But then her low tones falter’d:—“On thy breast
Is the stain—yes, ’tis blood! And that cold cheek—
That moveless lip!—thou dost not slumber?—speak,
Speak, Azzo, my beloved! No sound—no breath—
What hath come thus between our spirits? Death!
Death?—I but dream—I dream!” And there she stood,
A faint fair trembler, gazing first on blood,
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown,
Her form sustain’d by that dark stem alone,
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old,