"
"This woman, she loved me well," said I.
"A month ago," said my friend to me:
"And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!"
He answered, ... "Let us see."
"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide:
And whosesoever the portrait prove,
His shall it be, when the cause is tried,
Where Death is arraigned by Love."
We found the portrait there, in its place:
We opened it by the tapers' shine:
The gems were all unchanged: the face
Was--neither his nor mine.
"One nail drives out another, at least!
The face of the portrait there," I cried,
"Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest,
Who confessed her when she died."
The setting is all of rubies red,
And pearls which a Peri might have kept.
For each ruby there my heart hath bled:
For each pearl my eyes have wept.
ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON (_Owen Meredith_).
ONLY A WOMAN.
"She loves with love that cannot tire:
And if, ah, woe! she loves alone,
Through passionate duty love flames higher,
As grass grows taller round a stone."
--COVENTRY PATMORE.
So, the truth's out. I'll grasp it like a snake,--
It will not slay me. My heart shall not break
Awhile, if only for the children's sake.
For his, too, somewhat. Let him stand unblamed;
None say, he gave me less than honor claimed,
Except--one trifle scarcely worth being named--
The heart. That's gone. The corrupt dead might be
As easily raised up, breathing,--fair to see,
As he could bring his whole heart back to me.
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