At Rest

With folded hands the lady lies
In flowing robes of white,
A globed lamp beside her couch,
A round of tender light.
With such a light above her head,
A little year ago,
She walked adown the shadowy vale,
Where the blood-red roses grow!
A shape or shadow joined her there,
To pluck the royal flower,
But from her breast the lily stole,
Which was her only dower.
That gone, all went: her false love first,
And then her peace of heart;
The hard world frowned, her friends grew cold,
She hid in tears apart:
And now she lies upon her couch,
Amid the dying light:
Nor wakes to hear the little voice
That moans throughout the night!