Page:The Forest Sanctuary.pdf/85

And from her lips the mountain-songs of old,
In wild faint snatches, fitfully had sprung;
Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold,
The "Rio verde^17[1]," on her soul that hung,
And thence flow'd forth.—But now the sun was low,
And watching by my side its last red glow,
That ever stills the heart, once more she sung
Her own soft "Ora, mater!"—and the sound

The boy had dropp'd to slumber at our feet;—
—"And I have lull'd him to his smiling rest
Once more!" she said:—I rais'd him—it was sweet,
Yet sad, to see the perfect calm which bless'd
His look that hour;—for now her voice grew weak;
And on the flowery crimson of his cheek,
With her white lips a long, long kiss she press'd,
Yet light, to wake him not.—Then sank her head