Page:Felicia Hemans in The Literary Souvenir 1826.pdf/8

To blush through every season? Blight and chill
Might touch the changing woods, but duly still,
For years, those gorgeous coronals renewed,
And, brightly clasping marble spear and helm,
Even in mid-winter filled the solitude
With a strange smile, a glow of sunshine's realm.
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring
With a sad constancy!—
One spring-morn rose,
And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laid,—
Oh! not as midst the vineyards, to repose
From the fierce noon,—a dark-haired peasant-maid.—
Who could reveal her story? That still face
Had once been fair; for on the clear arched brow,
And the curved lip, there lingered yet such grace
As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low
The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye—
For night was on its lids—fell mournfully!
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair
Dimmed, the slight form all wasted, as by care.
Whence came that early blight?—her kindred's place
Was not amidst the high De Couci race;
Yet there her shrine had been!—she grasped a wreath—
The tomb's last garland!—This was love in death!