The Spanish Chapel

“Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,In life’s early morning, hath hid from our eyes,Ere sin threw a veil o’er the spirit’s young bloom,Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.”Moore.

I made a mountain brook my guideThrough a wild Spanish glen,And wander’d on its grassy side,Far from the homes of men.

It lured me with a singing tone,And many a sunny glance,To a green spot of beauty lone,A haunt for old romance.

A dim and deeply bosom’d groveOf many an aged tree,Such as the shadowy violets love,The fawn and forest bee.

The darkness of the chestnut-boughThere on the waters lay,The bright stream reverently belowCheck’d its exulting play;

And bore a music all subdued,And led a silvery sheenOn through the breathing solitudeOf that rich leafy scene.

For something viewlessly aroundOf solemn influence dwelt,In the soft gloom and whispery sound,Not to be told, but felt;

While, sending forth a quiet gleamAcross the wood’s repose,And o’er the twilight of the stream,A lowly chapel rose.

A pathway to that still retreatThrough many a myrtle wound,And there a sight--how strangely sweet!My steps in wonder bound.

For on a brilliant bed of flowers,E’en at the threshold made,As if to sleep through sultry hours,A young fair child was laid.

To sleep?--oh! ne’er, on childhood’s eyeAnd silken lashes press’d,Did the warm living slumber lieWith such a weight of rest!

Yet still a tender crimson glowIts cheeks’ pure marble dyed--’Twas but the light’s faint streaming flowThrough roses heap’d beside.

I stoop’d--the smooth round arm was chill,The soft lips’ breath was fled,And the bright ringlets hung so still--The lovely child was dead!

“Alas!” I cried, “fair faded thing!Thou hast wrung bitter tears,And thou hast left a woe, to clingRound yearning hearts for years!”

But then a voice came sweet and low--I turn’d, and near me sateA woman with a mourner’s brow,Pale, yet not desolate.

And in her still, clear, matron face,All solemnly serene,A shadow’d image I could traceOf that young slumberer’s mien.

“Stranger! thou pitiest me,” she saidWith lips that faintly smiled,“As here I watch beside my dead,My fair and precious child.

“But know, the time-worn heart may beBy pangs in this world riven,Keener than theirs who yield, like me,An angel thus to heaven!”