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Narrative poems on the Female Character

in the various relations of life. By Mary Russell Mitford ... Vol. I
  

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XLIX.

On the low grave, before her, knelt
A form where beauty once had dwelt,
Till chas'd by grief's rude hand away;

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Her garments told her cause of woe,
And widow'd tears, that ceaseless flow,
Proclaim'd the sorrow, passing show,
The soul-felt grief that shuns the day.
She saw not Blanch: her pensive glance
Strayed not beyond the grave's expanse;
Till sighs from other lips that broke,
A partner in her anguish spoke:
She look'd up, full of jealous woe,
To guard her shrine from worshippers;
Reluctant, any tear save her's,
Should honor him who slept below.
But when she saw what mourner wept,
Thro' her spare form faint shiverings crept;
Touch'd by the maid with murder stain'd,
She deem'd the hallow'd earth prophan'd;

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And, bent from impious touch to save,
Stretch'd her weak frame along the grave;
“In mercy, hence!” at length she said,
And the meek sufferer obey'd.