XXIX.
I bless thee, husband! for thy tender love,
For all th’ ecstatic bliss ’twas mine to know;
I nestled in thy breast, a timid dove,
While my fond heart to thine did firmly grow.
I saw upon thy cheek love’s ardent glow,
And felt that I was more than others blest,
When such a rich pure heart was mine; but, O!
I did not dream that warm and throbbing breast
So soon would cease to beat—so soon would be at rest!