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 | Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven |  |
CXII.
“There's a nepenthic draught, which the warm breath
Of mortals, when they quaff, keeps in suspense,
Giving the pale similitude of death
While thus chained up the quick perceptive sense.
Of mortals, when they quaff, keeps in suspense,
113
While thus chained up the quick perceptive sense.
“Haply 'twere possible.—But to the shrine,
Where like a god I guard Cephroniel's gift!”
Soon through the rock they wind: the draught divine
Was hidden by a veil the king alone might lift.
Where like a god I guard Cephroniel's gift!”
Soon through the rock they wind: the draught divine
Was hidden by a veil the king alone might lift.
| Zóphiël ; or, the bride of seven | |