80 Mfk Mow. 
air when it first arises from its sleep among the Roses, 
stirred not one of the clotted ringlets which softened 
into the yielding whiteness of her heavenly bosom,— 
“ She looked upon his lips, and they are pale; 
She took him by the hand, and that was cold; 
She whispered in his ear a heavy tale, 
As if they heard the woful words she told.” 
She would have given her immortality but to have 
heard those lips murmur and complain, as they had 
done a few hours before—to have seen those eyes again 
burning with disdain, as they flashed back indignantly 
the warm advances of her love. She pictured him as 
he had that very morning stood, in all the pride of 
youthful manliness and beauty, when he looked down, 
blushing and abashed, as he held his boar-spear in his 
hand, when she threw the studded bridle over her own 
rounded and naked arm, and the proud courser pricked 
up his ears with delight, and shook his braided mane, 
while his long tail streamed out like a banner, and 
his proud eye dilated, and his broad nostrils expanded, 
as he went trampling haughtily on, proud to be led 
by the Queen of Beauty and of Love. She pictured 
the Primrose bank on which he lay twined reluctantly 
in her arms, how he tried to conceal his face, this way, 
and that way, among the flowers, whenever she at¬ 
tempted to press his lips,— 
“While on each cheek appeared a pretty dimple: 
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain, 
He might be buried in a tomb so simple.” 
