III.

In a dry and sun-parch'd graveyard, In a small corpse-crowded graveyard, With the lurid sky above it, With the smoke from chimneys o'er it, With the din of life around it-- Din of rushing life about it; Sat a girlish, grief-worn figure, Croucht up in the darkest corner, With her pallid face turned upwards; To and fro in silence rocking On a little mound of dark dirt. Like a veiled Nun rose the pale moon, Draped about with fleecy vapour; And the stars in solemn conclave Came to meet her--came to greet her, To their convent home to bear her: She had soared above the dingy Earth, and left the world behind her. As she passed she lookt down sadly, Gazed with silent, noble pity, At the girlish, grief-worn figure, Sitting in the darkest corner Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard, With her pallid face turned upwards, On a little mound of dark dirt. Round about from windows flickered Lights, which told of inside revels; Rooms, with mirth and banquets laden, Sobbing kisses, soft embraces, Feasts of Love, and feasts of Pleasure, Ruby lips, and joyous laughter. Then the buzz of life grew softer, Broken only by the tramping Of a troop of bacchanalians, Reeling through the streets deserted, With their loud uproarious language. Still the girlish, grief-worn figure, Croucht in dark and dreary corner Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard, With her pallid face turned upwards, On a little mound of dark dirt. The gray herald of the Morning, Dapple-clad, came forth to tell the Sleepy world his Lord was coming. Straight the drowsy buildings leapt up Like huge giants from their slumber, And, with faces flusht and ruddy, Waited for the King of Morning! Lo! he comes from far-off mountains, With a glory-robe about him, With a robe of gold and purple; And a buzz of mighty wonder Rises as, with step majestic, And with glance sublime, he walks on, Gathering his robe about him, To his West-embowered palace, Still the girlish, grief-worn figure, Croucht in dark and dreary corner Of that small corpse-crowded graveyard, With her pallid face turned upwards, To and fro in silence rocking, On a little mound of black dirt! When the box which held her treasure Had been borne from home and buried, She had followed, undetected; And when all had left the graveyard She had crept to that small hillock, Trembling like a half-crusht lily; Yearning towards the child beneath her, Yet, the while, to earth-life clinging By a link--bruised but unbroken. Whilst at home her frantic husband Called aloud in vain for "Blanche!"