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thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation ; for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another's.

He took her with him to Sicily ; hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away

in a slow but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.

It was on her that Moore (the distinguished Irish
Poet) composed the following lines :-
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers around her are sighing :
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,

Every note which he loved awaking-
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking !
He had lived for his love—for his country he died.

They were all that to life had entwined him
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him !
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,
From her own loved island of sorrow !


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