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THE DÆMON OF THE WORLD. — PART I.
5
Where woods and streams with soft and pausing winds
A lulling murmur weave?—
Ianthe doth not sleep
The dreamless sleep of death:
Nor in her moonlight chamber silently,
Doth Henry hear her regular pulses throb,
Or mark her delicate cheek
With interchange of hues mock the broad moon
Outwatching weary night.
Without assured reward.
Her dewy eyes are closed;
On their translucent lids, whose testure fine
Scarce hide the dark blue orbs that burn below
With unapparent fire,
The baby Sleep is pillowed:
Her golden tresses shade
The bosom's stainless pride,
Twining like tendrils of the parasite
Around a marble column.
