Page:A Tale of the Secret Tribunal.pdf/50

Yes! she might weep—but one stood nigh,
With horror in his tearless eye,
That eye which ne'er again shall close
In the deep quiet of repose;
No more on earth beholding aught,
Save one dread vision, stamp'd on thought.
But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid
His deeper woe had scarce survey'd,
Till his wild voice reveal'd a tale,
Which seem'd to bid the heavens turn pale!
He call'd her, "Sister!" and the word
In anguish breath'd, in terror heard,
Reveal'd enough—all else were weak,
That sound a thousand pangs could speak.
He knelt beside that breathless clay,
Which, fix'd in utter stillness, lay,
Knelt till his soul imbib'd each trace,
Each line of that unconscious face;
Knelt, till his eye could bear no more,
Those marble features to explore;
Then, starting, turning, as to shun
The image thus by Memory won,
A wild farewell to her he bade,
Who by the dead in silence pray'd,
And, phrenzied by his bitter doom,
Fled thence—to find all earth a tomb!