With frame festooned by many a folded rose—
But not for eyes like theirs that gentle sight,
So calm, so sweet, so beautiful, so bright.
XII.
Gilbert looked round—oh now no more they turn,
With answering glances, to his looks that burn.
Wounded and bleeding, scarce the nerveless hand
Can now sustain the deeply reddened brand,
Yet, half unconscious, round his form they close—
Alas! weak fence are they from savage foes.