Page:Oriental Sketches Dramatic Sketches and Tales.pdf/166

Rh

Upon a bed of straw by famine pinched, With nothing save my tears to quench thy thirst And bless my fate: how very wretched then Must be my lot since happiness is shaped By hopeless anguish in such horrid forms? My Veronica, when the laurel wreath Was twined around my brow, when at my feet. The brilliant trophies of successful war Were laid by prostrate kings—in that proud hour ⠀ Fancy portrayed thee as the hero's bride, Thy timid beauty crowned with dazzling gems, Thy chariot drawn by thronging multitudes Eager to pay thee homage, 'mid the sound Of swelling instruments, but sweeter far The music of a grateful people's prayers— A fearful change, my Veronica! barred Within a noisome dungeon; from thine arms Dragged to a shameful death. My love hath been To thee a blighting curse; that form of light,