174 HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S POEMS. 



Flush her cheelr, and bleach her stui, 

 And feed ou the vital fire within. 

 Lover, do not trust her eves, — 

 When they sparkle most she dies ! 

 Mother, do not trust her breath, — 

 Comfort she will breathe in death ! 

 Father, do not strive to save her, — 

 She is mine, and I must have her ; 

 The coffin must be her bridal bed ; 

 The winding sheet must wrap her head ; 

 The whispering winds must o'er her sigh, 

 For soon in the grave the maid must lie. 



The worm it "will riot 



On heavenly diet, 

 When death has deflower'd her eye. 



[They vanish. 



While CoxsuiviPTiON sjoeaJcs Angelina enters. 



ANGELINA. 



With* what a silent and dejected pace 

 Dost thou, wan Moon ! upon thy w^ay advance 

 In the blue welkin's vault ! — Pale wanderer ! 

 Hast thou, too, felt the pangs of hopeless love. 

 That thus, with such a melanchol}' grace, 

 Thou dost pursue thy solitary course ? 

 Hast thy Endj^mion, smooth-faced boy, forsook 

 Thy widow'd breast — on which the spoiler oft 

 Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds 

 Fantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim Night, 

 Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd round 

 With its thick fringe thy couch ? — Wan traveller, 

 How like thy fate to mine ! — Yet I have still 

 One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st ; 

 Mj woes will soon be buried in the grave 

 Of kind forgetfulness : — my journey here. 

 Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn. 

 Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet 



* With how sad steps, O ^^oon ! thou climb'st the skies, 

 How silently, and with how wan a face I 



Sir P. Sidney. 



