And the cold flowers 16 her colder hand contain'd,
In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep,
And made it almost mockery yet to weep:
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow—
And veil'd—thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below—
Oh! o'er the eye death most exerts his might,
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light!
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 1780
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips—
Yet—yet they seem as they forbore to smile.
And wish'd repose—but only for a while;
But the white shroud, and each extended tress,
Long—fair—but spread in utter lifelessness.
Which, late the sport of every summer wind.
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind;
These—and the pale pure cheek, became the bier—
But she is nothing—wherefore is he here?
He ask'd no question—all were answer'd now 1790
By the first glance on that still—marble brow.
It was enough—she died—what reck'd it how?