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While her polish'd cheek with ev'ry breathAssum'd the rose's glow, or lily hue of death.In her fair hand with anxious careA pale and wither'd rose she bare;Which sometimes to her lip she press'd,Then hid it, smiling, in her breast—Ah! me, that smile! though still a nameless charm,Play'd round her lovely mouth and dimpled cheek,It faded in a look of wild alarm,And seem'd of madness more than joy to speak! She came, and stood at Albert's side, And gaz'd on him, and on his bride,—Her lovely hand across her forehead drew;The parted curls display'd its snowy hue,And the soul-touching eye of softest blue.
"Albert! they said I was betray'd—Left and abandon'd for a wealthier maid!But, oh, my love! I knew it could not be,And they who told the story knew not thee;—They did not know thy soul—thy faith sincere,And all that made thee to this heart so dear!They watch'd my steps—they told me I was wild,And would not let me go my love to seek;But I at length their watchfulness beguil'd,—And I am here—but, Albert, I am weak,And sick at heart, for I had far to rove—I could not find thee, Albert, in the groveWhere last we rested, while the setting sun———Ah, me! I wander—lady, I have done—I will away"—she turn'd her to depart—"The rose he gave, is wither'd quite and gone;And thou art wither'd too, poor broken heart!"
