Nay, wherefore ask?-since gifts are ours Earth's many troubled founts with showers Oh! mingled with the cup of grief THE PENITENT'S OFFERING. (St. Luke, vii. 37, 38.) THOU that with pallid cheek, And eyes in sadness meek, And faded locks that humbly swept the ground, From thy long wanderings won, Before the all-healing Son, Didst bow thee to the earth, oh, lost and found! When thou would'st bathe his feet With odours richly sweet, And many a shower of woman's burning tear, And dry them with that hair, Brought low the dust to wear, From the crown'd beauty of its festal year. Did he reject thee then, While the sharp scorn of men On thy once bright and stately head was cast? THE PENITENT'S OFFERING. 195 No, from the Saviour's mien, A solemn light serene, Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last. For thee, their smiles no more Familiar faces wore; Voices, once kind, had learn'd the stranger's tone: Who raised thee up, and bound Thy silent spirit's wound? He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone! But which, oh, erring child! Which of thine offerings won those words of Heaven, Condemn'd of earth to bleed, In music pass'd, "Thy sins are all forgiven?" Was it that perfume fraught With balm and incense brought, From the sweet woods of Araby the bless'd? Or that fast flowing rain Of tears, which, not in vain To Him who scorn'd not tears, thy woes confess'd? No, not by these restored Thy peace, that kindlier joy in Heaven, was made; But costlier in his eyes, By that bless'd sacrifice, Thy heart, thy full-deep heart, before Him laid. THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN, ON CHANTREY'S MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL. The monument by Chantrey in Lichfield Cathedral, to the memory of the two children of Mrs. Robinson, is one of the most affecting works of art ever executed. He has given a pathos to marble, which one who trusts to his natural feelings, and admires, and is touched only at their bidding, might have thought from any previous experience that it was out of the power of statuary to attain. The monument is executed with all his beau tiful simplicity and truth. The two children, two little girls, are represented as lying in each other's arms, and, at first glance, appear to be sleeping: "But something lies, Too deep and still on those soft-sealed eyes." It is while lying in the helplessness of innocent sleep, that infancy and childhood are viewed with the most touching interest; and this and the loveliness of the children, the uncertainty of the expression at first view, the dim shadowing forth of that sleep from which they cannot be awakened, their hovering, as it were, upon the confines of life, as if they might still be recalled, all conspire to render the last feeling, that death is indeed before us, most deeply affecting. They were the only children of their mother, and she was a widow. A tablet commemorative of their father hangs over the monument. This stands at the end of one of the side aisles of the choir, where there is nothing to distract the attention from it, or weaken its effect. It may be contemplated in silence and alone. The inscription, in that subdued tone of strong feeling which seeks no relief in words, harmonizes with the character of the whole. It is as follows: Sacred to the Memory of ELLEN JANE and MARIANNE, only children Of the late Rev. WILLIAM ROBINSON, and ELLEN JANE, his wife. Their affectionate Mother, THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN. In fond remembrance of their heaven-loved innocence, FAIR images of sleep, Hallow'd, and soft, and deep, A. N. On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies, Of flowers, in mossy dells, Fill'd with the hush of night and summer skies! How many hearts have felt Their strength to gushing tenderness away! From depths of buried years All freshly bursting, have confess'd your sway How many eyes will shed Still, o'er your marble bed, 197 Such drops from memory's troubled fountains wrung— While hope hath blights to bear, While love breathes mortal air, While roses perish ere to glory sprung. Yet from a voiceless home, If some sad mother come, Of babes that grew and faded on her breast; 1 From the Offering, an American annual. If then the dove-like tone Of those faint murmurs gone, O'er her sick sense too piercingly return; And brow and bosom fair, And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn; O gentle forms, entwined Like tendrils, which the wind May wave, so clasp'd, but never can unlink! Send from your calm profound A still small voice-a sound Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink! By all the pure meek mind In your pale beauty shrined, By childhood's love-too bright a bloom to die! O fairest, holiest dead! WOMAN AND FAME. THOU hast a charmed cup, O Fame! Away! to me-a woman-bring Sweet waters from affection's spring. |