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70

DEATH S DOINGS.

Her head from its down pillow, but there isA visitant in that pale maiden's breastRestless as Avarice, anxious as Fame,—Cruel as Hate, and pining as Remorse,—Secret as Guilt; a passion and a powerThat has from every sorrow taken a sting,—A flower from every pleasure, and distilledAn essence where is blent delight and pain ;And deep has she drained the bewildering cup,For Isadore watches and wakes with Love.

Hence is it that of the fair scene belowShe sees one only spot; in vain the lakeSpreads like a liquid sky, o'er which the swansWander, fleece-clouds around the one small isle,Where lilies glance like a white marble floor,In the tent made by pink acacia boughs;In vain the garden spreads, with its gay banksOf flowers, o'er which the summer has just pass'd,The bride-like rose,—the rich anemone,—The treasurer of June's gold ; the hyacinth,A turret of sweet colours; and, o'er all,The silver fountains playing:—but in vain!Isadore's eye rests on that cypress grove :A bright warm crimson is upon her cheek,And her red lip is opened as to catch