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 t to me.

Mount up, immortal essence!

Young spirit! haste, depart— And is this Death ?—Dread thing! If such thy visiting,

How beautiful thou art.

Thine upturn'd eyes glaz'd over, Like harebells wet with dew;

Already veil'd and hid

By the convulsed lid,

Their pupils darkly blue.

Thy little mouth half open,

The soft lip quivering As if (like summer air Huffling the rose-leaves) there

Thy soul were fluttering.

Oh! I could gaze for ever

Upon that waxen face : So passionless, so pure ! The little shrine was sure

An Angel's dwelling place.

Thou weepest, childless mother !

Aye weep—'twill ease thine heartHe was thy first-born son, Thy first, thine only one,

"Pis hard from him to part!