LVII

O leave the palm to wither by itself;

      Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour!—

It may not be—those Baälites of pelf,

      Her brethren, noted the continual shower

From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf,

      Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower

Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside

By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride.