HINDOO GIRL, BY AN URN.
FROM A GROUP, BY WESTMACOTT.
BY L. E. L.
She leant beneath an alma tree, which flung
A shower of leaves and blossoms o'er her head,—
But faded all of them: this made the place
A fitting temple for her; like her joys,
The fresh sweet flowers grew far above her reach;
But, like her griefs, the withered ones were strewed
Beneath her feet, and mingled with her hair,
Her long black hair, which swept round like a cloud,
And had no other wreath than those sad leaves.
Her brow was bowed upon a marble urn,
Pale as its cold, white pillow; on her cheek
Lingered the grace which beauty ever leaves,
Although herself be gone; her large dark eye
Was as a picture's, fixed and motionless,
With only one expression.—There are griefs
That hunt, like hounds, our happiness away;
And cares that, ivy-like, fix on our hopes.
But these are nothing—though they waste the heart—
To when one single sorrow, like the rod,
The serpent rod, has swallowed up the rest.
Her history was on every lip; they told,
