XXVII.
"Sir!" softly said she, while the colour fled
From her smooth cheeks till they grew ashy pale,
"Cast off your mourning features—I will wed
"Though Death should be the bridegroom, and not quail;
"The sorrows of our house be on my head;
"What though a woman's—'tis no novel tale,—
"Within her weakness does my comfort lie,
"For if the storm be sore, the flower will die.