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And every leaf, though dead, did keep
Its station in mockery;
The leaves from each perishing tree;
They hung there day by day, As though death were too busy with other things
To sweep their corpses away.
Of human creatures then!
In every vale and glen;
As it touch'd the slippery plain :
In hope of finding shade;
Astir in any glade!
For their marble wells were spent;
Of that hot firmament:
In the street, as dead leaves lay,
They felt no foul decay!
And the people's hope grew strong:
And there swept a wind along;
Vain was the hope there was no cloud
In the clear dark-blue Heaven; But, bright and beautiful, the crowd
Of stars look'd through the even.
And women sat them down to weep
Over their hopeless pain:
Clouding the dizzy brain :
And never woke again
Softly ’midst rose and dew-
That the weariest heart renew,
What next his power could do!
And kiss'd it tenderly,
What could that soft smile be?
To her hot feverish eye ;
That was so parch'd and dry.
Oh, what a sight it was!
That lay like burning glass,
Where no human foot could pass.
Lay in the slime and sand;
Even in sight of land ;
To that pale dying band!
The bed where he had slept, Or toss'd and tumbled restlessly,
And all his treasures kept
For ages : he was gone; and all
His rocky pillows shown, With their clustering shells, and sea-weed pall,
And the rich gems round them thrown. And the monsters of the deep lay dead,
With many a human form, That there had found a quiet bed
Away from the raging storm ; And the fishes, sodden in the sun,
Were strewn by thousands round; And a myriad things, long lost and won,
Were there, unsought for, found.
And look'd on the burning sky,
The founts of heaven were dry :
Not a cloud was in the air,
He look'd so lonely there!
The agony of thirst :
As if my heart would burst.
The spell that instant broke;
Miss M. A. BROWNE.
FLOWER of light! forget thy birth,
While thy graceful buds unfold
ADDRESS TO A PRIMROSE.
That thou wert long ago;
Or from my heart the glow-
When all the world was new,
Its sweet, fresh fragrance threw; Thou art not what I thought thee then, Nor ever wilt thou be again.
It was a thing of wild delight,
To find thee on the bank,
The golden sunlight drank
That clustering grew together, And seem'd too delicate for aught
Save summer's brightest weather,
My heart to love thee so;
Were dear, long, long ago,
No wild-flower on the lea,
I loved so much as thee;
Without one joyful thrill;
My heart is calm and still:
Has faded from my sight,
Brought unto me a blight, 'Tis fitting thou should'st sadder seem, Since Leila perish'd like a dream.
Ah, how I envy thee!
If such a change might be.