XIII.
’Twas not with stoical philosophy,
She bore her double grief. Forgetfulness
Was not its antidote. Nor could it be
Despair that sat upon her peaceful face.
O, no! her soul was made of tenderness;
Nor could her heart forget the joyous past;
Nor did despair her tranquil mind possess;
What could it be that o’er her features cast
A sweet expressive look, that seem’d too calm to last?