Page:Rosalind and Helen (Shelley).djvu/70

56 Dragged Lionel's mother, weak and pale, Then died beside her on the sand, And she that temple thence had planned; But it was Lionel's own hand Had wrought the image. Each new moon That lady did, in this lone fane, The rites of a religion sweet, Whose god was in her heart and brain: The seasons' loveliest flowers were strewn On the marble floor beneath her feet, And she brought crowns of sea-buds white, Whose odour is so sweet and faint, And weeds, like branching chrysolyte, Woven in devices fine and quaint, And tears from her brown eyes did stain The altar: need but look upon That dying statue, fair and wan, If tears should cease, to weep again: And rare Arabian odours came, Though the myrtle copses steaming thence From the hissing frankincense, Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean foam,