THE CHILD OF THE SEA.
89
There stood she, even as a statue stands,
With head droop'd downward, and with clasped hands;
Such small white hands that match'd her ivory feet,
How may they bear that scorching fire to meet!
On her pale cheek there lay a tear, but one
Cold as the icicle of carved stone.
Despair weeps not. Her lip moved as in prayer
Unconsciously; as if prayers had been there,
And they moved now from custom. Triumphing,
Sir Amice rode around the weeping ring:
Once, twice, the trumpet challenges: all fear
To meet th' accuser's never erring spear.
Her lip grows ghastly pale, closes her eye,
It cannot meet its last of agony.
But, hark! there comes a distant rushing sound,
The crowd gives way before a courser's bound.
