Like the last breath of air in a gully, that sighs as the sun slowly dips,
To the knell of a heart beating dully her soul struggled out on her lips;
But she lifted great eyelids and pallid, while once more beneath them there glowed
The fire of old Love, as she rallied at sound of hoofs out on the road.
They rang sharp and clear on the metal: they ceased at the gate in the lane:
A pause!—and we heard the beats settle in long, swinging cadence again.
With a rattle, a rush, and a clatter the rider came down by the store,
And neared us; but what did it matter? he never pulled rein at the door;
But over the brow of the hill he sped on with a low muffled roll—
’Twas only young Smith on his filly: he passed—and so too did her soul.
Weeks after, I went down one morning to trim the white rose that had grown
And clasped, with its tender adorning, the plain little cross of white stone.
In the lane dusty drovers were wheeling dull cattle, with turbulent sound;
But I paused as I saw a man kneeling, with his forehead pressed low on the mound.
