She still’d her heart to listen—all was o’er;
Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh,
Bearing the nightingale’s deep spirit by.
That night Imelda’s voice was in the song—
Lovely it floated through the festive throng
Peopling her father’s halls. That fatal night
Her eye look’d starry in its dazzling light,
And her cheek glow’d with beauty’s flushing dyes,
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies—
A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze