IN life itself she was so still and fair,
That death with gentler aspect wither'd there;
And the cold flowers* her colder hand contain'd,
In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep,
And made it almost mockery yet to weep;
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow,
And veiled-thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below-
Oh! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might,
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light;
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse,
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips-
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile,
And wish'd repose-but only for a while.
* In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the bodies of the
dead, and in the hands of young persons to place a nosegay.