Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/106

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And looking to the grave as to a home. —The numbers died in tears, but no one sought To stay her as she pass'd with veiled face From the hush'd hall.—One gently whisper'd me, is an orphan!*** Yet still our meetings were mid festival, Night after night. It was both sad and strange, To see that fine mind waste itself away, Too like some noble stream, which, unconfined, Makes fertile its rich banks, and glads the face Of nature round; but not so when its wave Is lost in artificial waterfalls, And sparkling eddies; or coop'd up to make The useless fountain of a palace hall. —One day I spoke of this; her eager soul Was in its most unearthly element.