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42

The quivering lip, the forehead's dew-moist pore, The sudden start, the rapid step once more,— As if it would annihilate the time:— But who may paint the solitude of crime?

That night there was another saddest scene: Halls where mirth, music, festival had been Were as the house of mourning; crowds stood nigh, Horror and pity mark'd in every eye. —Upon a crimson couch—a contrast strange To those pale features in that ghastly change— The young, the beautiful, the happy lay, Life passing in convulsive sobs away. Still mid her hair the red rose wreath was hung, Mocking her cheek with the rich dye it flung;