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DEATH'S DOINGS.
'Tis she! the Provence Rose; oh, well
Such name beseems her now,
The pale and stony dead around
Wear not more ghastly brow.
Woe for her search—too soon she finds
Her valiant knight laid low;
Thou fatal helm, thou hast betrayed
His head to the life-blow.
One blasting gaze—one loud wild shriek,—
She sinks upon his breast:
O Death! thou hast been merciful,—
For both, both are at rest.
L. E. L.
