With her pale, fair brow, and her eyes of love,
Upraised to the Virgin’s portray’d above,
And her hair flung back, till it swept the grave
Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave;
And her fragile frame, at every blast,
That full of the savage war-horn pass’d,
Trembling, as trembles a bird’s quick heart,
When it vainly strives from its cage to part—
So knelt she in her woe;
A weeper alone with the tearless dead—