Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/247

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And hideous, darkened all the pole; the isle
Shivered with horses' hoofs and noise of wheels,
But none might see the driver―whether he
Were some death-bringing blight, or very death―
The brooks no longer babbled; all the mead

Was dank with mildew, every herb distilled
Slow drops of lurid light; the dying rose,
The paling broom, and drooping lily fell.
But when the sudden sound had died away,
And night had followed in its track, and all

The world was gladdened with returning day,
Persephonè was not, and Cyanè
Lay lifeless in the middle of the field,
With white and awful lips, and stony eyes,
Her neck still bound with fast, fast closing flowers,
And crowns of hawthorn withering on her brow.

Too late!—she may not tell to eager ears
The wonder of her eyes; her marble limbs,
Touched by the silent poison, grow less firm;
The moisture creeps upon her hair; her feet,
Her hands distil in dew, and soon clear waves
Resmooth faint footsteps in the golden grayle!