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Footsteps ! — more near they drew : — slow rolled the 

 stone — 



The infernal gaoler came, but came alone. 

 With anxious glance his eye explored the cell ; 

 But when it fix'd on her's, abash'd it fell. 

 He knelt, and seem'd to fear her frown. He bore 

 His club. 'Twas splash'd with brains! 'twas wet with 

 gore ! 



She fear'd — she guess'd — she rush'd — she ran — she 

 flew, — 



Nor dared the fiend her frantic course pursue. 



" Rosalvo ! speak ! Rosalvo !" Shrill, yet sweet, 



She wakes the echoes. What obstructs her feet ? 



'T is he, the young, the good, the kind, the fair ! 



As some frail lily, which the passing share* 



Or wanton boy hath wounded, droops its head, 



Its whiteness wither'd* and its fragrance fled, 



Low lay the youth, and from his temple's wound 



With precious streams bedew'd the ensanguin'd ground. 



Then reason fled its seat ! She shrieks ! she raves ! 

 And fills with hideous yells the ocean caves ; 

 Rends her bright locks, and laughs to see them fly, 

 And bids them seek Rosalvo in the sky. 

 To dig his grave she fiercely ploughs the ground, 

 Loud shrieks his name, nor feels the flints that wound 

 Her bosom's globes, and stain their snow with gore, 

 As wild she dashes down, and beats in rage the floor. 



Now fail her strength, her spirits ; mute she sits, 

 Silent and sad ; then laughs and sings by fits. 

 A statue now she seems, or one just dead, 

 Her looks all gloom, her eyes two balls of lead : 

 Then simply smiles, and chaunts, with idiot glee, 

 " Ave Maria ! Benedicite !" 

 Till, Nature's powers revived by rest, again 

 The fury passions riot in her brain, 

 And all is rage, revenge, and helpless, hopeless pain, 



" Purpureus veluti flos," &c. — Virgil, 



