And yet so tender, if he loved again,
Would die to save his breast one moment's pain.

But he who cast his gaze upon her now,
And read the traces written on her brow,
Had scarce believed hers was that form of light
That beamed like fabled wonder on the sight;
Her raven hair hung down in loosen'd tress
Before her wan cheek's pallid ghastliness;
And, thro' its thick locks, showed the deadly white,
Like marble glimpses of a tomb, at night.
In fixed and horrid musings now she stands,
Her eyes now bent to earth, and her cold hands,
Prest to her heart, now wildly thrown on high,
They wander o'er her brow - and now a sigh
Breaks deep and full - and, more composedly,
She half exclaims - "No! no! - it cannot be;
"He loves not, never loved - not even when
"He pressed my wedded hand - I knew it then;
"And yet - fool that I was - I saw he strove
"In vain to kindle pity into love.
"But Florence! she so loved - a sister too!
"My earliest, dearest playmate - one who grew
"Upon my very heart - to rend it so!
"His falsehood I could bear - but hers! ah! no.
"She is not false - I feel she loves me yet,
"And if my boding bosom could forget
"Its wild imaginings, with what sweet pain
"I'd clasp my Florence to my breast again."
With that came many a thought of days gone by,