Beside him bravely struggling, call’d aloud,
“Noble Sicilian, on!” Oh! had they deem’d
’Twas I who led that rescue, they had spurn’d
Mine aid, though ’twas deliverance; and their looks
Had fallen like blights upon me. There is one,
Whose eye ne’er turn’d on mine but its blue light
Grew softer, trembling through the dewy mist
Raised by deep tenderness! Oh, might the soul,
Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish!
—Is’t not her voice?