XIV.
“But vain the toil. Thy image, Isidor,
For ever haunted thus my troubled brain.
The prisoned lion doth the fiercer roar,
And chafed my tortured spirit ’neath its chain.
The thought that Isidora”—’Twas in vain
He checked the tears that here began to flow,
Tears that like molten fire adown did rain.—
“The thought that she could not be mine—the wo
Unutterable racked my brain to madness—so!