CRUCE AND CORONA.
153
Upon her hand her head is softly bowed;While, gliding through the window, sunset beamsGleam like ethereal jewels in her hair,And with a golden halo crown her brow.
Approaching footsteps fall upon her ear,And, rising, she beholds an aged man.His long white hair upon his shoulders sweeps,And wearily he leans upon his staff,While his own trembling hand a child-hand clasps.
They enter there, the pilgrim and the child,And thus the old man to Corona speaks:
"I come, O daughter of a glorious art!I come, that, while the light may visit stillThese eyes fast closing to its beams, thy works,The beautiful creations of thy soul,Whose fame hath reached me o'er the rolling seas,May grant their beauty to my waning sight.I've wandered through some fair and wondrous climes;Yes, from my youth a wand'rer I have been.The friends who loved me once, whom I have loved,Are dwellers on this lonely earth no more;Save this one child. Her mother—and my child—Lies buried in a vale of Palestine.
