That most strange, unearthly murmur, acting as a potent spell,
Merely uttering, “Fare thee well!”
Then I turned, about departing, when she from her covert starting,
Stood before me while her bosom seemed with agony to swell,
And her eye so mildly beaming, to my aching spirit seeming,
To my wildered spirit seeming, like the eye of Isabel.
But, oh! that which followed after—listen while the tale I tell—
Of that snow-white, sweet gazelle.
With her dark eye backward turning, as if some mysterious yearning
In her soul to me was moving, which she could not thence expel,