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Perhaps, in its high state is not unconscious Of what remains behind; perhaps, beholds The very spot. Oh, if she does! her pity— Her pity, yea, her love now rest upon me. Her spirit, from the body newly freed, Was in my father's house, ere it departed To its celestial home; was it not sympathy? O! Emma, Emma! could I surely know That I was dear to thee, a word,—a token Had been to me a cherish'd, rich possession, Outvaluing all that martial chiefs contend for On their embattled fields.—Ha! who approaches?

Come not, I warn thee, near this sacred spot. (Springing up from the ground.)

A sacred spot, indeed! but yet to all Who loved in life the dead whom it contains, Free as the house of God.

I say it is not. In this, her first night of the grave, the man Who loved her best when living, claims a right To watch the new-closed tomb, and none beside.

Then yield to me that right, for it is mine; For I have loved her longest,—long ere thou Hadst look'd upon her face, or heard her name.