Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/218

Rh

Which told love's chronicles; a faint hope stole,— A sweet light o'er the darkness of her soul— Might she not leave remembrance, like the wreath, Whose dying flowers their scents on twilight breathe; Just one faint tone of music, low and clear, Coming when other songs have left the ear? Might she not tell him how she loved, and pray A mournful memory for some distant day? She took the scroll:—what! bare perhaps to scorn The timid sorrow she so long had borne! Silent as death, she hid her face, for shame In rushing crimson to her forehead came; Through the small fingers fell the bitter rain, And tremblingly she closed the leaves again. —The hall is lit with rose, that morning hour, Whose lights are colour'd by each opening flower;