I will not say—wake not, dear love,—
I know thou wilt not sleep;
Wilt thou not from thy casement lean,
And one lone vigil keep?
Ah! only thus to see thee, love,
And watch thy bright hair play
Like gold around thine ivory arm,
Is worth a world of day.
Gradual he had drawn nearer and more near,
And now he stood so that his graceful shape
Was visible, and his flashing eyes were raised
With all the eloquence of love to her's:
She took an azure flower from her hair,
And flung it to him.—Flowers are funeral gifts,—
And, ere his hand could place upon his heart
The fragile leaves, another hand was there—
The hand of Death.
Alas for her proud kinsmen!
'Tis their work! the gallant and the young
Lies with the dagger in his faithful breast,—
The destiny of love.
L. E. L.
