III.--_In the heart of the Child._

There is a little dove that sits Between the arches all alone, Cut and carved in old grey stone, And a spider o'er it flits:

Round and round his web is spun, With the still bird looking through, From among the beads of dew, Set in glories of the sun.

So the bird looks out at morn At the larks that mount the sky, And it gazes, still and shy, At the new moon's scanty horn.

And the owls, that fly by night, Mock it from the ivied tower, Hooting at the midnight hour Down upon it from the height.

But the little dove sits on, Calm between the arches there, In the holy morning air, When the owls with night are gone.

Then the bells for matins ring, And the grey friars past it go, Into church in double row, And it hears the chaunts they sing.

And the incense stealing out Through the c.h.i.n.ks, and through the seams, Floats among the dusty beams, And wreathes all the bird about.

All the children as they pa.s.s Turn to see the bird of stone, 'Twixt the arches all alone, Wading to it through the gra.s.s.

Is the spider's pretty net, Hung across the arches there, But a frail and foolish snare For the little stone bird set?

If the place should e'er decay, And the tower be crumbled down, And the arches overthrown, Would the dove then fly away?

So that, seeking it around, All some golden summer day, 'Mid the ruins as they lay, It should never more be found?

IV.--_In the Chamber._

LLEWELLYN _and_ MONK.

LLEWELLYN.

My little one! my joy! my hope! dead--dead-- I did not think to see this sorry sight.

MONK.

Holy St. David! is this death, or sleep?

LLEWELLYN.

Nay! Father, that is past--I am a man Once more, and look at Sorrow in the eyes; Let Truth e'en smite me with her two-edged blade, But smite me, like a warrior, face to face.

MONK.

I stand all in amaze! or do I dream, Or see I now the motion of a breath, Ruffling the pouting lips that stand ajar?

LLEWELLYN.

Oh! Father, mock me not--I know that Death Sits lightly on him as a dreamless sleep; So dear a bud can never lose its sweets; Oh! foolish heart! I thought to see him grow In strength and beauty, like a sapling oak, Spreading his stalwart shoots about the sky, Till, when old age set burdens on my back, In every bough my trembling hands should find A staff to prop me onward to the grave; And now--my heart is shaken somewhat sorely.

MONK.

Sir! This is wondrous--let me take the child, For sure mine eyes do cheat me, or he lives.

LLEWELLYN.

Father, this is not well to mock me so; My heart is sated with the draught of Hope, And, loathing, turns from the delusive cup; Nay! touch him not--'tis well that he should lie, Calm and unquestion'd, on the breast of Heav'n; Yet once again my lips must flutter his, He may not be so distant, but that Love May send its greeting flying on his track-- The lips are warm--my G.o.d! he lives! he lives!

[_Takes the child, who awakes in his arms._]

MONK.

Faith! This is stranger than a gossip's tale!

My son! the wonderment o'ermasters you-- Nay! look not thus--let Nature have her way-- Give words to joy, and be your thanks first paid To Heav'n, that sends you thus your child again.

LLEWELLYN.

The joy was almost more than man might bear!

And still my thoughts are lost in wild amaze-- The child unhurt--this blood--the hound--in troth, The riddle pa.s.ses my poor wits.

MONK.

Let's search The chamber well--Heav'n shield us! what is this?

LLEWELLYN.

A wolf! and dead!--Ah! now I see it clear-- The hound kept worthy watch, and in my haste I slew the saviour of my house and joy.

Poor Gelert! thou shalt have such recompense As man may pay unto the dead--Thy name Henceforth shall stand for Faithfulness, and men For evermore shall speak thine epitaph.

A Sh.e.l.l.

From what rock-hollow'd cavern deep in ocean, Where jagged columns break the billow's beat, Whirl'd upward by some wild mid-world commotion, Has this rose-tinted sh.e.l.l steer'd to my feet?

Perchance the wave that bore it has rejoiced Above Man's founder'd hopes, and shatter'd pride, Whilst fierce Euroclydon swept, trumpet-voiced, Through the frail spars, and hurl'd them in the tide, And the lost seamen floated at its side!

Ah! thus too oft do Woe and Beauty meet, Swept onward by the self-same tide of fate, The bitter following swift upon the sweet, Close, close together, yet how separate!

Frail waif from the sublime storm-shaken sea, Thou seem'st the childhood toy of some old king, Who 'mid the shock of nations lights on thee, And instant backward do his thoughts take wing To the unclouded days of infancy; Then, sighing, thus away the foolish joy doth fling.

Forth from thine inner chambers come there out Low murmurs of sweet mystic melodies, Old Neptune's couch winding lone caves about, In tones that faintly through the waves arise, And steal to mortal ears in softest sighs.

The poet dreams of olden ages flowing Through the time-ocean to the listening soul, Ages when from each fountain clear and glowing, Unto the spirit Naiad voices stole.