(_For the Mirror._)
If death's keen anguish thou would'st charm
Ere speeds his fatal dart,
Come, place thine hand--while yet 'tis warm,
Upon my breaking heart.
And though remorse--thou may'st not feel
When its last throb is o'er,
Thou'lt say--"that heart which lov'd so well,
Shall passion feel no more."
E'en love for thee forsakes my soul--
Thy work, relentless see,
Near as I am life's destin'd gaol,
I'm frozen--less than thee.
Yet take this heart--I ne'er had more
To give thee in thy need:
Search well--for at its inmost core,
Thy pardon thou may'st read.