Of death. I see thee in my tortured dreams,
And even with a smile upon thy lip,
But a keen arrow quivering deep within
Thy throbbing, bleeding heart. Go, thou may’st wed
Another; but beside the altar dark
My mournful form will stand, and when thou see’st
The wreath of orange blossoms on her brow,
Oh! it will seem a fiery scorpion coiled
Wildly around thine own.
I’m dying now;