University of Virginia Library

XIII.

Nay! was not Malavolti left?
Of every friend on earth bereft?
When every bliss that passion gave,
Consigned to lay him in the grave?
But there are hopes beyond this wo,
That mortal man shall never know,
Till crowned amid that heavenly bliss
Which never grew from worlds like this.
And Lena was divinely fair,
But he had swapped her for despair!
Suffice it, then, they had to part,
The very thing that broke her heart!
The chain that love had for them wrought,
Had links beyond the reach of thought!
But every link was broke in twain,
And never more shall weld again!
And lower, now, than native rose,
Her bosom sleeps in sweet repose!
As fair as that sepulchral stone,
That, once neglected, lies alone!
For when her tender vitals froze,
And mocked each lid's imperfect close,
As evening when she seeks the west,
And shuts the gates of day to rest,
With half her radiant hues behind—
Thus passed away her tranquil mind!
And those fond hues that dyed her face,
Where purple tints had taken place,
As round her lips—beneath her eyes—
The deadly blood had left its dyes—
The darker grew the nearer death,
And knew no vitalizing breath;
For icy Death had chilled forever
The ruddy stream that moved her heart,
As winter clogs the limpid river,
Though both its shores are wide apart.