XLIV.
And now—oh, God!—the bitter fear of death,
The sore amaze, the faint o’ershadowing dread,
Had grasp’d her!—panting in her quick-drawn breath,
And in her white lips quivering. Onward led,
She look’d up with her dim bewilder’d eyes,
And there smiled out her own soft brilliant skies,
Far in their sultry southern azure spread,
Glowing with joy, but silent!—still they smiled,
Yet sent down no reprieve for earth’s poor trembling child.