Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own;
Thus much she viewed an instant and no more,—
Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan;
On her Sire's arm, which until now scarce held
Her writhing, fell she like a cedar felled.
LIX.
A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes[DW]
Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er;[245]
And her head drooped, as when the lily lies
O'ercharged with rain: her summoned handmaids bore