The door hath closed behind the sighing priest,
The last absolving Latin duly said,
And night, barred slowly backward from the East,
Lets in the dawn to mock a sleepless bed;
The bed of one who yester even took
From scented aumbries store of silk and lace,
From caskets beads and rings, for one last look,
One look, which left the teardrops on her face;
A lady, who hath loved the world, the court,
Loved youth and splendour, loved her own sweet
soul,
And meekly stoops to learn that life is short,
Dame Nature's pitiful gift, a beggar's dole.
Sweet life, ah! let her live what yet remains.
Call, quickly call, the page who bears the lute;
Bid him attune to descant of sad strains
The lily voice we thought for ever mute.
The sorrowing minstrel at the casement stands
And bends before the sun that gilds his wires,
And prays a blessing on his faltering hands,
That they may serve his lady's last desires.
"Play something old and soft, a song I knew;
Play La defaite des Suisses," Then pearly notes
Come dropping one by one, and with the dew
Down on the breath of morning music floats.
He played as far as tout est perdu and wept.
"Tout est perdu again, once more," she sighed;
And on, still softer on, the music crept,
And softly, at the pause, the listener died.
1862.