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FROM DE LAMARTINE.

Immobile, il contemple, au chevet de ce lit,Une femme qui dort, et qu'un songe embellit.&c. &c.
Still that couch he watches by,Motionless and silently.He looks on one, who sleeps and seemsEven lovelier mid her dreams.―In the features and the graceOf that youthful slumberer's faceAll that's Angelic seems to be,Except Angelic purity.―Now her eyes conceal their flashes'Neath the veils of their long lashes,Yet their troubles may be seen;Yet a fold her brows betweenTells that evil days have past,Evil shades been o'er her cast.
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