That I loved, and how well,
It were madness to tell
To one who hath mock’d at my madd’ning despair.
Like the white wreath of snow
On the Alps’ rugged brow,
Isabel, I have proved thee as cold as thou’rt fair!
’Twas thy boast that I sued,
That you scorn’d as I woo’d—
Though thou of my hopes were the Mount Ararat;
But to-morrow I wed