“Poor race of men!” said the pitying Spirit, “Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall— “Some flow’rets of Eden ye still inherit, “But the trail of the Serpent is over them all!” She wept—the air grew pure and clear Around her, as the bright drops ran; For there’s a magic in each tear Such kindly Spirits weep for man! Just then beneath some orange trees, Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze Were wantoning together, free, Like age at play with infancy— Beneath that fresh and springing bower, Close by the Lake, she heard the moan Of one who, at this silent hour, Had thither stolen to die alone. One who in life, where’er he mov’d, Drew after him the hearts of many; Yet now, as though he ne’er were lov’d, Dies here unseen, unwept by any! None to watch near him—none to slake The fire that in his bosom lies, With even a sprinkle from that lake, Which shines so cool before his eyes. No voice, well known through many a day, To speak the last, the parting word, Which, when all other sounds decay, Is still like distant music heard;— That tender farewell on the shore Of this rude world, when all is o’er, Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark Puts off into the unknown Dark. Deserted youth! one thought alone Shed joy around his soul in death— That she, whom he for years had known, And lov’d, and might have call’d his own, Was safe from this foul midnight’s breath,— Safe in her father’s princely halls, Where the cool airs from fountain falls, Freshly perfum’d by many a brand Of the sweet wood from INDIA’S land, Were pure as she whose brow they fann’d.