E’en on the grave’s dim verge. Yes! it is joy!
My Constance! victors have been crown’d ere now,
With the green shining laurel, when their brows
Wore death’s own impress—and it may be thus
E’en yet, with me! They freed me, when the foe
Had half prevail’d, and I have proudly earn’d,
With my heart’s dearest blood, the meed to die
Within thine arms.
Con. Oh! speak not thus—to die!
These wounds may yet be closed.