Their blooming wreaths, all starred with midnight dews,
A thousand creeping plants of thousand hues.
Then flashed the dreadful truth on Irza’s view!
That cave—those trees—that giant palm she knew!
Then from her lips for ever fled the smile:
—“Mother of God!” she shrieked, “the Demon-Isle!”—
Long on a broken crag she knelt, and prayed,
And wearied every saint for strength and aid;
Then speechless, heedless, senseless lay; when, lo!
Strange mutterings near her roused from torpid woe