 | Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven |  |
LXI.
And, while Alcestes' bolder glances stray
O'er the fair trembler to his monarch dear,
Not one distrustful whispering came to allay
The sudden joy with slightest shade of fear.
O'er the fair trembler to his monarch dear,
Not one distrustful whispering came to allay
The sudden joy with slightest shade of fear.
A dark-haired priestess, well he knew, of late
Had Meles loved; and, for the mystery
That hung so darkly o'er his early fate,
Looked for no deadlier cause than wounded jealousy.
Had Meles loved; and, for the mystery
That hung so darkly o'er his early fate,
Looked for no deadlier cause than wounded jealousy.
| Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven | |