And lowered upon her, as she vainly sought,
With words of loving sympathy, to cheer
The flickering life that suffering made so dear.
For oh, that life, unlovely though it seemed,
Was the dear object of her fondest love;
Volumes of witching poesy she dreamed,
Morn, noon, and evening, as she bent above
His weary form, yet neither light nor bloom
Could tempt her footsteps from that dingy room.
Oft, when she heard his hollow cough, she wept