Of Phineus, white with wonder, shook restrained, And the hilt rattled in his marble hand. She heard not, saw not, every sense was gone; One passion banished all; dominion, praise, The world itself was nothing. Senseless man! What would thy fancy figure now from worlds? There is no world to those that grieve and love. She hung upon his bosom, pressed his lips, Breathed, and would feign it his that she resorbed; She chafed the feathery softness of his veins, That swelled out black, like tendrils round their vase After libation: lo! he moves! he groans! He seems to struggle from the grasp of death. Charoba shrieked and fell away, her hand Still clasping his, a sudden blush o’erspread Her pallid humid cheek, and disappeared. ’Twas not the blush of shame—what shame has woe?— ’Twas not the genuine ray of hope, it flashed With shuddering glimmer through unscattered clouds, It flashed from passions rapidly opposed. Never so eager, when the world was waves, Stood the less daughter of the ark, and tried (Innocent this temptation!) to recall With folded vest and casting arm the dove; Never so fearful, when amid the vines Rattled the hail, and when the light of heaven Closed, since the wreck of Nature, first eclipsed, As she was eager for his life’s return, As she was fearful how his groans might end. They ended: cold and languid calm succeeds; His eyes have lost their lustre, but his voice Is not unheard, though short: he spake these words: “And weepest thou, Charoba! shedding tears More precious than the jewels that surround The neck of kings entombed! then weep, fair queen, At once thy pity and my pangs assuage. Ah! what is grandeur, glory—they are past! When nothing else, not life itself, remains, Still the fond mourner may be called our own. Should I complain of Fortune? how she errs, Scattering her bounty upon barren ground, Slow to allay the lingering thirst of toil? Fortune, ’tis true, may err, may hesitate, Death follows close nor hesitates nor errs. I feel the stroke! I die!” He would extend His dying arm; it fell upon his breast: Cold sweat and shivering ran o’er every limb, His eyes grew stiff, he struggled and expired. COUNT JULIAN. CHARACTERS. COUNT JULIAN. RODERIGO, _King of Spain_. OPAS, _Metropolitan of Seville_. SISABERT, _betrothed to_ COVILLA. MUZA, _Prince of Mauritania_. ABDALAZIS, _Son of_ MUZA. TARIK, _Moorish Chieftain_. COVILLA, _Daughter of_ JULIAN. EGILONA, _Wife of_ RODERIGO. HERNANDO, OSMA, RAMIRO, &c. } _Officers_. FIRST ACT: FIRST SCENE. _Camp of_ JULIAN. OPAS. JULIAN. _Opas_. See her, Count Julian: if thou lovest God, See thy lost child.