Fast o’er her garments forth, and vainly bound
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound—
Yet hoped, still hoped! Oh! from such hope how long
Affection woos the whispers that deceive,
Even when the pressure of dismay grows strong!
And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne’er believe
The blow indeed can fall. So bow’d she there
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer
Fill’d all her soul. Now pour’d the moonlight down,
Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown,