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ROSALIE.
One knelt before the shrine, with cheek as pale.
As was the cold white marble. Can this be
The young—the loved—the happy Rosalie?
Alas! alas! her's is a common tale:—
She trusted,—as youth ever has believed;—
She heard Love's vows—confided—was deceived!
Oh, Love! thy essence is thy purity!
Breathe one unhallowed breath upon thy flame,
And it is gone for ever,—and but leaves
A sullied vase—its pure light lost in shame!
And Rosalie was loved,—not with that pure
And holy passion which can age endure;
But loved with wild and self-consuming fires,—
A torch which glares—and scorches—and expires.
