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With that bright smile, which makes all others dim, So proud, so sweet,—what part had she in him? And yet she loved him: who may say, be still, To the fond heart that beats not at our will? 'Twas too much wretchedness:—the convent cell, There might the maiden with her misery dwell. And that, to-morrow was her chosen doom: There might her hopes, her feelings, find a tomb. Her feelings!—no: pray, struggle, weep, condemn,— Her feelings,—there was but one grave for them. 'Twas her last night, and she had look'd her last, And she must live henceforward in the past. She linger'd in the hall,—he had been there; Her pale lips grew yet paler with the prayer That only ask'd his happiness. She took A blank leaf from an old emblazon'd book,