CRUCE AND CORONA.
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She stands who recks not those fierce storms without.And in her eyes there is no gleam of hope,Enthusiasm, joy; all these have fled,And in their place a stony fixednessOf look that changes not. Her hands are clasped,Clasped tightly, in a mute, still agony.
A strange, a deathlike fixedness of soulComes now; the work of suffering that triedEndurance' pow'rs, until at last its pow'rTo torture was at end, and so gave o'er.And is it thus the pilgrim's prophecyBegins to find fulfillment? Even so.It is Corona who thus mutely stands;It is her parents who in death repose.
Kind friends within that room pass to and fro,And gaze upon Corona with a lookIn which compassion doth with terror blend.Her wan face in that dim and flick'ring lightLooks ghastly as the faces of the dead.Approaching gently now, they whisper low.She moves not, neither doth her aspect change;But when they seek to loose the clasping hands,Convulsively they seek to clasp again,And then her head droops low. They lead her thence,
