On that pure brow: 'tis none of these that keep
Her head from its down pillow, but there is
A visitant in that pale maiden's breast
Restless as Avarice, anxious as Fame,—
Cruel as Hate, and pining as Remorse,—
Secret as Guilt; a passion and a power
That has from every sorrow taken a sting,—
A flower from every pleasure, and distilled
An essence where is blent delight and pain;
And deep has she drained the bewildering cup,
For Isadore watches and wakes with Love.
Hence is it that of the fair scene below
She sees one only spot; in vain the lake
Spreads like a liquid sky, o'er which the swans
Wander, fleece-clouds around the one small isle,
Where lilies glance like a white marble floor,
In the tent made by pink acacia boughs;
In vain the garden spreads, with its gay banks
Of flowers, o'er which the summer has just pass'd,
The bride-like rose,—the rich anemone,—
The treasurer of June's gold; the hyacinth,
A turret of sweet colours; and, o'er all,
The silver fountains playing:—but in vain!
Isadore's eye rests on that cypress grove:
A bright warm crimson is upon her cheek,
And her red lip is opened as to catch
