POETRY. 697 



She wept — the air grew pure and clear 

 Around her, as the bright drops ran ; 

 For there's a magic in each tear, 

 Such kindly Spirits weep for man ? 



Just then beneath some orange trees. 

 Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze 

 ^Vere wantoning together, free, 

 Like age at play with infancy — 

 Beneath that fresh and springing bower. 



Close by the Lake, she heard the moan 

 Of one who, at this silent hour. 



Had thither stol'n to die alone. 



One who in life, where'er he mov'd. 



Drew after him the hearts of many ; 

 Yet now, as though he ne'er were lov'd. 



Dies here, unseen, unwept by any ! 

 None to watch near him — none to slake 



The lire that in his bosom lies, 

 With ev'n a sprinkle from that lake, 



Which shines so cool before his eyes. 

 No Aoice, well-known through many a day. 



To speak the last, the parting word. 

 Which, when all other sounds decay. 



Is still like distant music heard. 

 That tender farewell on the shore 

 Of this rude world, when all is o'er. 

 Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark 

 Puts off into the unknown Dark. 



Deserted youth I one tliought alone 



Shed joy around his soul in death — 

 That she, whom he for years had known. 

 And lov'd, and might have call'd his own. 



Was safe from this foul midnight's breath ; 

 Safe in her father's princely halls. 

 Where the cool airs from fountain falls, 

 Freshly perfum'd by many a brand 

 Of the sweet wood from India's land. 

 Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd. 



But see, — who yonder comes by steaftn. 



This luelancholy bower to seek. 

 Like a young envoy, sent by Health, 



With rosy gifts u])on hei* cheek ? 

 'Tis she — far ofl', through moonlight dim, 



He knew his own betrothed bride. 



She, 



