This was the last drop in the cup of the bereaved desolate widow. She soon found that rest and peace "which the world cannot give or take away." She sleeps her last, long, dreamless sleep.
It was not long ere another mound was raised in the humble church-yard, on which was ever blooming the sweetest and freshest flowers of summer, watered by the tears of many who yet weep and lament the early perishing of that fairest flower of all. And a marble slab, on which is simply graven a dove, with an arrow driven to its very heart, marks the last earthly resting-place of our Lily of the Valley.
THE SPANISH PRINCESS TO THE MOORISH KNIGHT.
BY GRACE GREENWOOD.
Thou darest not love me!—thou canst only see
The great gulf set between us—had'st thou love
'Twould bear thee o'er it on a wing of fire!
Wilt put from thy faint lip the mantling cup,
The draught thou'st prayed for with divinest thirst,
For fear a poison in the chalice lurks?
Wilt thou be barred from thy soul's heritage,
The power, the rapture, and the crown of life,
By the poor guard of danger set about it?
I tell thee that the richest flowers of heaven
Bloom on the brink of darkness. Thou hast marked
How sweetly o'er the beetling precipice
Hangs the young June-rose with its crimson heart—
And would'st not sooner peril life to win
That royal flower, that thou might'st proudly wear
The trophy on thy breast, than idly pluck
A thousand meek-faced daisies by the way?
How dost thou shudder at Love's gentle tones,
As though a serpent's hiss were in thine ear.
Albeit thy heart throbs echo to each word.
Why wilt not rest, oh weary wanderer,
Upon the couch of flowers Love spreads for thee,
On banks of sunshine?—voices silver-toned
Shall lull thy soul with strange, wild harmonies,
Rock thee to sleep upon the waves of song.
Hope shall watch o'er thee with her breath of dreams.
Joy hover near, impatient for thy waking,
Her quick wing glancing through the fragrant air.
Why dost thou pause hard by the rose-wreathed gate,
Why turn thee from the paradise of youth,
Where Love's immortal summer blooms and glows,
And wrap thyself in coldness as a shroud?
Perchance 'tis well for thee—yet does the flame
That glows with heat intense and mounts toward heaven.
As fitly emblem holiest purity,
As the still snow-wreath on the mountain's brow.