DROOPING DAISY. 
93 
Yet will I pray that every blessing ;— 
Alas ! I cannot pray for weeping, 
A coldness round my heart is pressing, 
A tremor through my veins is creeping. 
“ Oh ! I am weary of my life ; 
My eyes with weeping have grown weary, 
Nature too long hath been at strife, 
My very thoughts to me are dreary. 
Oh ! I am weary of the day, 
And wish again that it were night, 
Night comes, I wish it were away— 
It goes, I’m weary of the light.” 
She on that marble urn did rest, 
’Twas sacred to her mother’s name, 
She clasped its coldness to her breast, 
She called on death, but no death came ; 
The grave is far too cold for Love : 
Why should it sleep within a tomb, 
When for its mate the wand’ring dove 
But coos amid the forest gloom 1 
She paused, she heard a distant sound, 
Like war-horse tramp it shook the ground; 
The jingling ring of arms drew near, 
She drew her breath ’tween hope and fear. 
