Gon. (still bending over her.) Why, ’tis almost

Like joy to view thy beautiful repose!

The faded image of that perfect calm

Floats, e’en as long-forgotten music, back

Into my weary heart! No dark wild spot

On thy clear brow doth tell of bloody hands

That quench’d young life by violence! We’ve seen

Too much of horror, in one crowded hour,

To weep for aught so gently gather’d hence!

—Oh! man leaves other traces!