With the loved face once more—the young, fair face,
'Midst that rude cavern touched with sculpture’s grace,
By torchlight and by death:—until at last
From her deep heart the spirit of the past
Gushed in low broken tones:—"And there thou art!
And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part
As for a few brief hours!—My friend, my friend!
First-love, and only one! Is this the end
Of hope deferred, youth blighted? Yet thy brow
Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek
Smiles—how unchanged!—while I, the worn, and weak,
And faded—oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now,
If thou couldst look on me!—a withered leaf,
Seared—though for thy sake—by the blast of grief!
Better to see thee thus! For thou didst go,
Bearing my image on thy heart, I know,
Unto the dead. My Ulric! through the night
How have I called thee! With the morning light
Z
