XVI

THE LAST OF THE GRACES.

All, save the glimmerings of a sullen lamp,And the cold droppings of sepulchral damp,Which, falling round me, through the lurid gloom,Told that I trod the charnel of the tomb.It was a mausoleum, vast and high,Whose soil was reeking with mortality:There, in the midst, O sight of horror! stoodThree forms whose aspect chilled my vital blood :Grouped on a grave's cold slab, like things that

breathed,Three skeletons their flesh less arms en wreathed ;But moveless—silent as the ponderous stoneWhereon they stood :—and I was all alone!" O for the Ethiop's sable charms to hideThose hideous vestiges of Beauty's pride !"To this I heard a hollow voice reply," Behold the Graces! —mortal, feast thine eye!"But I did turn me, sickening with disgust;For I beheld them mouldering into dust.

" And is this all, O Beauty !—this the closeOf thy brief transit 1 —this thy last repose 1"As thus I spake, a slow expanding rayBroke through the gloomy mist, like opening day ;Unfolding to my gaze a spacious scene