With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low
Had still’d his heart so oft.
She spread her mantle o’er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses press’d
As hope and joy ne’er knew.
Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!
She had her meed—one smile in death—