THE DEATH OF LEILA.
For the Table Book.
’Twas moonlight—Leila sat retir’d
Upon the tow’ring beach,
Watching the waves, “like one inspir’d”
With things beyond her reach:
There was a calmness on the water
Suited to Sorrow’s hapless daughter,
For consolation seem’d to be
Mixt up with its solemnity!
The stars were shedding far and wide
Their twinkling lights of peerless blue;
And o’er the undulating tide
The breeze on balmy pinions flew;
The scene might well have rais’d the soul
Above misfortune’s dark controul,
Had not the hand of Death been laid
On that belov’d and matchless maid!
I watch’d the pale, heart-broken girl,
Her shatter’d form, her look insane,—
I saw her raven locks uncurl
With moisture from the peaceful main:
I saw her wring her hands with grief,
Like one depriv’d of Hope’s relief,
And then she sigh’d, as if bereft
Of the last treasure heav’n had left!
Slowly I sought the cheerless spot
Where Leila lay, absorb’d in care,
But she, poor girl! discern’d me not,
Nor dreamt that friendship linger’d there!
Her grief had bound her to the earth,
And clouded all her beauty’s worth;
And when her clammy hand I press’d,
She seem’d of feeling dispossess’d!
Yet there were motion, sense, and life,
Remaining in that shatter’d frame,
As if existing by the strife
Of feelings none but Love can name!
I spoke, she answer’d not—I took
Her hand with many a fearful look—
Her languid eyes I gaz’d upon,
And press’d her lips—but she was gone!
B. W. R.
Islington, 1827.