not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his at-
tentions, for her thoughts were irrecoverably 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 exist-
ing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length suc-
ceeded 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 song 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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