Who is this? and what is here? MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. WITH one black shadow at its feet, But Ave Mary,' made she moan, And Ave Mary,' night and morn, She, as her carol sadder grew, Her streaming curls of deepest brown And Ave Mary,' was her moan, 'Madonna, sad is night and morn,' And 'Ah,' she sang, to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' Till all the crimson changed, and past Before Our Lady murmur'd she; Is this the form,' she made her "That won his praises night and morn?' And Ah,' she said, but I wake alone, I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn.' Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, Nor any cloud would cross the vault, But day increased from heat to heat, On stony drought and steaming salt; Till now at noon she slept again, And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, And heard her native breezes pass, And runlets babbling down the glen. She breathed in sleep a lower moan, And murmuring, as at night and morn, She thought, My spirit is here alone, Dreaming, she knew it was a dream: She whisper'd, with a stifled moan More inward than at night or morn, 'Sweet Mother, let me not here alone Live forgotten and die forlorn.' And, rising, from her bosom drew Old letters, breathing of her worth, For Love,' they said, 'must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth.' An image seem'd to pass the door, To look at her with slight, and say 'But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone for evermore.' 'O cruel heart,' she changed her tone, 'And cruel love, whose end is scorn, Is this the end to be left alone, To live forgotten, and die forlorn?' But sometimes in the falling day 'But thou shalt be alone no more.' And flaming downward over all From heat to heat the day decreased, And slowly rounded to the east The one black shadow from the wall. 'The day to night,' she made her moan. |