Though well she knew her blood would flow for him she caused to bleed,
Yet what was death?—The crowning wreath that graced the noble deed!
Her doom is passed, a lovely smile dawns slowly o’er her face,
And adds another beauty to her calm majestic grace;
She does not weep, she does not shrink, her features are not pale,
The firmness that inspired her hand forbids her heart to fail!
’Tis morn; before the Tuilleries the dawn is breaking gray,
And thousands through the busy streets in haste pursue their way;
What means the bustle and the throng, the scene is nothing new—
A fair young lady, doomed to die, each day the same they view.