Like a low-voiced dove, on her gentle breast;
He had stood, when she sorrow’d, beside her knee,
Painfully stilling his quick heart’s glee;
He had kiss’d from her cheek the widow’s tears,
With the loving lip of his infant years:
He had smiled o’er her path like a bright spring day—
Now in his blood on the earth he lay!
Murder’d! Alas! and we love so well
In a world where anguish like this can dwell!
She bow’d down mutely o’er her dead—