Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd,
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last.
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock;
If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock.
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow,
Though dark the shade—it shelter'd,—saved till now.
The thunder came—that bolt hath blasted both,
The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth: 1840
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell,
And of its cold protector, blacken round
But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground!
'Tis morn—to venture on his lonely hour
Few dare—though now Anselmo sought his tower.
He was not there—nor seen along the shore;
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er:
Another morn—another bids them seek,
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak; 1850
Mount—grotto—cavern—valley search'd in vain,
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain—
Their hope revives—they follow o'er the main.