 | Small Tableaux |  |
29
LITTLE PHŒBE,
Or the second gathering of the Sea-shells.
The rain had poured all day, but cleared at night,When, with her little basket on her arm,
She left the door-step of that seaside farm;
The weeping tamarisk glistened in the light,
And chanticleer's green feathers softly waved
Against the dying sunshine. Forth she fared,
Our host's sweet child, his Phœbe golden-haired,
To gather shells, wherewith the beach was paved;
At dusk, she took the homeward path that led
Beneath yon dark-blue ridge, when, sad to tell,
On her fair head the gloomy Lias fell,
Crumbled by storms,—they found her bruised and dead:
Her basket-store was scattered by the fall,
But loving hands replaced and kept them all.
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