THE ROSE.
189
The scene is changed, the maiden is alone
To brood upon Hope's temple overthrown;
The hue has left her lip, the light her eye,
And she has flung her down as if to die.
Back from her forehead was the rich hair swept,
Which yet its festal braid of roses kept.
She was in solitude: the silent room
Was in the summer's sweet and shadowy gloom;
The sole light from the oratory came,
Where a small lamp sent forth its scented flame
Beneath the Virgin's picture; but the wind
Stole from the casement, for the jasmine twined,
With its luxuriant boughs, too thickly grew,
To let the few dim star-beams wander through.
In her hand was a rose; she held the flower
As if her eye were spellbound by its power.
