She gathers the fleece of her floating veil

From the nodding shade of his raven plume,

As, gravely pleading, he bends again

To hear those bright lips speak his doom.

—Why does she start and lift her head?

Why are her cheeks devoid of bloom?

He sees the flash of her wide, dark eye,

He hears her clear voice rise and fall:

“Sooner than sell my faith in Christ,