“Oh, if thou would’st and yet—­what should I gain? 
    Nothing, nothing!—­still, I should hear from him—­
    Should know the worst.  I’ll pray for thy success,
    And thank thee from my heart, if thou wilt go!”

    Long time Sir John, misled by wicked sprites,
    Searched for the Queen! until, by some kind chance,
    He wandered through a grotto by the sea,
    Where silver pendules from the ceiling hung
    And gossip ripples whispered at the door. 
    Here, on a seat from solid crystal hewn
    Sat OENE,—­BERTHO at her feet,—­her hand
    Nestled amid the ringlets of his hair,
    Like some white dove amid the wav’ring shade;
    Her eyes bent softly on his countenance;
    The crimson of his fiery southern blood
    Burned through the brown of his defiant cheek;
    His eyes were downcast, that their sullen fire
    Should not too much betray him, as he lay,
    A half-tamed lion at his mistress’ feet,
    Restless, yet yielding to the golden chain. 
    In a low voice, which, like a pent-up stream,
    Chafed at its boundaries, he made reply
    To her incessant questions of the world,
    Of human life and love, of death, and heaven.

    When bold Sir John intruded on the scene
    OENE resumed her native haughtiness.

    “I’ve come to plead the cause of a sweet child,
    Who, like a wild-bird newly caught and caged,
    Within her cell is fretting.  Noble Queen,
    I’m not an eloquent nor fair young man,
    To please a gentle fancy; but my tongue
    And mind shall do thy bidding, should there be
    Aught which my humble wisdom could expound. 
    The meanwhile he who now instructs thee, hastes
    To ope the prison door and let the bird
    Flutter to her true home within his breast.”

    Scarce were these words with a firm purpose said,
    When all the scene was changed.  Where erst a Queen,
    In shape most loveable, did blushing sit,
    A terrible and yet a glorious form
    Rose in portentious wrath; her star-crowned head
    Paled the chaste lustre of the silvery dome. 
    It was no shame to him that BERTHO fled,
    Dismayed, before the anger of her eyes,
    For they were awful.  Parted from Sir John,
    And flying through a dark, unknown ravine,
    He lost himself in tangled labyrinths: 
    Stumbling o’er rocks—­only by daring leaps
    Saving himself from dropping into chasms
    Which opened suddenly across his path. 
    From tortuous windings underneath the ground,
    At length released, he thenceforth knew the way,
    And sped across the mountain to the cave
    Where Olive pined, weeping despairing tears. 
    Like a swift arrow through the sunlight shot
    He passed athwart its glory, till he reached
    Her prison—­heard her sudden cry of joy—­
    Touched the elaborate spring which bound her in,
    And freed her, while she gazed in mute surprise.