Of late none found such favour in his sight As the young Priestess; and though, since that night When the death-caverns echoed every tone Of the dire oath that made her all his own, The’ Impostor, sure of his infatuate prize, Had, more than once, thrown off his soul’s disguise, And utter’d such unheavenly, monstrous things, As even across the desp’rate wanderings Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out, Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt;— Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow, The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow, Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye conceal’d, Would soon, proud triumph! be to her reveal’d, To her alone;—and then the hope, most dear, Most wild of all, that her transgression here Was but a passage through earth’s grosser fire, From which the spirit would at last aspire, Even purer than before,—as perfumes rise Through flame and smoke, most welcome to the skies— And that when AZIM’S fond, divine embrace Should circle her in heaven, no dark’ning trace Would on that bosom he once lov’d remain, But all be bright, be pure, be _his_ again!— These were the wildering dreams, whose curst deceit Had chain’d her soul beneath the tempter’s feet, And made her think even damning falsehood sweet. But now that Shape, which had appall’d her view, That Semblance—oh, how terrible, if true!— Which came across her frenzy’s full career With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe, As when, in northern seas, at midnight dark, An isle of ice encounters some swift bark, And, startling all its wretches from their sleep, By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep;— So came that shock not frenzy’s self could bear, And waking up each long-lull’d image there, But check’d her headlong soul, to sink it in despair! Wan and dejected, through the evening dusk, She now went slowly to that small kiosk, Where, pond’ring alone his impious schemes, MOKANNA waited her—too wrapt in dreams Of the fair-rip’ning future’s rich success, To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless, That sat upon his victim’s downcast brow, Or mark how slow her step, how alter’d now From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound Came like a spirit’s o’er the’ unechoing ground,— From that wild ZELICA, whose every glance Was thrilling fire, whose every thought a trance!