Within a murderer's cell: I love thee not,
I never loved thee, and this callous heart
Is deaf to all thy pleadings: pleasure calls,
And pomp and glory wait thee: 'mid the joys
The world has still to give thee, lose all care
For one who with his dying breath denies
The passion that he lightly feigned, to win
A toy that pleased him in his hour of bliss.
Veronica.
When pleasure winged the frolic day, the world
Seemed fresh and blooming, and my buoyant heart
Looked smiling onwards to succeeding years
As redolent with hope, and peace, and joy—
When thou, a conqueror, singled from a group
Of fairer, brighter, wiser beings, one
Whose only charm was her simplicity;
Stealing her inmost soul away with vows
Tender, and sweet, and winning, as the song
The siren sung of old; dazzling her eyes
With glorious deeds, and seeming in her sight
