Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/98

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There stood she, even as a statue stands, With head droop'd downward, and with clasped hands; Such small white hands that match'd her ivory feet, How may they bear that scorching fire to meet! On her pale cheek there lay a tear, but one Cold as the icicle of carved stone. Despair weeps not. Her lip moved as in prayer Unconsciously; as if prayers had been there, And they moved now from custom. Triumphing, Sir rode around the weeping ring: Once, twice, the trumpet challenges: all fear To meet th' accuser's never erring spear. Her lip grows ghastly pale, closes her eye, It cannot meet its last of agony.

But, hark! there comes a distant rushing sound, The crowd gives way before a courser's bound.