Oh Heaven sent! thou wretched mortal thing

Which from my breast so swiftly chop'd

By rough-hewn hands. Whither thou bring'st

This poor heart with thee it's stop'd.

But oh! This eve, beset with red and gold

The sun his gentle kiss hath drop'd -

Upon thou, iv'ry throat, chilled as stone -

My feverish brain hath shewn

A breath of life upon thy lips

Where the pallor Death's breath hath blewn.