Her white lips parted o'er the pearly teeth

Like pictured saints', who die a martyr's death,

And slowly bear her, like a corse of clay,

Back to the home she left so blithe to-day.

The starry lights shine forth from tower and hall, Stream through the gateway, glimmer on the

wall,

And the loud pleasant stir of busy men

In courtyard and in stable sounds again.

And through the windows, as that death-bier

passes,

They see the shining of the ruby glasses

Set at brief intervals for many a guest

Prepared to share the laugh, the song, the jest; Prepared to drink, with many a courtly phrase, Their host and hostess-‘Health to the Garayes!' Health to the slender, lithe, yet stalwart frame

Of Claud Marot-Count of that noble name;

Health to his lovely Countess: health-to her! Scarce seems she now with faintest breath to stir:

Oh! half-shut eyes-oh! brow with torture

damp,

Will life's oil rise in that expiring lamp?

Are there yet days to come, or does he bend
Over a hope of which this is the end?

He shivers, and hot tears shut out the sight
Of that dear home for feasting made so bright;
The golden evening light is round him dying,
The dark rooks to their nests are slowly flying,
As underneath the portal, faint with fear,

He sees her carried, now so doubly dear;
"Save her!" is written in his anxious glances,
As the quick-summoned leech in haste advances.

"Save her!"-and through the gloom of mid

night hours,

And through the hot noon, shut from air and

flowers,

Young Claud sits patient-waiting day by day

For health for that sweet lady of Garaye.

When the cold shadowy foe of life departs,

And the warm blood flows freely through our

hearts:

The smell of roses,--sound of trickling streams, The elastic turf cross-barred with golden gleams," That seems to lift, and meet our faltering tread;