Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/158

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"!" said a sweet and gentle voice; And a soft hand prest on his throbbing brow, And tears like twilight dew feel on his cheek. He looked upon the maiden;—'twas the one With whom his first pure love had dwelt,—the one Who was the sun and starlight of his youth! She stood beside him, lovely as a saint Looking down pity upon penitence— Perhaps less bright in colour and in eye Than the companion of his infancy:— But was that cheek less fair because he knew That it had lost the beauty of its spring With passionate sorrowing for him? She stood One moment gazing on his face, as there Her destiny was written; and then took A little crucifix of ebony