And fix’d, as by some high enchantment, there
He stood—till wonder yielded to despair.
“The dream is vanish’d—daughter of my foes!
Reft of each hope the lonely wanderer goes.
Thy words have pierced his soul; yet deem thou not
Thou couldst be once adored, and e’er forgot!
Oh, form’d for happier love, heroic maid!
In grief sublime, in danger undismay’d,
Farewell, and be thou blest!—all words were vain
From him who ne’er may view that form again—