Thus Monnema and thus Quiara thought,
Tho' each the melancholy thought represt;
They could not chuse but feel, yet uttered not
The human feeling, which in hours of rest
Often would rise, and fill the boding breast
With a dread foretaste of that mournful day,
When, at the inexorable Power's behest,
The unwilling spirit, called perforce away,
Must leave, for ever leave its dear connatural clay.
Link'd as they were, where each to each was all,
How might the poor survivor hope to bear
That heaviest loss which one day must befall,
Nor sink beneath the weight of his despair.
Scarce could the heart even for a moment dare
That miserable time to contemplate,
When the dread Messenger should find them there,
From whom is no escape,—and reckless Fate,
Whom it had bound so close, for ever separate.