The blight which withered all the blossoms love
Had fondly cherished, withered to the heart
Which gave them birth. Her sorrow had no voice,
Save in her faded beauty; for she looked
A melancholy, broken-hearted girl.
She was so changed, the soft carnation cloud
Once mantling o'er her check like that which eve
Hangs o'er the sky, glowing with roseate hue,
Had faded into paleness, broken by
Bright burning blushes, torches of the tomb,
There was such sadness, even in her smiles,
And such a look of utter hopelessness
Dwelt in her soft blue eye—a form so frail,
So delicate, scarce like a thing of earth—
'Twas sad to gaze upon a brow so fair,
And see it traced with such a tale of woe—
To think that one so young and beautiful
Was wasting to the grave.
Within yon bower,
Of honeysuckle and the snowy wealth
The mountain ash puts forth to welcome spring,
Her form was found reclined upon a bank,
Where Nature's sweet unnurtured children bloom.
One white arm lay beneath her drooping head,
While her blight tresses twined their sunny wreath
Around the polished ivory; there was not
A tinge of colour mantling o'er her face,
'Twas like to marble, where the sculptor's skill
Has traced each charm of beauty but the blush.
Serenity so sweet sat on her brow;
So soft a smile yet hovered on her lips,
At first they thought 'twas sleep—and sleep it was—
The cold long rest of death.—L.
Only one other piece, called "Vaucluse," appeared this year, in October, and to it was tagged the annexed prettiness:—
The bee, when varying flowers are nigh,
On many a sweet will careless dwell;
Just sips their dew, and then will fly
Again to its own fragrant cell:
Thus, though my heart, by fancy led,
A wanderer awhile may be,
Yet soon returning whence it fled,
It comes more fondly back to thee.—L.
