“Look up, my ZELICA—one moment show “Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know “Thy life, thy loveliness is not all gone, “But _there_, at least, shines as it ever shone. “Come, look upon thy AZIM—one dear glance, “Like those of old, were heaven! whatever chance “Hath brought thee here, oh, ’twas a blessed one! “There—my lov’d lips—they move—that kiss hath run “Like the first shoot of life through every vein, “And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again. “Oh the delight—now, in this very hour, “When had the whole rich world been in my power, “I should have singled out thee, only thee, “From the whole world’s collected treasury— “To have thee here—to hang thus fondly o’er “My own, best, purest ZELICA once more!” It was indeed the touch of those fond lips Upon her eyes that chas’d their short eclipse, And, gradual as the snow, at Heaven’s breath, Melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath, Her lids unclos’d, and the bright eyes were seen Gazing on his—not, as they late had been, Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene; As if to lie, even for that tranced minute, So near his heart, had consolation in it; And thus to wake in his belov’d caress Took from her soul one half its wretchedness. But, when she heard him call her good and pure, Oh, ’twas too much—too dreadful to endure! Shudd’ring she broke away from his embrace, And, hiding with both hands her guilty face, Said, in a tone whose anguish would have riven A heart of very marble, “Pure!—oh Heaven!”— That tone—those looks so chang’d—the withering blight, That sin and sorrow leave where’er they light; The dead despondency of those sunk eyes, Where once, had he thus met her by surprise, He would have seen himself, too happy boy, Reflected in a thousand lights of joy; And then the place,—that bright, unholy place, Where vice lay hid beneath each winning grace And charm of luxury, as the viper weaves Its wily covering of sweet balsam leaves,—[95] All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold As death itself;—it needs not to be told— No, no—he sees it all, plain as the brand Of burning shame can mark—whate’er the hand, That could from Heaven and him such brightness sever, ’Tis done—to Heaven and him she’s lost for ever! It was a dreadful moment; not the tears, The lingering, lasting misery of years Could match that minute’s anguish—all the worst Of sorrow’s elements in that dark burst Broke o’er his soul, and, with one crash of fate, Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate.