Page:Rosalind and Helen (Shelley).djvu/67

Rh Yet day by day he grew more weak, And his sweet voice, when he might speak, Which ne'er was loud, became more low; And the light which flashed through his waxen cheek Grew faint, as the rose-like hues which flow From sunset o'er the Alpine snow: And death seemed not like death in him, For the spirit of life o'er every limb Lingered, a mist of sense and thought. When the summer wind faint odours brought From mountain flowers, even as it passed His cheek would change, as the noon-day sea Which the dying breeze sweeps fitfully. If but a cloud the sky o'ercast, You might see his colour come and go, And the softest strain of music made Sweet smiles, yet sad, arise and fade Amid the dew of his tender eyes; And the breath, with intermitting flow, Made his pale lips quiver and part. You might hear the beatings of his heart,