MINA.
INA sits on the door-step weeping, She twines a wreath of May,But she flings the myrtle from her, And a wither'd rose away.Mina wore the rose this morning, In her bosom warm it died—Too warm it was to keep it, and Its sweet life could not bide.
The sea moans low in the distance, The moaning, restless sea,Its salt breezes chill the flowers That close on hill and lea;
The summer twilight hast'ning, drops Her mantle on the deep,And the stars' golden barks drift on, And steadfast vigil keep.
