THE DYING MAIDEN'S PARDON TO HER FAITHLESS LOVER.

If death's keen anguish thou would'st charm

Ere speeds his fatal dart,

Come, place thine hand—while yet 'tis warm,

Upon my breaking heart.

And though remorse—thou may'st not feel

When its last throb is o'er,

Thou'lt say—"that heart which lov'd so well,

Shall passion feel no more."

E'en love for thee forsakes my soul—

Thy work, relentless see,

Near as I am life's destin'd gaol,

I'm frozen—less than thee.

Yet take this heart—I ne'er had more

To give thee in thy need:

Search well—for at its inmost core,

Thy pardon thou may'st read.

T.R.P.