Amid a bloomless myrtle wood, On a green and sea-girt promontory, _1050 Not far from where we dwelt, there stood In record of a sweet sad story, An altar and a temple bright Circled by steps, and o'er the gate Was sculptured, 'To Fidelity;' _1055 And in the shrine an image sate, All veiled: but there was seen the light Of smiles which faintly could express A mingled pain and tenderness Through that ethereal drapery. _1060 The left hand held the head, the right-- Beyond the veil, beneath the skin, You might see the nerves quivering within-- Was forcing the point of a barbed dart Into its side-convulsing heart. _1065 An unskilled hand, yet one informed With genius, had the marble warmed With that pathetic life. This tale It told: A dog had from the sea, When the tide was raging fearfully, _1070 Dragged Lionel's mother, weak and pale, Then died beside her on the sand, And she that temple thence had planned; But it was Lionel's own hand Had wrought the image. Each new moon _1075 That lady did, in this lone fane, The rites of a religion sweet, Whose god was in her heart and brain: The seasons' loveliest flowers were strewn On the marble floor beneath her feet, _1080 And she brought crowns of sea-buds white Whose odour is so sweet and faint, And weeds, like branching chrysolite, Woven in devices fine and quaint. And tears from her brown eyes did stain _1085 The altar: need but look upon That dying statue fair and wan, If tears should cease, to weep again: And rare Arabian odours came, Through the myrtle copses steaming thence _1090 From the hissing frankincense, Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean foam, Hung in dense flocks beneath the dome-- That ivory dome, whose azure night With golden stars, like heaven, was bright-- _1095 O'er the split cedar's pointed flame; And the lady's harp would kindle there The melody of an old air, Softer than sleep; the villagers Mixed their religion up with hers, _1100 And, as they listened round, shed tears.