Half grieved, half grateful, Irza raised her eye:
Still on the rock (not dared he down to spring)
Dark and majestic stood the demon-king;
Then lowly knelt, and raised his arm to wave
An orange bough, and court her to his cave.
Lost are her friends; no help, no hope is nigh;
What can she do, and whither can she fly?
To him already twice her life she owes,
And but his presence now restrains her foes.
On wings of flame the sun had left the main;