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Its words still breathed, though the ink was cold
As the hopes of the hearts she had fettered,
A magical name on the book was enrolled,
And its hot-pressed pages were tipped with gold,
And ’twas bound in green, and lettered.

As she counted the leaves, and counted o’er
The victims her frowns had killed,
A stranger-bard, from a far-off shore,
Came blushing, and said, “Here is one song more;”
She answered, “The pages are filled.”

He sighed, of course, but he manfully strove
To check the sigh as it rose;
And, plucking a roseleaf, he tremblingly wove
Into very bad verses the tale which, above,
Is written in good plain prose.

And added, “In coming hours, Lady, when you
On the tears of your victims are feeding,
As the sunbeam feeds upon drops of dew,
Keep this withered leaf in the book—’twill do
To mark where you left off reading.”