She woke at last from her long swoon, To hope that Death would triumph soon, And the mad pulses of her frame, With icy touch, forever tame: She woke with features ashy white, And wildly gazed upon the plank That deeply, freely in the night The crimson of his veins had drank: Then raising heavenward her eye, In still, expecting posture stood, As if a troop from realms on high Were coming down, with battle-songs, To wash out sternly in the blood Of coward-hearts her many wrongs: No tear-drop came to her relief In that wild, parching hour of grief, The tender plant of love she knew Would into verdure break no more— The spot was _arid_ where it grew In green luxuriance before. She knew henceforth her lot below Would be to quaff the cup of pain— On thing of Earth she could not throw The sunlight of her smile again: The voice was still whose melting tone Had vied in sweetness with her own— The hiding wave had closed above The only object of her love: And Rispah, as strict watch she kept, While cold, like forms of Parian stone, Her sons on gory couches slept, Felt not more desolate and lone.