 | Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven |  |
65
LXXXVII.
Still o'er the couch he casts his gentle eyes,And brings fresh balm; but all is unavailing.
Altheëtor faintly breathes his thanks, and sighs,
As if his guiltless life that moment were exhaling.
| Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven | |