With her resolve. ’Twere but to let him die!
Yes, there the life preserving potion stands;
But for one hour might she not fall asleep?
Then, all in tears, she murmured “Infamy!”
And still the struggle lasted, till the German,
Roused by her deep groans from his wandering dreams,
Moved, ill at ease, and, feverish, begged for drink.
Up toward the antique Christ in ivory,
At the bed’s head suspended on the wall,
Irene raised the martyr’s look sublime;