What cry too faint to reach the ear of love? Through Isidora’s casement pierced his moan, When Morn’s first beam Pyrene rose above, And roused her faithful heart with plaintive tone. Another cry--to the casement she hath flown. Oh, sight of agony--her lover lies Blood-boltered at her feet! With groan on groan His breast Apollo-like doth heave and rise, And ghastly pale his cheek, and glaring white his eyes. XII. With one wild shriek of agony she fell Upon the floor the casement-ledge beside; And swooned so deep, that but for Isabel Close within earshot, aidless she had died. But reached that voice, so piteously it cried, Salustian’s inmost soul, and called him forth With Aya, handmaids, servitors, who tried Full many a remedy in vain:--“Wo worth “The day that gave, my child, this frantic terror birth!” XIII. She oped her eyes, and shuddered slightly--gave A feeble cry--and uttered Carlos’ name; Then toward the window glanced, as if to crave Assistance--sad yet sweet her breathing came-- Then sobs and tears--then sparkling dewy flame, Her eyes such passion showed as angels feel. “Carlos--the window!” she doth now exclaim. Both eye and tongue love’s mystery reveal-- And Carlos soon they find--through _her_, too, past the steel! XIV. Long Carlos fluttering lay ’twixt life and death, But what could Isidora’s balm exclude, Her dewy fingers’ pressure, violet breath, Her tender care, and sweet solicitude? And day by day his growing cure she viewed Spring ’neath her hand like rarest, frailest flower, Till the fresh hues of health again exude Through every pore, and young love’s blooming dower Glows o’er his rounded cheek, like rose for Beauty’s bower. XV. And where is he--the Fratricide? Within A gloomy convent cloistered, gowned, and shorn, He strives to curb his passion, shrive his sin-- Against all world-communion deeply sworn. Yet Isidora’s image oft is borne Through twilight of the cell before his eye, Maddening his heart untamed, despairing, lorn; And though the day of Carlos’ bridal’s nigh, In hopeless passion’s thrall that monk will changeless die. XVI. Now, had they _not_ been brothers of the womb!-- I saw two emmets fight with dire intent, As nought could slake their vengeance but the tomb-- As each the other’s head had joyous rent, And gnawed like Ugolino. Why thus bent On slaughter? For a grain of chaff the strife; I thought of human blood inglorious spent In private feud for straws with quarrel rife, And deadly weapons aimed at God’s best gift of life! XVII.