Half-veil’d a depth of unfathom’d woe.
Stately she stood—though her fragile frame
Seem’d struck with the blight of some inward flame,
And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn,
Under the waves of her dark hair worn.
And a deep flush pass’d, like a crimson haze,
O’er her marble cheek by the pine-fire’s blaze—
No soft hue caught from the south wind’s breath,
But a token of fever at strife with death.
She had been torn from her home away,