Like the pale sunshine streaking wintry snows!
These lips have life—yea! very breath; a sweet
Warm spirit stirs thru’ the cleft ruby now!
They move—they smile—they speak. Soft! soft! sweet heavens!
I’ll gaze no more; there’s witchcraft in this skill,
And my abus’d weak brain may madden soon! conceals the picture in his bosom
The spell is hidden, still th’ illusion works:
O! in my heart Eugenia art thou trac’d—
There—there—thou livest—speakest—yet art mortal.
Strong memory triumphs over death and time,