RAPHAEL'S DEATH-BED.
BY L. E. L.
How can the grave be terrible to those
Whose spirits walk the earth, even after death,
And have an influence on humanity,
In their undying glory.L. E. L.
'Twas a twilight of Italy and spring,
With those pale colours that the sunsets fling,
Of shadowy rose,—or ever they are bright
With the rich purple of their summer light!
A vaulted chamber was it,—where the day
Lingered, as it were loth to pass away,
Fainter and fainter falling, till the glare
Of taper, torch, and lamp, alone, were there,
Shining o'er glorious pictures, which were fraught
With all the immortality of thought,—
And o'er a couch's canopy, where gold
Broidered and clasped the curtain's purple fold.
And is that silken pillow thus bespread
For those who cannot feel its down—the dead!
