THE RING.
93
And on his brow and on his cheek
Are signs that of wildest passions speak,
Of one whose fiery will is his law;
And his beauty, it strikes on the heart with awe:
And the maiden, hers is no smile to brook
In meekness the storm of an angry look;
For her forehead is proud, and her eyes' deep blue
Hath at times a spirit flashing through,
That speaks of feelings too fierce to dwell
In, woman, thy heart's sweet citadel.
He placed on the golden nuptial band;
But the ring hath cut the maiden's hand,
And the blood dripp'd red on the altar stone,—
Never that stain from the floor hath gone.
Away he flung, with a curse, that ring,
And replaced it with one more glittering;
