THE DEATH-BED OF TERESA DEL RIEGO.
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Her hands were clasp'd and raised—the lamp did fling
A glory on her brow's meek suffering.
Beautiful form of wom&n! seeming made
Alone to shine in mirrors, there to braid
The hair and zone the waist—to garland flowers—
To walk like sunshine through the orange bowers—
To strike her land's guitar—and often see
In other eyes how lovely hers must be—
Grew she acquaint with anguish? Did she sever
For ever from the one she loved for ever,
To dwell among the strangers? Ay! and she,
Who shone most brightly in that festive glee.
Sate down in this despair most patiently.
Some hearts are Niobes! In griefs down-sweeping,
They turn to very stone from over-weeping,
And after, feel no more. Hers did remain
In life, which is the power of feeling pain,
