Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime
Waken’d the wilderness, their prayers were one.
Now might she pass in hope—her work was done:
And she was passing from the woods away—
The broken flower of England might not stay
Amidst those alien shades. Her eye was bright
Even yet with something of a starry light,
But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak,
A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh