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Tell her of revelries in bower and hall, Where gems are glittering, and bright wine is pour'd; Where to glad measures chiming footsteps fall, And soul seems gushing from the harp's full chord; And richer flowers amid fair tresses wave, Than the sad "Love lies bleeding" of the grave.

Oh! little know'st thou of the o'ermastering spell, Wherewith love binds the spirit strong in pain, To the spot hallowed by a wild farewell, A parting agony,—intense, yet vain, A look—and darkness when it's gleam hath flown, A voice—and silence when it's words are gone!

She hears thee not; her full, deep, fervent heart Is set in her dark eyes;—and they are bound Unto that cross, that shrine, that world apart, Where faithful love hath sanctified the ground; And love with death striven long by tear and prayer, And anguish frozen into still despair.