And still for thee my bosom glows,
Though death’s hand is on me, love.
“For thee in secret did I sigh,
Nor ween’d that love could warm thee,
Nor that my lustre-lacking eye
Could e’er have power to charm thee.”
“Nay, Angeline,” cried Rodolph then,
“I wist not that I loved thee,
Till left my home, and native glen,
Remembrance of thee moved me.