FEATS OF DEATH.
153
The deep purple fountain seemed melting away,
And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play;
She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me:
I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free.
And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play;
She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me:
I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free.
The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along,
With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song;
The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love,
And sweet and half sad were the numbers he wove,
I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung;
O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 'twas recklessly hung;
The minstrel was not! and I passed on alone,
O'er the newly raised turf and the rudely carved stone.
With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song;
The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love,
And sweet and half sad were the numbers he wove,
I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung;
O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 'twas recklessly hung;
The minstrel was not! and I passed on alone,
O'er the newly raised turf and the rudely carved stone.
