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IT WAS a tale of passion that we read— Of two who loved, not happily, but well! And evermore her gentle breast did swell Like a twin-billow,—for her feelings fed Upon its rhythmic grief—and brimming shed Such dews of pity as can only fall From natures full of sweetness, when the pall Of tragedy o’ershadows them with dread. Then, as I looked, in her raised eye there stood A gem more excellent that ever shined Within my spirit’s transcendental sphere, And so embalmed its love with an immortal tear. |