Page:Rosalind and Helen (Shelley, Forman).djvu/47

Rh Not far from where we dwelt, there stood In record of a sweet sad story, An altar and a temple bright Circled by steps, and o'er the gate Was sculptured, "To Fidelity;" And in the shrine an image sate, All veiled: but there was seen the light Of smiles, which faintly could express A mingled pain and tenderness Through that ethereal drapery. The left hand held the head, the right— Beyond the veil, beneath the skin, You might see the nerves quivering within— Was forcing the point of a barbed dart Into its side-convulsing heart. An unskilled hand, yet one informed With genius, had the marble warmed With that pathetic life. This tale It told: A dog had from the sea, When the tide was raging fearfully, 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 chrysolite, Woven in devices fine and quaint,