His forehead was all gash’d and gor’d— His vest was black and flowing His strong hand grasp’d a dagger keen, And wild and frantic was his mien, Dread signs of terror, showing. “O fly me not!” the BARON cried, “In HEAV’N’s name, do not fear me!” Just as he spoke the bell thrice toll’d— Three paly lamps they now behold— While a faint voice, cried,—“HEAR ME!” And now, upon the threshold low, The wounded GOLFRE, kneeling, Again to HEAV’N address’d his pray’r; The waning Moon, with livid glare, Was down the dark sky stealing. They led him in, they bath’d his wounds, Tears, to the red stream adding: The haughty GOLFRE gaz’d, admir’d! The Peasant Girl his fancy fir’d, And set his senses, madding! He prest her hand; she turn’d away, Her blushes deeper glowing, Her cheek still spangled o’er with tears; So the wild rose more fresh appears When the soft dews are flowing! Again, the BARON fondly gaz’d; Poor ZORIETTO trembled; And GOLFRE watch’d her throbbing breast Which seem’d, with weighty woes oppress’d, And softest LOVE, dissembled. The GOATHERD, fourscore years had seen, And he was sick and needy; The BARON wore a SWORD OF GOLD, Which Poverty might well behold, With eyes, wide stretch’d, and greedy! The dawn arose! The yellow light Around the Alps spread chearing! The BARON kiss’d the GOATHERD’s child— “Farewell!” she cried,—and blushing smil’d— No future peril fearing. Now GOLFRE homeward bent his way His breast with passion burning: The Chapel bell was rung, for pray’r, And all—save GOLFRE, prostrate there— Thank’d HEAV’N, for his returning! _GOLFRE_, _PART THIRD_. Three times the orient ray was seen Above the East cliff mounting, When GOLFRE sought the Cottage Grace To share the honours of his race, With treasures, beyond counting! The Ev’ning Sun was burning red The Twilight veil spread slowly; While ZORIETTO, near the wood Where long a little cross had stood, Was singing Vespers holy.