Part 3 — THE PAST.
Reading edition
In her strange, shadowy coronet she weareth
The faded jewels of an earlier time;
An ancient sceptre in her hand she beareth—
The purple of her robe is past its prime.
Through her thin silvery locks still dimly shineth
The flower-wreath woven by pale mem’ry’s fingers.
Her heart is withered—yet it strangely shineth
In its lone urn, a light that fitful lingers.
With her low, muffled voice of mystery,
She reads old legends from Time’s mouldering pages;
She telleth the present the recorded hist’ry,
And change perpetual of by-gone ages.
Her pilgrim feet still seek the haunted sod
Once ours, but now by naught but memory’s footsteps trod.
E. J. E.