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They hung upon the eyelash, which drooped o'er A cheek whose summer colour had departed With the sweet hopes that nourished its bloom. His love had been destruction; he had thrown Shame and dishonour on the innocent one, Whose fate was linked with his, who loved him yet Most truly and most fondly. From the hour When, a young bride, she dreamt of happiness, She never had forsaken him, but still Had been his better angel;—his mad life Had passed 'mid fearful passions, evil deeds, And she had often wept in solitude: Yet sometimes (for he loved her) he returned; Her patient smile then lighted up his home, And never did that soft lip breathe reproach; Only her health-forsaken cheek, her brow So wan, told of her wrongs, and she would sob At times upon his bosom, till he swore To leave his evil wanderings. At last The thunderbolt came down, and crushed her heart— He was a murderer. ---- Still she forsook him not, and his lone cell Was brightened by her presence—her soft voice Breathed consolation in its gentle tones; She wept, she watched, she prayed with him;—how deep Is woman's memory of her first love-dream, Though truth has chilled its sweet illusiveness!