BOOK THE EIGHTH.
303
Yet gazing on her oft with eloquent eye,
Looking the consolation that they fear'd
To give a voice to. Now they reach'd the dome: 785
The glaring torches o'er the house of death
Stream'd a sad splendour. Flowers and funeral herbs
Bedeck'd the bier of Theodore: the rue,
The dark green rosemary, and the violet,
That pluck'd like him withered in its first bloom. 790
Dissolved in sorrow, Isabel her grief
Pour'd copious; Conrade wept: the Maid alone
Was tearless, for she stood, unheedingly,
Gazing the vision'd scene of her last hour,
Absorb'd in contemplation; from her eye 795
Intelligence was absent; nor she seem'd
To hear, tho' listening to the dirge of death.
Laid in his last home now was Theodore,
And now upon the coffin thrown, the earth
Fell heavy: the Maid started—for the sound 800
Smote on her heart; her eye one lightning glance
Shot wild, and shuddering, upon Isabel
Looking the consolation that they fear'd
To give a voice to. Now they reach'd the dome: 785
The glaring torches o'er the house of death
Stream'd a sad splendour. Flowers and funeral herbs
Bedeck'd the bier of Theodore: the rue,
The dark green rosemary, and the violet,
That pluck'd like him withered in its first bloom. 790
Dissolved in sorrow, Isabel her grief
Pour'd copious; Conrade wept: the Maid alone
Was tearless, for she stood, unheedingly,
Gazing the vision'd scene of her last hour,
Absorb'd in contemplation; from her eye 795
Intelligence was absent; nor she seem'd
To hear, tho' listening to the dirge of death.
Laid in his last home now was Theodore,
And now upon the coffin thrown, the earth
Fell heavy: the Maid started—for the sound 800
Smote on her heart; her eye one lightning glance
Shot wild, and shuddering, upon Isabel
She
