But I would have him see the token,
And life-drops of the heart he's broken!"
She said, and cold, and stark, and pale,
Rose-vanished from the friar's sight,

Along the aisle and through the vale,
Like some ethereal form of light,

And never more,

Along that shore,

Nor in that blooming Indian glade,

Was seen the mournful Gipsy maid!

CANTO III.

I.

AURORA'S smile awoke the world,
Backward night's circling vapors curled
Into the raptured ear of day

The lark poured his melodious lay—
And slowly GAMBA strode the dell,
Unmindful of young ISABELLE.

He thought not of his broken troth,
He thought not of that maiden's wroth,
Of all the pangs that she must feel,

Of all the heart cannot reveal,

When left o'er buried hopes to brood,
And sigh itself away in solitude.

He thought not of those burning tears-
The lonely hours that must be hers
Through long and slowly rolling years,-

Oh, GOD! what torture's in those hours,

Whose wings hang drooping o'er the soul,

Like dead sails when aerial powers

Refuse the stagnant waves to roll!

"Tis as amid dim nothingness Eternity did on us press—

Life's sluggish currents all stood still, And Death had clasped us in his chill!

II.

At last, beneath a myrtle bower,

He paused, the slanting beams to shun And bending low to pluck a flower

Just opening to the morning sun,
All lowly laid-in death arrayed,
He there beheld the Gipsy maid
Her eyelids calmly-meekly closed,
Her limbs becomingly composed
As those who lie in sumptuous hall,
Or temple draped in gorgeous pall.

Transfixed he gazed a moment mute-
Now on her brow-now on her lute,
That mid the violets sighing lay

Deeply and true,

As if it knew

Its master hand had turned to clay. Then from his bosom burst a sighTears filled his eye-he knew not why, And torn by many a painful thought

Of this poor Gipsy maiden's strife,

His home with solemn step he sought,
And sate him down beside his wife,
And told her all that he had seen
Of death upon the dewy green;
Then sought his solitary room,

In past and present strove to find
The cause of this depressing gloom,
And melancholy of the mind-
Why from the first her lute-tones fell
On his rapt ear like funeral knell.

III.

Young LEILA's cheek turned ashy white,

And rising up she called for aid,

And like a sainted form of light

With solemn mien she sought the maid

Laved her pale brow from silver cup.
And looped her sable tresses up—
Her form in snowy vesture dressed,
Folded her hands upon her breast
In meekest, and serenest rest-
The rosary said,

And bright tears shed,

As underneath the sod and deep,

They laid her down in her dreamless sleep.

IV.

Meantime, with many a pious thought,
The holy friar GAMBA sought-
Before him placed the garnered gold--
The ring that all his errand told—
To him the maiden's sorrows broke,
And much of faithless lovers spoke,
Then coldly frowning, turned and left
The paling Count, of reason half bereft.

He raised the ring-he scanned it well,
And read upon it "ISABELLE "
Then from his trembling hand it fell--
And peace his bosom bade farewell-
Hope never oped her eyes again—
Joy-consolation came in vain.

VI.

There valiant Knight and Beauty throng-
Gay is the dance-and gay the song,
That flows those sumptuous halls along;
Wine sparkles in the golden bowl-
Joy-mirth from every portal roll-