light fisher-barks, that homeward glide
To seek Clovelly's shores of beauty and of pride!

And hark! the mingling sounds of earth and sea!
The pastoral music of the bleating flock,
Blent with the sea-bird's uncouth melody;
The waves' deep murmur to the' unheeding rock;
And ever and anon the' impatient shock

Of some rude billow on the echoing shore.

And hark! the rower's deep and well-known stroke! Glad hearts are there, and joyous hands once more Weary the whitening wave with their returning oar!

But turn where art with graceful hand hath twined The living wreath for Nature's placid brow,Where the glad wanderer's joyous footsteps wind Mid rock, and glancing stream, and waving bough,— Where scarce the valley's leafy depths allow The lingering sunbeam in their shade to dwell: There might the Naiad breathe her softest vow, Or the grim Triton sound his wreathed shell, Lured from their azure home by scenes they love so well!

A softer beauty floats along the sky,

And moonlight dwells upon the heaving wave:
Far off the night-winds fade away and die,
Or, murmuring, slumber in their ocean cave.
Tall oaks, whose limbs the giant-storm might brave,
Bend in rude fondness o'er the silvery sea;
Nor can the mountain-ash forbear to lave
Her blushing clusters, where the waters free
Murmur around her feet such soothing melody!

Lovely Covelly! in thy shades of rest, When timid Spring her pleasant task hath sped, Or Summer pours, from her redundant breast, Her fruits and flowers along the vale's deep bed; But most when Autumn's golden glories spread, And half forgot rude Winter's withering rage— What fairer path could woo the wanderer's tread, Soothe wearied hope, or worn regret assuage? Lo! for firm youth a bower! a home for lapsing age! Oxford Literary Gazette.

BEN NEVIS.

BY THE REV. C. HOYLE.

WE climb, we pant, we pause; again we climb:
Frown not, stern mountain! nor around thee throw
Thy mist and storm, but look with cloudless brow
O'er all thy giant progeny sublime;

While toiling up the' immeasurable height,

We climb, we pant, we pause: the thickening gloom
Hath palled us in the darkness of the tomb;
And on the hard-won summit, sound nor sight
Salutes us, save the snow and chilling blast,
And all the guardian fiends of Winter's throne.
Such too is life-ten thousand perils past,
Our fame is vapour, and our mirth a groan.
But patience; till the veil be rent away,
And on our vision flash celestial day.