Page:Keepsake 1831.pdf/8

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Yet the knight held his breath to hear— Her last word was his name. He flung him by the pallet's side, He raised her fainting head; Her fair hair fell around his arm, He gazed upon the dead. 'T is an old church, the Gothic aisles See but the evening sun; All light, except a fading light, Would seem too glad a one. For the dark pines close o'er the roof Which sanctifies the dead, And on the dim and sculptured walls Only their names are read; And in the midst a marble form Is laid, as if to rest; And meekly are the graceful arms Folded upon the breast. An old monk tells her history, And ends as I do now, "Oh, never yet could happiness Dwell with a broken vow!"