IT WAS a tale of passion that we read-
Of two who loved, not happily, but well!
And evermore her gentle breast did swell
Like a twin-billow,-for her feelings fed
Upon its rhythmic grief-and brimming shed
Such dews of pity as can only fall
From natures full of sweetness, when the pall
Of tragedy o-ershadows them with dread.
Then, as I looked, in her raised eye there stood
A gem more excellent that ever shined
Within my spirit-s transcendental sphere,
And so embalmed its love with an immortal tear.