As some frail lily, which the passing share *
Or wanton boy hath wounded, droops its head,
Its whiteness wither’d, and its fragrance fled,
Low lay the youth, and from his temple’s wound
With precious streams bedew’d the ensanguin’d ground.
Then reason fled its seat! She shrieks! she raves!
And fills with hideous yells the ocean caves;
Rends her bright locks, and laughs to see them fly,
And bids them seek Rosalvo in the sky.
To dig his grave she fiercely ploughs the ground,