Her grots, and sepulchres of kings, The exiled Spirit sighing roves; And now hangs listening to the doves In warm Rosetta's vale, - now loves To watch the moonlight on the wings Of the white pelicans that break The azure calm of Moris' Lake. 'Twas a fair scene a land more bright Never did mortal eye behold! Who could have thought, that saw this night Those valleys and their fruits of Basking in heaven's serenest light; Bathing their beauties in the lake, Amid whose fairy loneliness Nought but the lapwing's cry is heard, Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting Fast from the moon, unsheathe its gleam) Some purple-wing'd sultana sitting Upon a column, motionless And glittering, like an idol bird! Who could have thought that there, e'en there, Amid those scenes so still and fair, The Demon of the Plague hath cast Which, full of bloom and freshness then, Is rankling in the pest-house now, And ne'er will feel that sun again "Poor race of Men!" said the pitying Spirit, "Dearly ye pay for your primal fall,— Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit, But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!” She wept, the air grew pure and clear Around her, as the bright drops ran; For there's a magic in each tear, Such kindly spirits weep for man! Just then, beneath some orange-trees, Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze Like age at play with infancy, Beneath that fresh and springing bower, Of one who, at this silent hour, Had thither stolen to die alone: One who in life, where'er he moved, Drew after him the hearts of many; No voice, well known through many a day, Deserted youth! one thought alone Shed joy around his soul in death, Where the cool airs from fountain falls, Of the sweet wood from India's land, But see, who yonder comes by stealth, This melancholy bower to seek, Like a young envoy, sent by Health, "Tis she, far off, through moonlight dim, He knew his own betrothed bride, She, who would rather die with him Than live to gain the world beside! Her arms are round her lover now, His livid cheeks to hers she presses, |