Part II: Section 13

Like peri fair that slumberethWhiter she lay than shroud that bound her,Purer than all the white around herUpon her brow the hues of death.Regardless now of joy and sorrowThose lovely eyes are closed alway—Oh God! who seeing them would sayThat lover's kiss or dawning dayWould not uplift those lids to-morrow?In vain the golden sunrise flashesIts beams on those fast closed lashes,In vain her ancient father's griefSeeks in sad kisses for relief:For where grim Death hath set his tokenNo mortal hand the seal hath broken.Never when guests were wont to rally,Had she shone forth so rich, so gayEven on happiest holiday.The blossoms culled from native valleyBy ancient custom decked her bed,And aromatic petals shedPerfumes on her, no more awakingTo greet the sun when day is breaking.And on that pallid, silent faceNo sign of passion left, no traceOf that last ecstasy of fear;Nay, every lineament expressesMarble's mysterious lovelinesses—So still she lay upon her bier,As she had changed her mortal breathTo learn the secret lore of Death.A smile, so passing strange, was curvingHer lips, as it had frozen cold,Which to attentive eyes observingA painful story might have told.Scornful it seemed, as if in dyingThe spirit spurned its mortal cell,Like some last thought of summer sighingTo earth a soundless, sad "Farewell."That smile, like phantom of her being,Appeared more dead, more void of hope,Than even the maiden's eyes unseeing—Eyes nevermore their lids to ope,Like afterglow of sunset mellow,When melts in hues of red and yellowDay's fiery car, and Caucas snowsShine for a moment's space, retainingThe dying crimson of the roseOn high Kazbek's proud top remaining—But that dead glow no light revealsUpon the desert's barren ways,And lonely traveller never feelsA comfort from those far off rays.