"And woman who had wept her loveliest dower
There hid her broken heart.
_Paris._ "I do remember it. Twas such a face
As Guido would have loved to dwell upon;
But oh! the touches of his pencil never
Could paint her perfect beauty. In her home
(Which once she did desert) I saw her last;
Propp'd up by pillows, swelling round her like
Soft heaps of snow, yielding, and fit to bear
Her faded figure. I observed her well:
Her brow was fair, but _very_ pale, and look'd
Like stainless marble; a touch methought would soil
Its whiteness. O'er her temple one blue vein
Ran like a tendril; one through her shadowy hand
Branch'd like the fibre of a leaf--away.
Her mouth was tremulous, and her cheek wore then
A flush of beautiful vermilion,
But more like art than nature; and her eye
Spoke as became the youthful Magdalen,
Dying and broken-hearted."