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Felicia Dorothea Hemans - The Spanish Chapel
Work rating: Low

I made a mountain-brook my guide
  Thro` a wild Spanish glen,
And wandered, 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 grove
  Of many an aged tree,
Such as the shadowy violets love,
  The fawn and forest-bee. 

The darkness of the chestnut bough
  There on the waters lay,
The bright stream reverently below,
  Check`d its exulting play; 

And bore a music all subdued,
  And led a silvery sheen,
On thro` the breathing solitude
  Of that rich leafy scene. 

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

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

A pathway to that still retreat
  Thro` many a myrtle wound,
And there a sight–how strangely sweet!
  My steps in wonder bound. 

For on a brilliant bed of flowers,
  Even at the threshold made,
As if to sleep thro` sultry hours,
  A young fair child was laid. 

To sleep?–oh! ne`er on childhood`s eye,
  And silken lashes press`d,
Did the warm living slumber lie,
  With such a weight of rest! 

Yet still a tender crimson glow
  Its cheek`s pure marble dyed–
`Twas but the light`s faint streaming flow
  Thro` roses heap`d beside. 

I stoop`d–the smooth round arm was chill,
  The soft lip`s 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 wo, to cling
  Round yearning hearts for years!" 

But then a voice came sweet and low–
  I turn`d, and near me sate
A 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 trace
  Of that young slumberer`s mien. 

"Stranger! thou pitiest me," she said,
  With lips that faintly smil`d,
"As here I watch beside my dead,
  My fair and precious child. 

"But know, the time-worn heart may be
  By pangs in this world riven,
Keener than theirs who yield, like me,
  An angel thus to Heaven!"
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