The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 17, Pages 474-475
THE SPANISH CHAPEL.*[1]
I made a mountain-brook my guide
Through 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 grove
Of many an aged tree,
Such as the shadowy violets love,
The fawn and forest-bee.
The darkness of the chesnut bough
There on the water lay,
While, as in reverent love below,
The bright stream check'd its play;
And bore a music all subdued,
And led a silvery sheen,
On through 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
Through 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 through 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
Through 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!
- ↑ * This little poem was suggested by a scene beautifully described in the "Recollections of the Peninsula."
