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DORA MARCELLI,

THE LAST OF HER RACE.

DORA MARCELLI,

THE LAST OF HER RACE.

A POEM,

BY

DAVID WARDLAW SCOTT.

“ All things that we ordained festival,
Turn from their office to black funeral :
Our instruments to melancholy bells;
Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast ;
Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;
Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
And all things change them to the contrary.”

Shakspere.

EDINBURGH:

WILLIAM TAIT, PRINCE'S STREET.
LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO. DUBLIN : J. CUMMING.

MDCCCXLIII.

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