This princess ere she died! How looks she now? _Dol._ As one who lives but sleeps; no change to move The doubts of him who sees, yet nothing knows, Of that sly, subtle enemy, which still Keeps harbor round her heart. Charmian, her maid, Had, ere I entered, lidded up the eyes, That had no longer office; and she lay, With each sweet feature harmonizing still As truly with the nature as at first, When Beauty’s wide-world wonder she went forth Spelling both art and worship! Never did sleep More slumberous, more infant-like, give forth Its delicate breathings. You might see the hair Wave in stray ringlets as the downy breath Lapsed through the parted lips, and dream the leaf Torn from the rose and laid upon her mouth Was lifted by that zephyr of the soul That still kept watch within—waiting on life In ever anxious ministry. Lips and brow— The one most sweetly parted as for song— The other smooth and bright, even as the pearls That, woven in fruit-like clusters, hung above, Starring the raven curtains of her hair— Declared such calm of happiness, as never Her passionate life had known. No show of pain— No writhed muscle—no distorted cheek, Deformed the beautiful picture of repose, Or spoke th’ unequal struggle, when fond life Strives with its dread antipathy. Her limbs Lay pliant, with composure, on the couch, Whose draperies loosely fell about her form, With gentle flow, and natural fold on fold, Proof of no difficult conflict. There had been, Perchance, one pang of terror, when she gave Free access to her terrible enemy; Or in the moment when the venomous chill Went sudden to her heart; for from her neck The silken robes had parted. The white breast Lay half revealed, save where the affluent hair Streamed over it in thick disheveled folds, That asked no further care. Oh! to behold, With eye still piercing to the sweet recess, Where rose each gentle slope, that seemed to swell Beneath mine eye, as conscious of my gaze, And throbbing with emotion soft as strange, Of love akin to fear. Thus dwelling still, Like little billows on some happy sea, They sudden seemed to freeze, as if the life Grew cold when all was loveliest. One blue vein Skirted the white curl of each heaving wave, A tint from some sweet sunbow, such as life Flings ever on the cold domain of death; And, at their equal heights, two ruby crests— Two yet unopened buds from the same flower— Borne upward by the billows, rising yet, Grew into petrified gems, with each an eye Eloquent pleading to the passionate heart For all of love it knows! Alas! the mock! That Death should mask himself with loveliness, And Beauty have no voice, in such an hour, To warn its eager worshiper. I saw— And straight forgot, in joy of what I saw, What still I knew—that Death was in my sight, And what was seeming beautiful, was but The twilight—the brief interval—betwixt