Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/286



It was a battle field, and the cold moon Made the pale dead yet paler. Two lay there; One with the ghastly marble of the grave Upon his face; the other wan, but yet Touch'd with the hues of life, and its warm breath Upon his parted lips.

H sleeps—the night wind o'er the battle field Is gently sighing; Gently, though each breeze bear away Life from the dying.