XXXII.

She halts--she starts--on Morton’s corse she lights. Too true the mournful tidings! One shrill cry-- She falls upon his breast, more dull than Night’s, His cold lips kisses in her agony, And clasps again--again--till no reply Convinces even _her_ fond heart the source Of Life is frozen--then, without a sigh, Takes from his hand the sword, nor feels remorse, Her heart transpierces, falls, and dies upon his corse.