Page:Extract from Edinburgh Magazine 1821.pdf/5



It came to my pillow, A dream of the night, A sweet voiced murmur, A shape of the light. Thy blue eyes roll'd on me, Too soft for the dead; Thy cheek bore no trace Where the earth-worm had fed. The red of thy lip With smiles was still wreath'd, The tone of thy voice In music still breath’d. The perfume of roses Was still on thy breath, And thy curl-cluster'd brow Bore no record of death.

I saw thee again, But thy beauty was gone; A meteor-like flame In thy sunken eye shone. The soil of the clay Was upon thy damp hair, Thy cheek was decay’d— The worm still crept there. Thy brow was discolour'd, Thy lip had no bloom, And on thy wan face Was the seal of the tomb.