THE SPIRIT AND THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
265
Then a young lover came beside its dwelling,
To a maiden his gentle love-tale telling;
He pluck'd a rose from out of the shade—
'Twas not bright as the cheek on which it was laid:
The tale was told in the sunny noon,
Yet the same was heard by the rising moon.
I have been where the azure violet dwells;
I have sang the sweet peal of the lily bells;
I have pass'd on a diamond lake,
Where white swans summer pleasaunce take;
I saw the sun sink down in the sea,—
Blushes and bridal seem'd there to be.
Next o'er a noble city I swept,—
Calm, in the moonlight, its proud towers slept,
And its stately columns arose on the air
As cut from snow mountains—they were so fair.
