THE BROKEN SPELL.
31
She enter'd, and it cut the tide;
Odours and music fill'd the sail,
As if a rose and lute had sigh'd
A mingled breath upon the gale.
It was at first a lovely scene:
Leaves and branches wreathed a screen,
Sunbeams there might wander through;
Glimpses of a sky of blue,
Like the hopes that smile to cheer
The earthliness of sorrow here;
And like summer queens, beside,
Roses gazed upon the tide,
Each one longing to caress
Her own mirror'd loveliness;
And the purple orchis shone
Rich, as shines an Indian stone;
