But he who cast his gaze upon her now, And read the traces written on her brow, Had scarce believed hers was that form of light That beamed like fabled wonder on the sight; Her raven hair hung down in loosen'd tress Before her wan cheek's pallid ghastliness; And, thro' its thick locks, showed the deadly white, Like marble glimpses of a tomb, at night. In fixed and horrid musings now she stands, Her eyes now bent to earth, and her cold hands, Prest to her heart, now wildly thrown on high, They wander o'er her brow--and now a sigh Breaks deep and full--and, more composedly, She half exclaims--"No! no!--it cannot be; "He loves not, never loved-- not even when "He pressed my wedded hand--I knew it then; "And yet--fool that I was--I saw he strove "In vain to kindle pity into love. "But Florence! she so loved--a sister too! "My earliest, dearest playmate--one who grew "Upon my very heart--to rend it so! "His falsehood I could bear--but hers! ah! no. "She is not false--I feel she loves me yet, "And if my boding bosom could forget "Its wild imaginings, with what sweet pain "I'd clasp my Florence to my breast again." With that came many a thought of days gone by, Remembered joys of mirthful infancy; And youth's gay frolic, and the short-lived flow Of showering tears, in childhood's fleeting wo, And life's maturer friendship--and the sense Of heart-warm, open, fearless confidence; All these came thronging with a tender call, And her own Florence mingled with them all. And softened feelings rose amid her pain, While from her eyes, the clouds, melted in gentle rain. A hectic pleasure flushed her faded face; It fled--and deeper paleness took its place; Then a cold shudder thrill'd her--and, at last, Her lip a smile of bitter sarcasm cast, As if she scorned herself, that she could be A moment lulled by that sweet sophistry; For in that little minute memory's sting Gave word and look, sigh, gesture--every thing, To bid these dear delusive phantoms fly, And fix her fears in dreadful certainty. It traced the very progress of their love, From the first meeting in the locust grove; When from the chase Leon came bounding there, Backing his courser with a noble air; His brown cheek flushed with healthful exercise, And his warm spirits leaping in his eyes; It told how lovely looked her sister then, To long-lost friends, and home just come again; How on her cheek the tears of meeting lay, That tear which only feeling hearts can pay; While the quick pleasure glistened in her eye, Like clouds and sunshine in an April sky; And then it told, as their acquaintance grew, How close the unseen bonds of union drew Their souls together, and how pleased they were The same blythe pastimes and delights to share; How the same chord in each at once would strike, Their taste, their wishes, and their joys alike.