Could I thus 'scape from Fate's unbending laws ? No! five small fingers now may lift my dust. All young and spotless let me plead my cause To Eacus and Minos-stern, yet just. If any maid could vaunt her sires in Rome, Ancestral fame was mine on either side; For Spain and Carthage deck'd with spoils the home Where Scipio's blood was match'd with Libo's pride. A girl, dear Paulus, on our wedding-day, I wreath'd the bridal fillet in my hair : And soon, too soon, in death thus snatch'd away, No second name upon my tomb I bear. Shades of our fathers! ye whose titles tell Of Afric shorn of empire at your feet; And how the braggart race of Perseus fell— Achilles' sons hurl'd from Achilles' seat Stand forth, and witness that no sland'rer's breath E'er tainted on the Censor's roll my name; Between the bridal torch and torch of death We liv'd and lov'd in wedded faith the same. It needed not a judge or law to guide race Swell'd with the instinct of a conscious pride, And bade maintain a Roman matron's place. I shrink from none. If ancient tales be true, When Vesta's fire was quench'd, Emilia's hand Her linen garment o'er the ashes threw, And show'd beneath its folds the kindled brand We know that Claudia's slender girdle mov'd The mighty Mother's ship their vestal pride Will hail the faith in steadfast wedlock prov'd, And great Cornelia seated at their side. Thou, too, Scribonia, gentle mother, say, Now thou art weeping o'er thy daughter's tomb, What is there in my course to wish away, Save that I met in death an early doom? 'Tis something for a mother, when she dies, To leave no barren hearth, no desert home; I joy to think that sons have clos'd my eyes Who live to bear their ancient name in Rome. My daughter! let the world retrace in thee The even tenour of thy mother's life: Like me, prolong thy line, and die like me, Firm in thy plighted troth, but once a wife. A woman's brighter triumph is attain'd When blame no more can wound nor flatt'ry move, When praise from all, unbrib'd and unrestrain'd, Meets o'er her bier the tears of those who love. Still, Paulus, in my ashes lives one care; Our children of their mother are bereft : The household charge we both were wont to share In undivided weight on thee is left. Affection's duty now devolves on thee! Oh let them not a mother's fondness miss, 1 But when they clasp thy neck or climb thy knee, Add to their sire's caress a mother's kiss. Be careful, if thou e'er for me shall weep, That they may never mark the tears thus shed; Let it suffice thyself to mourn in sleep The wife whose spirit hovers o'er thy bed; Or in thy chamber, if thou wilt, aloud Address that wife as if she could reply; Dim not our children's joys with sorrow's cloud, But dry the tear, and check the rising sigh, You, too, my children, at your father's side, In after years a step-dame if you see, Let no rash word offend her jealous pride, Nor indiscreetly wound by praising me. Obey his will in all and should he bear I lost no child: 'twas mine in death to see Their faces cluster'd round: nor should I grieve If but the span of life cut off from me Could swell the years in store for those I leave. My cause is pleaded and my tale is told : Pronounce me worthy of the meed I claim, And give me, where my fathers sleep of old, Such honour as befits Cornelia's house and name. MRS. BROWNING. 1806-1861 SLEEP Of all the thoughts of God that are Along the Psalmist's music deep, What would we give to our beloved? The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep, The patriot's voice to teach and rouse, The monarch's crown to light the brows ?"He giveth His beloved sleep." What do we give to our beloved ? A little dust to oversweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake: 'Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, Who have no tune to charm away: Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep : But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when |