LI

In anxious secrecy they took it home,

      And then the prize was all for Isabel:

She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb,

      And all around each eye's sepulchral cell

Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared loam

      With tears, as chilly as a dripping well,

She drench'd away: and still she comb'd, and kept

Sighing all day—and still she kiss'd and wept.