“Weary am I, but my soul is waking;
    Fain I’d lay me gently by thy side,
  But my spirit then, its home forsaking,
    Through the realms of space would wander wide—­
        Everything forgot,
        What would be thy lot,
    If I came not back to thee, my bride?”

  III.

  “Music, like the lute of young Apollo,
    Vibrates even now within mine ear;
  Soft and silver voices bid me follow,
    Yet my soul is dull and will not hear. 
  Waking it will stay: 
        Let me watch till day—­
    Fainter will they come, and disappear.”

  IV.

  “Speak not thus to me, my own—­my dearest! 
    These are but the phantoms of thy brain;
  Nothing can befall thee which thou fearest,
    Thou shalt wake to love and life again. 
        Were this sleep thy last,
        I should hold thee fast,
    Thou shouldst strive against me but in vain.”

  V.

  “Eros will protect us, and will hover,
    Guardian-like, above thee all the night,
  Jealous of thee, as of some fond lover
    Chiding back the rosy-fingered light—­
        He will be thine aid: 
        Canst thou feel afraid
    When his torch above us burneth bright?”

  VI.

  “Lo! the cressets of the night are waning—­
    Old Orion hastens from the sky;
  Only thou of all things art remaining
    Unrefreshed by slumber—­thou and I.
        Sound and sense are still;
        Even the distant rill
    Murmurs fainter now, and languidly.”

  VII.

  “Come and rest thee, husband!”—­And no longer
    Could the young man that fond call resist: 
  Vainly was he warned, for love was stronger—­
    Warmly did he press her to his breast. 
        Warmly met she his;
        Kiss succeeded kiss,
    Till their eyelids closed with sleep oppressed.

  VIII.

  Soon Aurora left her early pillow,
    And the heavens grew rosy-rich, and rare;
  Laughed the dewy plain and glassy billow,
    For the Golden God himself was there;
        And the vapour-screen
        Rose the hills between,
    Steaming up, like incense, in the air.

  IX.

  O’er her husband sate Ione bending—­
    Marble-like and marble-hued he lay;
  Underneath her raven locks descending,
    Paler seemed his face, and ashen gray,
        And so white his brow—­
        White and cold as snow—­
    “Husband!  Gods! his soul hath passed away!”

  X.

  Raise ye up the pile with gloomy shadow—­
    Heap it with the mournful cypress-bough!—­
  And they raised the pile upon the meadow,
    And they heaped the mournful cypress too;
        And they laid the dead
        On his funeral bed,
    And they kindled up the flames below.

  XI.