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She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch, upon the lute chords low,
Had still'd his heart so oft.
She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses press'd,
As Joy and Hope ne'er knew.
Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!
She had her meed—one smile in Death—
And his worn spirit pass'd.
While even as o'er a martyr's grave,
She knelt on that sad spot,
And weeping, bless'd the God who gave
Strength to forsake it not!F. H.
