112
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Yet, young Irene, on thy side
Is not all triumph's panting pride;
For, like clouds on a troubled sky,
Red and white shades alternate fly
Over thy face; now like the stone
Colour hath never breathed upon,
Now crimson'd with a sudden flush,
As if thy heart had dyed thy blush.
The rebel prince is passing near,—
Thy bearing droops in sudden fear;
He passes, and thine eye is dim
With anxious gazing after him,
And tears are darkening its blue,
Shining on the long lash like dew.
Beautiful weakness! oh, if weak,
That woman's heart should tinge her cheek!
