Shadows are gathering round her: seest thou not
The misty dimness of the spoiler’s breath
Hangs o’er her beauty; and the face which made
The summer of our hearts, now doth but send,
With every glance, deep bodings through the soul,
Telling of early fate?
Gon. I see a change
Far nobler on her brow! She is as one,
Who, at the trumpet’s sudden call, hath risen
From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down