 | The Legend of St. Loy |  |
XXVIII.
Thus snatched from fate, it seemed a visionOf Fancy, bathed in dreams Elysian,
That from the ruthless grave restored
Her lost and all-lamented Lord:
And still she looked from her assay
To find him melt a shade away.
She feels him — doubtful to explore,
With phrenzied gaze — each feature o'er:
He moves — his lips to hers are prest —
His heart throbs on her heaving breast —
She is unutterably blest!
125
That on her very spirit sate —
One thrilling shriek burst wildly forth,
And bent her helpless to the earth —
She shivered — sank — but not to ground —
Her Husband's arms have clasped her round;
Her head reclines upon his bosom,
As on its stem the withering blossom —
So sad — so wild — so still was she —
So motionless and silent he —
They seemed but marble forms of life —
The Husband, and swoon-sunken Wife!
| The Legend of St. Loy | |