Even as we read of Saints of yore: Her heart and voice were free 50 To crave one quiet slumber more Upon her mother’s knee. _John Keble._ CCXLV _ON BEING PRESSED TO GO TO A MASQUED BALL NOT MANY MONTHS AFTER THE DEATH OF MY CHILD._ Oh, lead me not in Pleasure’s train, With faltering step and faded brow; She such a votary would disdain, And such a homage disavow. But art thou sure the goddess leads 5 Yon motley group that onward press? Some gaudy phantom-shape precedes, Arrayed in Pleasure’s borrowed dress. When last I saw _her_ smile serene, And spread her soft enchantments wide, 10 My lovely child adorned the scene, And sported by the flowing tide. The fairest shells for me to seek, Intent the little wanderer strayed; The rose that blossomed on his cheek 15 Still deepening as the breezes played. Exulting in his form and face, Through the bright veil that beauty wove, How did my heart delight to trace A soul--all harmony and love! 20 Fair as the dreams by fancy given, A model of unearthly grace; Whene’er he raised his eyes to heaven, He seemed to seek his native place. More lovely than the morning ray, 25 His brilliant form of life and light Through strange gradations of decay In sad succession shocked my sight. And since that agonizing hour, That sowed the seed of mourning years, 30 Beauty has lost its cheering power, I see it through a mother’s tears. Soon was my dream of bliss o’ercast, And all the dear illusion o’er; A few dark days of terror past, 35 And joy and Frederick bloom no more. _Melesina Trench._ CCXLVI _THE DEATH BED._ We watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, 5 So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers, To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; 10 We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed--she had 15 Another morn than ours. _Thomas Hood._ CCXLVII _LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD, YORKSHIRE._