as if in dread,
    The finny sprites blew the shrill note of war,
    At which an hundred warriors gathered round. 
    Olive they seized and shut her in a cell—­
    The very temple she had so admired—­
    Where, heedless of her piteous shrieks and tears
    They left her to her grief; while BERTHO went,
    Securely guarded by their threatening spears,
    Following his conqueror’s receding steps.

    Poor Olive, the forlornest captive bird
    That ever beat its heart out in a cage,
    Fluttered the pinions of her restless will
    In vain against her dungeon.  What cared she
    That this same dungeon had an emrald floor
    And lattice-work of gold, or that the spring
    Which closed the door, was on a jewel hinged? 
    The lustre of the cave flowed through her cell,
    And she could strain her weary eyes to catch
    Glimpses of splendor, which but mocked her state.

    The tiresome days rolled round, never relieved
    By the refreshing shadows of the night;
    Until the lamps so often counted o’er,
    Seemed burning in her brain; and she had fears
    That madness lurked within her feverish veins. 
    The ghouls who chanced to pass her, never spake;
    At last, with joy, the stranger of the mount
    She saw approaching: 

                        “Ah!  Sir John,” she cried—­
    Her pale face, peering through the lattice-work—­
    “Thou find’st me in a miserable plight—­
    A closer prisoner by far than thou.”

    “Why, thou bright bird, has OENE caged thee here—­
    Prisoned an oriole in her Arctic bowers? 
    ’Tis well we meet.  As I was solacing
    My banishment, by wandering here and there,
    Greeting old Thug by the day’s sickly smile,
    I chanced within this cavern, where surprise
    And pleasure lured me on from scene to scene. 
    What tyrant holds thee in this glittering cell?”

    “From OENE’s anger I am suffering,—­
    Yes, dear sir John, from more than angry hate—­
    From that implacable passion, worst of all,
    And cruelest of purpose, jealousy. 
    I’d trust the tenderness of hungry wolves,
    The beauty of the cobra, or the talk
    Of waters to the rocks—­but not the will
    Of woman, when to jealous thoughts aroused. 
    She binds me here and bears my love away,
    To tempt him with a thousand sweetest wiles—­
    With beauty, wealth, ambition, vanity,
    And all that easiest moves a man’s proud heart. 
    How shall I know if BERTHO—­even he—­
    Has truth or virtue beyond this rich price? 
    Or, she may torture him,—­by pain compel
    Consent to her soft wish and queenly will. 
    Alas, Sir John, I am very miserable!”

    “Shall I not play the messenger, and urge
    Thy cause before her, if, by inquiry,
    I find the Queen still visiting old Thug?”