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 | Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven |  |
71
CIX.
Her looks were on the corse. No more he said.
Deeper the darkness grew; 'twas near the dawn:
And chilled and sorrowing through the air he sped,
And in Hircania's deepest shades, ere morn,
Deeper the darkness grew; 'twas near the dawn:
And chilled and sorrowing through the air he sped,
And in Hircania's deepest shades, ere morn,
Was hidden 'mid the leaves. Low moaned the blast,
And chilly mists obscured the rising sun:
So bitter were his tears, that, where he past,
Was blighted every flower they fell upon.
And chilly mists obscured the rising sun:
So bitter were his tears, that, where he past,
Was blighted every flower they fell upon.
| Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven | |