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
IIe 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;
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
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 stables 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 midnight
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.

And the warm blood flows freely thro' 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;
The happy birds, loud singing over-head;
The glorious range of distant shade and light,
In blue perspective, rapturous to our sight,
Weary of draperied curtains folding round,