Classic Poem

8

" The little hand of Telmarine
Presses thy bosom, Etheline!
The soft warm cheek of Telmarine
Rests on thy cold face, Etheline.
Konig's blue eyes, in Telmarine
Smile on the softer blue of thine
Is it not well? " said Adwick, sighing;
" Art thou not happy? " " Yes, and dying,
My Adwick! " pressing with her own
His hand, she said, in sweetest tone, Her eyes on his o'erflowing eyes
Fix'd, " I am dying. Be not thou
(My Friend! my Love!) offended now,
That my soul yearns again to see
My Konig's face, If thou lov'st me,
Love konig too. And when I'm dead —
When number'd are my vanities;
When aching heart, and reeling head,
And throbbing pulse, are quieted,
Tell him I lov'd him! and " — she smil'
On little Telmarine — " the child
I leave behind me. Bid him take
My child, and love it for my sake —
As I love it for his. In heart
A mother, tell him — I depart
In soul a bride;
In truth, a virgin; satisfied
To be, in soul, his bride. "