Or as an angel dazzling from the skies!
I then at least could treasure each sweet token
Of thy pure love—and in life’s mad’ning whirl
Steel my crushed heart—had not thine own been broken,
Poor hapless girl!
But, Mary—Mary, when I think upon thee,
As when I last beheld thee in thy pride—
And on the fate—oh God!—to which he won thee—
I curse the hour that sent me from your side!
Oh why wert thou so richly, strangely gifted