320
THE CITY OF THE DEAD.
Thou that art wreathed round the lyre of the bard,
When the song of its sweetness has won its reward.
Earth's changeless and sacred—thou proud laurel tree!
The tears of the midnight, why hang they on thee?
II.
Rose of the morning, the blushing and bright,
Thou whose whole life is one breath of delight;
Beloved of the maiden, the chosen to bind
Her dark tresses' wealth from the wild summer wind.
Fair tablet, still vow'd to the thoughts of the lover,
Whose rich leaves with sweet secrets are written all over;
Fragrant as blooming—thou lovely rose tree!
The tears of the midnight, why hang they on thee?
