Through the half open'd casement stream'd the light Of the departing sun. The golden haze Of the red western sky fell warm and bright Into that chamber large and lone: the blaze Touch'd slantingly curtain and couch, and threw A glory over many an antique gem, Won from the entombed cities that once grew At the volcano's foot. Mingled with them Stood crystal bowls, through which the broken ray Fell like a shower of precious stones, and lay Reflected upon marble; these were crown'd With blushing flowers, fresh and glittering yet With diamond rain-drops. On the crimson ground A shining volume, clasp'd with gold and jet, And broken petals of a passion-flower Lay by the lady of this silent bower. Her rippling hair fell from her pearly round That strove to clasp its billowy curls: the light Hung like a glory on their waves of gold. Her velvet robe, in many a violet fold, Like the dark pansy's downy leaf, was bound With a gold zone, and clasp'd with jewels bright, That glow'd and glanced as with a magic flame Whene'er her measured breathing stirr'd her frame. Upon her breast and shoulders lay a veil Of curious needle-work, as pure and pale As a fine web of ivory, wrought with care, Through which her snowy skin show'd smooth and fair. Upon the hand that propp'd her drooping head, A precious emerald, like a fairy well, Gleam'd with dark solemn lustre; a rich thread Of rare round pearls--such as old legends tell The Egyptian queen pledged to her Roman lord, When in her cup a kingdom's price she pour'd,-- Circled each soft white arm. A painter well Might have been glad to look upon her face, For it was full of beauty, truth, and grace; And from her lustrous eyes her spirit shone Serene, and strong, and still, as from a throne. _Friday, 7th._