158
Count Julio.
Smote the pale statue, and crept brightening down
Even to its mossy base. Mantled and prone,
A heap that scarcely seemed a human form
Crouched in the shadow, and with tottering feet
The old mail hurried onward. Motionless,
It stirred not at his coming. Nearer still
He marked a white face upward turned, clenched hands
Locked in the hair that swept its ghastly brow.
Shading his weak eyes from the blinding sun,
Cowering in trembling horror to the earth,
Still on he crept, then, bending softly down,
Spake in a smothered voice, "Hist, hist, Bianca!"
Even to its mossy base. Mantled and prone,
A heap that scarcely seemed a human form
Crouched in the shadow, and with tottering feet
The old mail hurried onward. Motionless,
It stirred not at his coming. Nearer still
He marked a white face upward turned, clenched hands
Locked in the hair that swept its ghastly brow.
Shading his weak eyes from the blinding sun,
Cowering in trembling horror to the earth,
Still on he crept, then, bending softly down,
Spake in a smothered voice, "Hist, hist, Bianca!"
Oh, mockery! the ear that he had filled
With curses, woke not to the tones of love!
The breast that he had spurned from him, heaved not
At his wild anguish. Death had done its work.
The tempest had been merciless as the parent
Who drove her forth to meet it, and the flash
Of its red eye more withering than his scorn.
•Shunned both in penitence and guilt, forsaken
By those who only prized her for the beauty
With curses, woke not to the tones of love!
The breast that he had spurned from him, heaved not
At his wild anguish. Death had done its work.
The tempest had been merciless as the parent
Who drove her forth to meet it, and the flash
Of its red eye more withering than his scorn.
•Shunned both in penitence and guilt, forsaken
By those who only prized her for the beauty
