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But once she caught his eye of flame;
But then!—O, how distracting came

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Her self-reproach, for all that led
Her heart to watch a madman's tread!
Still—still he bounds from cliff to cliff—
Like some light vaulting, airy skiff—
Upon the stormy billows tost,
When all but hope and faith are lost:
Still—still he plunges on his course;
Still straining on with maniac force—
From rock to rock, as if he were
Some spirit sporting on the air:
Unconscious of the dying maid,
That on his naked breast is laid—
Her hair flows loose—her dark eyes close,
Fled is the faintly breathing rose,
That lately tinged her cheek:
Sudden her dread descent is staid—
One bound!—his lifeless charge is laid
Upon a bank, and he is near,
Half kneeling in his maniac fear:
And now she moves!—her head she raises—
She starts, and round in terror gazes—
With wild half-uttered shriek—
For lo! before her bows a form,
Like some young genius of the storm—
And while she gazes on his eye,
Uplifted in idolatry,
She hears a stranger speak!