Iphigenia

Rapt she stood! Beautiful-but so very,-very still, That but for some light quivering of her lip, And the quick tremble of her lifted eye, She might have been of stone. The very wind Seemed silent in her sorrow, and stirred not One of the golden locks that, like a glory, Circled her angel face. Her soft, blue eye Was fixed on vacancy, and nothing saw, Or nothing heeded. From her parted lips (Lips for a God to worship) the warm breath Came fast and tremulous, and her bosom fell And rose and fell again, like a sea-wave When the storm wakes it from its sleep. The blood Left its sweet home upon her virgin cheek, To tremble to the heart; through all her being The fearful pang-the untold agony Of the wild death-dread ran. It passed-she seemed All her sweet self again-a Grecian Princess; And with a quiet step and tearless eye, And a proud sorrow that she might not hide, To die so young:-she moved to Dian's shrine, Spotless and fair as Dian.