LXIV.
But woe for him who felt the heart grow still,
Which, with its weight of agony, had lain
Breaking on his! Scarce could the mortal chill
Of the hush’d bosom, ne’er to heave again,
And all the silence curdling round the eye,
Bring home the stern belief that she could die—
That she indeed could die!—for, wild and vain
As hope might be, his soul had hoped: ’twas o’er—
Slowly his failing arms dropp’d from the form they bore.