Spring ’neath her hand like rarest, frailest flower,
Till the fresh hues of health again exude
Through every pore, and young love’s blooming dower
Glows o’er his rounded cheek, like rose for Beauty’s bower.
XV.
And where is he—the Fratricide? Within
A gloomy convent cloistered, gowned, and shorn,
He strives to curb his passion, shrive his sin—
Against all world-communion deeply sworn.
Yet Isidora’s image oft is borne