XXXVII

Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright

      With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof

From the poor girl by magic of their light,

      The while it did unthread the horrid woof

Of the late darken'd time,—the murderous spite

      Of pride and avarice,—the dark pine roof

In the forest,—and the sodden turfed dell,

Where, without any word, from stabs he fell.