Page:Oriental Sketches Dramatic Sketches and Tales.pdf/194

Rh

And pure affection bless'd me once; dost think. That such attachment e'er could fade? My life. Hangs on thy answer: speak, Giovanni! A stranger, yet familiar with my name. [Aside Who, and what art thou? Oh, it chills my breast To hear thee ask the question; to thy heart Hath not a spirit whispered, 'tis the wreck Of what was once thy precious, best beloved, Thy cherished wife, Rosmunda? Oh! no, no; Her bones are whitening deep beneath the sea; A fathomless abyss enshrines her form; Wave after wave rolls o'er her; she is dead—

The locks that thou wert wont to call the plume Stolen from the raven's wing, have lost their gloss;