176
THE LAST SONG.
It ceased, and from the casement near
The curtain's fold she drew,
And the young moon mid bowering leaves
Look'd lone and peaceful through;
Where was the sigh of tender praise?
Love's ne'er forgotten word?
Sleeps he? How pale! Alas, no breath
Her sweeping tresses stirr'd.
A cry broke forth. He heeds it not!
Young wife, thy lot was blest,
To charm the pang of mortal pain,
And sing him to his rest;
Entranced the listening spirit soar'd
Heavenward on balmy air,
And pass'd from love and music here,
To love and music there.
