Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/166

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Oh, well they gave the laurel tree A minstrel's coronal to be! Immortal as its changeless hue, The deadly poison circles through, Its venom makes its life; ah! still Earth's lasting growths are those of ill;— And mined was the foundation stone, The spirit's regal shrine o'erthrown. Aimless and dark, the wandering mind Yet had a beauty left behind; A touch, a tone, a shade, the more To tell of what had pass'd before. She woke the harp, and backward flung The cloud of hair, that pall-like hung O'er her pale brow and radiant eyes, Wild as the light of midnight skies,