CII.

First she begins to chafe him till she faints,
Then falls upon his mouth with kisses many,
And sometimes pauses in her own complaints
To list his breathing, but there is not any,—­
Then looks into his eyes where no light dwells;
Light makes no pictures in such muddy wells.

CIII.

The hot sun parches his discover’d eyes,
The hot sun beats on his discolor’d limbs,
The sand is oozy whereupon he lies,
Soiling his fairness;—­then away she swims,
Meaning to gather him a daintier bed,
Plucking the cool fresh weeds, brown, green, and red.

CIV.

But, simple-witted thief, while she dives under,
Another robs her of her amorous theft;
The ambush’d fishermen creep forth to plunder,
And steal the unwatch’d treasure she has left;
Only his void impression dints the sands;
Leander is purloin’d by stealthy hands!

CV.

Lo! how she shudders off the beaded wave,
Like Grief all over tears, and senseless falls,—­
His void imprint seems hollow’d for her grave;
Then, rising on her knees, looks round and calls
On “Hero!  Hero!” having learn’d this name
Of his last breath, she calls him by the same.

CVI.

Then with her frantic hands she rends her hairs,
And casts them forth, sad keepsakes to the wind,
As if in plucking those she plucked her cares;
But grief lies deeper, and remains behind
Like a barb’d arrow, rankling in her brain,
Turning her very thoughts to throbs of pain.

CVII.

Anon her tangled locks are left alone,
And down upon the sand she meekly sits,
Hard by the foam, as humble as a stone,
Like an enchanted maid beside her wits,
That ponders with a look serene and tragic,
Stunn’d by the mighty mystery of magic.

CVIII.

Or think of Ariadne’s utter trance,
Crazed by the flight of that disloyal traitor,
Who left her gazing on the green expanse
That swallowed up his track,—­yet this would mate her,
Ev’n in the cloudy summit of her woe,
When o’er the far sea-brim she saw him go.

CIX.

For even so she bows, and bends her gaze
O’er the eternal waste, as if to sum
Its waves by weary thousands all her days,
Dismally doom’d! meanwhile the billows come,
And coldly dabble with her quiet feet,
Like any bleaching stones they wont to greet.

CX.

And thence into her lap have boldly sprung,
Washing her weedy tresses to and fro,
That round her crouching knees have darkly hung;
But she sits careless of waves’ ebb and flow,
Like a lone beacon on a desert coast,
Showing where all her hope was wreck’d and lost.