But sympathy’s sweet accents rest
Like sunbeams on my frozen breast.”
Her bosom swell’d with choking sighs,
Her small hands hid her streaming eyes.
Those lily hands, of fairy mould,
No tale of menial usage told;
That slender youthful shape, though clad
In homely weeds, rare graces had;
And when stern effort had suppress’d
The grief that shook her throbbing breast,