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Have fondly wreathed, and rushes on to death.— He comes! now his blithe spirit will repel, With joyous smiles, my apprehensive fears—

Oh, no! his brow is deadly pale! My life! My husband, thou art wounded? In my soul, Helena, mortally. Look on me, sweet, With those fair eyes, so full of tenderness, A last fond glance! We were too happy, love, And we must part—— Oh! never has thy voice Assumed so sad a tone. Tell me the worst— A thousand horrors rush upon my brain; Yet when I clasp thee in my eager arms, And feel that thou art safe from outward wounds, I'll not despair. Cheer thee, my life! my love! We shall be happy still—