THE DYING GIRL

Translated from a Poem of an unknown French author by Sir Tollemache Sinclair. How can I free myself from fever now so strong? Ah I My blood flows fast, my thin hands now burn so long, I lie, in pain and danger I'm ill, ah! am I not? With forehead bent, with eyes oft gazing on the ground. With mystic air you sadly dream, I hear no sound.

But feel you mourn my lot.

If I a movement made or if I brciUhe aloud,

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You smile then 'midst your tears, like sunshine through a cloud. You feign that you are happy, but your sighs are deep, And to your anxious brows, ideas come most drear, And my young sister kind who sees our mother's tear,

Comes near my bed to weep.

Your fearful secret your sad tears ha\e told to me, I'll die tonight. Ah ! will my fate so dreadful be. Oh! God! to fly from death can you not find some way? In one brief hour perhaps Til rigid be, and cold. The future I've today, the world and bliss untold.

Tomorrow naught but clay.

The dress I gladly on my happy birthday wore Is still quite new, the beauteous bows my head then bore. Have kept their colour bright and show each varying shade, Whose charms I cherished much without a moment's pause. But, oh! I'll not outlast these fabrics made of gauze,

These ribbons gay which fade.

Ah ! like a frail young plant a breath has withered me, On you my sisters dear the rosy tint I see Of youth and life, your blest fate rests in Time's rich womb. Whilst I have tarnished eyes, I'm pale, both wan and sere, To see me all would say they saw a statue drear,

Made but to deck a tomb.

How much I was admired! I, phantom, shadow vain, The crowd adored me like a queen about to reign. My power then new seemed likely then to last so long ! Some brilliant jewels graced my neck, my arms and hand, And then my eighteen years, which seemed a crown quite grand,

My face lit 'mid the throng.

For you, dear sisters, is that future bright which beams, For you all pleasures gay, of young girls dear day-dreams. The marriage-ring and then that word with trembling said, Those orange buds perfumed which form the virgin's crown, My bridal veil, my nuptial robe when I'm laid down

The sheet that wraps the dead.

Ah ! dreadful grave clothes placed beneath the cruel stone, Which hold down buried deep in early graves se lone, Such dear illusions, so much delight oft dreamt. Which fall in tattered shreds upon the jealous earth. And which a widow's heart-throbs at her lonely hearth

In vain to raise attempt.

In a closed coffin soon I'll be benumbed and cold. Ah! must I die, will death so soon my form enfold. When I've before me now a future gay and bright. When all days promise joy, when charming is my life? I'm but eighteen, dear mother, I'm with hope still rife,

Say I'll not die tonight.

I long to view, entranced, kind Nature's witching spells, The tlow'rs in our loved fields, the brook which flows through dells, The bright blue sky, dear birds which sing on each green tree, I love blest life and from my soul wish, don't me blame. To see rays sparkling in the sun in jets of flame.

To breathe the air so pure.

The funeral bell next day to mournful prayers us called. Then tapers lighted with a glare which us appalled. The choir and holy altar, then some priests in black Sang sad hymns for the dead and 'neath the vaulted root.

The virgins full of giief, like ghosts, when seen aloof, Shed tears, whilst they went back !