Round youthful Henry’s restless bed
His weeping friends and parents pressed;
But she who raised his languid head
He loved far more than all the rest.
 
Fond mutual love their bosoms fired;
And nearly dawned their bridal day,
When every hope at once expired,
For Henry on his death-bed lay.
 
The fatal truth the sufferer read
In weeping Lucy’s downcast eye:
“And must I, must I, then,” he said,
“Ere thou art mine, my Lucy, die!
 
”No,...deign to grant my last, last prayer;
‘T would soothe thy lover’s parting breath,
Wouldst thou with me to church repair,
Ere yet I feel the stroke of death.
 
“For trust me, love, I shall my life
With something like to joy resign,
If I but once may call thee wife,
And, dying, claim and hail thee mine.”
 
He ceased: and Lucy checked the thought
That he might at the altar die,....
The prayer with such true love was fraught,
How could she such a prayer deny?
 
They reached the church....her cheek was wan
With chilling fears of coming woe....
But triumph when the rites began
Lent Henry’s cheek a flattering glow.
 
The nuptial knot was scarcely tied,
When Henry’s eye strange lustre fired,
“She’s mine! she’s mine!” he faltering cried,
And in that throb of joy expired.

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