Thy Lover died, as All

Who truly love should die;

For such are worthy in the fight to fall

Triumphantly.

No Cuirass o'er that glowing heart

The deadly bullet turned apart:

Love had bestowed a richer Mail,

Like Thetis on her Son;

But hers at last was vain, and thine could fail—

The hero's and the lover's race was run.

Thy worshipped portrait, thy sweet face,

Without that bosom kept it's place

As Thou within.

Oh! enviously destined Ball!

Shivering thine imaged charms and all

Those Charms would win:

Together pierced, the fatal Stroke hath gored

Votary and Shrine, the adoring and the adored.

That Heart's last throb was thine, that blood

Baptized thine Image in it's flood,

And gushing from the fount of Faith

O'erflowed with Passion even in Death,

Constant to thee as in it's hour

Of rapture in the secret bower.

Thou too hast kept thy plight full well,

As many a baffled Heart can tell.

[From an autograph MS. in the possession of Mr. Murray, now for the first time printed.]