Page:Records of Woman.pdf/64

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Dark lowers our fate, And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us; But nothing, till that latest agony Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose This fix'd and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house, In the terrific face of armed law, Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, I never will forsake thee. .

hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes rais'd,   The breeze threw back her hair; Up to the fearful wheel she gaz'd—   All that she lov'd was there.