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I've bought forgetfulness with blood Of one so false, so light. It is a dream of shame and scorn, That of your broken vow; 'T is with the vain frail hopes of youth, Why speak you of it now?" He nerved him with remember'd wrongs, He grasp'd his heavy brand; She raised her sweet eyes to his face, She raised her dying hand: She strove to speak—on her faint lip The accents died unheard: Ah! nothing could his heart have moved Like that unspoken word. A sadness stole upon his brow, A softness to his eyes; His heart was harden'd against smiles, It could not be to sighs. It was not years that wrought the change— In life she yet was young; Her locks of youth, her golden hair, In wild profusion hung. But youth's sweet lights had left her eye, For from within they shine, And pale her face, as those are carved Around some sacred shrine;— On funeral marble carved, and worn With sorrow, sin, and shame; Placed there in sign of penitence— And her face was the same. "'T is written deep within—the vow We pledged in other years,