Then with the veil he seeks the trysting-tree, And to its cherished folds gives kisses, tears, And to his sword, “Drink now my blood,” he cries, And sinks it in his heart, and draws it forth, And falling, lies at length with upturned face. The blood spurts forth, as when a pipe that’s burst Throws from the hissing gap a slender jet, Beating the obstant air with watery blows. The trysting-tree is sprinkled with his blood, Till its fair fruit is changed to gloomy black. Then Thisbe, half afraid e’en yet, returns, Lest Pyramus should miss her. Eagerly, With eyes and heart, she looks for her beloved, Burning to tell him of the danger past. But when she gained the place and saw the tree Sadly discoloured, she was sore in doubt Whether or no it was the very spot; Till, all aghast, she saw the blood-stained ground And quivering limbs, and started, horror-struck, Trembling as does the sea beneath a breeze. And when she recognized her dear one’s face, She threw her tender arms above her head, And tore her hair, and the dear form embraced, Filling the wound with tears, and with her lips Touched the cold face, and called him by his name; “Pyramus, answer, thine own Thisbe calls! Oh! hear me, Pyramus, look up once more!” Touched by the voice, he oped his dying eyes, Then closed them on the world for evermore. She now saw all--her veil--the empty sheath. “Ah! hapless love,” she said, “hath slain my love, But love will make me strong like him to die, Fearing no wounds; for I will follow him, The wretched cause--his comrade, too, in death: And death that parted us shall re-unite. O wretched parents of a wretched pair, Whom true love bound together to the last, Hear this, my dying voice, and not refuse To let our ashes mingle in one urn. O trysting-tree, whose funeral branches shade The corse of one, and soon shall wave o’er two, Henceforth forever be our mark of fate,-- Bear in thy fruit the memory of our death!” She spake these words, and fell upon the sword, And the point entered deep within her breast. His blood, yet warm, was mingled with her own. Her dying prayer the gods in heaven heard, Her dying prayer touched the lone parents’ hearts, And both their ashes mingle in one urn. THE WITHERED LEAF. (_From the French of A. V. Arnault._) “De ta tige détachée.” “From thy branchlet torn away, Whither, whither dost thou stray, Poor dry leaf?”--“I cannot say. Late, the tempest struck the oak, Which was hitherto my stay. Ever since that fatal stroke, To the faithless winds a prey, Not a moment’s rest I gain. From the forest to the plain, I am carried by the gale. Yet I only go the way That the rose-leaf shuns in vain, And where laurel-leaves grow pale.” ANDRÉ CHÉNIER’S DEATH-SONG.