Alas! that grief should ever wear So pale a cheek with sorrow’s tear, That anguish and remorse should trace Their furrowed lines on Beauty’s face, And early troubles lead the way For dread disease and slow decay. There is a canker of the breast That pleasure cannot charm away, When the young heart becomes a prey To dread disquiet, and un-rest. Day after day—day after day, Along that smooth and sandy shore, Did Herbert with fair Edith stray, Oft listening to the angry roar Of the wild ocean’s troubled sound, Till the fair earth had wandered round The presence of the glorious sun; And when the winter had begun To shackle every limpid river, And silence every gurgling rill, And in the woodland on the hill The aspen leaves had ceased to quiver, And every minstrel in the wood Was silent in its solitude, Those lovely birds that gaily chanted Their songs of gladness from the grove; Ah! oft had Edith’s bosom panted With silent and supreme delight, When they have woke the lovely night With their melodious songs of love. Ah! many and many a lovely eve, Beneath the Heaven’s bespangled roof, Did her young heart delight to weave The future like a fairy woof: And with her Herbert by her side, In the sweet hush of eventide, When night-blown flowers of beauty rare With perfume filled the stilly air; Often in those delightful hours, When the young dreamy heart of youth Plucks many a wreath from Fancy’s bowers, And knits them on the brow of truth. And once she said, with tearful eye, With quivering lip, yet tender tone, As if her weak and trembling heart Were half afraid its fears to own— “Herbert forgive, I know thou wilt, Or else my heart the wish would rue, Ah! if it bears the taint of guilt, In mercy, Heaven, absolve me too. When death with chilling hand shall sever The souls that nought but death could part, Herbert, a slow consuming fever Is burning at my brain and heart: I feel that death is calmly stealing Over my senses, day by day, Immortal longings and a feeling Of rapture charms my pulse away. Herbert, dear Herbert, my request, My last sad dying wish would be, That in the last embrace of death, My rest may then be near to thee; And by the willows that o’ershade The streamlet on the woodland hill, Our dust may be in sadness laid, And, though in death, together still.” Down Herbert’s cheeks the drops of woe Coursed sad and slowly—whilst the maid Her last and earnest wishes prayed. It was a dread and bitter throe— Such as fond hearts, when doomed to sever, At once unheeded and for ever, Pure ardent souls alone could know. He clasped her to his aching heart— Her brow, alas! how pale and chill; An icy glaze is o’er her eye, And yet her lips are quivering still. Ah! what is all the world to him?