But when it fix’d on her’s, abash’d it fell.
He knelt, and seem’d to fear her frown. He bore
His club.‘T was splash’d with brains! ’t was wet with
gore!
She fear’d—she guess’d—she rush’d—she ran—she
flew,—
Nor dared the fiend her frantic course pursue.
“Rosalvo! speak! Rosalvo!” Shrill, yet sweet,
She wakes the echoes. What obstructs her feet?
‘T is he, the young, the good, the kind, the fair!