Though thou want’st not, thou shalt have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them. 55 Let not one be missing; nurse, See them laid upon the hearse Of infant slain by doom perverse. Why should kings and nobles have Pictured trophies to their grave, 60 And we, churls, to thee deny Thy pretty toys with thee to lie-- A more harmless vanity? _Charles Lamb._ CCXLIII _ON THE SAME._ Child of a day, thou knowest not The tears that overflow thine urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot; Nor, if thou knewest, could’st return! And why the wish! the pure and blest 5 Watch like thy mother o’er thy sleep: O peaceful night! O envied rest! Thou wilt not ever see her weep. _Walter Savage Landor._ CCXLIV _FIRE._ Sweet Maiden, for so calm a life Too bitter seemed thine end; But thou hadst won thee, ere that strife, A more than earthly Friend. We miss thee in thy place at school, 5 And on thine homeward way, Where violets by the reedy pool Peep out so shyly gay: Where thou, a true and gentle guide, Wouldst lead thy little band, 10 With all an elder sister’s pride, And rule with eye and hand. And if _we_ miss, oh, who may speak What thoughts are hovering round The pallet where thy fresh young cheek 15 Its evening slumber found? How many a tearful longing look In silence seeks thee yet, Where in its own familiar nook Thy fireside chair is set? 20 And oft when little voices dim Are feeling for the note In chanted prayer, or psalm, or hymn, And wavering wildly float, Comes gushing o’er a sudden thought 25 Of her who led the strain, How oft such music home she brought-- But ne’er shall bring again. O say not so! the springtide air Is fraught with whisperings sweet; 30 Who knows but heavenly carols there With ours may duly meet? Who knows how near, each holy hour, The pure and child-like dead May linger, where in shrine or bower 35 The mourner’s prayer is said? And He who willed thy tender frame (O stern yet sweet decree!) Should wear the martyr’s robe of flame, He hath prepared for thee 40 A garland in that region bright Where infant spirits reign, Tinged faintly with such golden light As crowns his martyr train. Nay doubt it not: his tokens sure 45 Were round her death-bed shown: The wasting pain might not endure, ’Twas calm ere life had flown,