The tower is reached—quivers with rage suppressed
Don Carlos’ lip—Salustian’s cheek is pale,
And pants fair Isidora’s fluttering breast,
Like linnet o’er whose nest kites sharp-beaked sail.
Well might that night of horrors make thee quail,
Daughter of Vascongada! Rent the air,
Till morning dawned nor ceased ev’n then, the wail
Of hopeless Anguish where the voice of Prayer
Was choked, and shriek on shriek gave utterance to Despair.
XXIX.