“Oh, lily torn and crushed,” he said, “thou art gone! Mine--mine--though Fate had given thee to another. Let cold, weak hearts condemn the love whose dawn Was ere the altar bound thee to a brother. I sought that world-condemnéd love to smother-- As well might stifle a volcano, bind The ocean-wave, or bid the yearning mother Curse her first-born. The cloister more enshrined Thy image--Solitude the gold but more refined! XXXIX. “Sack-cloth, the fast, the scourge could not o’ercome The force of passion tyrant-strong like this; Heart-rooted, it can ne’er be torn but from My heart with life. Grief, anguish, Death e’en, miss The aim to mar it. Memory’s self is bliss-- An anguished bliss--the only I can know. My love hath fed on agony. A kiss, Stol’n from thee once unwilling, soothed my wo, When after days of fast had laid me fainting low! XL. “Cloisters are not for me. Ascetic bands, Although of iron, chain not souls like mine. Withes bind not giants, twirled by pigmy hands. Earth’s hidden fires the globe cannot confine. They burst in lava torrents! Shade divine Of Isidor, the fires within my breast Consume me--for a sight of thee I pine. Thy lovely lips must yet once more be prest, Even though in death, or ere I find eternal rest!” XLI. Then with a frantic energy he tore The earth light-piled upon the new-made grave; Digging with kite-like nails till they were sore, But slow his progress, dire the toil he gave. Ill brooked his soul of time to be the slave. Again he tore the earth, till stiff and numb His hands refuse the task. Not demons rave More wild than he; he shrieked and howled o’ercome; And tears like molten lead descend till he is dumb! XLII. Sudden a thought flashed o’er him--he is gone, Swift as the antelope, and soon returns With spade and mattock--unto Heaven ’tis known Where found, but frantic energy that burns Like his the will that shapes a way inurns; And rapid his career the churchyard ’mid. Now, now the clay to either side he spurns With swift-plied implements in earth deep hid, And now his mattock strikes upon a coffin-lid! XLIII. He yelled for joy! In vain his fingers flew To loose the firm new lid--it mocks his art. His toil with ten-fold zeal he doth renew, And clear the earth away from every part. Oh now, how glare his eyes, how bounds his heart! Gently his mattock’s pressure is applied ’Twixt lid and coffin till the strong nails start; Gently, for all is sacred by her side, Loveliest of Vascon maids, who Virtue’s martyr died! XLIV.