Of some night traveller, whose bleeding form
Had toppled from the Summit. Lower still
The Anchoret descended, ’till arrived
At the first ridge of silv’ry battlements,
Where, lifeless, ghastly, paler than the snow
On which her cheek repos’d, his darling Maid
Slept in the dream of Death! Frantic and wild
He clasp’d her stiff’ning form, and bath’d with tears
The lilies of her bosom,—icy cold—
Yet beautiful and spotless.