None sleep within that chamber, where the face
Grows pale with watching—where the hand of death
Is laid on one of Adam’s sinful race—
Where still the cold drops form a pearly wreath,
And fainter, fainter grows the slowly heaving breath.
XVI.
’Tis strange that smiling Hope is even now
Whisp’ring her flatt’ries to the young wife’s heart!
She wipes the death-damps from her husband’s brow,
Which in his dying anguish freely start;