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But still she lov'd him, and no word
Of just reproach from her was heard;
Oh! woe is me to tell the tale,
How her dear cheek at length grew pale.

She knew the solemn hour was come,
That she was hast'ning to the tomb;
She felt her gentle heart was broke,
And thus in falt'ring accents spoke:

"I feel the hand of death is on me now,
In this dread hour, oh! Edward, where art thou?
Too surely through the remnant of thy life,
Thou'lt mourn thy conduct to thy hapless wife.

And thou wilt seek in pleasure's bowl,
 To drown each thought of me;