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But ask not—hope not—one relenting thought From him wno doomed thee thus to waste away, Whose heart, with sullen, speechless vengeance fraught, Broods in dark triumph o'er thy slow decay, And coldly, sternly, silently can trace The gradual withering of each youthful grace.

And yet the day of vain remorse shall come, When thou, bright victim! on his dreams shalt rise As an accusing angel—and thy tomb, A martyr's shrine, be hallowed in his eyes! Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring, More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs could sting.

Lift thy meek eyes to Heaven—for all on earth, Young sufferer! fades before thee—Thou art lone— Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy birth, Thine hour of death is all Affliction's own! It is our task to suffer—and our fate To learn that mighty lesson, soon or late.

The season’s glory fades—the vintage-lay Through joyous Italy resounds no more; But mortal loveliness hath passed away, Fairer that ought in summer's glowing store. Beauty and youth are gone—behold them such As Death hath made them with his blighting touch!

The summer's breath came o'er them—and they died! Softly it came, to give luxuriance birth, Called forth young Nature in her festal pride, But bore to them their summons from the earth! Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze, And wake to life and light all flowers—but these.

No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling, O lost and loveliest one! adorns thy grave, But o'er that humble cypress-shaded dwelling The dew-drops glisten, and the wild-flowers wave— Emblems more meet, in transient light and bloom, For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to the tomb!