'She felt as one might feel who, laid at rest, With cold hands folded on a panting breast, Has just received a husband's last embrace, Has kissed a child, and turned a pallid face From this world--with its feelings all laid by-- To one unknown, yet hovering--oh! how nigh! 'And yet--unlike that image of decay-- There hovered round her, as she silent lay, A holy sunlight, an angelic bloom, That brightened up the terrors of the tomb, And, as it showed Heaven's glorious world beyond, Forbade her heart to throb, her spirit to despond. 'But, who steps forward, o'er the glowing green, With silent tread, these stately groves between? To watch his fragile flower, who sees him not, Yet keeps his image blended with each thought, Since but for _him_ stole down that single tear From her blue eyes, to think how very near Their farewell hour might be! 'With silent tread Percy bent o'er his wife his golden head; And, while he smiled to see how calm she slept, A gentle feeling o'er his spirit crept, Which made him turn toward the shining sky With heart expanding to its majesty, While he bethought him how more blest _its_ glow Than _that_ he left one single hour ago, Where proud rooms, heated by a feverish light, Forced vice and villainy upon his sight; Where snared himself, or snaring into crime, His soul had drowned its hour, and lost its count of time. 'The syren-sighs and smiles were banished now, The cares of "play" had vanished from his brow; He took his Mary's hot hand in his own, She raised her eyes, and--oh, how soft they shone! Kindling to fondness through their mist of tears, Wakening afresh the light of fading years!-- He knew not why she turned those shining eyes With such a mute submission to the skies; He knew not why her arm embraced him so, As if she _must_ depart, yet _could not_ let him go! 'With death-like voice, but angel-smile, she said, "My love, they need not care, when I am dead, To deck with flowers my capped and coffined head; For all the flowers which I should love to see Are blooming now, and will have died with me: The same sun bids us all revive to-day, And the same winds will bid us to decay; When Winter comes we all shall be no more-- Departed into dust--next, covered o'er By Spring's reviving green. See, Percy, now How red my cheek--how red my roses blow! But come again when blasts of Autumn come; _Then_ mark their changing leaves, their blighted bloom; Then come to my bedside, then look at _me_, How changed in all--_except my love for thee_!"