He came—but oh! how did Montoro come?
Why did I live to look on his return?
Bleeding and pale they bore him to his home.
Life glimmered faintly,—I had yet to learn
The hopeless grief that must for ever burn
Within the widow’s desolated breast:
Enough—mine eyes have seen Montoro’s urn;
One tie is left—one treasure still possest,—
The shadow of despair is cast on all the rest!
There is no wretchedness where sin is not,—