They hung upon the eyelash, which drooped o'er
A cheek whose summer colour had departed
With the sweet hopes that nourished its bloom.
His love had been destruction; he had thrown
Shame and dishonour on the innocent one,
Whose fate was linked with his, who loved him yet
Most truly and most fondly. From the hour
When, a young bride, she dreamt of happiness,
She never had forsaken him, but still
Had been his better angel;—his mad life
Had passed 'mid fearful passions, evil deeds,
And she had often wept in solitude:
Yet sometimes (for he loved her) he returned;
Her patient smile then lighted up his home,
And never did that soft lip breathe reproach;
Only her health-forsaken cheek, her brow
So wan, told of her wrongs, and she would sob
At times upon his bosom, till he swore
To leave his evil wanderings. At last
The thunderbolt came down, and crushed her heart—
He was a murderer. ----
Still she forsook him not, and his lone cell
Was brightened by her presence—her soft voice
Breathed consolation in its gentle tones;
She wept, she watched, she prayed with him;—how deep
Is woman's memory of her first love-dream,
Though truth has chilled its sweet illusiveness!
