A Modern Mephistopheles, and A Whisper in the Dark

by Louisa May Alcott

The “lily maid of Astolat” could not have looked more wan and weird than Gladys, as she stood in her trailing robes of dead white, with loosely gathered locks, hands clasped over the gay bit of tapestry which simulated the cover of the shield, eyes that seemed to see something invisible to those about her, and began her song, in a veiled voice, at once so sad and solemn, that Helwyze held his breath, and Canaris felt as if she called him from beyond the grave:—

“Sweet is true love, tho’ given in vain, in vain;

And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain;

I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be;

Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.

O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die.

Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away,

Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay,

I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.