And where is He thou lovedst? in the tomb,

Where should the happy Lover be!

For him could Time unfold a brighter doom,

Or offer aught like thee?

He in the thickest battle died,

Where Death is Pride;

And Thou his widow—not his bride,

Wer't not more free—

Here where all love, till Love is made

A bondage or a trade,

Here—thou so redolent of Beauty,

In whom Caprice had seemed a duty,

Thou, who could'st trample and despise

The holiest chain of human ties

For him, the dear One in thine eyes,

Broke it no more.

Thy heart was withered to it's Core,

It's hopes, it's fears, it's feelings o'er:

Thy Blood grew Ice when his was shed,

And Thou the Vestal of the Dead.