XXXII.
She halts—she starts—on Morton’s corse she lights.
Too true the mournful tidings! One shrill cry—
She falls upon his breast, more dull than Night’s,
His cold lips kisses in her agony,
And clasps again—again—till no reply
Convinces even her fond heart the source
Of Life is frozen—then, without a sigh,
Takes from his hand the sword, nor feels remorse,
Her heart transpierces, falls, and dies upon his corse.