I did; right tranquilly
He passed away this morning, with your name
Upon his lips—for you are Helena?
The Lady.
I am.
Surgeon.
I saw your picture.
(Aside.) Yes, the same.
Hair, eyes. What Titian tints!
(Speaks.) He made me lay
Your letters and your picture on his heart
Before he died; he would not from them part
For e’en one moment.
The Lady.
Lift them not, they’re mine;
My hand alone must touch the holy shrine
Of love and death where the poor relics lie—
Darling (bends, and kisses the letters), because you loved them!
Let them die,
Go to the grave with him, there on his breast,
Where I would gladly die too—be at rest
Forever.—And he spake of me?
Surgeon.
He said
That you would come, for he had sent you word.