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His lip is curled with something too of pride,
Which ill beseems the meekness and

repose That sh

ld, at such an hour, within his heart, Spite of this world's vexations, be enshrined. 'Tis not disdain ; for only those he loves Are 'round him now, with mild low-whispered words Tendering heart-offered kindnesses,—and watching, With fond inquietude, the couch whereon His slender form reclines. What can it be? Perchance some rooted memory of the past ;Some dream of injured pride that fain would wreak Its force on dumb 'expression ;-some fierce wrong Which his young soul hath suffered unappeased. But thoughts like these must be dispelled before That soul can plume its wings to part in peace.

And now his gaze is lifted to the face Of one who bends above him with an air Of sweet solicitude, and props

his head, Even with her own white arm, until at length

The sliding pillow is replaced; but, ere
His cheek may press on its uneven down,
Her delicate hand hath smoothed it. What a theme
For those who love to weave the pictured spell,
And fix the shadows that would else depart
From all but memory, on the tablets fair
Of the divine Euterpe!

Her blue eyes,

With tenderness, grow darker as they dwell
Upon the wreck before her ;- and a tear,
Collected 'neath their fringes, large and bright,
Falls on the snow of her high-heaving breast.

Too well divineth he the voiceless grief Which breathes in each unbidden sigh, and beams From forth her humid eyes! Too well he knows That love and keen anxiety for him Have paled the ruby of her lip, and chased The rose's dye from her so beautiful cheek. His quivering lips unclose, as if to pour The fond acknowledgments of grateful love

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Upon his brow
The damps of death are settling, -and his eyes
Grow fixed and meaningless. She marks the change
With desperate earnestne fs; and staying even
Her breath, that nothing may disturb the hush,
Lays her wan cheek still closer to his heart,
And listens as its varying pulses move,
Haply to catch a sound betokening life!

Page 31

DRAWN BY TH

STOT

ENGRAVED BY ARLES HEATH: PUBLISHED BY HIRST, ROBINSON & CO LONDON

1894.

On that sweet mourner's ear; but his parched tongue
Denies its office. Gathering then each ray,
Each vivid ray of feeling from his heart,
Into a single focus in his eye
His inmost soul is glassed, and love-deep love,
And grateful admiration, beam confessed
In one wild passionate glance !

The gentle girl
Basks her awhile in that full blaze-then stoops,
And hiding her pale visage in his bosom,
Murmurs sounds inarticulate, but sweet
As the low wail of summer's evening breath
Amid the wind-harp's strings. Then bursts the tide
Of woe that may no longer be repressed,
Stirred from its source by chill hope-withering fears,
And from her charged lids big drops descend
In quick succession. With more tremulous hand
Clasps she the sufferer's neck.

Upon his brow The damps of death are settling,—and his eyes Grow fixed and meaningless. She marks the change

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