But see—who yonder comes by stealth,[182] This melancholy bower to seek, Like a young envoy, sent by Health, With rosy gifts upon her cheek? ’Tis she—far off, through moonlight dim, He knew his own betrothed bride, She, who would rather die with him, Than live to gain the world beside!— Her arms are round her lover now, His livid cheek to hers she presses, And dips, to bind his burning brow, In the cool lake her loosen’d tresses. Ah! once, how little did he think An hour would come, when he should shrink With horror from that dear embrace, Those gentle arms, that were to him Holy as is the cradling place Of Eden’s infant cherubim! And now he yields—now turns away, Shuddering as if the venom lay All in those proffer’d lips alone— Those lips that, then so fearless grown, Never until that instant came Near his unask’d or without shame. “Oh! let me only breathe the air, “That blessed air, that’s breath’d by thee, “And, whether on its wings it bear “Healing or death, ’tis sweet to me! “There—drink my tears, while yet they fall— “Would that my bosom’s blood were balm, “And, well thou know’st, I’d shed it all, “To give thy brow one minute’s calm. “Nay, turn not from me that dear face— “Am I not thine—thy own lov’d bride— “The one, the chosen one, whose place “In life or death is by thy side? “Think’st thou that she, whose only light, “In this dim world, from thee hath shone, “Could bear the long, the cheerless night, “That must be hers when thou art gone? “That I can live, and let thee go, “Who art my life itself?—No, no— “When the stem dies, the leaf that grew “Out of its heart must perish too! “Then turn to me, my own love, turn, “Before, like thee, I fade and burn; “Cling to these yet cool lips, and share “The last pure life that lingers there!” She fails—she sinks—as dies the lamp In charnel airs, or cavern-damp, So quickly do his baleful sighs Quench all the sweet light of her eyes. One struggle—and his pain is past— Her lover is no longer living! One kiss the maiden gives, one last, Long kiss, which she expires in giving! “Sleep,” said the PERI, as softly she stole The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, As true as e’er warm’d a woman’s breast— “Sleep on, in visions of odour rest, “In balmier airs than ever yet stirr’d “The’ enchanted pile of that lonely bird, “Who sings at the last his own death-lay,[183] “And in music and perfume dies away!”