# Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 7 1823/The Statue of a Funeral Genius

The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 7, Pages 521 to 522
THE STATUE OF A FUNERAL GENIUS*.
Thou shouldst be look'd on when the starlight falls
Through the blue stillness of the summer-air;
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls,
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare;
And thou!—thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams.
Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the Dead† Were crown'd of old, with pale spring-flowers like these:
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed,
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze:
And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom,
Which from the grove seems gather'd, not the tomb.
They fear'd not Death, whose calm and gracious thought
Of the last hour, hath settled thus in thee!
They, who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,
And laid thy head against the foret-tree,
As that of one, by music's dreamy close,
On the wood-violets lull'd to deep repose.
They fear'd not Death!—yet who shall say his touch
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair?
Doth he bestow, or can he leave so much
Of shaded beauty as thy features wear?
Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes
So soft a night, a night of summer, lies!
Had they seen aught like thee?—did some fair boy
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest? His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy,
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress'd?
And his eye veil'd so softly by its fringe,
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?
Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour
Had given its lessons from a brow like thine!
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power
Came by a look, thus tranquilly divine! —Let him, who thus hath seen young life depart,
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart!
But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe,
Or love, or terror, in the days of old,
That men pour'd out their gladdening spirit's flow,
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold?
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king,
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting?
In the dark bosom of the earth they laid
Far more than we—for loftier hopes are ours:
Their gems were lost in ashes; yet they made
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers,
With purple wreaths and fragrant boughs array'd,
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade.
Is it for us a deeper gloom to shed
O'er its dim precincts?—Do we not intrust
But for a time, its chambers with our Dead,
And strew immortal seed upon the dust? —Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath,
When living light hath touch'd the brow of Death?
F. H.
* ↑ * "The figure which particularly affected Combabus, was a funeral genius, under the form of a beautiful boy, standing erect, his eyes closed with an air of languor between death and sleep, his legs gracefully crossed at the ancles, his hands meeting above the head, and his back resting against a pine-tree, the branches of which were spread above him, as if to cast their funereal shade over the tranquillity of his eternal repose."—See Vol.V. p.115, of this Magazine.
* ↑ † The Funeral Genius of the Louvre was crowned with flowers.—See Visconti's Description des Antiques du Music Royale.