She sprinkled bright water from the stream
On those that were faint with the sunny beam;
And out of the cups of the heavy flowers
She emptied the rain of the thunder-showers.
She lifted their heads with her tender hands,
And sustain'd them with rods and osier bands;
If the flowers had been her own infants, she
Could never have nursed them more tenderly.
And all killing insects and gnawing worms,
And things of obscene and unlovely forms,
She bore in a basket of Indian woof,
Into the rough woods far aloof,
In a basket, of grasses and wild flowers full,
The freshest her gentle hands could pull
For the poor banish'd insects, whose intent
Although they did ill, was innocent.
But the bee and the beamlike ephemeris,
Whose path is the lightning's, and soft moths that kiss The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm not, did she Make her attendant angels be.
And many an ante-natal tomb,
Where butterflies dream of the life to come,
She left clinging round the smooth and dark
Edge of the odorous cedar bark.
This fairest creature, from earliest spring
Thus moved through the garden ministering
All the sweet season of summer tide,
And ere the first leaf look'd brown-she died!
THREE days the flowers of the garden fair,
Like stars when the moon is awaken'd were,
Or the waves of Baiæ, ere luminous
She floats up through the smoke of Vesuvius.
And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant
Felt the sound of the funeral chant,
And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow,
And the sobs of the mourners deep and low;
The weary sound and the heavy breath,
And the silent motions of passing death,
And the smell, cold, oppressive and dank,
Sent through the pores of the coffin plank;
The dark grass, and the flowers among the grass,
Were bright with tears as the crowd did pass :
From their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone,
And sate in the pines, and gave groan for groan.
"O God, that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake!
Again-again with a dizzy brain,
The human life I take;
And my red right hand grows raging hot,
Like Cranmer's at the stake.
"And still no peace for the restless clay
Will wave or mould allow ;
The horrid thing pursues my soul,—
It stands before me now!"
The fearful boy look'd up, and saw
Huge drops upon his brow!
That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchins' eyelids kiss'd,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walked between,
With gyves upon his wrist.
THE VIGIL OF ST. MARK.
RETURNING from their evening walk,
On yonder ancient stile,
In sweet, romantic, tender talk,
Two lovers paused awhile.
Edmund, the monarch of the dale,
All conscious of his powers;
Ella, the lily of the vale,
The rose of Auburn's bowers.
In airy love's delightful bands
He held her heart in vain;
The nymph denied her willing hands
To hymen's awful chain.
"Ah! why," said he, “our bliss delay? Mine Ella! why so cold?
Those who but love from day to day,
From day to day grow old.
"The bounding arrow cleaves the sky,
Nor leaves a trace behind;
And single lives like arrows fly—
They vanish through the wind.
"In wedlock's sweet endearing lot
Let us improve the scene,
That some may be, when we are not,
To tell that we have been."
""Tis now," replied the village belle,
“St. Mark's mysterious eve;
And all that old traditions tell
I tremblingly believe:
"How, When the midnight signal tolls,
Along the church-yard green,
A mournful train of sentenc'd souls
In winding sheets are seen!
"The ghosts of all whom death shall doom Within the coming year,
In pale procession walk the gloom,
Amid the silence drear!
"If Edmund, bold in conscious might,
By love severely tried,
Can brave the terrors of to-night,
Ella will be his bride."
She spoke, and, like the nimble fawn,
From Edmund's presence fled :
He sought across the rural lawn,
The dwelling of the dead!
That silent, solemn, simple spot,
The mouldering realm of peace, Where human passions are forgot! Where human follies cease!
The gliding moon through heaven serene
Pursued her tranquil way,
And shed o'er all the sleeping scene
A soft nocturnal day.
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