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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