As a rapt sybil’s. O’er her soul had passed
The wild simoom of wo, but to awake
From that Eolian lyre the loveliest tones
Of mournful music, passionately sad.
Not thus her love the haughty Ida breathed:
In her ideal beauty calm and high,
O’er the patrician paleness of her cheek,
Came, seldom, and how softly! the faint blush
Of irrepressible tenderness.
——