His heart still hers, although he could not break
The chains that pleasure, habit, round him flung—
Perhaps false shame; for, that he would not sue
For pardon, tho' he knew that pardon were
The happiness of both. . . . But, fell at last
A deadly sickness on the city; death
Came like a conqueror; the lover died
By his bride at the altar; upon some
It came down sudden, like the lightning stroke;
On others, slow and wasting, not less deadly.
Amirald sickened, but all fled his couch,
For their flight was from death—but Eva staid
And watched, and soothed, and solaced. ‘Twas one night
For the first time she dared to hope—his hand
Lost its red heat, and he slept quietly.
At last he waked, and waked to consciousness.
With but a dim remembrance of his pain,
And some fair shadow that had by his couch
Watched like the spirit of health, he gazed around,
And saw a boy, a wan and sickly boy,
Kneeling in silent tears before the cross—
And then he knew his Eva's deep blue eyes,
And called upon her name; and, with a cry
Of joy and thankfulness, she sprang beside,
And bowed her pale lips softly on his brow—
That kiss sealed his recovery!
Again the lamps are bright in his old hall!
Again the feast is spread, and music heard!
It is a marriage festival! The bride
Is Eva, and her long fidelity
Has won her Amirald! L. E. L.
