It scarce could seem idolatry to adore. He who beheld her hand forgot her face; Yet in that face was all beside forgot; And he who, as she went, beheld her pace, And locks profuse, had said, "nay, turn thee not." Idaspes, the Medean vizier, or prime minister, has reflected on the maiden's story, and is alarmed for the safety of his youthful sovereign, who consents to some delay and experiment, but will not be dissuaded from his design until five inmates of his palace have fallen dead in the captive's apartment. The last of these is Altheetor, a favorite of the king, (whose Greek name is intended to express his qualities,) and the circumstances of his death, and the consequent grief of Egla and despair of Zophiel, are painted with a beauty, power and passion scarcely surpassed. Touching his golden harp to prelude sweet, Entered the youth, so pensive, pale, and fair; Advanced respectful to the virgin's feet, And, lowly bending down, made tuneful parlance there. Like perfume, soft his gentle accents rose, And sweetly thrilled the gilded roof along; His warm, devoted soul no terror knows, And truth and love lend fervor to his song. She hides her face upon her couch, that there She may not see him die. No groan--she springs Frantic between a hope-beam and despair, And twines her long hair round him as he sings. Then thus: "O! being, who unseen but near, Art hovering now, behold and pity me! For love, hope, beauty, music--all that's dear, Look, look on me, and spare my agony! Spirit! in mercy make not me the cause, The hateful cause, of this kind being's death! In pity kill me first! He lives--he draws-- Thou wilt not blast?--he draws his harmless breath!" Still lives Altheetor; still unguarded strays One hand o'er his fallen lyre; but all his soul Is lost--given up. He fain would turn to gaze, But cannot turn, so twined. Now all that stole Through every vein, and thrilled each separate nerve, Himself could not have told--all wound and clasped In her white arms and hair. Ah! can they serve To save him? "What a sea of sweets!" he gasped, But 'twas delight: sound, fragrance, all were breathing. Still swelled the transport: "Let me look and thank:" He sighed (celestial smiles his lips enwreathing,) "I die--but ask no more," he said, and sank; Still by her arms supported--lower--lower-- As by soft sleep oppressed; so calm, so fair, He rested on the purple tapestried floor, It seemed an angel lay reposing there. And Zophiel exclaims,