Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/265

They feared not death, whose calm and gracious thought
    Of the last hour had settled thus in thee;
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,
    And laid thy head upon the forest-tree,
As that of one, by music's dreamy close
On the wood-violets lulled to deep repose.

They feared not death! Yet who shall say his touch
    Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair?
Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much
    Of tender beauty as thy features wear,
Thou Sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes
So still a night, a night of summer lies?

Had they seen ought like thee? Did some fair boy
    Thus with his graceful hair before them rest?
His graceful hair no more to wave in joy,
    But drooping as with heavy dews opprest,
And his eyes veiled so softly by its fringe,
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?