Page:A Tale of the Secret Tribunal.pdf/50

 Yes! she might weep—but one stood nigh, With horror in his tearless eye, That eye which ne'er again shall close In the deep quiet of repose; No more on earth beholding aught, Save one dread vision, stamp'd on thought. But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid His deeper woe had scarce survey'd, Till his wild voice reveal'd a tale, Which seem'd to bid the heavens turn pale! He call'd her, "Sister!" and the word In anguish breath'd, in terror heard, Reveal'd enough—all else were weak, That sound a thousand pangs could speak. He knelt beside that breathless clay, Which, fix'd in utter stillness, lay, Knelt till his soul imbib'd each trace, Each line of that unconscious face; Knelt, till his eye could bear no more, Those marble features to explore; Then, starting, turning, as to shun The image thus by Memory won, A wild farewell to her he bade, Who by the dead in silence pray'd, And, phrenzied by his bitter doom, Fled thence—to find all earth a tomb!