That girds the Virgin’s brow no more shall save.
Death rained on Lanz beneath each sparkling gem.
A Madre de Dolór is Mary now to them!
XVII.
Night falls around—in dark and dense defile
Nial and Morton with their gallant host,
Where even by daylight rarest sunbeams smile,
In Leron’s frightful wilderness are lost.
By frowning precipice, through crags high-tost
By earthquakes old—through forests grimly black,