XXXIV.
Yet noble as thou wert, thy hand was armed
’Gainst thine own life. ’Neath that terrific shock
Thy great heart broke! The eye that Morton charmed
Burst with its grief-flood like the Prophet’s rock.
Cold, callous wordlings, do not Blanca mock.
Her fault was generous—that she loved too much.
Not long did Anguish at her bosom knock.
Like Indian brides when Death their lords doth clutch,