VII.

Pale as the livid corse her cheek,

Her tresses torn, her glances wild,--

How fearful was her frantic shriek!

She wept--and then in horrors smil'd:

She gazes now with wild affright,

Lo! bleeding phantoms rush in sight--

Hark! on yon mangled form the mourner calls,

Then on the earth a senseless weight she falls.

Poems (1786), Volume I. · 第 52 / 145 题