Page:Poems Welby.djvu/113

THE DYING GIRL.

The fitful breeze, that, through the sultry day,
Had fanned the fainting blossoms with its breath,
Stole through the open lattice, where there lay
A pale young girl upon the couch of death;
Her glance was fixed upon the moon, that rolled
Through blue and starlight in the vaulted sky,
As if she knew her fleeting hours were told,
And wished to take one lingering look and die.

Beside that humble couch, there dropped one form,
The gentle mother of the dying one,
For grief had bowed her spirit, as the storm
Bends the soft rose upon its emerald throne;
There lay her child, the beautiful, the young,
The breath just sighing on her lip of snow,
And her soft ringlets, all disheveled, flung
Back from the whiteness of her deathly brow.

Sadly she bent above her; though her look
Was tearless as she sought her daughter's eye,
Yet her lip quivered like a bright leaf, shook
By the strong tempest as it sweeps the sky;