Sonnets written chiefly during a tour through Holland, Germany, Italy, Turkey, and Hungary. By Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley |
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SONNET.
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112
SONNET.
[She sleeps!—o'er her late bright and beaming face]
She sleeps!—o'er her late bright and beaming face,So lovely with glad Youth's enchanted bloom,
Slow spreads the pallid Twilight of the Tomb!
Whose midnight soon shall mantle every grace!
Pale lilies blow in the orient roses' place,
And Autumn's chilling and o'erwhelming gloom,
Deposes Spring's young pride, and doth assume
Her beauty's tender empire now apace!
She sleeps, and dreams not; sleeps—and shall not wake,
Though Love's voice call her, with its tenderest tone;
And though Love's voice her slumber's spell could break,
'Twere better far, beneath the funeral stone
She so should sleep—for hearts that beat must ache,
And rest can come but when the race is done!
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