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Then wild creations haunted him, and shapes
Of terror and of evil; and a form,
A wan and wasted form, rose on his dreams,
Till rest was agony! There was a fire,
By day and night, consuming at his heart;
A withering seal was set on every thought—
All ministers of bitterness; he shunn'd
The haunts of pleasure; still that dying look
Of sweet forgiveness, and the last faint tone
Of her he had deserted, tortur'd him.
XVII.
She mark'd the change (his fair Zoraide), and strove,
With all a woman's winning tenderness,
To soothe his gloomy spirit, but in vain—
The shadow of his soul fell o'er her too:
