MISCELLANEOUS.
BLANCHE.
LANCHE sate by her open casement, Humming an air as she spinn'd; Ever and oft the burden came, Borne on the Summer's wind.'Twas an olden ditty she sang, She had caught from lips long dead—Lips now attuned to other songs— "To other songs," she said.
Round and round her spinning-wheel flew, Swiftly the long silken threadDropped from her ivory fingers— "An endless task!" she said.
