A sad companionship of woe.
A little, too, she strove to wean
Moyarra from his desperate mien;
And when, at times, from her was wrung
A sigh she could not all conceal,
She fain would say her tremor sprung
From thinking on the future weal
Of him she left behind to grieve.
Alas! what fraud can Love deceive?
Close to her dying couch he clung
And o'er her wan form hung,
While every pang her heart that rent
Seemed as electrically sent
To prey upon his heart.
As though of her he was a part
And the same life informed each frame;—
Yet, as the moth still courts the flame
Though each approach invite swift ruin,
So now, his eager gaze renewing.
Entranced Moyarra stood, as though
He loved such martyrdom of woe,
Feeding the canker in his breast
Which knew nor hope, nor rest.
His soul was centred in his eye,
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