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CRUCE AND CORONA.
And none survive to tell the fearful taleOf those who perished, nor what hand had placedWithin a cave, deep in o'erhanging rocks,Above the water's reach, this little child,Who yet, it seems, hath only learned to lispThe name of 'mother,' and her own, 'Crucè.'Oh, well, my friends, ye know my only homeIs on the deep. But who of ye that dwellUpon this island fair will welcome homeThe stranger child? Whoe'er thou be, O friend!I pray that thou mayst in her presence findThe blessing of an angel unaware."
The eyes of all are fixed in wond'ring gazeUpon the child, whom now the speaker liftsUpon a moss-grown rock. Around her browThe light of sunset like a halo rests;Her locks, as dark as plumes of raven, glowWith wondrous luster in the setting beams.With eyes cast down a moment thus she stands,Then, slowly raising them, her gaze is caughtBy brilliant tinted clouds that glorifyThe dim horizon's verge. Now on the throngShe looks with timid, half-averted eyes;Yet in the transient glance from those dark depthsA high, mysterious expression comes,That tells of something in the childish soul
