To catch the parting glance, the fleeting breath.


VII.

Pale as the livid corse her cheek,
Her tresses torn, her glances wild,--
How fearful was her frantic shriek!
She wept--and then in horrors smil'd:
She gazes now with wild affright,
Lo! bleeding phantoms rush in sight--
Hark! on yon mangled form the mourner calls,
Then on the earth a senseless weight she falls.


VIII.

And see! o'er gentle André's tomb,
The victim of his own despair,
Who fell in life's exulting bloom,
Nor deem'd that life deserv'd a care;
O'er the cold earth his relicks prest,
Lo! Britain's drooping legions rest;
For him the swords they sternly grasp, appear
Dim with a sigh, and sullied with a tear.


IX.

While Seward sweeps her plaintive strings,