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And coloured as each pictured pane Shed o'er the blaze its crimson stain:— While, from the window o'er my head, A dim and sickly gleam was shed From the young moon,—enough to shew That tomb and table lay below. I leant upon one monument,— 'Twas sacred to unhappy love: On it were carved a blighted pine— A broken ring—a wounded dove. And two or three brief words told all Her history who lay beneath:— 'The flowers—at morn her bridal flowers,— 'Formed, e'er the eve, her funeral wreath.' I could but envy here. I thought, How sweet it must be thus to die!