She stands in act to fall; — her garland torn,
Its withered rose-leaves round the rock are blowing;
Loose to the winds her locks dishevelled flowing,
Tell of the many sorrows she has borne.

Her eye, up-turned to heaven, has lost its fire; —
One hand is pressed to feel her bosom beating,
And mark her lingering pulses back retreating,
The other wanders o'er her silent lyre.

Clear rolls the midway sun, — she knows it not;
Vainly the winds waft by the flower's perfume;
To her the sky is hung in deepest gloom, —
She only feels the noon-beam burning hot.

What to the broken heart the dancing waves,
The air all kindling, — what a sounding name?
O, what a mockery, to dream of fame!
It only lures us on to make us slaves.

And Love, — O, what art thou with all thy light?
Ineffable joy is round thee, till we know
Thou art but as a vision of the night; —
And then the bursting heart, how deep its woe!

" They tell me I shall live, — my name shall rise
When nature falls; — O, blest illusion, stay! "
A moment hopes and joys around her play;
Then darkness hides her, — faint she sinks and dies.
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