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 | Three hours ; or, the vigil of love : and other poems |  |
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“Eleven o'clock!—Ah! wo is me,The murdering sachem may be near,—
I must not dream such misery,—
Oh, heaven will bring my husband here!
I will not weep”—and then she wept,
And closer to the cradle crept;
There she was not all alone,
Her boy still slept in heavy rest,
And to his cheek her lips she pressed;
Hot and dry his cheek had grown,
And his breath came short like a stifled moan.
| Three hours ; or, the vigil of love : and other poems | |