XXVII.
O, Charles! ‘thy love to me was wonderful,
Passing the love of woman.’ In thine eyes—
Those dark blue eyes—those mirrors of thy soul,
Were pictured feelings words would but disguise—
Pure, tender, soul subduing sympathies!
Should ever slander, with its poison’d tooth,
Or malice, double tongued, against me rise,
I’ll think of thee, whose kindness bless’d my youth;
I’ll think of all thy love, thy tenderness, thy truth.