Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/151

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SELLA.
145
Of me with pity, as of one condemnedTo haunt this upper world, with its harsh soundsAnd glaring lights, its withering heats, its frosts,Cruel and killing, its delirious strifes,And all its feverish passions, till I die. So mourned she the long night, and when the mornBrightened the mountains, from her lattice lookedThe maiden on a world that was to herA desolate and dreary waste. That dayShe passed in wandering by the brook that oftHad been her pathway to the sea, and stillSeemed, with its cheerful murmur, to inviteHer footsteps thither. "Well may'st thou rejoice,Fortunate stream!" she said, "and dance alongThy bed, and make thy course one ceaseless strain
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