Page:Records of Woman.pdf/267

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Woman! whose sculptur'd form at rest By the armed knight is laid, With meek hands folded o'er a breast In matron robes array'd; What was thy tale?—Oh! gentle mate Of him, the bold and free, Bound unto his victorious fate, What bard hath sung of thee?

He wooed a bright and burning star— Thine was the void, the gloom, The straining eye that follow'd far His fast receding plume; The heart-sick listening while his steed Sent echoes on the breeze; The pang but when did Fame take heed Of griefs obscure as these?