LXI.
She look’d up wildly; there were anxious eyes
Waiting that look—sad eyes of troubled thought,
Alvar’s—Theresa’s! Did her childhood rise,
With all its pure and home-affections fraught,
In the brief glance? She clasp’d her hands—the strife
Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life,
Within her woman’s breast so deeply wrought,
It seem’d as if a reed so slight and weak
Must, in the rending storm not quiver only—break!