SARAH HILDRETH BUTLER.
49
Had sprung to fate's embraces. And again,In the far South, where rolls the turbid tideThrough the morass that plague has made its den,In veiling vapors creeping far and wide,I see the yellow death before you hide.
V.
Oh, fair these streets of palaces, with gloryOf columns in long flying lines of light,With their high fields of sunshine, and the hoaryVast wastes of the illimitable night,Mirrored beneath in all the marshy meres,Whose fusing emerald and sapphire renderAgain, where beautiful Potomac slides,The phantom of the city's marbled splendor,Or in a dusky wash of starry tides!Oh, fair these gardens we have haunted, too,Blown full of roses, where the air that ridesPast cedars and magnolias drenched with dewEnchants the dark it dreams and dallies through!
