That, woven in fruit-like clusters, hung above,
Starring the raven curtains of her hair—
Declared such calm of happiness, as never
Her passionate life had known. No show of pain—
No writhed muscle—no distorted cheek,
Deformed the beautiful picture of repose,
Or spoke th’ unequal struggle, when fond life
Strives with its dread antipathy. Her limbs
Lay pliant, with composure, on the couch,
Whose draperies loosely fell about her form,