But a new horrid fear his mind receives :

The steed! his hoofs may crush that angel head! No, Claud, her favourite is already dead,

One shivering gasp thro' limbs that now stretch out like lead.

He's with her! is he dying too? his blood

Beats no more to and fro; his abstract mood

eighs like a nightmare; something, well he

knows,

Is horrible, and still the horror grows;

But what it is, or how it came to pass,
Or why he lies half fainting on the grass,
Or what he strove to clutch at in his fall,
Or why he had no power for help to call,
This is confused and lost.

But Claud has heard

A sound like breathings from a sleeping bird

New-caged that day,-a weak disturbing sigh,
The whisper of a grief that cannot cry,—

Repeated, and then still; and then again

Repeated, and a long low moan of pain.

The hunt is passing; through the arching glade The hounds sweep on in flickering light and shade,

The cheery huntsman winds his rallying horn, And voices shouting from his guests that morn Keep calling, calling, "Claud, the hunt is o'er, Return we to the merry halls once more!"

Claud hears not; heeds not;-all is like a dream

Except that lady lying by the stream;

Above all tumult of uproarious sound

Comes the faint sigh that breathes along the

ground,

Where pale as death in her returning life

Writhes the sweet angel whom he still calls wife.

He parts the masses of her golden hair,

He lifts her, helpless, with a shuddering care, He looks into her face with awe-struck eyes ;She dies-the darling of his soul—she dies!

You might have heard, through that thought's fearful shock,

The beating of his heart like some huge clock; And then the strong pulse falter and stand still, When lifted from that fear with sudden thrill He bent to catch faint murmurs of his name,

Which from those blanched lips low and

trembling came :

"Oh! Claud !" she said: no more

But never yet,

Through all the loving days since first they met,

Leaped his heart's blood with such a yearning

VOW

That she was all in all to him, as now.

"Oh! Claud-the pain !"

"Oh! Gertrude, my beloved!"

Then faintly o'er her lips a wan smile moved, Which dumbly spoke of comfort from his tone, As though she felt half saved, not so to die alone.

Ah! happy they who in their grief or pain
Yearn not for some familiar face in vain ;
Who in the sheltering arms of love can lie
Till human passion breathes its latest sigh;
Who, when words fail to enter the dull ear,

And when eyes cease from seeing forms most

dear,

Still the fond clasping touch can understand,

And sink to death from that detaining hand!

He sits and watches; and she lies and moans;
The wild stream rushes over broken stones;
The dead leaves flutter to the mossy earth 1;
Far-away echoes bring the hunters' mirth;
And the long hour creeps by-too long-too long;
Till the chance music of a peasant's song

Breaks the hard silence with a human hope,

And Claud starts up and gazes down the slope;

And from a wandering herdsman he obtains

The help whose want has chilled his anxious

veins.

Into a simple litter then they bind

Thin cradling branches deftly intertwined;

And there they lay the lady as they found her, With all her bright hair streaming sadly round

her;