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Her hand was ice, the life pulse was unheard;
But at his passionate and wild lament,
A ray yet glanc'd upon her vacant eye,
Which to Orlando turn'd, as it would close
In gazing on the face she had so lov'd;—
Then faintly strove to breathe forgiving sounds,
Low, inarticulate. Upon her neck
He threw himself;—that murmur was her last—
The lip he press'd was cold!
XVI.
A curse was laid upon him!—gold and power,
Beauty and fame were his, yet still there hung
That shadow on his brow; and never smile
Was seen to lighten o'er his face: he mov'd
As if beneath the influence of some spell,
Darkening his soul; his sleep was not repose.
