 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
XVII.
And who will weep for Isabel?The untun'd throbs of a heart of flame,
The wild mirth of the demon yell,
Are these her only requiem?
O, as the stranger bore her on,
How fair in her unfaithfulness!
Thus from her first, her true love won,
More lovely in her blighted grace—
He felt, that if his love had perish'd,
That once, e'en as his life he cherish'd,
That pity had more power to prove
Than all the wildest dreams of love.
Revenge! revenge! but not on her—
Revenge upon her murderer!
Whose poniard enter'd the pure mind,
And left a blighted wreck behind.
| The bridal of Vaumond | |