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THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.
BY. L. E. L.
Sleep with honey-dews hath bound her,
Sleep unwaked by day;
Through the forest growing round her
None may take their way,
For it is a path forbidden
By the words of power;
There the beauty must be hidden
Till the appointed hour;
Till the young deliverer cometh,
And the maiden life resumeth.
Purple fruit and golden chalice
Lie upon the floor;
For, in that enchanted palace,
All is as before.
There still is the censer burning,
With its perfumed flame;
Years on many years returning,
See it still the same;
It will burn till light re-living
In those closed eyes quench its giving.
There her ivory lute, too, slumbers
On the haunted ground,
