“No tint, as in the face:
“He bade my Reason, blossom like the tree—
“But fond affection gave, the ripen’d fruits to thee.
XIV.
“With jealous rage he mark’d my love;
“He sent thee far away;—
“And prison’d in the plantain grove—
“Poor Zelma pass’d the day—
“But ere the moon rose high above the main,
“Zelma, and Love contriv’d, to break the Tyrant’s chain.